Funny Day

On Saturday, Jennifer and I went to Vinnysta. The primary purpose of our trip was to buy train tickets to Kiev. Jennifer is going to Kiev this week for her mid-service medical check-up and I’m going to Kiev next week for an in service training/language refresher. To ensure a spot on the train, tickets must be purchased in advance. For Jennifer and me, this means taking the hour trip into Vinnysta, which I don’t mind. I like going into the big city and I like meeting up with the volunteers who live there.

There are three volunteers in Vinnysta who all happen to be married, two of them to each other and the other to a Ukrainian. Jennifer and I met the two couples outside of the McDonalds at one o’clock. We stood in the cold for half an hour waiting to see if any other volunteers from the region would show up, but none did. So the six of us walked to McCloud’s Pub a few blocks away for lunch. Lunch was delicious, but the beer was a little disappointing. McCloud’s had an entire menu page devoted to beer, but they only had one kind you could actually get. Of course, our server couldn’t just tell us so, we had to find out by process of elimination. It was actually rather funny. It was like when Darcy, Josh, Tony and I went to the Hemp Museum in Germany. We went downstairs to the Hemp Café and Josh tried to order some hemp cake but they didn’t have it. Then he tried to order hemp bread, but they didn’t have any hemp bread either. So he tried to order some hemp tea, but no. Everything that he tried to order, the woman said they didn’t have. Exasperated, Josh finally asked, “Well what do you have?!” They had pre-bottled juice. Juice they didn’t even make at the hemp café. That was it. Like McCloud’s, the Hemp Café had a one item menu.

After lunch, we walked back towards McDonalds and the center of town. We stopped to visit a big Orthodox church that was on our way. The church was dark inside, lit only by the light of flickering prayer candles. It was quiet and peaceful. There was an old woman mopping the floor. Everywhere you go here, there are women mopping the floors cleaning up the snow and mud people track in on their shoes. I can’t think of a more infuriating job then constantly mopping and never actually having the floor be clean. I think the old woman mopping at the church was herself, feeling a bit fed up. A young girl came in to light a candle and pray. The girl started walking towards one of the altars and when she came a bit too close to the clean floor, the old woman muttered under her breath and made like she was going to chase the young girl with the mop. Startled, the girl went to a different alter. It was funny.

Jennifer and I caught the last bus back to our town at 6:30. The bus wasn’t full, thankfully, because I think if it had been full, it never would have made it to Bar. It was literally, the little bus that could. Anytime we were going up a slight incline, the bus would slow down to a crawl and anytime we were going down an incline, the bus would speed up rapidly. It was almost like being on roller coasting that slowly creeps up the tracks only to barrel down except we never gained enough momentum to keep the ride going. About 20 minutes outside of Bar, the bus stopped to pick up a man who was clearly drunk. The man got on the bus, but rather than sit down in one of the many available seats, he insisted upon standing in the stairway by the door. He stood swaying back and forth, holding onto the railing every once in awhile resting his face against the side of the bus.

A few minutes after picking him up, the bus stopped again to pick up another passenger. The drunk guy didn’t notice that the bus stopped or that the doors were opening. He just kept standing in the stairwell. The bus door slid open inwardly and got stuck because the drunk guy was in the way. The doors sandwiched him against the railing he had been holding onto. The driver told him to move, but I guess he didn’t hear. He just kept standing all smushed with a dreamy look on his face. The driver closed the door and opened it again only to sandwich the guy a second time. Finally, the person trying to get on the bus shouted at him and he got out the way. Rather then moving to an actual seat, the drunk guy continued to stand in the stairway and sway. The bus stopped again and again, the bus door smashed him; again, he had to be hollered at to move. This happened four different times and by the last time, Jennifer and I were laughing out loud at him. Just the sight, the very sight of a drunk guy being sandwiched by the bus door again and again and again, oh man, I don’t even think words can do justice to how funny it was.

The Crazy Lady

When I say my host mother is a little crazy, that she’s slightly nutso, I assure you that I’m being more than generous in my evaluation. Sure, in her heart, Katia means well. She’s a nice person, a good woman. She’s strong and independent and she’s managed to raise two incredible children on her own. I have the utmost respect for the obstacles she’s overcome in her life and the success she’s found. That said, I still think she’s a little coo-coo.

Yes, many of my grievances against her are more a matter of culture clash than anything else. It drives me crazy, absolutely crazy, when she sits down next to me and she’s so close she could easily lick my neck. I don’t see why our thighs must be touching when there is an entire couch we can be sharing. I don’t see why she must speak to me with her face literally two inches away from the side of mine. She takes the term “close talker” to whole new level. I don’t see why she must giggle her high-pitched giggle directly into my eardrum or why she must from time to time, reach over and adjust my hair like I’m her little pet. Really, I think that’s what irks me the most about her: she treats me like I’m her little pet or her little doll or her moronic child. All the time, I find myself thinking: lady, what the hell are you doing?

This thought most recently crossed my mind when she tried to spoon-feed me my dinner. We were having potatoes (yes, a shocker). When I came to the table, I saw that there was a side of sour cream in bowl sitting next to my plate. I drizzled a spoonful of sour cream onto my potatoes because to me, it was the logical thing to do. As I did so, Katia started gasping and shaking her head saying “Ni! Ni! Ni! Ni!” Her gasps scared me. I thought something really horrible had happened, like maybe she had set herself on fire. Then, while I was still sitting at the table in utter confusion, she took a forkful of potatoes (sans sour cream) and shoved it into my mouth. While I was chewing and mentally registering the fact that she had just shoved potatoes into my mouth, she came at me with a huge spoonful of sour cream.

It happened in slow motion, this big spoon coming towards my face like, “Open the hatch!” She tried to feed me another bite, but I waved her away and resumed eating my own potatoes. She protested again, but I told her that I like my sour cream on my potatoes. Katia has since shoved food in my mouth on three other occasions. Her tactic is the element of surprise and it works because I never quite know when there is going to be a spoon or fork heading full steam for my mouth. I try to protest, but she’s incredibly insistent and in the end, well, in the end, the hatch opens.

I particularly dislike going out in public with her because she insists on holding my hand when we cross the street. The first time I went out with her, she dragged me to the bazaar where we zigzagged back and forth across the street more times than I could count. Each and every time we crossed she sought out my hand, even when it was in my pocket. Now this might seem like a trite complaint, but think about it; think about being a grown adult and being tugged around like you’re two-years-old.

As I learned last week, when out with Katia, there are things worse then hand holding. We were going to develop my pictures from New Years, which she had been obsessed with doing since the moment I took them. There is one guy in town who develops digital pictures and we were on the way to his “studio”. As we walked, Katia started leading me around by my scarf. That’s right, by my scarf, like I was a little puppy. She would take my scarf and I would whip it out of her hand and a few moments later, she would take it again and I would whip it out of her hand. For most of the walk, she was talking and giggling and pulling me around by my scarf. I, on the other hand, was stone-faced, utterly unamused, purposefully ripping my scarf from her clutches hoping she’d get the point. She didn’t. I finally ended up tucking my scarf into my jacket.

I was incredibly grateful to finally get my pictures developed for her because she had been making me show them to her on my computer daily. She liked to linger on the ones that she was in and touch the screen and say, “Class, class!” Everyone is vain, and well, Katia’s no exception. She has lots of pictures of herself displayed around her room. She has lots of pictures of herself – mostly headshots that all look the same – on her camera phone. She made me look at all the headshots on her phone. She had more than one folder of them. It was incredibly dull and slightly awkward. I mean, after the 15th one, what can you say anymore? Nice hair?

Katia has a strong personality. Her personality makes her a successful manager at the meat bizaar, but it makes her a bit much to deal with if you’re not a pork loin. She’s used to things being done her way on her time to her liking. Sometimes I find her behavior a bit erratic. The other night, I was watching TV with Yulia and Misha. Katia had been watching a show in her room, but decided to come in and join us. She told Misha to change the station to the program she had been watching. When he didn’t do it right away, she screamed at him. It was a loud, abrupt scream and it startled me so much I jumped. Every once in awhile, she’ll just scream. Now I’m more used to it then I was before, but it still takes me by surprise. I’m sure that Misha must deserve it some of the time, but for the life of me, I can’t understand why we must go from calm questioning to crazy person screaming without any reasonable in between.

When I first arrived here, I needed to do some laundry. My two main sweaters needed to be washed. It wasn’t a big deal since they just needed to be hand washed and that’s not too hard. Well, the minute Katia saw that I was hand washing my sweaters, she marched into the bathroom and told me that she would wash them for me in the machine. I said thank you, but no, these sweaters need to be hand washed. She insisted and insisted. I tried to sneak into the bathroom and finish washing them, but she’d poured out the water they had been soaking in. When she heard me in the bathroom, she ran in and told me to leave, that she’d wash my sweaters for me. I was new to town and I wide-eyed and naive, and I let her have her way because it wasn’t worth the fight. Two hours later I pulled my sweaters out of the washing machine. They were tiny. She had shrunk them to the size a 6-year-old might wear. She walked by and saw me madly pulling on them, trying desperately to stretch them back out and she just smiled, apparently not noticing that – at her insistence -- my two main sweaters had become doll clothes.

Shrunken sweaters I can get over. Mostly I blame myself for not sticking to my guns. What really gets me though, is the fact that Katia really does think I’m stupid. Just tonight, I heard her telling Yulia that I don’t know how to eat a tomato. How can a person not know how eat a tomato? Does she really think I’m that dull? She told me to cut my meat and put it on my kasha. I understood her. I told her I understood her, and yet, she kept showing me how to cut with the knife – pointing out the sharp side even! – miming it for me saying, “Understand? Understand? Understand?” Today when I was leaving the apartment, she stood pressed up against my side watching me unlock the deadbolt saying, “Uh huh, Uh huh, Uh huh” like it was miraculous that I was managing without her help.

I’m sure that I must drive her as crazy as she drives me. Culture clash tends to go both ways. For one thing, I know it really bothers her when I brush up against her wallpaper. I try not to; I really try to consciously think “Middle of the hall away from the wall, middle of the hall away from the wall.” Sometimes I get careless though, and I forget to think about it, and my arm or my side or my back will brush up against the wall as I round a corner she’ll give an exasperated sigh and tell me to stay away from the wallpaper. (“Understand? Understand? Understand?)

I know it bothers her that I’ll leave the house even when she tells me I’m “not allowed” because it’s too cold. Once she tried to lock me inside when she saw that I was leaving, but I just kept putting on my boots and my scarf and my coat. She locked the door and took the key and told me I may not leave. She called Yulia in to tell me what she said (even though I understood) and Yulia said, “Mom, she’s 23, let her go.” And though she pouted, Katia did let me go, because really, she had choice. She’s not my mother. I have a mother, in America, who thankfully, is the polar opposite of Lady Coo-Coo.

Brrrrr!

School has been closed this week because of the cold. Supposedly we’ll have school tomorrow, but I don’t know; it’s still really cold. Yesterday morning it was –24 c. I think it warmed up to –20 c. during the day, but I’m not one hundred percent. Regardless, it was still freezing cold. I don’t know if I’ve ever experienced such consistent cold before in my life. I’ve certainly never experienced the thrill of snot actually freezing in my nose as I walk.

On Saturday, I went to Vinnysta and bought some shoes for playing basketball. I went to a store called MegaSport. The sales assistant mostly spoke Russian and since I mostly speak English and a tad bit of Ukrainian, our interactions were mostly through mime. In the end I bought some Adidas. On Monday, I went to the gym and played basketball again. The gym was cold though, and I never really got warmed up even as I played. A couple of my students were at the gym playing too so it’ll be all over school that I was there. There are no secrets in Bar, not that playing basketball is a secret. The day after I played the first time, I went over to Jennifer’s house and her host dad told me he heard I was at the gym playing and that I was pretty good. Like I said, there are no secrets in Bar.

After basketball on Monday, Roma, Yulia’s friend and my basketball buddy, invited me to come eat cake and drink tea with a couple of Yulia’s other friends. Since I didn’t have school on Tuesday, I agreed thinking, cake and tea, how long could that possibly take? By now you’d think I’d have learned…

We took a taxi a few minutes out of town to their friend Sergie’s apartment. Apparently it was his birthday, a fact I failed to gather in the conversations beforehand. We arrived and Sergie’s mother immediately began cooking food in the kitchen. Then she brought out the table with the nice tablecloth and plates and shot glasses and of course, vodka. It turned out that we ate and drank for more than two hours before we even got to the cake and tea. When I finally got home at midnight, I was so tired I could barely climb the stairs. Anyway, you’d think that by now I’d have learned that here, it’s never as simple as cake and tea.

Though it’s been cold, the sun has been out and that’s been nice. There’s nothing like blue skies to lift the spirits in the dead of winter. This week I’ve been waking up early but staying in bed late. It’s too chilly in my room, even when the space heater, to get up and at ‘em. I finally received my first mailing from the Peace Corps office, so I’ve been reading my Newsweek and drinking tea in bed and dreaming about two months from now when I’ll be on the verge of getting my own place. I can’t wait.

My host family is nice. Yulia is great. My host mom is a bit nuts but I’m learning to deal with her. Mostly it’s hard because I don’t really have my own room here. The room that I sleep in is the music room. It has Misha’s piano and guitar and keyboard in it and it’s the only place he has to practice. My room also has Yulia’s desk in it, so every afternoon she’s studying in there. She doesn’t bother me, but the situation isn’t exactly the homiest for an American used to personal space. Only two more months though, and then I’ll have lots of personal space.

Basketball!

Last night I played basketball at the local Sports Center. Really, it's just an old gym. Yulia's friend invited me to come play basketball with him. Truthfully, I was a little hesitant to go, just because I didn't know what I was getting myself into. I haven't played basketball for a long time and I'm ridiculously out of shape. Other than climbing the seven flights of stairs to my flat, I don't workout. I was also hesitant to go because I didn't exactly bring basketball shoes with me. I guess I thought that it would be a long time before I found a place to play and I'd have time to buy a pair of sneakers. Since I never got around to buying the sneakers, I ended up having to go in my Pumas, not exactly the best basketball shoe. I wore them with my ankle braces, a very cool look I'll have you know.

Roma met me outside my building at seven o'clock. We walked the three minutes to the gym. As soon as I walked inside, I was happy that I went. It had been a long time since I heard the familiar squeak of sneakers on the gym floor. Hearing it lifted my spirits. It was almost like hearing the voice of an old friend.

It ended up being boy's hour on the courts. Girl's hour is earlier in the day, but they let me play anyway. There were enough guys to make three teams of four. They let me play as the fifth player on Roma's team. The director of the gym stood and refereed the game. He called a lot of fouls in my favour that weren't fouls at all. I think he was trying to take it easy on me. I didn't play great but I wasn't bad either. I took shots anytime I was left open. I only made one of them, but the ones I missed I didn't miss by much.

It was a lot of fun. I need to buy some sneakers because I was totally paranoid that I was going to twist my ankle in my stupid shoes. I think that I'll have the chance to buy some on Saturday when I go to Vinnysta with Jennifer.

Anyway, that's the good news: I found a gym where I can play basketball. Hopefully I'll be able to get there three times a week to play. It's certainly not karate, but it's way better, so I'm not complaining.

Yesterday's Embarassing Moment

Yesterday I needed to make copies for a couple of my classes. The first place I went to, a stationary store called Papyrus (trust me, no relation), was having copier troubles so I had to go elsewhere. No big deal, there are a couple of copy machines in this town. I was going to go to Papyrus because I'd been there before and the copy woman was nice. Luckily, the place I ended up going to had a nice copy woman too.

I asked for copies without trouble: 15 copies of one thing, 4 copies of another. Then I asked if I could buy white paper from her. She said I could so I did. I bought 40 pieces of white paper. She punched some numbers into the calculator and told me my total. She said the number really fast and I didn't quite catch it and rather than ask her to repeat, I glanced down at the calculator. My jaw dropped. It read 47. Forty-seven hryven for 19 copies and 40 pieces of paper!

My mind was racing. I was in shock. I know that most Ukrainian teachers don't spend money on copies and I thought, gee whiz, no wonder! That's ridiculously expensive! I pulled out my wallet with a horrified look on my face. I knew I didn't have 47 hryven with me. I knew I only had 45. I started pulling out my bills and counting them. I had a fist-full of ones and fives and twos (yes, they have twos, it's rather nice). I was trying to think how I could ask her to take away a few pieces of paper. I figured it must be the paper that was so expensive, what else could it be?!

So there I was, standing with my heaps of bills, a panicked expression on my face, wondering how I was going to navigate the situation with my language skills when the woman calmly took a 5 from my hand, gave me change and went to help the next person in line. It was then that I took a closer look at the calculator and realized there was a decimal point. It actually read 4.7. I felt incredibly silly. It was embarassing because I know my numbers. I haven't had a 'me standing there with heaps of bills in utter confusion' situation since I arrived in country. Next time, I should probably just ask her to repeat the total.

My first Oye!

Today it happened: I was standing in my room, showing Yulia the makings of my soon-to-be knitting project (right now I’m still trying to get my rhythm) when all of the sudden, I dropped one needle and out came, ‘Oye!’

Guys, I said my first Oye! This is so exciting! The old Sheryl would have said ‘Whoop’ or ‘Wow’ or ‘Oops’ but the new Sheryl, the new Sheryl says ‘Oye’. I’ve been waiting expectantly for my first Oye, wondering when and if it would ever just pop out of my mouth as natural as can be.

While I was walking to the post-office the other day, I hit a patch of ice and slipped. I didn’t fall, thankfully, but I did flail my arms around wildly, kick out a leg abruptly, swivel my hips unnaturally, and say ‘Wow!’ rather loudly. Wow gave me away; nobody here says Wow. People slip, but they don’t say Wow; this is strictly Oye territory. After I composed myself, I thought: that would have been a good time for an Oye. I guess I wanted it too much. Oye comes when Oye is ready to come.

My host brother was trying to help me get the internet on my computer at home. I didn’t ask for his help, he kind of just forced it upon me. It “turns out” that I “can’t get dial-up” on my computer because I “don’t have a driver” and the only way to “get a driver” is to “reinstall windows”, this according to the computer guy Misha dragged me to. I’m not interested in reinstalling windows, I’m more interested in not messing with my computer because as it is, she’s old and quirky and I want her to last two years. When I get my own place, I’ll be able to get high-speed internet at home anyway, so I’m not terribly concerned about getting dial-up now, but I digress.

Misha’s computer guy installed a translation program onto my computer. I didn’t ask him for it and I didn’t really want it but it happened so fast that I couldn’t stop it. The program is cool. It works in Word. I can type a sentence in English and the computer will translate it into Ukrainian, Russian, or German and vice-versa. I haven’t really used it much and I probably won’t use it that much because the translation is just mediocre. When the computer guy was excitedly showing me how it works, he typed a few simple phrases into Ukrainian and then translated them to English.

His initial translations included: write something, do you speak English? And, you try. I tried. Then he typed something into the computer and looking all triumphant, he translated it and turned the screen towards me. The screen read: Now intercourse will be easier. Call me immature, but that’s funny. NOW INTERCOURSE WILL BE EASIER!? It was the last thing I was expecting to read when he unveiled his last translation. I know he meant that now, communicating will be easier, but man, it still made me laugh.

And probably, if he knew why I was laughing, he would have said ‘Oye!’ and typed something else.

"Karate Class"

So on Saturday, I went to “karate” with one of my students in the eleventh form. She met me outside my building in the morning and we walked across town (ten minutes) to the “karate school”. The school is located in the basement of an apartment building that I have walked past countless times. I’d never noticed the green kung-fu sign before and now that I have noticed it, I don’t know how I could possibly have missed it.

When Luda told me about her karate classes, I naturally assumed she meant karate classes; but as it turned out, there was no class. Instead, “karate” turned out to be a self-directed activity in a tiny, tiny workout center consisting of two punching bags, three ancient weight-lifting machines, barbells from Arnold’s steroid days, a bunch of mats, and a couple of benches. Luda and I changed into our workout clothes in the smelly equipment closet. (Nothing quite like that smell) Then we went out to do some “training.”

I was a little unsure what was going on at first. It took me awhile to realize that there was indeed, no karate class. At first, when Luda started stretching, I thought that perhaps we had to get warmed up on our own and then class would start, so I followed Luda’s lead: she did two quick side stretches, I did two quick side stretches; she reached down and touched her toes twice, I tried to reach down and touch my toes twice; she did two leg circles with each leg, I did two leg circles with each leg. This was our warm up. It didn’t really warm much up. Mostly it just reminded me of how out of shape I am.

After we warmed up, she escorted me to the punching bags and asked, “Do you want to hit them?” She handed me some boxing gloves and we hit the punching bag a few times. Then we kicked it a few times. Then we punched it a few more times. Then she got boxing mitts (not the proper name I know, but I’m no million dollar baby) and I punched them for a bit. Then she asked me if I was tired. I wasn’t, but we went and sat down on the mats to stretch anyway. She did a couple quick stretches, never holding anything for more than three seconds. I followed her lead because I didn’t know what else to do. By that time, it had become pretty evident that there was to be no karate proper; just karate type kicks against the punching bags, and into the air…and here I thought I could become a black belt.

That was pretty much our workout, though I did throw in some sit ups for good measure. The place was full of young kids, mostly boys, waiting to use the punching bags and doing random air kicks and punches. As unimpressive as my personal workout turned out to be, I was impressed by center as a whole. I was impressed to see a place promoting healthy living to kids. I was impressed to find a place (not the computer club) bustling with so many young boys. In that regard, I was pleasantly surprised.

The rest of my Saturday was rather uneventful. I dug out an ingrown toenail. I ate borshch. I did some lesson planning for next week. I went over to Jennifer’s house and watched a movie. I ate potatoes drizzled in mayonnaise. (Actually rather delicious. I before never knew how much potential mayonnaise has-- more than just for sandwiches folks.) I took a hot bath to sooth my muscles. I started a knitting project.

Oh yeah, I’m knitting again, and this time, I’m going to stick with it. I am determined to finish at least one domestic-type project in my life. It turns out that cross-stitching isn’t really for me, but I have high hopes for knitting.

New Year

New Years came and went, but the celebrations continue. That's pretty much all I have to say about New Year in Ukraine. My host sister told me they celebrate for 13 days, and I didn't believe. Now I do.

My host sister had all her friends over to ring in the New Year. They didn't even come over until eleven o'clock at night. That should have been my first indication that it was going to be an all night affair.

There was no Dick Clark to help us ring in 2006, but we managed. Actually, here the president comes on TV and addresses the nation 5 minutes before midnight. Then, without the fanfare of a ball dropping, the New Year arrives.

Yulia, my sister, invited about a dozen of her friends over. There was a table full of food that had been devoured by the end of the night. When I can, I hope to post some pictures because it was a pretty impressive spread. The drinking started at midnight for us, and for Yulia and her friends, it continued until ten o'clock the next morning. I managed not to get drunk, which was amazing considering how persistent they were at pouring shots of vodka. In all, I think 15 bottles of vodka were consumed. It was pretty incredible. People were pretty drunk.

We sat around eating, drinking, playing with sparklers, eating, drinking, eating and drinking until 3:30 in the morning. Then we headed to the center of town where people were gathered by the New Year's tree. There were a lot of people out gathered by the tree, lots of families and young kids. It was 5:30 before I crawled into bed. I was really tired. Yulia and her friends partied on for about five more hours, but I just couldn't do it. I'm not Ukrianian.

The next day, the toasting started again at lunch time. I couldn't believe that anyone would still want to drink, but as they tell me, it's Ukrainian tradition. There was more drinking, which I more less managed to get out of. I only was obliged to take a couple shots, which actually -- coupled with utter exhaustion -- made me a little weepy and I had to go take a long walk and pull myself together. Thankfully, I don't think anyone noticed.

Since New Years, I have been with Yulia to a slew of gatherings that all involve eating and drinking. It's fun; it's also a lot of work to not get drunk. I don't really care to drink as much as they do and sometimes it takes all my energy to say no, or to say "choot-choot" (a little). Her friends are nice though, very eager to make me feel at home with them, so that's nice. They tell me that they are my Ukrainian family, so that's nice too.

We still have Old New Year to celebrate, and then after that, I'm sure there will be some other occassion to get together and eat and drink. That's just kind of how it's done over here.

Home at last...kind of

I made it to my site and I think I’m going to be very happy here, mostly because I spotted gummy-worms for sale at the magazine across the street for 15 kopeks a piece. I love gummy-worms. One time I ate an entire pound of gummy-worms in a single afternoon. I hope I can show a little more self-control now, but I don’t know, I love gummy. I haven’t seen it since I’ve been here, and now, magically, we have been reunited, gummy and I. Talk about a good omen.

Getting to site with my five heavy bags was nothing short of exhilarating, let me just say. Luckily, Peace Corps had the foresight to purchase us (my bags and I) an entire coupe on the train. And thankfully, my coordinator -- who I’ll be working with at my site the next two years -- was along for the ride, so I had help. Three of my bags, particularly the one FULL of books, weighed more than 50 pounds, that’s for damn sure. I didn’t really have to deal with them until my coordinator and I got off the train. Getting on the train, the Peace Corps paid for porters to help, so that was nice. My tax money at work, and I’m not complaining.

The director of my school, whom I had never met, met my coordinator and me at the train station. When I had visited my site in November, my director had been away on leave resting and getting healthy. He was really eager to meet me so he got his friend to drive the 45 minutes to pick us up at 10:30 at night, though had he known what awaited him, he might have reconsidered. The poor guy ended up lugging my huge, heavy bags from the train to the smallest car I’ve ever seen in my life (one bag and my backpack fit in the trunk) and then up SEVEN flights of stairs to my new flat. (That’s right, SEVEN flights of stairs, no elevator. Think about that next time you take the escalator at the mall.)

I’ll admit it was a little embarrassing to watch my director, red-faced, coming up the stairs, especially when my coordinator told me the next day that he told her he was “really tired.” I mean, don’t want to be responsible for sending him back to rest camp. He likes me though. He’s probably in his fifties, nice grandfather type. Yesterday he gave me a huge bag of assorted chocolate candies and said they were from Father Frost. Today he gave me another big bag of assorted chocolates and said they too were from Father Frost. Apparently my director is my Father Frost. It’s nice, but I certainly can’t eat 5 pounds of assorted chocolate candies on my own. Now if they were gummies…that would be a different story.

The Christmas season is just getting started here. Today they erected a New Year’s tree in the center of town. They celebrate New Year with a tree and presents, and they celebrate Orthodox Christmas on January 7th, and then they celebrate Old New Year on January 12th. It’ll be interesting to be a part of the celebrations, especially since thus far, the Christmas season has pretty much passed by without me really noticing. December was mostly frantic language lessons, community project planning and general end-of-training internal pandemonium.

On Christmas Eve I called the family in Washington and we talked via speakerphone, so that was nice. You know you’re important when you’re put on speakerphone. A couple Peace Corps Volunteers put on a Christmas Eve service at the place we were staying. Dave and I went. It was nice, mostly scripture and hymns. I’ll admit to getting a little teary-eyed singing silent night with candles lit in the darkness. It made me think of the mid-night service at Westminster. (Also of the fateful year I spilled hot wax onto Lori’s nice, black blazer…sorry about dude. I still feel bad.)

All in all, things are good. My new host family is great. My host sister, Yulia, is 18 and my host brother, Misha, is 14. They are great kids. Actually, Yulia isn’t much a kid. She’s really mature, and beautiful, and eager to include me with her friends, so that’s sweet. My second night here she took me out dancing with her girlfriends. That’s right, dancing. Guys, I dance. Who knew?

That’s the update for now. More will follow, I’m sure. Now that I have internet access I can be in more frequent touch. Tomorrow I have a staff party at the café with my colleagues from school. (“Uh, Sarah, things have changed, I have colleagues now.”) There will probably be dancing. What can I say? I’m working on my moves. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you posted.