I had a truly unique Thanksgiving experience. I headed down to a little town near Odessa in southern Ukraine not far from the Black Sea and met up with several other PVC's to celebrate the holiday. We stayed at another volunteers house and it was like camping indoors. We slept inside but the house was heated by a coal oven/furnace thing that was not the most efficient. You had to go outside for running water and they had a midget sized outhouse. In fact the whole house was made for someone who was a little bit smaller then the average bear. Luckly the volunteer who lives there is 5 foot two or so.
The first night we arrived we went to the local school and did a little presentation on Gender equality that seemed to go pretty well. Then we attempted to teach the kids how to play American Football. Something tells me that this is a sport that will probably never catch on in Ukraine. But we tried. Then we went to see our turkey. I had visions of gazing on a large nicley browned stuffed bird. Instead I looked at this bird and it looked back at me. And gobbled a little. Then gave a surprizing human like scream as the neighbor picked it and its buddy up by the back legs and in one motion chopped their little heads off. I may never eat turkey again. And it really does take about 10 minutes for the bodies to stop flapping around. Then the kindly neighbor showed us how to pluck our turkey and gut it so it is ready to cook. Besides the screaming the rest of it was not that bad and now I can say that I know how to clean a bird. I am not planning on doing it again but at least I know how.
then i read "The Princesses Bride" outloud as everyone fell asleep.
The next day we started our flurry of cooking. We had 15 people to feed and one electric oven and 3 burners to work with. We mill around like cattle drinking coffee and felling relaxed for the first time in weeks. Then we start peeling potatos. And we keep peeling and peeling. Let me remind you that there are not potato peelers in Ukraine, you use a knife. And peeling one potato takes all day but when you need to peel potato for 15 people it takes forever. Then the electricity went out and we begin to wonder it the turkeys would get cooked. Thankfully it went back on in about an hour. The same neighbor who gave us the turky killing demonstration brought over borsht for everyone for lunch and we rotated the 3 bowls so we all got a chance to eat. Then we went to all the neighbors and borrowed a table, plates, and silverware. We made pumpkin pie from scratch, cheesy mashed potatos, 2 turkeys, had cranberry sauce and candy corn from home, gravy, stuffing, and 3 different kinds of salad. It was the best meal I have had since I got here. And even though there were 10 people working in a kitchen ment for 2, we had to wash dishes with well water, and I got blisters from peeling it is one of my favorite days. Check out the following pictures.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Language woes
November 13th, 2007
If there is one thing I have learned from living and working in a foreign country is that learning a foreign language is HARD. I think fondly back to the days where I blissfully sat in high school French with my very patient and very friendly French teacher who would only smile fondly at me when I messed of my verb conjugations for the 537th time. She would always say, “good try Shannon but remember one form is singular and the other is plural”. Now, if I conjugate my verb incorrectly I usually receive exasperated looks, a mumbled insult in Russian or a pat on the head as if to say, “aren’t you the cute little amerikanka trying to learn Ukrainian, how adorable!”. The worst is when a well meaning Ukrainian who knows English will politely say, “just speak English, it will be easier”. That is usually about the point where I either want to club them over the head with my language manuals and scream, “I have to live here jackass let me practice!” or the alternate, curl up with my English DVD’s in my little apartment and gorge on yummy Ukrainian chocolate. That still counts as a cross cultural experience right? I mean, the chocolate is Ukrainian after all. I know they are trying to help but I would rather struggle through a question in Ukrainian with someone who knows English, then as a last ditch effort I can ask in English. But there will always come a time when the person I am talking to does not know English. That happens a lot here, it being, you know, Ukraine and all. So the more I can practice with a safety net the better. I don’t need to work on my English, I already know that language. Although my English teacher friends are horrified that I don’t know the difference between past perfect and past indefinite. We maybe covered that is eighth grade English but that was long before I wanted to travel the world and learn other languages so I just figured, “I already speak this language what do I need to know this for?” and I didn’t pay much attention. Looking back, I was a pretty stupid eighth grader.
I wouldn’t say I am language phobic; in fact the opposite is true. I love Ukrainian. It is one of the most beautiful languages with words like Листопад (list-o-pad) which literally means “leaves falling” and is the Ukrainian word for November. I mean, how cool is that? The other months are just as good, like April, Квітен (kaviten) which means flowers and February, Лютий (Luetie), meaning angry (as in wind). Americans would never say, “I love the month of leaves falling, everything is so colorful!” Heck no, we would say something along the lines of, “November sucks! Its freezing but there isn’t enough snow to go skiing yet.” Of course now that I am living through my first November in Ukraine and it has showed solid for the past three days I would be more inclined to say, “снігопад” (snee-o-pad) meaning snowfall rather then leaves falling is more appropriate. But that is neither here nor there.
The only part about Ukrainian I just don’t get, I mean besides the fact that I don’t really know the language yet, is the difference between the two H sounds. One sound is written as, “г” and is said like the H in how or happy, the other looks like “x” and is said like the more guttural sounding H in loch. Think that German sounding guttural hocking a loogie sound and that will be about right. Apparently, I am incapable of creating the latter of these two H sounds. This have been the source for much amusement for my Ukrainian collogues and creates somewhat of a little problem for me since that particular letter happens to be in a lot of Ukrainian words. The worst is when the difference between the two H’s entirely changes the meaning of the word. For example, to say “I am hungry” you say, “Я голодна”. On the other hand, the word for “cold” is “холодна”. I finally figured out the connection between these two words when my Ukrainian Babycia kept handing me sweaters in mid-July when I thought I was saying I was hungry. Those were what I like to call “cultural moments”. And now I just say, “Їсти” which means “eat?”. It is not as suave, but there is less confusion and no more sweaters in July.
If there is one thing I have learned from living and working in a foreign country is that learning a foreign language is HARD. I think fondly back to the days where I blissfully sat in high school French with my very patient and very friendly French teacher who would only smile fondly at me when I messed of my verb conjugations for the 537th time. She would always say, “good try Shannon but remember one form is singular and the other is plural”. Now, if I conjugate my verb incorrectly I usually receive exasperated looks, a mumbled insult in Russian or a pat on the head as if to say, “aren’t you the cute little amerikanka trying to learn Ukrainian, how adorable!”. The worst is when a well meaning Ukrainian who knows English will politely say, “just speak English, it will be easier”. That is usually about the point where I either want to club them over the head with my language manuals and scream, “I have to live here jackass let me practice!” or the alternate, curl up with my English DVD’s in my little apartment and gorge on yummy Ukrainian chocolate. That still counts as a cross cultural experience right? I mean, the chocolate is Ukrainian after all. I know they are trying to help but I would rather struggle through a question in Ukrainian with someone who knows English, then as a last ditch effort I can ask in English. But there will always come a time when the person I am talking to does not know English. That happens a lot here, it being, you know, Ukraine and all. So the more I can practice with a safety net the better. I don’t need to work on my English, I already know that language. Although my English teacher friends are horrified that I don’t know the difference between past perfect and past indefinite. We maybe covered that is eighth grade English but that was long before I wanted to travel the world and learn other languages so I just figured, “I already speak this language what do I need to know this for?” and I didn’t pay much attention. Looking back, I was a pretty stupid eighth grader.
I wouldn’t say I am language phobic; in fact the opposite is true. I love Ukrainian. It is one of the most beautiful languages with words like Листопад (list-o-pad) which literally means “leaves falling” and is the Ukrainian word for November. I mean, how cool is that? The other months are just as good, like April, Квітен (kaviten) which means flowers and February, Лютий (Luetie), meaning angry (as in wind). Americans would never say, “I love the month of leaves falling, everything is so colorful!” Heck no, we would say something along the lines of, “November sucks! Its freezing but there isn’t enough snow to go skiing yet.” Of course now that I am living through my first November in Ukraine and it has showed solid for the past three days I would be more inclined to say, “снігопад” (snee-o-pad) meaning snowfall rather then leaves falling is more appropriate. But that is neither here nor there.
The only part about Ukrainian I just don’t get, I mean besides the fact that I don’t really know the language yet, is the difference between the two H sounds. One sound is written as, “г” and is said like the H in how or happy, the other looks like “x” and is said like the more guttural sounding H in loch. Think that German sounding guttural hocking a loogie sound and that will be about right. Apparently, I am incapable of creating the latter of these two H sounds. This have been the source for much amusement for my Ukrainian collogues and creates somewhat of a little problem for me since that particular letter happens to be in a lot of Ukrainian words. The worst is when the difference between the two H’s entirely changes the meaning of the word. For example, to say “I am hungry” you say, “Я голодна”. On the other hand, the word for “cold” is “холодна”. I finally figured out the connection between these two words when my Ukrainian Babycia kept handing me sweaters in mid-July when I thought I was saying I was hungry. Those were what I like to call “cultural moments”. And now I just say, “Їсти” which means “eat?”. It is not as suave, but there is less confusion and no more sweaters in July.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Ukrainian Wedding
Alina’s Wedding
On October 6th I was lucky enough to go to a Ukrainian Wedding. It was my host sister Alina’s wedding. She is marrying her boyfriend of 2 years Sergi and I was privileged enough to be invited. I arrived at the Alina’s house around 10 am to a great bustle of activity. Alina’s apartment is very small. She and her fiancé share one room, her grand mother has the other and her mother sleeps in the living room every night. The only other rooms are a tiny kitchen and bathroom. The one main room in the house was set up with tables that had been borrowed from neighbors and Alina’s mom, grandma, aunt, friend, godfather, and soon to be father and mother in law were busy with last minute preparations like creating enormous amounts of food and primping to get ready for the ceremony. Alina was sitting on a stool staying well clear of the food in her white wedding dress. She looked so young and so excited. She is only 17 years old and I have a hard time wrapping myself around the idea that she is the bride that day. I am 25 and have finally come to the realization that I have no idea what I want from life and here is Alina, 7 years my junior, and getting married. She looks amazing. I spend the next hour trying to understand questions asked by Alina’s friend and her Godfather. In Ukraine, the role of godfather and godmother is often given a lot of weight. Alina referred to him as her second father and it was very important that he be there.
There was a knock on the door. It was the hopeful groom with two of his best men. None of them are over 20. The groom, Sergi, is 20 himself. Alina’s mother and all of the other women in the house met him at the door and proceeded to ask him questions from a script that they had written out. I don’t know what they are asking but I get the distinct impression that Sergi needs to answer these questions right or he won’t be let in and he will suddenly find himself single. I think this is a standard tradition because he came armed with flowers and chocolate to give to Alina’s mother until she relented, satisfied, and let him in. There is a bustle of last minute preparation and red sashes are affixed across the chests of certain family members. Each sash has something written on it but I didn’t have my dictionary so I don’t know what it said. Both Alina and Sergi have a friend, similar to a brides maid and grooms men, that have sashes. Besides them, I am the only person there that is not family.
All of the neighbors that live in that apartment complex have turned out to see the happy couple head to the wedding. As they exit the apartment Alina’s mother throws coins, grain, and candy over them and the borrowed cars. Money for wealth and prosperity, candy for a sweet life, and grain to represent bread and plenty. We cram way more people then is safe in the four cars we have and head off to the Administration building where the wedding will take place.
When we arrive, Alina’s mother disappears with a box of things needed inside for the wedding (they have to provide everything). A few minutes later, a dignified administrator comes out carrying a large decorated round loaf of bread on a traditional Ukrainian towel. This bread is called Karavie ( I haven’t a clue how that is spelled in Ukrainain) they have special ones for weddings. The loaf has lighter dough designs on the top that create wheat stalks, entwined rings, and doves. It is gorgeous and something I could never hope to make in my lifetime. I can’t even guess how long it took to create. The Administrator greets the expectant couple with the bread and salt. It is a tradition in Ukraine to greet guests with bread and salt. We ender the building to, I am surprised to hear, the familiar strains of “here comes the bride”.
Now here I have to make a disclaimer. This wedding was done in a foreign language. I really don’t know exactly was going on so my observations and assumptions may not be correct. This is just what I observed so my apologies for any inaccuracies. The couple stood in front of the administrator and she spoke at length about…something, I don’t know what. Then a nicly embroidered traditional Ukrainian towel ( a different on from the bread one) was laid on the ground by the groomsmen. The couple stepped onto it and said their vows. I know it was the vows because they each answered with a firm “da”. There is a superstition in Ukraine that whoever steps onto the towel first will be the leader in the marriage but to me it looked like they stepped on it at the same time. Alina probably would have killed Sergy if he had stepped first. Then the rings were exchanges. Next the happy couple signed the marriage certificate a the groomsmen and bridesmaid signed as well. Then Alina and Sergy drank from matching goblets and both ate a piece of chocolate. I am assuming that is to represent a sweet life again but I am just guessing. Next, the highlight of the ceremony. Alina and Sergy walked up to their parents and bowed deeply three times. This seemed to be the emotional highpoint of the day and all of the parents were tearing up. I will have to admit that I got a little goobery myself but If pressed I will deny everything. Then flower petals were thrown and Sergy carried Alina out of the Administration building. It is probably safer that he did that then try and carry her into her house since the entryway is so small they would either come toppeling down the stairs or Sergy would knock Alina silly in the narrow hall.
Then we piled into the cars again and headed to Kharkiv for pictures. There is a fountain in Kharkiv that is known as a good place for lovers and everybody and their brother has their wedding picture taken there. When we arrived there was a line of brides waiting their turn. I counted 15 other brides that day and some of the dresses I saw took my breath away of just made my jaw drop. If you are a guy and you are reading this you might want to skip the next few paragraphs because I am going to talk about wedding dresses and I wouldn’t want the men to go comatose and smack their heads against their keyboards.
In Ukraine fashion is a little different then in the U.S. Hoop skirts are in. One bride had a dress so wide the groom had trouble getting close enough to her for the photographs. Not an auspicious start if you ask me. Another brides dress had a see through top that had a v-neck down to her waist. When she walked you could see her lace skirt was slit up to her hip and she had on white stiletto knee high boots. All I could think when I saw here was, “you’re a married woman now, time to close up shop”. I know, that’s horrible but I couldn’t help it. There was a bride that had a dress made entirely out of feathers whose puffiness couldn’t quite cover up that fact that she must have been 8 months pregnant. I looked about for the shotgun but it must have been well hidden. There were brides in Satin dresses, lace dresses, and one dress with ostentatious fur trim complete with the poor little animals’ tails. Yuck! That’s like wearing my guinea pig to my wedding. The best dress I saw had a Neferttiti like top with beading and a hoop skirt that had layers of cloth that were cleverly arranged to make large roses over the entire skirt. It is hard to describe but when I am ready to get married I will try harder with the unfortunate dress maker I choose. We wandered around the park in the freezing cold for over an hour getting lots of off the cuff pictures. When your photographer is the 19 year old best man what do you expect? Then we piled back into the car to hit another monument and finally headed back to the village getting very lost on the way.
We returned to Alina’s house around 3 pm and commenced to eat. It there is one thing the Ukrainians do very well it is feed guests. We ate, sat and talked for awhile, then ate again, then presented gifts, then ate again. There were lots of dishes that had herring in them so I was able to curb my appetite a little. I only ate enough to feed a small country, it could have been much worse.
At this particular wedding, each person got up to say their wishes for the happy couple and then present their gift. I copped out and spoke in English. I had been trying to understand increasingly drunk Ukrainian for the better part of 9 hours at that point and I wasn’t up to the challenge of creating an impromptu speech in Ukrainian. I can ask for milk but not wish someone a happy and prosperous life yet. One of Alina’s gifts was a photo album from her mother for the wedding and for some strange reason all of the headings were in Spanish. I helped the best I could, I don’t know Spanish but I know English and it is closer to Spanish then Ukrainian, so I was a better guesser. I hope I guessed right but even if I didn’t they will probably never know.
After a long and heated (but friendly) discussion with Sergy’s father I decided it was time to leave. He wanted to know why I wasn’t married. I explained that I am in Ukraine and my boyfriend is in America. He drank some vodka, then asked why I didn’t have a boyfriend in Ukraine. I explained that I already had one in America and they take lots of time so I didn’t want to double up. No one ever believes me when I say I adore my boyfriend so I don’t want another one. They just ask “ then why did you leave America” and I can’t even begin to explain that. He drank some more vodka, then asked why I didn’t have kids. I explained that, again, my boyfriend is in America and I am several thousand miles away, kids would be tough. Then I made the mistake of saying.I wasn’t sure I wanted to have kids. That was really bad idea. Bad Shannon! Always tell your well meaning Ukrainian friends that you want kids. Heck, tell them you are going to breed like a rabbit, it will make them happy. Sergy’s dad drank more vodka and then came back with a proposition that I should get married in Ukraine and have lots of babies. I politely declined and said I needed to be getting home as my Guinea pig needed dinner and she worries if I am late. Alina insisted I wait until she threw her bouquet. Now this is a small wedding and there were a whopping 3 women there who were not married. We huddled onto the first floor landing while Alina threw her bouquet from the top of the stair. The other two women leaped for the bouquet while I leaped out of the way. Needless to say, I didn’t catch it. My single hood is secured until my next wedding experience. Although I highly doubt that I will attend a wedding similar to this one.
On October 6th I was lucky enough to go to a Ukrainian Wedding. It was my host sister Alina’s wedding. She is marrying her boyfriend of 2 years Sergi and I was privileged enough to be invited. I arrived at the Alina’s house around 10 am to a great bustle of activity. Alina’s apartment is very small. She and her fiancé share one room, her grand mother has the other and her mother sleeps in the living room every night. The only other rooms are a tiny kitchen and bathroom. The one main room in the house was set up with tables that had been borrowed from neighbors and Alina’s mom, grandma, aunt, friend, godfather, and soon to be father and mother in law were busy with last minute preparations like creating enormous amounts of food and primping to get ready for the ceremony. Alina was sitting on a stool staying well clear of the food in her white wedding dress. She looked so young and so excited. She is only 17 years old and I have a hard time wrapping myself around the idea that she is the bride that day. I am 25 and have finally come to the realization that I have no idea what I want from life and here is Alina, 7 years my junior, and getting married. She looks amazing. I spend the next hour trying to understand questions asked by Alina’s friend and her Godfather. In Ukraine, the role of godfather and godmother is often given a lot of weight. Alina referred to him as her second father and it was very important that he be there.
There was a knock on the door. It was the hopeful groom with two of his best men. None of them are over 20. The groom, Sergi, is 20 himself. Alina’s mother and all of the other women in the house met him at the door and proceeded to ask him questions from a script that they had written out. I don’t know what they are asking but I get the distinct impression that Sergi needs to answer these questions right or he won’t be let in and he will suddenly find himself single. I think this is a standard tradition because he came armed with flowers and chocolate to give to Alina’s mother until she relented, satisfied, and let him in. There is a bustle of last minute preparation and red sashes are affixed across the chests of certain family members. Each sash has something written on it but I didn’t have my dictionary so I don’t know what it said. Both Alina and Sergi have a friend, similar to a brides maid and grooms men, that have sashes. Besides them, I am the only person there that is not family.
All of the neighbors that live in that apartment complex have turned out to see the happy couple head to the wedding. As they exit the apartment Alina’s mother throws coins, grain, and candy over them and the borrowed cars. Money for wealth and prosperity, candy for a sweet life, and grain to represent bread and plenty. We cram way more people then is safe in the four cars we have and head off to the Administration building where the wedding will take place.
When we arrive, Alina’s mother disappears with a box of things needed inside for the wedding (they have to provide everything). A few minutes later, a dignified administrator comes out carrying a large decorated round loaf of bread on a traditional Ukrainian towel. This bread is called Karavie ( I haven’t a clue how that is spelled in Ukrainain) they have special ones for weddings. The loaf has lighter dough designs on the top that create wheat stalks, entwined rings, and doves. It is gorgeous and something I could never hope to make in my lifetime. I can’t even guess how long it took to create. The Administrator greets the expectant couple with the bread and salt. It is a tradition in Ukraine to greet guests with bread and salt. We ender the building to, I am surprised to hear, the familiar strains of “here comes the bride”.
Now here I have to make a disclaimer. This wedding was done in a foreign language. I really don’t know exactly was going on so my observations and assumptions may not be correct. This is just what I observed so my apologies for any inaccuracies. The couple stood in front of the administrator and she spoke at length about…something, I don’t know what. Then a nicly embroidered traditional Ukrainian towel ( a different on from the bread one) was laid on the ground by the groomsmen. The couple stepped onto it and said their vows. I know it was the vows because they each answered with a firm “da”. There is a superstition in Ukraine that whoever steps onto the towel first will be the leader in the marriage but to me it looked like they stepped on it at the same time. Alina probably would have killed Sergy if he had stepped first. Then the rings were exchanges. Next the happy couple signed the marriage certificate a the groomsmen and bridesmaid signed as well. Then Alina and Sergy drank from matching goblets and both ate a piece of chocolate. I am assuming that is to represent a sweet life again but I am just guessing. Next, the highlight of the ceremony. Alina and Sergy walked up to their parents and bowed deeply three times. This seemed to be the emotional highpoint of the day and all of the parents were tearing up. I will have to admit that I got a little goobery myself but If pressed I will deny everything. Then flower petals were thrown and Sergy carried Alina out of the Administration building. It is probably safer that he did that then try and carry her into her house since the entryway is so small they would either come toppeling down the stairs or Sergy would knock Alina silly in the narrow hall.
Then we piled into the cars again and headed to Kharkiv for pictures. There is a fountain in Kharkiv that is known as a good place for lovers and everybody and their brother has their wedding picture taken there. When we arrived there was a line of brides waiting their turn. I counted 15 other brides that day and some of the dresses I saw took my breath away of just made my jaw drop. If you are a guy and you are reading this you might want to skip the next few paragraphs because I am going to talk about wedding dresses and I wouldn’t want the men to go comatose and smack their heads against their keyboards.
In Ukraine fashion is a little different then in the U.S. Hoop skirts are in. One bride had a dress so wide the groom had trouble getting close enough to her for the photographs. Not an auspicious start if you ask me. Another brides dress had a see through top that had a v-neck down to her waist. When she walked you could see her lace skirt was slit up to her hip and she had on white stiletto knee high boots. All I could think when I saw here was, “you’re a married woman now, time to close up shop”. I know, that’s horrible but I couldn’t help it. There was a bride that had a dress made entirely out of feathers whose puffiness couldn’t quite cover up that fact that she must have been 8 months pregnant. I looked about for the shotgun but it must have been well hidden. There were brides in Satin dresses, lace dresses, and one dress with ostentatious fur trim complete with the poor little animals’ tails. Yuck! That’s like wearing my guinea pig to my wedding. The best dress I saw had a Neferttiti like top with beading and a hoop skirt that had layers of cloth that were cleverly arranged to make large roses over the entire skirt. It is hard to describe but when I am ready to get married I will try harder with the unfortunate dress maker I choose. We wandered around the park in the freezing cold for over an hour getting lots of off the cuff pictures. When your photographer is the 19 year old best man what do you expect? Then we piled back into the car to hit another monument and finally headed back to the village getting very lost on the way.
We returned to Alina’s house around 3 pm and commenced to eat. It there is one thing the Ukrainians do very well it is feed guests. We ate, sat and talked for awhile, then ate again, then presented gifts, then ate again. There were lots of dishes that had herring in them so I was able to curb my appetite a little. I only ate enough to feed a small country, it could have been much worse.
At this particular wedding, each person got up to say their wishes for the happy couple and then present their gift. I copped out and spoke in English. I had been trying to understand increasingly drunk Ukrainian for the better part of 9 hours at that point and I wasn’t up to the challenge of creating an impromptu speech in Ukrainian. I can ask for milk but not wish someone a happy and prosperous life yet. One of Alina’s gifts was a photo album from her mother for the wedding and for some strange reason all of the headings were in Spanish. I helped the best I could, I don’t know Spanish but I know English and it is closer to Spanish then Ukrainian, so I was a better guesser. I hope I guessed right but even if I didn’t they will probably never know.
After a long and heated (but friendly) discussion with Sergy’s father I decided it was time to leave. He wanted to know why I wasn’t married. I explained that I am in Ukraine and my boyfriend is in America. He drank some vodka, then asked why I didn’t have a boyfriend in Ukraine. I explained that I already had one in America and they take lots of time so I didn’t want to double up. No one ever believes me when I say I adore my boyfriend so I don’t want another one. They just ask “ then why did you leave America” and I can’t even begin to explain that. He drank some more vodka, then asked why I didn’t have kids. I explained that, again, my boyfriend is in America and I am several thousand miles away, kids would be tough. Then I made the mistake of saying.I wasn’t sure I wanted to have kids. That was really bad idea. Bad Shannon! Always tell your well meaning Ukrainian friends that you want kids. Heck, tell them you are going to breed like a rabbit, it will make them happy. Sergy’s dad drank more vodka and then came back with a proposition that I should get married in Ukraine and have lots of babies. I politely declined and said I needed to be getting home as my Guinea pig needed dinner and she worries if I am late. Alina insisted I wait until she threw her bouquet. Now this is a small wedding and there were a whopping 3 women there who were not married. We huddled onto the first floor landing while Alina threw her bouquet from the top of the stair. The other two women leaped for the bouquet while I leaped out of the way. Needless to say, I didn’t catch it. My single hood is secured until my next wedding experience. Although I highly doubt that I will attend a wedding similar to this one.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
The never ending search for the water guy
The never ending search for the water guy…
In my apartment you cannot drink the tap water. Well, you can drink the water but I STRONGLY encourage you not to. My building is fairly old, dating back somewhere between when Caesar ruled and Jesus was born, give or take a few years. The plumbing in my building, to my knowledge, has never been replaced although I cannot seem to locate where they are hiding the aqueducts. However, I am always hearing gurgling and bubbling from mysterious locations so I am sure that must be them. I believe they come complete with roman slaves that were never told about the fall of Rome.
When you turn on the faucet in my apartment at first nothing happens. Then you hear moaning and clanking and distant gurgling sounds. I assume this is the roman slaves in the basement moaning and commencing to haul buckets of water from the aqueduct to wherever it needs to be put to come out of my faucet. If I listen hard enough I can hear the ocean. Ten or so minutes later, after increased rattling and groaning of pipes (or slaves) rust red water begins to spit from my faucet. The first time I saw this I screamed like a little girl because I thought I had entered a horror movie and the faucets were pouring blood. My neighbor assured me that if you let the water run for a few minutes it will pale to an only slightly tinted red color. That way when you use it to wash your clothes they only turn pink instead of a lovely shade of burnt umber. Good to know. Either way I now realize why people would rather drink vodka then tap water. Vodka is better for you. On special days when the roman captives are on vacation, the water doesn’t run at all. I have learned to plan ahead for this and keep large bottles of faintly red water in my kitchen for washing purposed on roman holidays.
This being said, I must buy bottled water for all of my drinking and cooking needs. You can buy water in Ukraine in 5 liter jugs that cost around 6 hryven (roughly $1.07). That may not seem a lot to you but to a stingy little Peace Corps volunteer I feel like I am paying for Perrier water to boil noodles. However, there is an alternative. Once you have emptied a 5 liter jug of its Perrier water there is a guy that comes around to our apartment complex every Saturday with a big water truck full of deliciously drinkable and much cheaper water (like 1 hryven per 5 liters or 17 or so cents). You find him and he will fill your empty water jugs. How do I know this? I have seen people leave my apartment with empty water jugs and return with the same full water jugs. Other PC volunteers have mentioned that the same thing happens in their communities. My only problem was that I could never find this guy. He is like a Ukrainian Carmen Sandiego.
The first time I tried to find him I followed an old Babucia who was carrying some empty 2 liter Fanta bottles. I figured she just couldn’t carry 5 liters so she opted for 2. She led me straight to, get this, the milk truck. Not your normal American milk truck with the guy in the white outfit and bottles of milk. This looked like a mini gas tanker with a hose fixed to the back and had MOЛОКО (milk) spray painted on the side. You hand the tough looking babucia at the back some money and she will use the hose to fill up whatever containers you brought with you with fresh Ukrainian milk. I am saying fresh with ridiculous optimism here but one can hope. Not having a fridge I decided that I didn’t want to buy two 5 liter jugs of milk and risk receiving some “full jugs” jokes. Although, the humor may not translate into Ukrainian.
On my next attempt I decided to follow an old grandpaw who was carrying 5 liter jugs. I hoped that he still had enough teeth that he was going to use those jugs for water and not milk so I began to tail him. If you know anything about Ukrainians you should know that they take their time getting places on Saturday morning. Especially the retired folks because this is like their Friday and Saturday night. They need to stop and talk to every other old person that is outside on that day, and they are all outside because they wouldn’t want to miss the party. It’s like they are trying to hide their tracks and one of the main reasons I was never able just watch were they went to find the water guy. In Ukraine, the shortest distance between two points is too your neighbors, around the block, stopping next door, popping into the store, and chatting with 8 people on your way to these various places. Not a straight line.
The first couple of times grandpaw stopped I just walked by him like I was on my way to some other place or on an errand. While he chatted up the Babucia in building 10K I pretended to look at fruit and had to buy some expensive peaches to make up for all of the poorly worded insipid question I asked the shopkeeper just to look like I belonged there. He meandered down the street with his jugs and I pretended to play with the million half feral cats that prowled the streets. I stopped that when they started ganging up on me and I remembered that none of these cute but armed and dangerous fuzzies had ever had a shot in their entire 9 lives. He stopped again to chat up babucia #2, this one with bigger jugs then him but hers’ weren’t in her hands if you know what I mean. I pretended to be waiting for someone, glancing at my watch until I realized that I wasn’t wearing one. I hoped he was nearsighted.
By this time, grandpaw has noticed my attentions and he was starting to look decidedly nervous. I can imagine what was going through his mind when he realized he was being stalked by the American in the building. This man lived through the cold war. I look and am harmless but for all he knows I am a trained killer. He begins to double back moving surprisingly quickly for a man stopped at a 90 degree angle and I am forced to dart behind shrubbery to hide myself. I realize that I am going to give this old man a heart attack or a complex or both so I give up that chase and he disappears around a corner. I didn’t find the water guy and now everyone who has witnessed my little prowl around the apartment complex keeps looking at me like they are checking for weapons.
I returned home from a trip to Kyiv recently and needed to stock up on supplies. I headed to the Milk Kiosk, yes they have a store just for milk and it is the only place I can buy servings of cheese for one person so I love it. I discover the Kiosk is closed and as I round the corner I run smack dab into a teenager dressed entirely in army fatigues. Being the hardened American I am I don’t yell but let out a much more dignified and Ukrainian “oi!”. We both apologize to each other and he disappears. I mean, literally disappears. One minute he is there, the next he is gone, so I look closer. Yes, I know horror movies start out this way but it was a Saturday morning so I figured how dangerous could it be? There, parked in a little clump of shrubbery is a giant green truck that has a camouflage covered flat bed. Under that camouflage is a giant water tank. It was the water guy!!! I heard angles singing and skipped off to get my depleted water jugs. Good things come to those who wait and who don’t watch where they are going when they are leaving the milk kiosk.
In my apartment you cannot drink the tap water. Well, you can drink the water but I STRONGLY encourage you not to. My building is fairly old, dating back somewhere between when Caesar ruled and Jesus was born, give or take a few years. The plumbing in my building, to my knowledge, has never been replaced although I cannot seem to locate where they are hiding the aqueducts. However, I am always hearing gurgling and bubbling from mysterious locations so I am sure that must be them. I believe they come complete with roman slaves that were never told about the fall of Rome.
When you turn on the faucet in my apartment at first nothing happens. Then you hear moaning and clanking and distant gurgling sounds. I assume this is the roman slaves in the basement moaning and commencing to haul buckets of water from the aqueduct to wherever it needs to be put to come out of my faucet. If I listen hard enough I can hear the ocean. Ten or so minutes later, after increased rattling and groaning of pipes (or slaves) rust red water begins to spit from my faucet. The first time I saw this I screamed like a little girl because I thought I had entered a horror movie and the faucets were pouring blood. My neighbor assured me that if you let the water run for a few minutes it will pale to an only slightly tinted red color. That way when you use it to wash your clothes they only turn pink instead of a lovely shade of burnt umber. Good to know. Either way I now realize why people would rather drink vodka then tap water. Vodka is better for you. On special days when the roman captives are on vacation, the water doesn’t run at all. I have learned to plan ahead for this and keep large bottles of faintly red water in my kitchen for washing purposed on roman holidays.
This being said, I must buy bottled water for all of my drinking and cooking needs. You can buy water in Ukraine in 5 liter jugs that cost around 6 hryven (roughly $1.07). That may not seem a lot to you but to a stingy little Peace Corps volunteer I feel like I am paying for Perrier water to boil noodles. However, there is an alternative. Once you have emptied a 5 liter jug of its Perrier water there is a guy that comes around to our apartment complex every Saturday with a big water truck full of deliciously drinkable and much cheaper water (like 1 hryven per 5 liters or 17 or so cents). You find him and he will fill your empty water jugs. How do I know this? I have seen people leave my apartment with empty water jugs and return with the same full water jugs. Other PC volunteers have mentioned that the same thing happens in their communities. My only problem was that I could never find this guy. He is like a Ukrainian Carmen Sandiego.
The first time I tried to find him I followed an old Babucia who was carrying some empty 2 liter Fanta bottles. I figured she just couldn’t carry 5 liters so she opted for 2. She led me straight to, get this, the milk truck. Not your normal American milk truck with the guy in the white outfit and bottles of milk. This looked like a mini gas tanker with a hose fixed to the back and had MOЛОКО (milk) spray painted on the side. You hand the tough looking babucia at the back some money and she will use the hose to fill up whatever containers you brought with you with fresh Ukrainian milk. I am saying fresh with ridiculous optimism here but one can hope. Not having a fridge I decided that I didn’t want to buy two 5 liter jugs of milk and risk receiving some “full jugs” jokes. Although, the humor may not translate into Ukrainian.
On my next attempt I decided to follow an old grandpaw who was carrying 5 liter jugs. I hoped that he still had enough teeth that he was going to use those jugs for water and not milk so I began to tail him. If you know anything about Ukrainians you should know that they take their time getting places on Saturday morning. Especially the retired folks because this is like their Friday and Saturday night. They need to stop and talk to every other old person that is outside on that day, and they are all outside because they wouldn’t want to miss the party. It’s like they are trying to hide their tracks and one of the main reasons I was never able just watch were they went to find the water guy. In Ukraine, the shortest distance between two points is too your neighbors, around the block, stopping next door, popping into the store, and chatting with 8 people on your way to these various places. Not a straight line.
The first couple of times grandpaw stopped I just walked by him like I was on my way to some other place or on an errand. While he chatted up the Babucia in building 10K I pretended to look at fruit and had to buy some expensive peaches to make up for all of the poorly worded insipid question I asked the shopkeeper just to look like I belonged there. He meandered down the street with his jugs and I pretended to play with the million half feral cats that prowled the streets. I stopped that when they started ganging up on me and I remembered that none of these cute but armed and dangerous fuzzies had ever had a shot in their entire 9 lives. He stopped again to chat up babucia #2, this one with bigger jugs then him but hers’ weren’t in her hands if you know what I mean. I pretended to be waiting for someone, glancing at my watch until I realized that I wasn’t wearing one. I hoped he was nearsighted.
By this time, grandpaw has noticed my attentions and he was starting to look decidedly nervous. I can imagine what was going through his mind when he realized he was being stalked by the American in the building. This man lived through the cold war. I look and am harmless but for all he knows I am a trained killer. He begins to double back moving surprisingly quickly for a man stopped at a 90 degree angle and I am forced to dart behind shrubbery to hide myself. I realize that I am going to give this old man a heart attack or a complex or both so I give up that chase and he disappears around a corner. I didn’t find the water guy and now everyone who has witnessed my little prowl around the apartment complex keeps looking at me like they are checking for weapons.
I returned home from a trip to Kyiv recently and needed to stock up on supplies. I headed to the Milk Kiosk, yes they have a store just for milk and it is the only place I can buy servings of cheese for one person so I love it. I discover the Kiosk is closed and as I round the corner I run smack dab into a teenager dressed entirely in army fatigues. Being the hardened American I am I don’t yell but let out a much more dignified and Ukrainian “oi!”. We both apologize to each other and he disappears. I mean, literally disappears. One minute he is there, the next he is gone, so I look closer. Yes, I know horror movies start out this way but it was a Saturday morning so I figured how dangerous could it be? There, parked in a little clump of shrubbery is a giant green truck that has a camouflage covered flat bed. Under that camouflage is a giant water tank. It was the water guy!!! I heard angles singing and skipped off to get my depleted water jugs. Good things come to those who wait and who don’t watch where they are going when they are leaving the milk kiosk.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
The Blue Days of Ukraine
It is a given to most people in Ukraine that you have to wash clothes by hand here. I remember grousing about having to buy nice clothes in America that were hand wash only and now I look back at myself and Laaaaaaugh. I am actually getting the hang of hand washing. After a couple of disastrous attempts that resulted in mixing colors or having soap stiff clothes I was beginning to feel like this might be a skill that I could master in the conceivable future. I learned that you don’t wring out sweaters or the arms will hang past your knees with it dries. You need to rinse jeans twice or it’s like wearing sandpaper and you have to be very patient when washing socks even though it is totally gross. Not to long ago I decided that I needed to wash my sheets. Now, I have new sheets in my apartment and being a typical 20 something, I just took them straight out of the package and put them on my bed. It was fine, I didn’t break out into spots or anything. But the weather here is getting colder and I decided that I should probably wash them before it got to rainy or cold because I only have one set of sheets. The more days it takes for them to dry the more time I spend sleeping in my sleeping bag. Winter will be a different story. I haven’t yet figured out how to freeze dry my clothes. Apparently in winter you hang stuff out to dry, let it freeze and then just break the ice off. Voila, freeze dried clothes. I am not sure if the person telling me this was kidding or not. Either way…
So I get up bright and early one morning and take the entire sheet set including pillowcases and toss them into my handy washing tub. I love this tub, it is probably the most useful thing I own. I was laundry in it, I take baths using it etc… The tub and I are friends. I have mixed the hot water from the kettle with the detergent and I figure I will let everything soak while I make breakfast. Satisfactorily fed, I head into the bathroom to commence with the washing. Now, I have placed the tub in my giant iron bathtub so that if there is any spillage etc…it’s not a problem and I then have access to cold water to rinse. Lots of splashing does tend to occur. Now my bathtub is raised up on some cinder blocks, I don’t know why, but that puts that edge of the bathtub at my mid thigh. I do the usual swish everything around rub it together etc…splashing water everywhere of course. On the walls and mostly on me. It is then time to wring everything out so I can rinse it. I lean into the bath tub and grab what I think is a pillow case and pull. It’s not a pillow case. It’s the heavy comforter cover. My feet, clad in slippers on the smooth bathroom tile that is now liberally covered in soapy water have no real grip and, being off balance, they flip up and I fall face first into my trusty tub with my bedding. Now I am not really hurt, just a little surprised as I spit out soapy suds and get water out of my eyes. It is then that I notice that my hand is a somewhat alarming shade of blue. Intrigued, I look at my other hand, well what do you know, it’s blue too. My fingernails are almost sapphire. Interesting. I look into the tub, the water isn’t dirty like I thought, it’s blue from the dye in my dark blue sheets. And now I am blue from the dye in my dark blue sheets. I run my hands under the tap and realize that the blue does not just wash off, in fact it doesn’t even get lighter. Then I look in the mirror. My face was submerged only for a second so it’s not as bad as my hands but is it a distinct shade of, you guessed it!, blue. I have darker blue spots all over my cheeks and forehead from where earlier splashes hit my face. “Dear God” I think, “I look like a leopard Smurf. How and I going to explain that to the kids at my school?” Maybe I can tell them it’s some weird American ritual, like green beer on Saint Patrick’s day. Will they believe me if I say Americans dye there faces and hands blue for labor day because they work until they are blue in the face? Something tells me they won’t buy it. I have to be at work in less then two hours. I am supposed to meet with the 11th graders and answer the questions they have prepared for me in English. Should I call in sick? Maybe if I wear a blue sweater they will think I an just accessorizing? I could start a new fashion! Okay, I am panicking a little. I take a deep breath and decide to finish washing my sheets while I think of an alternative. As I am hanging up my sheets it hits me. If detergent gets the dye out of the sheets maybe it will get the dye out of me. I grab some detergent, get my hands wet and scrub. It works! It kind of hurts but it works. It takes me 40 minutes to de blue myself and I won’t need to exfoliate for the next several months but I am no longer an homage to smurfdom. I also had to paint my nails because there was nothing I could do to fix that little problem and I didn’t want to keep having to tell people I was cold. On the train to work that day it finally struck me how ridiculous that whole thing was and I laughed so hard the lady sitting next to me got up and moved to another seat. I bought rubber gloves on my way home, no one can say I didn’t learn for this experience.
It is a given to most people in Ukraine that you have to wash clothes by hand here. I remember grousing about having to buy nice clothes in America that were hand wash only and now I look back at myself and Laaaaaaugh. I am actually getting the hang of hand washing. After a couple of disastrous attempts that resulted in mixing colors or having soap stiff clothes I was beginning to feel like this might be a skill that I could master in the conceivable future. I learned that you don’t wring out sweaters or the arms will hang past your knees with it dries. You need to rinse jeans twice or it’s like wearing sandpaper and you have to be very patient when washing socks even though it is totally gross. Not to long ago I decided that I needed to wash my sheets. Now, I have new sheets in my apartment and being a typical 20 something, I just took them straight out of the package and put them on my bed. It was fine, I didn’t break out into spots or anything. But the weather here is getting colder and I decided that I should probably wash them before it got to rainy or cold because I only have one set of sheets. The more days it takes for them to dry the more time I spend sleeping in my sleeping bag. Winter will be a different story. I haven’t yet figured out how to freeze dry my clothes. Apparently in winter you hang stuff out to dry, let it freeze and then just break the ice off. Voila, freeze dried clothes. I am not sure if the person telling me this was kidding or not. Either way…
So I get up bright and early one morning and take the entire sheet set including pillowcases and toss them into my handy washing tub. I love this tub, it is probably the most useful thing I own. I was laundry in it, I take baths using it etc… The tub and I are friends. I have mixed the hot water from the kettle with the detergent and I figure I will let everything soak while I make breakfast. Satisfactorily fed, I head into the bathroom to commence with the washing. Now, I have placed the tub in my giant iron bathtub so that if there is any spillage etc…it’s not a problem and I then have access to cold water to rinse. Lots of splashing does tend to occur. Now my bathtub is raised up on some cinder blocks, I don’t know why, but that puts that edge of the bathtub at my mid thigh. I do the usual swish everything around rub it together etc…splashing water everywhere of course. On the walls and mostly on me. It is then time to wring everything out so I can rinse it. I lean into the bath tub and grab what I think is a pillow case and pull. It’s not a pillow case. It’s the heavy comforter cover. My feet, clad in slippers on the smooth bathroom tile that is now liberally covered in soapy water have no real grip and, being off balance, they flip up and I fall face first into my trusty tub with my bedding. Now I am not really hurt, just a little surprised as I spit out soapy suds and get water out of my eyes. It is then that I notice that my hand is a somewhat alarming shade of blue. Intrigued, I look at my other hand, well what do you know, it’s blue too. My fingernails are almost sapphire. Interesting. I look into the tub, the water isn’t dirty like I thought, it’s blue from the dye in my dark blue sheets. And now I am blue from the dye in my dark blue sheets. I run my hands under the tap and realize that the blue does not just wash off, in fact it doesn’t even get lighter. Then I look in the mirror. My face was submerged only for a second so it’s not as bad as my hands but is it a distinct shade of, you guessed it!, blue. I have darker blue spots all over my cheeks and forehead from where earlier splashes hit my face. “Dear God” I think, “I look like a leopard Smurf. How and I going to explain that to the kids at my school?” Maybe I can tell them it’s some weird American ritual, like green beer on Saint Patrick’s day. Will they believe me if I say Americans dye there faces and hands blue for labor day because they work until they are blue in the face? Something tells me they won’t buy it. I have to be at work in less then two hours. I am supposed to meet with the 11th graders and answer the questions they have prepared for me in English. Should I call in sick? Maybe if I wear a blue sweater they will think I an just accessorizing? I could start a new fashion! Okay, I am panicking a little. I take a deep breath and decide to finish washing my sheets while I think of an alternative. As I am hanging up my sheets it hits me. If detergent gets the dye out of the sheets maybe it will get the dye out of me. I grab some detergent, get my hands wet and scrub. It works! It kind of hurts but it works. It takes me 40 minutes to de blue myself and I won’t need to exfoliate for the next several months but I am no longer an homage to smurfdom. I also had to paint my nails because there was nothing I could do to fix that little problem and I didn’t want to keep having to tell people I was cold. On the train to work that day it finally struck me how ridiculous that whole thing was and I laughed so hard the lady sitting next to me got up and moved to another seat. I bought rubber gloves on my way home, no one can say I didn’t learn for this experience.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
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