Back in Ukraine

So I’m back in Ukraine after two and a half wonderful, relaxing weeks with family and friends in California. It was really great to be back in America -- land of convenience, customer service, flavored food, and of course, English.

It took me more than 24 hours from the time I arrived at the San Francisco airport until I walked into my apartment. As you can imagine, I was exhausted, still kind of am in fact, especially since my friends missed me and have wanted to spend lots of time with me since my return.

Why are you so tired? They ask me; and though I’ve tried to explain the concept of jet lag, they don’t entirely get it. They’ve never changed time zones or traveled on an airplane where unlike the train, you don’t get sheets and a pillow and the chance to have a good night’s sleep.

I flew Delta from San Francisco to New York and then from New York directly to Kiev. Though I was excited to come back to Ukraine, it was difficult to say goodbye to my family. I had such a nice time with them. So from San Francisco to New York I reflected on my amazing family, and from New York to the mid-Atlantic, I reflected on my amazing best friend, who lives a mere subway ride away from JFK. By the time I reached the European continent, I let go of my familial longings and found myself excited to get back to Ukraine – land of inconvenience, no customer service, flavorless food, and of course, broken English.

Funny incident on the plane:

Many Ukrainians were on the flight to Kiev, and in the terminal, there were a lot of people speaking Russian and Ukrainian. I had a window seat on my flight, and a 50 something American woman was already sitting in the isle seat when I boarded. When I got to my row, I said, in English, “That’s me,” and pointed to the seat. She got up and let me in. I fumbled around with my huge, Ukrainian winter coat and decided, after I sat down, that I wanted to stow it overhead. She saw me and said, loudly and VERY slowly while pointing, “Up? Up? Up?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said as she let me out again, “Thanks.” I sat back down. She started fumbling with her seat belt, which was wrapped around the armrest between our seats. I lifted the armrest and untangled her seat belt. “Da, da, da [Russian for ‘yes’],” she said, and then slowly and loudly, “Thank you.” It was then that it dawned on me that this woman thought I was Ukrainian, or at least that I didn’t speak English. I reached up and closed the overhead air-vent. “C-o-l-d,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself and giving a “shiver.” I just kind of smiled at her and turned my attention out the window. I figured that correcting her would only invite unwanted conversation.

The plane was late to take off, so the flight attendants had time to pass out immigration papers for non-Ukrainian citizens to fill out. The form is basic: name, passport number, visa information, and contact information while you’re in country. I pulled out my passport, which is labeled as a Peace Corps passport, and filled mine out immediately. When I finished the woman turned to me and said, “You’re a peace corps volunteer? Me too.” There are so many volunteers in Ukraine that it’s virtually impossible to know who all of them are, so I wasn’t all that surprised. Amused though, by the whole situation, especially the slow, loud English she spoke to me.

So I’ve been pretty busy catching up with people since I’ve been back in Bar. My friends came over the day after I got back and we drank the bottle of whisky I brought back for them to try. As I predicted, they hated, but still drank the whole bottle. Go figure. I think tonight we’ll tackle to tequila. Again, I predict they’ll hate it; they are very loyal to their vodka. Still, we’ll probably finish the bottle.

Last night I went with my friends Sergiy and Vova and played volleyball with a bunch of men. I haven’t played volleyball in a long time, so I was a bit rusty, but it was still fun. The men played passionately, yelling at each other, chucking the ball high in air, kicking across the gym; it was all very amusing. Not as amusing as the fact that when their team rotated off the court, many of the men took the opportunity to smoke a cigarette outside.

“What are you doing?” I said to Vova, the first time he headed out. “You’re EXCERSICING. Don’t you see how ridiculous that is?”

“I know Sheril,” he said, “but this is Ukraine. You forget where you are.”
“No, Vova,” I said, “I assure you, that would be impossible.”