Little Feats

Last Saturday, I ventured into Vinnystia to buy a train ticket to Kiev. It was to be my first solo train ticket purchase, as in the past, I’ve had Jennifer by my side telling me what to say and when. I was a bit nervous because the women behind the counters at the касаs are a notorious bunch. I’ve heard horror stories of volunteers being yelled at, and in one particularly harrowing account, even brought to tears. I didn’t want that to be me, so I went prepared. I wrote myself a script and practiced it the whole bus ride to the big city.

The bus from Bar arrives at the варскі (barsky) bus station. From there I can hop on a trolleybus to get across town to the train station. The trolleybus costs 50 kopeks and the ride lasts 45 minutes. Another option is to take a marshrutka, which costs 90 kopeks, and takes 25 minutes. I’m cheap, but I’m not that cheap; plus, I’m no longer enamored by the trolleybus experience, so I opted for the marshrutka.

I got to the train station a little after one o’clock. In the past, when I’ve gone to purchase tickets, there have hardly been any lines. In the past though, it hasn’t been summer and everyone and their second cousin twice removed hasn’t been trying to get to the sea. It was utter insanity inside the building. There were five ticket windows open, each with a line of people that stretched to the back of the room. And really, the lines were twice as long as they appeared to be because a) in true Ukrainian fashion, people were practically standing on top of each other and b) people would disappear from the line and reappear 20 minutes later expecting their spot back. I’ve always been under the impression that “savezies” is uncouth. Though maybe that’s only in America, or at amusement parks. Certainly it’s a perfectly acceptable practice in Ukraine.

I chose my line carefully, which meant scrutinizing the signs above each window to see when that window would be closing for break. In Ukraine, when it’s break time, it’s break time. I’ve been one person away from the front at the post office and I’ve had the window slammed shut on me because it was break time. I took it for granted in America that someone’s break never interrupted my errands. Breaks are staggered, and there are always enough workers to ensure that the post office doesn’t close for an hour in the middle of the day. Here, there are no replacements.

I took a chance by getting in a line that would be closing down for break in an hour. I figured I’d chance it, though I won’t lie, I neurotically glanced at my watch every two minutes while willing the lady to sell faster. All around me, people were grouchy and I felt an increasing amount of panic overtake me as I got closer and closer to the front of the line. I took out my cheat-sheet and read it over and over again. I ended up standing in line for 45 minutes before I made it to the window. By then, the break was rapidly approaching. The people behind me, feeling the minutes tick away, pressed closer and closer until I was literally, sandwiched between a mob of travelers and the glass window.

In a last minute laps of confidence, I decided to give the woman my script rather than try to say it. The pressure was too high, and I thought things would go faster if, like in a low-profile bank heist, I just slipped her the pertinent information on a sheet of paper. It was not faster. In fact, I think my slip actually slowed things down considerably.

After I slid the paper under the window, the woman cocked her head and looked at me for a long moment, probably trying to decipher whether I was handicapped or simply foreign. Then she slowly turned her head down towards the paper. I’d written everything in big block letters, because I don’t know how to write in cursive, and the woman’s eyes bugged out (in good-grief-how-long-until-my -break kind of way) the moment she started reading it. I’m pretty sure nobody here ever writes in block letters EVER after the age of seven.

When she finally finished reading it, she looked up at me and just, looked. Now I was expecting her to start fiddling around on the computer, perhaps find the trains I requested. Instead, she just looked at me. So I slid her my documents but she just kept looking, until finally, not knowing how to say, “It’s all right there in front of you!” I found myself asking for the morning train to Kiev on June 10th and a return ticket to Vinnystia on the 11th. I suppose really, I didn’t need to slip her the note after all.

Even though in the end, I used my Ukrainian to buy my tickets, the woman insisted upon slowing things down even further by flashing her fingers over and over again to communicate numbers to me. She flashed ten to double-check that I wanted to go to Kiev on the 10th, eleven to double-check the return date, thirty-eight to tell me how much I owed her, twelve to say how much change I received. With each number she flashed to me, the grumble of the people behind me grew louder and louder. It didn’t bother me though. I didn’t know what the hell they were saying anyway. Sometimes it’s nice not to understand. Really, ignorance is bliss.

On Tuesday night I found myself feeling a little stir crazy. I would have called Yulia, except she went to the sea for three weeks and won’t be back until the end of June. In my boredom, I decided I would call her friend Roma. We used to play basketball together during the dark days of winter/host family living and the last time I saw him he asked if I was ever going to invite him over. So I gave his cell phone a call. It rang three times before he picked up.

“Hallo?” he said.
“Hi, Roma, it’s Sheryl,” I said in Ukrainian.
“Hallo? Hallo?”
“It’s Sheryl. Sher-yl”
“Who is this? I can’t understand you,” he said, hanging up on me.

So I called him again,
“Hallo,” he said
“This is Sheryl,” I said again in Ukrainian, “Sheryl”
“Hallo? Hallo?” he said, again hanging up on me.

So I called him once more.

“Hallo?” he said, sounding mildly annoyed.
“Roma, this is Sheryl,” I said in English, figuring he’d have to know it was me since I’m the only English speaker he knows.
“Oh, Sheril,” he said, “Hello.”
“What are you doing?” I asked, reverting back to Ukrainian.
“I’m trying to come back to Bar,” he said. Apparently he was out of town.
“Do you want to come over tomorrow?” I asked him.
“I don’t know if I’ll be back tomorrow. When I’m back, I’ll call you,” he said.
“Ok,” I said. Ok is one English expression I use all the time without thinking.
“Yes?” he asked, using one of the few English words he knows.
“Yes,” I said. Then he said,
“вжлоажфшугкущшлвожшвоащгщшуододлоажшуагщшфщшдл дваожшугожщф дложшвущ лвоагщуцгк щшфо даожщфушгкщц лвьдшвогащуг ловажогаш.” The only thing I happened to catch was “devi”, which means many things but in this case I think it means “let’s meet”, and “poka”, which means good-bye.

All in all, I’d say it was a fairly successful phone call. In fact, the very act of making the phone call made me feel less stir crazy because even the smallest act brings a rather significant sense of accomplishment.