First and foremost, you should all know that I am incredibly happy here in Ukraine. Everyday I marvel that I’m finally here. Sometimes I have to pinch myself to see if it’s even real.
I’m living in what I took to be a small village, but what is apparently a small town. My mistake. It’s rather rural and very agricultural. Cows roam, goats bleat, chickens run free, most roads are dirt; for this city girl, it might as well be the sticks. I’m not complaining though, just saying.
There are certain things that I’m still getting used to…like the cows, and the geese, and the goats, and the chickens, and the roosters, and the babushkas on ten-speed bikes. Now, the grandmas I can handle, they in fact remind me of my own grandmother on her own stationary bike; it’s really the animal element that throws me for a loop. In my old concrete jungle, such animals were confined to the petting zoo at Happy Hallow. Here, the petting zoo actually runs wild. And for me, that’s kind of wild.
The other day, I walked home behind a cow. That’s right, behind a cow. I was too skiddish to pass it, so I kept my distance. I swear my vivid imagination results in the most irrational fears. The cow kept turning and mooing at me, and I didn’t know if this was some sort challenge. I didn’t know if it would charge if we made eye contact. I didn’t know if it would buck like a horse if I got too close behind it. I didn’t know, but I imagined, so I kept my distance and probably looked crazy because we (the cow and I) were walking so damn slow. I do realize how absurd I am.
My host family is great. I feel very blessed to find myself in such a good situation. They are a close, happy family. The father, Alec, is the director at the neighborhood school. The mother, Alla, is the vice-principle at another school. Both studied and taught history, not that we can really talk much history, what with the language barrier. Alec is a Cossack, which he described to me as a social organization for the people, I think. During the Orange Revolution, Alec went to Kiev with other Cossacks to protect the people and keep the peace between the two sides. From what I’ve been able to gather/decipher, during the Soviet era, he was a guard at the Berlin Wall. He used watch American planes fly over and American guards patrol the west side of the wall. He was born in Kazakhstan, his father is Russian and his great Uncle, or something like it, went to America and fought in the civil war for the Union army, I think. I wish my language skills were better so I could talk to him about the incredible ways he’s been a part of history. It’s a shame really, that I can’t.
I have two host sisters. One is eleven and the other, Olena, is 16. On Friday, she took me to the Disco. Her friends were all excited to meet me. It was cute. The disco was odd to the say the least. It was a cross between a high school dance and a club. There was beer for sale, and people could bring alcohol in, but it was all ages. The music was mostly a mix of old American songs. There were strobe lights and colored lights and there was a DJ, all in what can only be described as a large outdoor gazebo with picnic tables and Christmas lights.
Anyway, so I danced. I couldn’t skulk out of it, what with being an ambassador of all things American. It was pretty hilarious. I felt pretty hilarious dancing with a bunch of teenage girls, all of us bundled up in our coats. At one point, the DJ dedicated a song to me. So that was nice. That’s never happened at a high school dance-club in America. At another point, Olena and her friends tried to get me to start a Congo line. (Please imagine my horror.) They kept saying, “Crazy dance!” and miming what they wanted me to do, and I kept playing dumb. There was no way in hell that I was going to lead a Congo line. When I didn’t take the bait, they started it themselves and whipped me in. I thought that perhaps more people might join in, that perhaps this was a young Ukrainian thing, but such was not the case. Nobody else joined our “crazy dance” and so it was just the five of us, barreling around the dance floor like an out of control locomotive. Utterly humiliating for the tall American, may I just say.
My days are full. I rise, I go language lessons, I study, I sleep. This week I start my internship as Alla’s school. I’ll be teaching four classes a week. I’m a little nervous, what with no formal training. On Saturday, we had a technical session that jam-packed an entire semesters worth of methodology into an hour and a half. I’d feel more overwhelmed if I hadn’t been an active part of editing Darcy’s education homework the last few years. Still, knowing things in theory and putting them into play are two totally different things, so we’ll see how it goes. I’m excited. I get to make lots of posters and other visual aids, so I’m totally in my element.
The language is coming slowly. By the time I go to sleep at night, my brain pretty much feels like mush. I hope that’s a good thing. I study every spare moment that I have, so I trust that eventually it’ll click. Last week I had a funny language moment. I was trying to say I didn’t remember something, but instead I said, “I’m a tomato.” This is now what I think any time I have no idea what’s going on or being said to me. I think it more often then I care to admit actually.
I’m adjusting well I think. I take it day by day and try not to let things bother me. There isn’t much about my life I can control anymore and I’m okay with that. The small things don’t bother me so much these days. They in fact delight me. I washed my face with hot water tonight and it was incredible. I think I’ll dream about it as I drift off to sleep. I think I might even escape to it in my mind tomorrow when the inevitable happens and I find myself thinking, yep, I’m a tomato.
