Been back in Ukraine for a week now, but obviously it's been a bit of a rush getting everything back in order, getting the larder stocked, seeing friends and getting back to work. That, and the weather change and jet-lag took me off my feet for two days with a cold.
An interesting thing happened at the airport when I arrived. Kyiv doesn't have the walkway thingys like in America. You deboard the plane onto the tarmac and then a bus takes you to the airport. On the bus, I saw a guy collapse, one hand holding his back, to the floor of the bus.
I went to him and asked, in Russian: "Are you all right? Can I help you?"
Noticing my accent, he replied, in Russian: "Where are you from?"
"America."
Then he switched to English and, from his accent, was obviously from America. "I broke a rib," he said. "I can feel it. Right here."
He was obviously in intense pain, his vision periodically clouding over. The following conversation was with prolonged pauses on his part, and very surreal.
He focused on me and said: "Why do you even care?"
"Because you're on the floor in pain."
After a moment: "Are you Jewish?" he asked.
"No," I said.
He looked at me for another moment, then said: "Who am I to blow against the wind?"
I nodded, not knowing what to say. "How can I help you?" I asked.
"Do you have any pain killers?"
I shook my head. "Do you want me to call a doctor at the airport?"
"I have a doctor," he said. "I have a driver. Been in Kyiv since 1993. Fourteen years."
Then he looked me in the eyes as if trying to deeply impart the meaning to me and said again: "Who am I to blow against the wind?"
Another Ukranian came over, seeing me squatting beside this man sitting on the floor and asked: "Can I help?"
I shrugged. It was apparent that I couldn't help.
"Do you want me to carry your bags for you?" I asked the guy, as we were now almost to the airport. "No," he said. "I have a driver."
Then the bus doors opened and he quickly stood, grabbed his bags and moved towards the airport doors, one hand still on his back as he quickly moved in a limping gait.
I saw him later in customs, two lines over, still holding his back and eyes periodically squeezing shut in pain. A Ukranian in a suit came over and although I could barely hear the conversation, I could tell that the American was speaking in flawless Russian. He was explaining how he broke a rib. Something about a train, but that was all I heard. The suit called a uniformed Ukranian over, who escorted the man through customs.
I never saw the American again, but those words--"Who am I to blow against the wind?"--have periodically flitted through my mind this week, not in response to any situation, but unbidden and in his voice: full of pain and trying to get me to understand.
There's one other thing I realized in this past week and only when I started to type this blog did the two connect. I have largely adapted to Ukranian custom. It took more than a year, one that taught me that my notion that I easily adapted to other cultures was very, very wrong.
I thought it was largely the suspicions and poor health care of Ukranians that had my host mothers nagging me to wear house slippers, not drink cold liquids or to keep my throat covered. I spent a lot of my stipend each month and put a lot of effort into grinding meat or making tortillas so I could have hamburgers or quesedillas. I was, in short, an American, and planned on staying one.
Now, though, it's just second nature to wear my version of the house slippers: my foam sandles, which are a lot more comfortable. And I wear them because I realized, yes, it really is better for your body if you keep your feet warm and insulated. I do keep my throat covered outside. Lunch is cabbage soup and bread and a snack is an apple and a slice of cheese and--most tellingly--I didn't bring back a single American food item from my Christmas break (unlike my April trip, when I was loaded down with jars of Peanut Butter, popcorn and other things). For some reason, it just doesn't make sense to have those things here. It's almost more stressful to keep trying to eat American. It just feels natural to eat Ukranian. It's not that I've gone native; my mom had trouble keeping the cupboard and fridge stocked in the face of my never-ending eating of American food. But I came back and didn't think twice about going back to Ukranian food, simply switched. I used to think all the homeopathic remedies were kind of silly, but two days ago when I was told a good remedy for my running nose was inhaling the smoke from a burning garlic stem, I did it, no hesitation.
It took a long time, but I'm finally adapted.
After wall, who am I to blow against the wind?