On the floor of Anna’s room in the artist’s commune empty cans of spray paint sit in the corner. A Styrofoam mattress obstructing the doorway had steel netting nailed onto it, molded into what looked like flowing lava. Little bits of paper flew up in brief flight as the wind from my footsteps woke them. Colorful fingers made of plaster stood on the cluttered coffee table along with other knickknacks, a miniature kaleidoscope, a homemade pipe with wings and a propeller, and some incense holders.
A broken TV had been painted completely white save for a stenciled men’s bathroom figure over the screen, which lit up with static black and white ants when the TV was on. Skeletal wire forms like hollow clouds hung from the ceiling on copper thread. They glowed in the dark when the lights went out.
We had just been to the market in Shevchenko Square on the very outskirts of Kiev. There, grandmothers had come in for the day to sell potatoes, cabbage, carrots and onions from their gardens, $0.50 a pound. Fish from the thawing ponds and rivers were on display next to buckets of pickles and loose cigarettes. Anna led me around as we haggled with the women on the price of cottage cheese, sauerkraut or marinated eggplant. With each new purchase the bag I was carrying got heavier and heavier as it was filled with onions and cheese, wine and salo (salted pork fat).
I had taken the marshutka, a small private bus, out to the Northern tip of Kiev. Anna said she had a gun that we could shoot in the woods near her house. These woods mark the official end of Kiev and extend all the way into Belarus, though the Belarusian and Northern Ukrainian section of the woods were heavily contaminated by radiation from the Chernobyl meltdown in 1987.
The house sits on a hill just past a scrap-metal yard. It is secluded, a real escape from the city. From its high vantage point you can see the smokestacks and onion domed steeples of Kiev in the distance.
Disintegrating concrete steps crumble a bit as you step up onto the porch. In the entrance corridor the wall is bare in dirty and the floor is missing tiles. Artwork is strewn around the downstairs and discarded in corners after gallery appearances. Two bronze statues of some-or-another Soviet notable stood facing one another next to a shapeless wire sculpture. On the wall hung a proletarian scene of some cheerful workers taking a break, a grey factory in the background in what would otherwise be a country landscape.
Anna explained to me that this house had been requisitioned by the state from some high-level military commander. The house was converted into studio space and given to the National Academy of Arts, in whose possession it has remained. It was occupied by Soviet artists for decades, busy churning out “masterpieces” of Socialist Realism to grace civic centers across the Ukrainian Soviet Republic. Today, selected artists are given the space free of charge.
On the upstairs landing I met one of the other residents of the house, a tall Ukrainian girl named Ira with jet-black hair, cut into a bowl. A tall watercolor of a wrinkly gnome was drying by the window in her room. She told me later that she did illustrations for books.
There was a couple with a young daughter who lived in the small house on the property. The Dad did airbrush painting and the Mom made batik fabric like they do in Ghana. Their daughter was rambunctious and loved the attention of all of the adults gave her (not that I’m an adult, really).
I helped Anna fish out the rifle case from behind an oversized yoga pad that was wedged behind an antique mirror and some other miscellaneous junk. We walked down into the front yard to meet everyone, me with the rifle case and a bottle of my favorite unfiltered Belgian style beer. I slung the rifle case over my back and we walked down the hill and across the street where we entered the first little neck of woods. A few hundred yards on we climbed an overpass that stretched across a busy highway leading into the city, and then through another neck of woods that was eventually dissected by a trolley car that ran right through the trees.
Our merry group trudged along through the snow, which was still thick on the ground in spite of the recent thaws. The snow in the forest stays around long after the snow on the sidewalks because it is never cleared.
The little girl, Marta, was leading the group and would lie in the snow and roll down every hill we came to. She was learning English in school and told me about ten or eleven times that “I’m seven years old, my name is Marta!” In Russian, she told me that she was actually six, but had forgotten how to say that number in English.
In an empty field that interrupted the forest we decided to shoot. I unpacked the gun and was disappointed to see that it was actually only a pellet gun. I was under the impression that it would be a real rifle, and it certainly weighed as much as one with a wooden stock, full metal casing and an expensive scope too. It was probably better that it wasn’t a real gun though, as none of us had ear protection and Marta was running all over the place. We shot at a penciled cross on a piece of paper, but no one hit it because the scope wasn’t calibrated.
Over on the path someone pointed out a tiny mouse on top of the snow. It began to scrabble away but Marta was immediately on it and had it in her hands. The little critter was flustered after being dropped and scooped back up after trying to scurry away. This game went on for a few minutes until the mouse finally fell into deep snow and burrowed itself away from capture. Marta dug frantically and when she couldn’t find the mouse, she stomped on the hole in frustration.
It surprised me to see this little girl do that, to be cruel. Her Dad pulled her away angrily and chastised her. She ran off to pout. Luckily, the mouse reemerged a few minutes later unscathed, and we made sure not to point it out to Marta.
The leather of my boots was darkening with moisture and my socks were already soggy, so we made our way back to the house. This time one of the other guys carried the rifle.
Back in Anna’s room we unpacked the food from the market and started to boil some potatoes on a little hot-plate in the “kitchen,” which really amounts to a shelf with some spices on it and just enough room for a cutting board. I transferred the pickles, sweet celery root and eggplant salad into separate bowls while Anna made tea and heated up some gretchka, or buckwheat.
While Anna was making tea I scrolled through the music on her computer and was amazed to find a big collection of Bonnie “Prince” Billy, who is a folk singer from Kentucky, not well known in the States and virtually unheard of in Ukraine. I put on one of his familiarly weird songs with its eerie Appalachian sound, Southern vocal inflection, and grim lyrics.
After a while some of the others began to file in and one of them brought a bottle of Ukrainian samogond, or moonshine. This same guy who brought it also recognized the Bonnie “Prince” Billy song and I discovered the source of Anna’s collection!
We poured a few shots of the homemade spirits and then a few more. A hot plate appeared and we began to slow cook onions and celery root and pork fat directly on the griddle. There were handled pans that we filled with potatoes and cooked fixings, and then covered with chives, dill, cottage cheese and yellow sharp cheese. These dishes went under the hot plate to melt into a mini casserole. It was a Ukrainian fondue, but with more oils and fat.
A few more shots of samogond and a glass of wine or two (brought from France by Anna’s Ukrainian expat friend), and I was nearly falling asleep on the Styrofoam mattress that had been moved to the floor.
We got up together and everyone walked back down to the square where I missed the last marshutka of the night by a few seconds. We walked over to a bus stop where a couple of other late night revelers were trying to hitch rides with passing cars. Anna hailed an unmarked car and negotiated for him to take me home. As my unofficial taxi sped off, I saw my friends wandering off to find more wine.
Showing posts with label Kiev. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kiev. Show all posts
Monday, April 9, 2012
Sunday, March 11, 2012
The Blind Leading the Blind
Two blind men with canes were waiting to cross the zebra stripe that bisects the busy street. They flailed their canes about, feeling for cars, trees, people, and snow banks. A man with an acne-scarred face and an off-kilter beanie hat held close to his friend in a dark leather jacket with sheep-skin lining. They both gazed absently at some undeterminable point in space, concentrating on the sounds around them. As it swung about, one of the canes nearly hit a young girl in the face. She recoiled and stared at the men as if they had done something quite unseemly. Standing at the crosswalk, I put my hands on their shoulders, applying a bit of pressure— telling them to wait. They could hear the cars going past, but could not gauge the distance between them. When a small lull in the traffic came I helped them across the street.
We made it to the other side, though the two men had been hesitant to cross since they could still hear the engines and the sound of the tires rolling over the snow. A driver had stopped to let pedestrians go, but they couldn’t see that and I didn’t know how to explain it in Russian. One of the men asked me “can we cross?” “Da,” I said.
I left them in the park, assuming they were capable of feeling their way through. It was a pathetic sight watching them step into filthy unseen puddles and stagger into piles of melting slush. The melting icicles drip down onto the sidewalk now that the thaw has begun. The blind men may have thought it was raining.
A big tree grows through the middle of the sidewalk, and the two blind men stopped short in front of it, feeling it with their canes. What was this obstacle in front of them? Not a person because it doesn’t grunt or squeal when the cane hits it. Not alive because it doesn’t jump out of the way. The muffled thwack as the cane hits probably suggested that it was a tree, or perhaps a signpost.
They stepped to the right to pass but the man with the acne-scarred face found himself reeling in deep snow. They stepped back, together. In front of the tree again they felt around for the presence of empty space with their canes, drawing a mental map with this intimate cartography. After a few seconds of surveying and plotting, the two men decided to make a pass on the left side. They made it.
Physical disability in this country is incapacitating. There is very little support for invalids or the disabled, neither social nor infrastructural. This leaves many of them as beggars. The other day a man with a horribly disfigured face stood at the bottom of the stairs in the metro with a sign that read, “Help me please.” One of his eyes had severe discoloration, a striking opalescent white where there should have been coffee colored iris. His lips were frozen into a scowl, an expression of agony, disfigured by some nerve damage or maybe a stroke. I dropped a few loose bills into his bag. I wasn’t sure whether he registered it or not.
A young gypsy-faced girl hobbled down the length of the trains on crutches, stopping every few feet to recite some spiel in Ukrainian. Her legs were twisted, as if by rickets, into grotesque contortions and paralyzed in a living rigor mortis. She would have been delicate and pretty in another life.
Grizzled geriatrics stand in the corners with mittened hands or cardboard coffee cups extended to collect change. Some of them mutter prayers under their breath. They seem absent, chewed by dementia maybe.
People help most of the time. On every pass there is always someone who drops a few Kopecks or a few Griven into the collection bags, cups, or hands- equivalent to about $0.50. Is it enough to live? Not by a standard that we know.
I watched the two blind men for a while after I left them in the park. The sympathetic impulse to shepherd them through the thicket of cigarette-and-beer kiosks and snowed under ornamental landscaping left me pinned to the spot pondering the moral implications. Surely, I thought, they wouldn’t be strolling about if they weren’t confident in their navigational capabilities. Would it be patronizing to stand behind them and lead them along by the shoulders? Ultimately, I decided against it.
As I turned the corner to the Zoloti Vorota metro entrance, I saw them walk to a dead end, a park bench placed against a snow mound. They could not walk through the park, but had to hug the perimeter in a trajectory of right angles, using the landscaped border as a guide. They would soon come up against the steps, covered in ice and snow and treacherous whether one is blind or not. Would there be someone to help them make their way down the stairs? They held one another close, whipping their canes around like a pair of feelers, tugging left to avoid trees. The blind leading the blind.
Alongside the beauty of this country there is a foulness that emerges unexpectedly from time to time to sting you. Beautiful girls in fur and delicate hosiery juxtaposed against the maimed men huddling in the entrance to the metro for warmth. Young men in the middle of the day sliding along the walls for support, a liter of cheap vodka vandalizing kidney and liver, stripping them of cognizance, and perpetuating the demographic trend of 60-year male life expectancy. The latest model Porsche Cayenne speeding past the crosswalk where two blind men wait to cross the street.
We made it to the other side, though the two men had been hesitant to cross since they could still hear the engines and the sound of the tires rolling over the snow. A driver had stopped to let pedestrians go, but they couldn’t see that and I didn’t know how to explain it in Russian. One of the men asked me “can we cross?” “Da,” I said.
I left them in the park, assuming they were capable of feeling their way through. It was a pathetic sight watching them step into filthy unseen puddles and stagger into piles of melting slush. The melting icicles drip down onto the sidewalk now that the thaw has begun. The blind men may have thought it was raining.
A big tree grows through the middle of the sidewalk, and the two blind men stopped short in front of it, feeling it with their canes. What was this obstacle in front of them? Not a person because it doesn’t grunt or squeal when the cane hits it. Not alive because it doesn’t jump out of the way. The muffled thwack as the cane hits probably suggested that it was a tree, or perhaps a signpost.
They stepped to the right to pass but the man with the acne-scarred face found himself reeling in deep snow. They stepped back, together. In front of the tree again they felt around for the presence of empty space with their canes, drawing a mental map with this intimate cartography. After a few seconds of surveying and plotting, the two men decided to make a pass on the left side. They made it.
Physical disability in this country is incapacitating. There is very little support for invalids or the disabled, neither social nor infrastructural. This leaves many of them as beggars. The other day a man with a horribly disfigured face stood at the bottom of the stairs in the metro with a sign that read, “Help me please.” One of his eyes had severe discoloration, a striking opalescent white where there should have been coffee colored iris. His lips were frozen into a scowl, an expression of agony, disfigured by some nerve damage or maybe a stroke. I dropped a few loose bills into his bag. I wasn’t sure whether he registered it or not.
A young gypsy-faced girl hobbled down the length of the trains on crutches, stopping every few feet to recite some spiel in Ukrainian. Her legs were twisted, as if by rickets, into grotesque contortions and paralyzed in a living rigor mortis. She would have been delicate and pretty in another life.
Grizzled geriatrics stand in the corners with mittened hands or cardboard coffee cups extended to collect change. Some of them mutter prayers under their breath. They seem absent, chewed by dementia maybe.
People help most of the time. On every pass there is always someone who drops a few Kopecks or a few Griven into the collection bags, cups, or hands- equivalent to about $0.50. Is it enough to live? Not by a standard that we know.
I watched the two blind men for a while after I left them in the park. The sympathetic impulse to shepherd them through the thicket of cigarette-and-beer kiosks and snowed under ornamental landscaping left me pinned to the spot pondering the moral implications. Surely, I thought, they wouldn’t be strolling about if they weren’t confident in their navigational capabilities. Would it be patronizing to stand behind them and lead them along by the shoulders? Ultimately, I decided against it.
As I turned the corner to the Zoloti Vorota metro entrance, I saw them walk to a dead end, a park bench placed against a snow mound. They could not walk through the park, but had to hug the perimeter in a trajectory of right angles, using the landscaped border as a guide. They would soon come up against the steps, covered in ice and snow and treacherous whether one is blind or not. Would there be someone to help them make their way down the stairs? They held one another close, whipping their canes around like a pair of feelers, tugging left to avoid trees. The blind leading the blind.
Alongside the beauty of this country there is a foulness that emerges unexpectedly from time to time to sting you. Beautiful girls in fur and delicate hosiery juxtaposed against the maimed men huddling in the entrance to the metro for warmth. Young men in the middle of the day sliding along the walls for support, a liter of cheap vodka vandalizing kidney and liver, stripping them of cognizance, and perpetuating the demographic trend of 60-year male life expectancy. The latest model Porsche Cayenne speeding past the crosswalk where two blind men wait to cross the street.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Крещения
January 19th is a holiday in the Orthodox tradition that commemorates the baptism of Jesus. On this day all of the waters become holy and believers wade out naked into the rivers and lakes in a ritualistic freezing bath. Many of them then proceed to drink copiously to warm themselves and become stumblingly drunk.
Here in Kiev, the city was abuzz with talk of the holiday. Especially for us foreigners, every Ukrainian I know was asking me if I knew of the holiday and if I would swim. My host mother had told me the night before that she would be staying up until midnight so that she could fill a few water bottles from her sink, which she usually doesn’t drink from without first filtering. She said that at midnight, the earth would bloom as the water became blessed. Of course, she must have been speaking metaphorically, because nothing blooms this time of year in the sub-zero temperatures.
One of the guys who works at the school told me that he had gone swimming that morning and he seemed awfully proud of it. The teachers were all discussing the holiday in class and I heard once again how all of the waters were indeed sacrosanct today. I also learned that it was impossible to get sick from swimming in the freezing water—like, actually impossible. I didn’t know if people were just kidding around about all of this, like maybe how we pretend to believe in ghosts on Halloween and Santa Claus at Christmas. But, the more I asked about it the more I came to understand that this was not a holiday story for fun; people were under the real impression that the water possessed some holy quality.
Something I have noticed here in Eastern Europe is that mysticism and superstition is still very much alive. Those same holiday traditions that we take as entertaining remnants and observe as a matter of convention are taken seriously here. Even in daily life people are more superstitious.
Ever the skeptic, I was on the lookout for any signs of the divine all day and decided to join up with some friends to go swim that evening.
After my morning shower in the blessed water I felt my usual self. I washed down my breakfast of hotdogs and pickles with tea, which should have been blessed as well I assume. With an excessively full day ahead of me, an edge of stress was mounting. By mid-afternoon I was fully flustered as I rushed to get to class and made it thirty minutes late and then had to leave early to meet with the swimming group.
A large group had assembled in the computer room of the language school. I put on my bathing suit under my boxers, long johns, and pants and we set off. I had forgotten to bring a towel and had also forgotten my slippers. I had walked around earlier trying to buy a pair but decided against paying $6 for them—big mistake.
The 12 of us set off on the metro and arrived at “Gidropark.” By this time the sun had set and the temperature had dropped to about -10 celsius. We walked down towards the river where a large crowd had amassed. As we came closer I had the unpleasant sight of several grown men running out of the water completely naked, penises a-flopping for all to see.
Down on the bank I started to undress. I didn’t realize how biting the cold was until I took off my shirt and felt the wind blow right through the tissue, fat, and muscle of my chest. I took off one shoe and put my foot down on the snow-covered sand. In the time it took to take off the other shoe, my toes had gone completely numb. Everyone else was undressing and we got together for a group photo.
Me and two others were set to go on the count of three. Running to the water, one of the other guys slipped on the ice and slid in on his back. I ran in and submerged myself, too numb already to feel much additional shock from the cold. I didn’t feel like spending too much time in the freezing filthy water of the Dnieper, so I hopped back out. It was probably warmer in the water, especially with the wind chill, and I was jumping up and down trying to swish all of the water off of me with my hands. I begged a towel from one of the other guys after he’d already dried off, though it didn’t do much good.
Toes and feet had become painfully cold, legs were too numb to feel, and everything else felt like it had just experienced an electric shock. The hair on my head had already frozen into little hedgehog needles. Although they were covered in sand and wet, I shoved my feet down into my boots without my socks on to try to get some relief. The buttons on my shirt were difficult to work as my fingers had become arthritic with the frost. I had to get my wet bathing suit off but was in no position to amble about in the dark looking for a good spot to change. So, I grabbed a towel—which was abnormally small—and tried to cover myself up. There simply was not enough fabric, so I just turned around, covered my front, and pulled the suit down. There I was in all of my pride, standing naked on the frozen banks of the Dnieper!
Dressed again and filthy from the sand, we made our way back to the metro. My bathing suit had frozen completely in the form of my legs. On the sidewalk we ran into a number of other swimmers who were now stumbling so drunkenly that one of them fell right into one of the girls I was with. I noticed that one of the drunk swimmers was carrying a beeswax candle, the kind that are always sold in the Orthodox churches here.
Back on the subway I was feeling anything but blessed. Sensation was starting to circulate back into my extremities. My toes were painfully sore and I thought I may have gotten some mild frostbite. My hair started to thaw under my hat.
At the bar afterwards we all sat and merrily passed around the cameras looking at pictures from the swim. After a few rounds of drinks I think I started to feel the holiness of the day flowing down deep into my tummy, filling me with a radiant and blooming glow. With new friends around and big anticipation for new and wonderful adventures, I think I finally began to understand what made this holiday so special.
Here in Kiev, the city was abuzz with talk of the holiday. Especially for us foreigners, every Ukrainian I know was asking me if I knew of the holiday and if I would swim. My host mother had told me the night before that she would be staying up until midnight so that she could fill a few water bottles from her sink, which she usually doesn’t drink from without first filtering. She said that at midnight, the earth would bloom as the water became blessed. Of course, she must have been speaking metaphorically, because nothing blooms this time of year in the sub-zero temperatures.
One of the guys who works at the school told me that he had gone swimming that morning and he seemed awfully proud of it. The teachers were all discussing the holiday in class and I heard once again how all of the waters were indeed sacrosanct today. I also learned that it was impossible to get sick from swimming in the freezing water—like, actually impossible. I didn’t know if people were just kidding around about all of this, like maybe how we pretend to believe in ghosts on Halloween and Santa Claus at Christmas. But, the more I asked about it the more I came to understand that this was not a holiday story for fun; people were under the real impression that the water possessed some holy quality.
Something I have noticed here in Eastern Europe is that mysticism and superstition is still very much alive. Those same holiday traditions that we take as entertaining remnants and observe as a matter of convention are taken seriously here. Even in daily life people are more superstitious.
Ever the skeptic, I was on the lookout for any signs of the divine all day and decided to join up with some friends to go swim that evening.
After my morning shower in the blessed water I felt my usual self. I washed down my breakfast of hotdogs and pickles with tea, which should have been blessed as well I assume. With an excessively full day ahead of me, an edge of stress was mounting. By mid-afternoon I was fully flustered as I rushed to get to class and made it thirty minutes late and then had to leave early to meet with the swimming group.
A large group had assembled in the computer room of the language school. I put on my bathing suit under my boxers, long johns, and pants and we set off. I had forgotten to bring a towel and had also forgotten my slippers. I had walked around earlier trying to buy a pair but decided against paying $6 for them—big mistake.
The 12 of us set off on the metro and arrived at “Gidropark.” By this time the sun had set and the temperature had dropped to about -10 celsius. We walked down towards the river where a large crowd had amassed. As we came closer I had the unpleasant sight of several grown men running out of the water completely naked, penises a-flopping for all to see.
Down on the bank I started to undress. I didn’t realize how biting the cold was until I took off my shirt and felt the wind blow right through the tissue, fat, and muscle of my chest. I took off one shoe and put my foot down on the snow-covered sand. In the time it took to take off the other shoe, my toes had gone completely numb. Everyone else was undressing and we got together for a group photo.
Me and two others were set to go on the count of three. Running to the water, one of the other guys slipped on the ice and slid in on his back. I ran in and submerged myself, too numb already to feel much additional shock from the cold. I didn’t feel like spending too much time in the freezing filthy water of the Dnieper, so I hopped back out. It was probably warmer in the water, especially with the wind chill, and I was jumping up and down trying to swish all of the water off of me with my hands. I begged a towel from one of the other guys after he’d already dried off, though it didn’t do much good.
Toes and feet had become painfully cold, legs were too numb to feel, and everything else felt like it had just experienced an electric shock. The hair on my head had already frozen into little hedgehog needles. Although they were covered in sand and wet, I shoved my feet down into my boots without my socks on to try to get some relief. The buttons on my shirt were difficult to work as my fingers had become arthritic with the frost. I had to get my wet bathing suit off but was in no position to amble about in the dark looking for a good spot to change. So, I grabbed a towel—which was abnormally small—and tried to cover myself up. There simply was not enough fabric, so I just turned around, covered my front, and pulled the suit down. There I was in all of my pride, standing naked on the frozen banks of the Dnieper!
Dressed again and filthy from the sand, we made our way back to the metro. My bathing suit had frozen completely in the form of my legs. On the sidewalk we ran into a number of other swimmers who were now stumbling so drunkenly that one of them fell right into one of the girls I was with. I noticed that one of the drunk swimmers was carrying a beeswax candle, the kind that are always sold in the Orthodox churches here.
Back on the subway I was feeling anything but blessed. Sensation was starting to circulate back into my extremities. My toes were painfully sore and I thought I may have gotten some mild frostbite. My hair started to thaw under my hat.
At the bar afterwards we all sat and merrily passed around the cameras looking at pictures from the swim. After a few rounds of drinks I think I started to feel the holiness of the day flowing down deep into my tummy, filling me with a radiant and blooming glow. With new friends around and big anticipation for new and wonderful adventures, I think I finally began to understand what made this holiday so special.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
First Impressions of Kiev
Today I ventured into downtown Kiev to try to locate my school and to buy a 3G modem thing so that I can have internet. I took the metro into the center and walked around a bit.
I’m excited to meet some people here so that I can have someone to explore with. It looks like there is tons to do in Kiev, so now to find some people to do it with!
I miss home and friends a bit, though the emotions are not running nearly as high as they were last time. The first two weeks in Moscow were pretty lonely and miserable as I sat around the hostel with nothing to do but dwell on how much I missed my girlfriend and stuff. I remember calling home on Skype and talking to Mom and Dad; they said I looked like I was about to cry. I remember wanting to come home and thinking that this was a huge mistake.
This time around I am feeling really great. The visit to Moscow really boosted my spirits as almost every one of my good friends came out to see me. It’s funny to think that I only knew those kids for one semester and yet, they all mean the world to me. Maybe it’s because when I was there, everything was running in slow motion with the newness and excitement so that these new friendships at almost at once became deeply rooted. My emotional intensity was heightened too, so it made all of the connections feel really strong. I don’t know how to explain it, but those kids are some of my best friends and I feel closer to them than most people I’ve met at Clemson.
This time I’m hitting the ground running. I think I’ll look into joining a gym tomorrow and also into getting a camera so that I can start making some videos. The Russian is already coming along great just from speaking with my host. I am surprised at how well I understand her: even if I don’t know the words, the context is enough to put things together. My mind just fills in the gaps. This is how language is learned naturally.
All things bode well.
I’m excited to meet some people here so that I can have someone to explore with. It looks like there is tons to do in Kiev, so now to find some people to do it with!
I miss home and friends a bit, though the emotions are not running nearly as high as they were last time. The first two weeks in Moscow were pretty lonely and miserable as I sat around the hostel with nothing to do but dwell on how much I missed my girlfriend and stuff. I remember calling home on Skype and talking to Mom and Dad; they said I looked like I was about to cry. I remember wanting to come home and thinking that this was a huge mistake.
This time around I am feeling really great. The visit to Moscow really boosted my spirits as almost every one of my good friends came out to see me. It’s funny to think that I only knew those kids for one semester and yet, they all mean the world to me. Maybe it’s because when I was there, everything was running in slow motion with the newness and excitement so that these new friendships at almost at once became deeply rooted. My emotional intensity was heightened too, so it made all of the connections feel really strong. I don’t know how to explain it, but those kids are some of my best friends and I feel closer to them than most people I’ve met at Clemson.
This time I’m hitting the ground running. I think I’ll look into joining a gym tomorrow and also into getting a camera so that I can start making some videos. The Russian is already coming along great just from speaking with my host. I am surprised at how well I understand her: even if I don’t know the words, the context is enough to put things together. My mind just fills in the gaps. This is how language is learned naturally.
All things bode well.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Leaving Moscow and Entering the Unknown
I pulled myself out of bed this morning, 5 hours after getting home from the club. I hurriedly packed my stuff because today I was going to Kiev. I said goodbye to Alisa’s mom and thanked her, the only other time I saw her was the first day. We walked out to the street and caught one of the taxi-vans and took it to the metro station. We took the metro to our stop and Alisa and I waited in the station for a half hour for Liliya to get there.
I always like sitting around in the metro stations because you can look around and see the faces of normalcy. It’s interesting though because it is not normal to me, it is normalcy in this alternate Russian reality. In general, that is what is so fun about travelling: seeing what normal is to different people. That is, unless you’re going on some adventure or recreational vacation like climbing Mt. Everest of skiing.
Liliya finally shows up and we pile into another taxi-van to the airport. I said goodbye to the girls at passport control and walked off feeling that same bitter-sweetness that I felt last time I left. Geez, it was good to be back.
Liliya handed me a little present and told me to open it on the plane. I opened it on the tarmac and it was a picture of me in my blue-tinted cocaine dealer sunglasses with my arms around her and Alisa. She wrote a nice note too. I love that girl.
Taking off from Moscow the pilot made about six sharp turns in the air. I wonder if that’s to avoid no fly zones over the Kremlin or something. Somewhere over Ukraine I started to notice the cloud cover diminishing and I was amazed when I looked down and couldn’t see any snow! Landing in Kiev, there was no white in sight! Moscow was covered, of course, but what a difference a one hour flight makes!
After passport control and customs I walked out into the main lobby of airport expecting to see some expectant Ukrainian holding a “NovaMova” sign. But, there was no one there and I couldn’t find any indication on anyone’s face that they might be looking for a young foreigner.
There was a taxi booth right next to the waiting area so I went over to it for lack of anything better to do. A pretty girl in her mid-thirties was working the booth and looked pretty bored, so I decided to give her something to do and asked if she knew where I could make a phone call. She thought for a second and then asked “какой номер,” (what number) and whipped out her private phone for me to use. It was very kind of her, but I realized that I didn’t know who to call.
I pulled out my little information packet and found the name and number of the coordinator and read it to the girl. She handed me the phone and pretty soon a little boy answered and started going off in Russian. I bumbled around trying to explain to him that I didn’t understand much of what he was saying and that I needed to talk to his Mom. He eventually trailed off and sat the phone down ostensibly to go get her. About 3 minutes later she gets on the phone and I explain my situation. She tells me the driver is parking and is on the way.
Thanking the taxi-lady I took a seat and waited. After about 15 minutes a hurried looking young guy comes into the waiting area holding a sign with “NovaMova” on it. I presented myself, he apologized for being late, and we were off in his Lada.
The driver’s name was Sergey and he was really friendly, but only spoke Russian. He gave me an enthusiastic mini tour of the city, explaining how the EuroCup (big soccer event) was coming to Kiev and that all kinds of new things were being build for it. Driving through Kiev felt like being in Moscow, which is great because I love Moscow.
We arrived at the place I’m staying: a 16 story Soviet apartment block in the middle of a grove of other 15-20 story Soviet apartment blocks. These huge outcroppings of apartment buildings make up a rayon, or neighborhood, and each neighborhood is serviced by its own set of cafes and grocery stores and even a disco club called Splash. These neighborhoods were the subject of many jokes in Soviet times because they all look the exact same whether you are Kazakhstan or Ukraine. There’s a certain charm to it though, if that’s what you want to call it.
My host came out to meet us in the front and I followed her into the elevator and up to the 11th floor, apartment 74. I was a bit nervous to see what I’d be walking into, hoping it wouldn’t be some dreary apartment that hadn’t been touched since the state stopped paying for repairs and remodeling. I was relieved to see that the place is really modern with all new kitchen appliances and a nice bathroom.
Something about old kitchens and bathrooms is really depressing to me. Maybe it’s because most of the socializing in my house (both in Clemson and at home) is done in the kitchen, and the kitchen is supposed to feel comfortable and clean. The accumulated grease and scraps and spills in old kitchens remind me of decay and death, so I
Old bathrooms remind me that I’m mortal because as I sit there and look around at the browning fake marble countertops, the weird inset soap holders, and the clouded plastic shower curtain rings I think that just like style of this bathroom, I too will age and wither.
Luckily the place I’m staying isn’t like this!
My room is nice and homey with a Persian rug and a huge oak cabinet. There’s a nice painting of a naked siren chatting it up with some Zeus figure, while another guy is blowing on a conch shell in the foreground next to some cherubic children swimming in the ocean. I am going to be sleeping on a pull out couch (as I predicted), so we’ll see how that goes. I have a nice view of the adjacent apartment block, but it’s kind of interesting to sit here and count the number of lighted windows.
My host is a vivacious lady full of energy, probably around 55 years old. She talks a lot, which means something coming from me, and speaks no English. I can already feel my Russian improving.
She was very concerned about me learning how to open and close the front door without setting off the security system. We probably practiced the whole routine 6 times. She had me step out, shut the doors and lock them, and then re-enter using the key. Then we practiced arming the alarm system and how to not set it off. Over and over and over.
I had borsch for dinner but she didn’t have any sour cream, only mayonnaise. There is way too much mayonnaise here. She made me these other things that I forget the name of, but it’s basically rice pilaf wrapped in a leaf of cabbage. As you might imagine it is one of the blandest dishes ever. She insisted I eat everything on the plate! That’s normal here though, and I’m not complaining.
My Russian is really coming out today, it’s inexplicable. I feel like I understand almost everything she says. It’s fantastic.
I took a short hop over to the shopping area to get some necessities. They have these mall type setups here where lots of individual vendors get together in a big complex and sell their wares. I passed one vendor who was selling pistols (.38’s, .22’s, etc. from the looks of them) and knives. The cheapest pistol cost about $70. I went into a music store and found a guitar for $50, so I may go back and buy it.
The good news is Ukraine is really cheap and there were also a lot of pretty girls walking around. Looks like I’m set!
I always like sitting around in the metro stations because you can look around and see the faces of normalcy. It’s interesting though because it is not normal to me, it is normalcy in this alternate Russian reality. In general, that is what is so fun about travelling: seeing what normal is to different people. That is, unless you’re going on some adventure or recreational vacation like climbing Mt. Everest of skiing.
Liliya finally shows up and we pile into another taxi-van to the airport. I said goodbye to the girls at passport control and walked off feeling that same bitter-sweetness that I felt last time I left. Geez, it was good to be back.
Liliya handed me a little present and told me to open it on the plane. I opened it on the tarmac and it was a picture of me in my blue-tinted cocaine dealer sunglasses with my arms around her and Alisa. She wrote a nice note too. I love that girl.
Taking off from Moscow the pilot made about six sharp turns in the air. I wonder if that’s to avoid no fly zones over the Kremlin or something. Somewhere over Ukraine I started to notice the cloud cover diminishing and I was amazed when I looked down and couldn’t see any snow! Landing in Kiev, there was no white in sight! Moscow was covered, of course, but what a difference a one hour flight makes!
After passport control and customs I walked out into the main lobby of airport expecting to see some expectant Ukrainian holding a “NovaMova” sign. But, there was no one there and I couldn’t find any indication on anyone’s face that they might be looking for a young foreigner.
There was a taxi booth right next to the waiting area so I went over to it for lack of anything better to do. A pretty girl in her mid-thirties was working the booth and looked pretty bored, so I decided to give her something to do and asked if she knew where I could make a phone call. She thought for a second and then asked “какой номер,” (what number) and whipped out her private phone for me to use. It was very kind of her, but I realized that I didn’t know who to call.
I pulled out my little information packet and found the name and number of the coordinator and read it to the girl. She handed me the phone and pretty soon a little boy answered and started going off in Russian. I bumbled around trying to explain to him that I didn’t understand much of what he was saying and that I needed to talk to his Mom. He eventually trailed off and sat the phone down ostensibly to go get her. About 3 minutes later she gets on the phone and I explain my situation. She tells me the driver is parking and is on the way.
Thanking the taxi-lady I took a seat and waited. After about 15 minutes a hurried looking young guy comes into the waiting area holding a sign with “NovaMova” on it. I presented myself, he apologized for being late, and we were off in his Lada.
The driver’s name was Sergey and he was really friendly, but only spoke Russian. He gave me an enthusiastic mini tour of the city, explaining how the EuroCup (big soccer event) was coming to Kiev and that all kinds of new things were being build for it. Driving through Kiev felt like being in Moscow, which is great because I love Moscow.
We arrived at the place I’m staying: a 16 story Soviet apartment block in the middle of a grove of other 15-20 story Soviet apartment blocks. These huge outcroppings of apartment buildings make up a rayon, or neighborhood, and each neighborhood is serviced by its own set of cafes and grocery stores and even a disco club called Splash. These neighborhoods were the subject of many jokes in Soviet times because they all look the exact same whether you are Kazakhstan or Ukraine. There’s a certain charm to it though, if that’s what you want to call it.
My host came out to meet us in the front and I followed her into the elevator and up to the 11th floor, apartment 74. I was a bit nervous to see what I’d be walking into, hoping it wouldn’t be some dreary apartment that hadn’t been touched since the state stopped paying for repairs and remodeling. I was relieved to see that the place is really modern with all new kitchen appliances and a nice bathroom.
Something about old kitchens and bathrooms is really depressing to me. Maybe it’s because most of the socializing in my house (both in Clemson and at home) is done in the kitchen, and the kitchen is supposed to feel comfortable and clean. The accumulated grease and scraps and spills in old kitchens remind me of decay and death, so I
Old bathrooms remind me that I’m mortal because as I sit there and look around at the browning fake marble countertops, the weird inset soap holders, and the clouded plastic shower curtain rings I think that just like style of this bathroom, I too will age and wither.
Luckily the place I’m staying isn’t like this!
My room is nice and homey with a Persian rug and a huge oak cabinet. There’s a nice painting of a naked siren chatting it up with some Zeus figure, while another guy is blowing on a conch shell in the foreground next to some cherubic children swimming in the ocean. I am going to be sleeping on a pull out couch (as I predicted), so we’ll see how that goes. I have a nice view of the adjacent apartment block, but it’s kind of interesting to sit here and count the number of lighted windows.
My host is a vivacious lady full of energy, probably around 55 years old. She talks a lot, which means something coming from me, and speaks no English. I can already feel my Russian improving.
She was very concerned about me learning how to open and close the front door without setting off the security system. We probably practiced the whole routine 6 times. She had me step out, shut the doors and lock them, and then re-enter using the key. Then we practiced arming the alarm system and how to not set it off. Over and over and over.
I had borsch for dinner but she didn’t have any sour cream, only mayonnaise. There is way too much mayonnaise here. She made me these other things that I forget the name of, but it’s basically rice pilaf wrapped in a leaf of cabbage. As you might imagine it is one of the blandest dishes ever. She insisted I eat everything on the plate! That’s normal here though, and I’m not complaining.
My Russian is really coming out today, it’s inexplicable. I feel like I understand almost everything she says. It’s fantastic.
I took a short hop over to the shopping area to get some necessities. They have these mall type setups here where lots of individual vendors get together in a big complex and sell their wares. I passed one vendor who was selling pistols (.38’s, .22’s, etc. from the looks of them) and knives. The cheapest pistol cost about $70. I went into a music store and found a guitar for $50, so I may go back and buy it.
The good news is Ukraine is really cheap and there were also a lot of pretty girls walking around. Looks like I’m set!
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