That Time of Year

Well, it's that time of year again. And by 'that time' I mean that the heaters are on ALL the time, and will remain so until the end of March. My apartment is toasty, toasty, toasty. The last few nights I've gone sans covers and sans cat snuggles. It's just too hot.

Except for a freakish cold snap while I was away in Budapest, the weather has been fairly pleasant. It's definately cooler, but certainly not cold yet. Definately not so cold that everywhere you go needs to be heated.

My school is especially warm. Yesterday, my 9A classroom was so toasty that the kids all had rosey cheeks and sweat dripping down their forheads. Come winter, I know I'll be grateful for the heat; in fact, I'll probably complain that it's not enough heat, but for now, I'm constantly dripping with sweat when I'm indoors. And that sucks.

Next week is fall break, so that means this week at school is a total bust. The kids are a million miles away, off in la-la fall break land. My teachers are kind of that way too. Larissa told me yesterday that the only thing that is getting her through the week is the thought of fall break. She really hates her job. She's always telling me that the only thing getting her through school is the thought of a break, or the weekend, or the summer. Yesterday during the 15 minute break between the 4th and 5th lessons, she sat in the teachers room whining, "I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home." She was sitting in her chair, bouncing up and down and I thought to myself, good grief lady, how old are you?!

This Saturday I'm going out east to Dnipropotrovsk for a big halloween party. There will be lots of volunteers there from my group, most of whom I haven't seen since swearing in last december. It should be pretty fun. The two volunteers who live in Dnipropotrovsk have rented out a Bar and so it'll be an all-american costume party. I'm not sure what I'm going to go as yet. Like I told my mom, it's not like I can just run down to the Halloween Superstore and grab something clever.

Next Tuesday, Jennifer and I are finally opening our English Resource Center to the teachers in the school district. We will have a seminar Tuesday morning and then we will give them an orientation on how to use the center, have them sign a contract, give them an "access card" and hope that they will be good stewards of our work.

I heart Budapest

I'm sitting in an internet club in Budapest, Hungary contemplating defection. Budapest is the most beautiful city that I can ever remember visiting. I think I'm in love.

I arrived in Budapest Saturday morning. I'm here with my friends Liz, Steve and Ryan. Today, Sunday, Liz ran the Budapest marathon. She did great, finishing in three hours and 45 minutes. Tomorrow we are going to bum around the city. We head back to Ukraine tuesday night and I'll be back in Bar by wednesday.

We just bought our tickets back to Ukraine. It was the best ticket buying experience that I've had in over a year. The woman A)spoke english and B) was nice. I forgot what it's like to be in a country that actually thinks about customer service. I think the phrase I've repeated most since arriving here (other than "I love this city") is, "Everyone is so nice!"

Last week, in Bar, I was at the post office faxing a paper to Kiev and the woman clerk YELLED at me. That would never happen in America. Imagine someone going to Kinkos and having the clerk yell at them so loud and long that people stop and stare. It would never happen. Customer service, it just doesn't exist in Ukraine. It's not even a thought that might cross someone's mind. But here, in Budapest, they get it. I'm the customer, I don't get yelled at. Simple as that.

The money situation here is pretty hilarious. The Hungarian currency, the forent, is exchanged at 200 forents to one dollar. Everything here costs a lot of forents. A coke is like 300 forents. My dinner yesterday was 1500 forents. It's just hysterical to have a wallet full of 10,000 forent bills. Honestly, I can't even keep track of how much things cost. The numbers are so exhorborantly high and that my mental math has a hard time keeping up. It takes a lot of concentration.

It's really crazy so see how many people speak english here. I hate just assuming that someone will be able to speak to me, but it's generally a good assumption to make. It's nice, I mean, it makes it easy to get around and to be here. It makes Budapest a very accessable city for Americans. At the same time, I feel like a dumb American who takes for granted that the rest of the world will learn my language and meet my needs.

Well, I'm going to sign off for now and get back to my new favorite city. Maybe later in the month I'll get to Kiev and post some pictures. That's of course, if I don't defect and stay here indefinately.

Fury in the Classroom, and Other Tales From the Front Lines

Today I kicked two students out of my class. They were fighting and I was tired of their antics, so I said: OUT. They were at a loss for what to do or say, so they snickered and sauntered toward the door like they were the big winners. I followed them into the hallway, where they were continuing their mock-fight, and I said, Come with me. But they refused. So I said, fine, wait here. And I stormed off to the teacher's room.

I was looking for their class teacher, but since she was nowhere to be found, I marched right on into the Director's room and said, please come help me. The boys are giving me trouble. They are fighting in my classroom. And, like the BMOC that he is, he came to my aid.

The look on the boys' faces when they saw the Director was priceless. A kodak moment that I wish I could have captured if only to rub in their faces the next time they're being jackles. My Director spoke with the boys in the hallway and I returned to the class and resumed our lesson. A few minutes later, the Director came into the class. The kids were stiff in their chairs, their eyes as big as saucers.

Who else is causing a problem? He asked.
Everyone was silent.
Zaika says that Nemirivsky was bothering people, is this true? He asked.
Everyone was silent.
Sichkoriz, what did you see? He asked A'lona.
Nothing, I was writing, she said.
Zatorsky, what did you see? He asked Vitalic.
Nothing, I was reading, he said.
Nobody saw anything? my Director asked.
Everyone was silent. My Director turned to Roman, one of the boys who had been fighting. Why aren't you telling the truth? he said. Your teacher will hear about this.

After the Director left, the class was silent. When the lesson was over, their home teacher came in and made them stay late.
Why did Sheryl have to get the Director? she asked.
Nobody wanted to say, but they didn't have to. She knew. She made the students apologize, which really does very little, but she also wrote notes home to their mothers. Depending on how much their parents care, that may or may not help me in the future.

It is very frustrating to deal with problem kids here because there is no recourse when a kid is out of line. There is no detention. There is no fear of failing. (Because it is literally IMPOSSIBLE for kids to fail here.) There is no threat of a bad grade. (Because grades don't matter to kids who don't try and don't worry about being held back.) The only thing that teachers do when kids are bad is yell at them and call their parents. I'm not a yeller and I'm certainly not fluent enough to call home and tell some mother that her kid is a jerk. The most I can do is make sure the kids know that I will tell their class teacher when they are bad and I will go to the Director when they are out of control. But that's pretty much it. Even if I kick a kid out of my class for a lesson, he will be back next time. It's impossible to kick a kid out of class permanently. It's not the way it works here.

In my 9-A class, I have trouble with two boys who always play on their cell phones. Today they wouldn't stop playing on them, and after the third time I told them to put their phones away, I ignorned them.(Telling them to give it to me is useless. I can't play tug of war with a 14 year old, that's just demeaning.) After the lesson, I found their home teacher and I said, Yarkovsky and Mazur played with their cell phones the whole lesson. She went and found them, took their phones from them for the rest of the day, and made them come apologize to me.

I said, okay, don't do it again. Now you know that I can tell your teachers what you do in class, so think about that next time.

***

Two things happened last saturday: Bar enacted a new law wherein all bars and cafes must close at mid-night, and my friend Roma got tanked at a wedding. At first glance, these two facts have nothing to do with each other. But that's just at first glance...

The thing about weddings here is that people drink... a lot. That's pretty much true for every holiday and celebration, however minor it might be. So a wedding, as you might imagine, means that people not only end up hammered, they end up hammer-head. If you've ever been hammer-head, you know just how drunkity-drunk-drunk that is. If you haven't, good for you. Nothing good comes from being hammer-head. Just ask Roma.

My friend Roma spent Saturday at his friend's wedding and by 11 o'clock in the evening, when he met up with my friends and I at the cafe, he was hammer-head. He stumbled up to our table with a half bottle of pepper vodka and started pouring shots. He was giving long, slurred toasts where he'd wave his arms around and spill vodka all over himself. At one point, he was hollaring: I'm from America! I'm from America! I came from America! (Of course he was hollaring this in Ukrainian, since he doesn't know any english, so it wasn't very believable.) Outside on the street, he kept telling his friend that he was American until his friend smacked him and told him to shut up. He was dancing around, talking really loundly, gesturing wildly with his hands. He wasn't beligerant or anything, he was just drunk. Hammer-head drunk.

At mid-night, a whole bunch of militisia cars showed up to enforce Bar's new law. The music went off, the lights went on, and hoards of young adults stood loitering on the streets, unsure what to do at such an "early" hour. While people were milling about just outside the cafe, Roma stood upon the steps to the cafe and started waving his arms back and forth in the air and singing, "Razom nas bajato" (Together we are many), the theme chant of the Orange Revolution. On and on he sang, but nobody really joined in. Most people just looked at him and laughed. He was dancing around, waving his arms, slurring his words. After a brief spell, the militsia finally swooped in to silence him.

In America, Roma would probably have qualified for the drunk tank and little else. He was drunk, and stupid, but definately not trying to start a revolution, and certainly not a threat to anyone but his own dumb ass. But the militsia here doesn't let anyone off so easy. If he'd been more lucid, he probably could have bribed the officers with some money and been on his way. Instead, they told him to go home, and to go to the police station later in the week. His crime: trying to incite a riot. His punishment: to buy them 100 dollars of gasoline. Because that will really make him a better citizen...

Of course, Roma is my friend and I know how harmless he is; but I don't expect other people -- especially the militsia -- to be amused by him. I do find it ridiculous though, that he must buy 100 dollars worth of gasoline for trying to "incite a riot" when all they did was tell him to shut up and go home. If he really was trying to incite a riot, you'd think they'd want to haul him in, for the night at least. Instead they let him walk home -- BEER IN HAND -- no pro.

When I saw Roma this week, he said, Sorry Sheryl, I was so drunk on Saturday. Sorry.
Not my problem, I said to him. I don't have to buy anyone gas. "Razon nas bajato" not so funny now, huh?

And he shook his head in sheepish shame.

Haircuts and Stalkers

Today I got a haircut. I hadn't cut my hair since february so, as you might imagine, it was a long time coming. I don't know why I always drag my feet when it comes to cutting my hair. It's something I was bad about in America too, and there everyone speaks english.

Anyway, I got my hair cut and I have to say, Zena (yes, as in Warrior Princess) didn't do such a bad job. I arrived at my appointment a little before one o'clock and she sat me down in her office chair. That's what they use here: office chairs. She told me we had to wait to use the sink and she handed me a magazine.

"Look through it," she said, "Find something new." I wasn't exactly in the market for "something new," but I started flipping anyway. At one point Zena stopped me and pointed to a picture of a model with ridiculously blunt cut bangs.

"You want?" she asked, "New for you?"
"No," I said, "Definately no."

I was a bit apprehensive about "trying something new" because I find that here, in Ukraine, there are three types of haircuts for women: the uber-trendy, the uber-horrible, and the uber-simple.

The uber-trendy cuts themselves fall into two categories: cute, and bad, bad, bad. Yulia has an uber-trendy "slanted bangs with a borderline mullet" thing going on and on her, it's cute. Her friend Natasha has an uber-trendy "mullet with a rat tail" look that is just bad, bad, bad.

The uber-horrible cuts also fall into two categories. These are: why? and, what the hell were you thinking? This is pretty much where "trendy" haircuts go to die. Looks like the "one side of the head fully shaved" look, and the "super short cut with long bangs over the eyes" look, and the "mid-west male mullet" look all have found there way here. Really, it's the "why?" and the "what the hell were you thinking?" haircuts that make me nervous. I don't want to be mistaken for someone who tried and failed to be trendy. It's bad enough that I'm foreign, but to be foreign with a "what the hell were you thinking?" haircut would be awful.

That is why I told Zena that I wanted a simple cut.
"The same," I said, "But just a little."
"No bangs?" she asked.
"No bangs," I said.

She washed my hair in the sink and started brushing it out. I hadn't washed my hair in a number of days and so lots of hair came out in the brush.
"This is very bad," she said to the stylist next to her, "When she goes back to America, she will have no hair."
"What!?" I said, my eyes bugging.
"Our water is very bad," Zena said, "It is bad for your hair. Look! Look at all this hair in the brush, it's very bad. You will have no hair when you go back to America." I didn't know what to say. What would you say if someone said you're going to be bald within the next year?
"What should I do?" I asked.
"We have a concoction," Zena said. "Take a spoonful of liqueur, a spoonful of honey and the yolk of an egg. Mix it together and then put it on your scalp. Do this once a week and you'll have hair when you go to America."
"Ok," I said.
"Our water is very bad. We drink it and we cook with it, but it is very bad for our hair.

After predicting my imminent baldness, Zena proceeded to cut my hair. I said "a little," but she took off quite a bit. It's a bit longer than my shoulder now, but it had been a good way down my back. She layered it around my face and despite my pleas, cut side bangs. They don't look so bad, but they are annoying in the wind.

So now I have a new haircut. Everyday I become more and more Ukrainian. First it was this gaudy maroon winter jacket I bought from Larissa, then it was a gaudy black and gold bejewelled hoody I got at the store, now it's the hair and soon, new winter shoes. I might be unrecognizable when I come home for Christmas.

***

Today is Wednesday and I didn't have to teach. Tomorrow it's back to school where I'll no doubt see my two stalkers. Yes, I have stalkers. They are 11 years old and they are madly in love with me. Their names are Yana and Vanya. They are in the 6th form class that I teach once a week. I don't quite understand their fascination with me. On teachers day, the two of them showered me with gifts. Vanya gave me a small stuffed teddy-bear, which my cats love to play with, and a card that said: Sheryl + Vanya = Best Friends. Yana gave me a small vile of perfume, a sparkly red heart knicknack, and a small Barbie book with a mirror and a pad of paper inside. One the paper Yana wrote:

Sheryl
The best girlfriend
Yana
I love you

The two of them stand outside the teacher's room during the break between every class. They wait for me to be done with lessons so they can walk home with me. Vanya called me on the phone "just to talk" and was disappointed when I didn't call her back. Neither girl speaks English. They can understand things in the context of the classroom, but outside of the classroom they "nothing know." I only speak to them in English despite their pleas for me to speak to them in Ukrainian. Sometimes I'll translate things, when they really don't know what I'm talking about, but I'd rather make them work. And I figure, if I keep making them think about English, maybe their obsession with me will wane.