Quick quick update!

Well... here it comes again. Another quickie. Let's just say the run-up to Christmas was hectic but fun. Met many friends of Darren's (see future entry: The Merry Men of Nottingham) and spent the whole Christmas weekend with his family (other future entry: Blood is Nuttier Than Water). Tomorrow my friend Brooke will be visiting me for a week here in England where I shall attempt to show her all highlights of the English countryside starting with Stonehenge. She'll also be joining us on the New Year's trip to St. Ives (see UFOria site for further details) for a fabulous fancy dress party (British for costume party) in the streets! Therefore do not look for frequent updates for a wee while as the holidays continue to be a whirlwind. I promise to make up for the lapse with wonderful tales after New Year. Until then, everyone enjoy the festivities and have a great New Year's Eve!!!

BACKLOG Chapter 3 – Abingdon

At last it comes time (going in reverse of course) to show off my new little town, in the daylight! Well first let me give you a little history of the market town of Abingdon.

Abingdon was occupied in prehistoric times by settlers of the Bronze and Iron ages. It was a flourishing town in the Roman period, which in turn gave way to a Saxon settlement. The earliest documents tell of a hamlet called Sevekesham sited at a ford of the Thames. Hean, nephew of King Cissa was granted land for founding a Benedictine monastery called Abbandun (Hill of Ebba) at the same time as his sister Cilla founded the Nunnery of Helnestowe on or near St Helens Church, the principal church in 675AD. When Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries in 1538, Abingdon Abbey was the 6th richest in Britain.
The Monday market has existed since 1556. The Michaelmas Fair (now known as the Ock Fair) was originally a 'hiring mart' for those seeking employment.*

Abingdon is supposedly the oldest town in Britain, though a few other places also claim that honor. Basically the town is OLD. There are some ruins in the middle of a park and one near the library (pictures of those to come later) that attest to the age of this quaint little overgrown village. But for now I shall present to you what images I have been able to catch, so let the viewing begin…

*Courtesy of Oxtowns.co.uk, also see Wikipedia.

View of Market Square and St. Nicholas church (this was where the festival rides were from the last entry)

Looking down the little strip mall, the heart of shopping in Abingdon. Unfortunately I think they tore down whatever beautiful architecture was here and redeveloped the lot in this not-so-classic 1970’s style… progress sucks sometimes.

County Hall, built in 1678/82, it was once the home of local government now turned museum. A rather interesting sight is watching local dignitaries throwing buns from the roof of the building for crowds in the market square during days of celebration – they even have examples of the types of buns thrown in the museum itself. Very strange…

4 East Saint Helen Street, home to me and Darren, the little window front was the Little Basement Museum but has since been closed due to safety reasons... don’t worry Darren and I are safe as we live 46 steps up through the heart of the building, residing in the spacious attic flat. (Translation – we live in a tower and with my hair growing longer by the minute, I’m beginning to feel like Rapunzel.)

View from our living room window – the only one that isn’t a skylight that is.

A beautiful set of lilies presented to me from Darren the day I returned to him!

One red rose was given as well, placed romantically so on the bed next to welcome home presents and a poem – She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron.

BACKLOG Chapter 2 – God bless us, everyone!

Being part of a small town (or medium town according to Darren) does have its good points. One of which are the fun little celebrations that brings everyone to the town square – yes, we do have a definitive town square. Because there isn’t much else a-happen’ throughout the year, Abingdonians must cling on to what they’ve got, that being an annual lighting ceremony to kick off the beginnings of Christmas madness. There were lights, cameras, fairground rides, candy floss and toffee apples (British for cotton candy and candy apples). And best of all there were people dressed in good olde English style! (Sorry no pictures of them abound here as I forgot to take some…)

But take a look at the festivities visited upon my sleepy little country town…

The Town Square, replete with carnival rides and carnival food!

An semi-aerial view of our flat (can’t really see our windows as they are just skylights atop the white building with bay windows, we are above the second set of blue trimmed windows.)

The main street, High Street, all done up for the holidays!

A look down the little shopping strip in the center of town.

And finally the church at the end of High Street, we pass by this lovely place to get to the grocery store.

Note: All these pictures were taken atop the County Hall, in the middle of town. We could see as far away as the distant lights of Oxford as well as peer into our little home just across the street. (County Hall and the rest of Abingdon will be explored in the next edition of – The Next Great Adventure: The Return to England.

BACKLOG Chapter 1 – Thanksgiving Goodness

Finally I’ve pulled my head out of the sand or perhaps out of another place too inappropriate to be named in a G-rated blog. Oh, what the hell?! Just say it… finally I’ve pulled my head out of my ass and am at last blogging again. At least for one more time in about a month or so. Since I have been so rude as to exclude you from the stories of the past few months, I hope to make amends by bombarding you with many tales all in a row, with lots and LOTS of pictures as requested. Running from more recent events back towards my brief days in Crimea, I will bring you all into my little world and attempt to gain your respect and love once again.

So to begin, I shall go back in time to a great American Holiday. A day of thanks and giving but mostly of food!

Due to the sad fact that Darren had never experienced a true Thanksgiving Day feast, I decided (rather gave him no option) to celebrate it this year and do it right, i.e. with all the trimmings!

The facts: we (I) made mashed potatoes, mashed sweet potatoes, corn (unfortunately not on the cob), cranberry sauce (ok, ok, it was store bought, give me a break!) and the pièce de résistance – slices of turkey breast stuffed with stuffing and topped with a brown gravy. And for dessert, a sweet potato pie! It was my very first sweet potato pie and it was made because we couldn’t find any pumpkin here (the Brits aren’t huge fans of such typical American fare).

Well as you can see it was indeed a feast for two and it only took me about 2-3 hours to make all together. Of course it took Darren about half an hour to devour it all – enough for two full helpings each and no leftovers hanging around for a month staring at us from the refrigerator!

To top off the night we enjoyed a wonderful bottle of Ravenswood Californian Zinfandel. After we wined and dined it was time to sit back and let everything settle… Overall it was a lovely evening, of course there were things missing from it – first and foremost a pumpkin pie (which by the way, a week later we found cans of damn pumpkin filling in another store!), no parade, no giant family get-togethers. On the other hand there were some things that were pleasantly absent, for instance no football blaring in the background, no mad dash to the malls for the after Thanksgiving Day sales (ok, well I actually do miss that one! I’ve been reduced to not only sewing my rapidly deteriorating socks but now my pajama bottoms and only pair of surviving pants as well.)

Anyways, I’ll leave you with a few things I’m thankful for and a few more pictures to prove that I, yes, Dacia Suzann Dyer, CAN indeed cook an edible and rather delicious I might add, Thanksgiving Day dinner!

I’m thankful for: family, friends, Darren, adventures in traveling, international calling cards, and a good home-cooked meal.


P.S. The lovely flowers in the background was a surprise no-occasion gift from my lovely boyfriend, awwwww... he's so sweet!

Momentous occasion

Finally...

... as a howling wind screams it's freezing fury through a clanking pair of rusty iron cemetery gates while a single black crow cries in hoarse rage at the black and bleeding skies...

...as a lithe athletic panther smoothes a speeding path through jade jungle, blending it's nature into nature like an indigo streak running through a Maya Indian's natural dye weaving...

....as a small boy stoops to pick up the winning winter conker that will forgive his weeny frame for months through unrivaled opportunities to say 'stampsies' to his envy eyed entourage...

....as an overworked and lonely office worker finds a moment of serendipitous calm to enjoy self directed sexual contemplation staring through the mirror lens of her skyrise prison,

A minibus will make it's arrival in Abingdon, oh ancient Abbandun of yore....

...and on that day the bus will know what it was built for....
To be the beginnings of a great company called - UFOria.


That's right folks! Darren has gone and done it! He bought a 2000 Ford Transit 17-seater minibus!! We went up north on Saturday to a little place called Huddersfield to big up the bad boy and took a nice little drive through the Peak District; sightseeing, practice driving, photoshoots, just generally breaking 'er in. Just after sundown we stopped at a little pub called Snake Pass Inn, being located at Snake Pass. There we enjoyed a delicious traditional English roast dinner and recuperated for a while. Discussing all the wonderful and challenging work yet to be done in creating a minibus business from scratch. Speaking of which, it is time now to leave you and continue on with that little adventure...

Darren and our mascot Marvin the Martian at the wheel of his new toy!

Me outside the minibus being pummeled by the Derbyshire wind!

Darren and I at our pub dinner, he looks startled, doesn't he?
(He was too busy enjoying his roast.)

[Sidenote: British English vs. American English - those silly Brits have about 10 different ways to say "dessert", all of which confusing and beating around the bush. Examples include: pudding, sweets, and dessert. They also say "tea" to mean the evening meal. No wonder good ol' George went mad, who can blame him?]

N.B. - The introduction of today's blog was generously and unknowingly donated to me by Darren's friend Pete from Thailand. He used it as his own intro to a recent email announcing his return home for the Christmas holidays. I'm not one to shy away from stealing the works of true genius. Therefore - Thanks Pete! Look forward to meeting you!

Chapter 23 – Crimea

The Black Sea. Second home to Kharkovites. First home to jellyfish. After finishing my last class in Kharkov, I finally got ready for hopefully one week of seaside and mountains. We all met at the train station, about 40 students and only half a dozen teachers. After an eight hour train journey to Simferopol, we took a three hour suburban train to Sevastopol, from there we hired minibuses to convey us to our seaside campsite. Eventually, thirteen hours later, we arrived. Well kind of.

We had arrived at the top of the hill and our camp was another 10 minute drive (or 20 minutes walking) along the scary, ultra windy, decrepit rocks and dirt (no pavement in sight) which was the road leading down the side of the mountain. Most of the students started off to camp, while the teachers waited for the ‘car’ to come pick up all the baggage we brought. One car load later and our transportation was broken. From there on out it was the beginning of one long suffering nightmare that turns rosy colored in hindsight.

I and three lads, one teacher and two young students, carried the last lot of luggage down the windy road, up the little hill, clambering over rocks and falling in to massive pot holes until at long last we got to ‘camp’. It was a nice little campsite with the requisite outhouse, picnic tables as cafeteria and old-school heavy cloth tents on wooden planks with stinky wafer-thin mattresses. All in all it looked cobbled together, like some old army regiment ran away and left all their equipment behind but it was brightened up by the blue and yellow (color of Ukraine’s flag) plastic tarp over each tent and the ‘canteen’.

– Speaking of hindsight – Now would be an appropriate time to relate that it was much nicer than I make out. It was simple, efficient (except for when the unusually heavy rain set it and one of the cloth tents was soaked for a day or two) but overall Ukrainian. Being from a well off neighborhood in a typical suburban city in one of the richest countries in the world, I’m rather spoiled (to say the very least) and therefore imagined a flatish landscape dotted with the latest in poly-fibre-ethymol-lokdjoewqae tents. Not having camped all that often in my mollycoddled life I didn’t really have a clear idea what to expect, and thus my imagination ran wild with images of American camping movies. And this is where the disillusionment from above comes from. In reality it was a rocky and uneven site with treacherous boulder-rocks poking into the paths all around (I guess you would call that nature…?), but well organized into little groups of tents and felt like little neighborhoods in different parts of camp.
“Where are you at?”
“Oh, we’re seaside view. And you?”
“We have the mountain (and outhouse) in our backyard.”
“I’ve heard there are good schools in that area.”
Although I give more credit now to the setup of camp, I must say in no uncertain terms that under any circumstances do I enjoy the smell or experience of an outhouse. – End of hindsight – continuation of narration…

The days themselves passed in strictish fashion, beginning with breakfast at 7:30 which usually consisted of a strange mix of overly cooked and buttered pasta, super overly buttered bread (one slice per one person!) and if lucky some sort of meat like food. The drink was a nice tea or compote juice. After breakfast we had the choice of going to the beach, which most people did most days, or our own free time. Then about 10:30 anyone who really wanted to learn could return to camp for our 2 hour English lessons. They were themed lessons centering around celebrities, holidays, English traditions, cards and card tricks, and random things that we could come up with on the spot. Each lesson had a lecture part – the nitty gritty of language learning, a project – building little arts and crafts in groups hopefully using English to communicate, and finally learning a song that usually had some connection to the theme. For instance, I taught “The Shape of My Heart” by Sting on the day that we did cards, after I learned the words for myself for the first time that morning! (I also taught a little about tarot as well that day which everyone seemed to enjoy.)

Moving along, after lessons was another strange meal, which luckily sort of, wasn’t just strange to me, but the students also found the concoctions given us by the camp leaders a bit odd. Also luckily, there was a mini general store on the camp site so you could buy essentials like instant coffee, chocolate, chips and alcohol of course. After filling ourselves up again we had yet more free time lasting from about 2:30pm to 7pm when dinner was served. Some people used the free time to return to the beach, I often took naps or tried to read or write in my journal but wasn’t too successful. After such a strenuous afternoon, we had to revitalize again. Dinner usually had a soup to start and then a meat based entrée with tea. If we could capture enough people after dinner we would do a ‘Team Challenge’, a sort of team building, mini English lesson usually more active than the lessons of the day. It would last for about an hour or so before we finally let everyone off for the night to do what they wished… drink, go to the beach and skinny dip, play cards, make a mini disco, what have you.

Now that you have the general idea of camp life, I’m going to reminisce some more by reliving those glorious days and take a wee bit of a nap (‘kip’ in BE, British English). Next time look forward to details of the excursions taken in Crimea (in brief) and life in Abingdon (including pictures). Until then next time folks!

P.S. Here are some pics to stave you off until then…

The mountain I climbed... more than once

Chilling on the beach with Bogdan

My roommate...

Crimean mountains

Three Black Sea Mermaids

Me and Sergei Ivanovich

Our piece of beach

Chapter 22 – Ukrainian Woodstock

Keeping up on my promise there is one last story of Kharkov before I went to the Black Sea and beyond that should be told and that is the story of my first ever music festival!

Picture it: Late July in the western Ukrainian plains. A large stage back dropped by a lake and the forest behind. Before the stage a large hill that soon would be filled to the brim with enthusiasts, novices (like myself) and music lovers in general, all gathering at this place in one moment to share in the beauty of nature and experience the energy and power that is music. I was invited to this annual festival by Sergei Ivanovich, a true lover of music. He left early in the morning in order to not miss a drop of fun. I had to work in the morning teaching two conversation groups. After I finished imparting my bit of knowledge into my eager students, I went home to change and get myself ready for good times!

The moment I stepped in the door of my flat the rain came and came hard. I was grounded for a while as I had neither heavy coat nor umbrella. Thus I missed out on much of the event including the portion when the Prime Minister herself made an appearance at the celebrated event. Finally the ran had let up enough that I was able to run from my flat to the metro station without looking too much like a drowned rat upon arrival. There was a bus station in the far Southeast part of Kharkov (I lived in the more western part) so it took about a half hour or so just to reach the bus station with the special buses that would take awaiting fans to Pechenivsky Pole (the venue). At long last I had arrived and managed to find what I thought to be the correct bus.

It took me and 5 others outside Kharkov, farther and farther a field than I had been before (especially alone). One by one the other passengers left the bus in random places sometimes near towns, at others times in the middle of nowhere. I was beginning to think that I had gotten on the wrong bus and I was headed to Russia or Poland. Eventually there were 4 fairlyinebriatedd blokes who got on board at one of these random stops and they, in their drunken drawls, were talking about the music festival I was trying to reach. I was calmed a little but now distraught at the sketchiness.

After about one hour we arrived. There was nothing resembling a stage where the bus dropped us off but there were miles and miles of cars and masses of people moving in the same general direction. I decided it would be best to follow them. After a nice little hike I climbed over a small hill and saw it - my very first music festival! It was a combination of regular festival, with stalls of food and other non-essential items but at the far end of the field next to a large steep hill there was the stagerepletet with gigantic screens on either side. It was great!

I managed to find Sergei Ivanovich who kindly bought me some food and then we went and staked out some places close to the top of the hill. We listened to Moldavan and Romanian guest bands and then watched some cute acts ofgymnasticss by Ukrainian girls and then we got into the really good stuff. Traditional and modern Ukrainian fare. My new favorite band - VV (can't remember what it stands for) but the lead singer was awesome, energetic, fun, enthusiastic, and most impressive of all was that he played about 5 different instruments includingaccordionn and ta da - Violin!!

After that the fireworks started. They had them over the lake, there was a bit of delay as they had to clear the road bridge before they could let off the fireworks but they finally made it and it was cool. I had my 4th of July after all - a few weeks late. Then they had a few more good but not overly remarkable acts and that's when the rains returned this time harder than before. Luckily Sergei Ivanovich was prepared and had an extra umbrella for me. We started to make our way back to the buses and waited for one that would take us to Kharkov, the only hitch was, none were going there! So we eventually pushed and shoved our way onto a bus going to Cheguyev... close but not quite. From there Sergei negotiated a taxi for us and we rode the extra half hour in a bouncy Lada.

By the time we got back it was three in the morning and the metro was closed. Taking a taxi back to my place from the very south side (where we were dropped off) would have cost an arm and a leg so Sergei kindly invited me to crash at his place. I watched a bit of cable on his tv, played with hispsychoticallyy energetic cat and then passed out asleep. In the morning around 10, he made us breakfast of pelmeni (like ravioli) and sandwiches. Then he walked me to the metro station and off I was back home. All in all it was a great time and a good first experience at a music festival. I hope to go to more and since Darren is beyond obsessed with music (as evidenced by his 400+ cds, which I organized and alphabetized!!) I'm sure we'll be going to many a concert and festival.

No Excuse

There are no excuses for my long blogging absence therefore I won’t try to make any. As for an update, well I’m still in Abingdon (still 6 miles south of Oxford) and I’m applying for jobs with companies and the university there. Darren and I signed up for internet access this week and should hopefully be connecting sometime in the next few days. At that point I will upload all the photos I can of Ukraine and Germany along with getting back on the wagon of updating frequently. There are many stories to tell… and I will try to tell them in a timely fashion from now on! :)

P.S. Thanks Stacy for giving me a virtual kick in the ass!

Cop-out Blog

Well, this is going to be short and bitter. (Not everyone likes sweets you know.) I'm alive and well and currently residing in Abingdon with Darren. We pretty much have things set up, except a television (I'm going through the shakes and withdrawals right now) and internet access at home (thus the recent lack of communication because my lazy bum couldn't make it to go to the library during it's short opening hours in order to wait forever for 20 minutes of internet time). Therefore pictures and stories of the insane amount of travel covered in the past few weeks will be postponed until such time as I am inspired to transcribe it all (i.e. when I stop wondering at the weirdness of the town "centre" closing and and being deserted at 5pm and start working on all the tons of things that need to be accomplished). Until then... as they say in Ukraine: poterpi! No, not potpourri!! Poterpi - suffer.

Help, I'm in a nutshell!

Well, tonight I leave on a midnight (12:15am to be precise) bus ride to Kiev Boryspol airport. I'll arrive about 7am tomorrow and then have the morning to buy last-last-minute souvenirs in the historic district of Kiev before I take a flight about 2pm and go to London where Darren will meet me. I'm now just finishing some errands around the city and trying to keep calm as I attempt another big move. I think I'm going to have to make my stay in Abingdon a loooooong one as my heart can't take any more moving. Three long distance moves in one year is MORE than enough. So watch out Darren - you're getting a hanger-on whether you like it or not!!

Must run now... look for updates and replies to email in about a week once I've settled in and found internet cafes in the quaint English countryside town.

Sevastopol, Crimea

Hello all!! I'm now, finally back into civilization - for at least a day. To catch you up really quickly. I have finished the first session of the summer language camps. Much to my dismay, I was required for the beginning half of the next session. Meaning I'll be in the Crimea until the 27th of August rather than returning to Kharkov today. I was dismayed at this because, in case I forgot to tell you, this is my last week in Ukraine (at least this turn around). That means I'll have another three days here in the south, then travel back up to home of Kharkov and be there for only two days (thus attempting to cram last minute errands into half the time I expected). From there I will need to travel overnight to Kiev, and catch my plane to London on the 30th.

Well... so things aren't working out as I had planned... that's nothing too new now. After the initial disappoint of this news I finally managed to travel to an actual city in Crimea (see title) and get to internet, shops and something other than mountains and sea - ancient Byzantine ruins. Details of all my adventures will come, once I return to England. So now my spirits are in better shape and I must now return to the wilderness (hiking down a mountain to get to my seaside camp) and begin the next camp tomorrow. Now at least I have the energy and motivation to do so.. but I still don't have time to do everything in Kharkov. That will be the next bit of 'adventure' to figure out. Keep you posted!!

Chapter 21 – Long overdue update!!

In about three hours time I will be on a midnight train (departing at 9:30pm actually) heading south to the Black Sea. I’ll be going with my school to a summer language camp for students, in my usual role as native English speaking teacher. However I do hope to catch a bit of sun, fun and free time while there. I’ve been given much advice on where to go in the Crimea and what to do… it’s now just a matter or time, will and ability. I’ll be gone for approximately 9 days (give or take depending on the situation with another native speaker taking my place for the final camp in the last week of August). Therefore I won’t be able to check emails/post more deliciously exciting blogs during that time. I’m very Excited to be seeing another part of Ukraine and hope to get to Yalta (and Odessa, which is NOT in the Crimea).

Upon returning from the Black Sea, I’ll have one last week to finish sightseeing around Kharkov, taking all the pictures I didn’t get a chance to take earlier and saying goodbye to all the friends I made here during my short five-month respite from Western Europe. At which point I’ll take a midnight bus from Kharkov, on August 29th, to Kiev. I’ll have the morning to do very, Very last minute shopping in the quaint tourist district in the center of the capital city and then head back to the airport to catch an afternoon flight on August 30th bound for London via Prague. Around 5:30pm, I’ll arrive at London’s Gatwick airport – that is unless the employees there decide to strike, in which case I’ll probably enjoy the lovely airport lounge in Prague for a good few hours or days.

From there I will move to Abingdon, a picturesque and charming little town a few miles south of Oxford. After that… we’ll I’m not sure exactly what I’ll do except that I will enjoy hopefully a bug-free existence and find some work to pay my rapidly accruing bills. As well as preparing to take part, if accepted, in a work exchange program in Moscow next fall. (More on that crazy adventure to come.) For now I have to get to the train station before everyone leaves without me and I have a repeat of the terrible adventure in Ireland when I missed the departure of the tour group. Goodbye for now! See you (virtually at least) in a week!!

N.B. Due to the lack of communication in the coming week, I’ve added several posts to the blog today to give my avid readers plenty of material to hold you over while I sunbathe on the Black Sea. Look forward to next week when tales of the seaside holiday will be posted!

Chapter 20 – Дай Бог Здорова!

Sitting alone on a park bench outside the usual internet café in Shevchenko Park drinking a beer, eating a hot sandwich and enjoying the dusk, I contemplate life in Ukraine, England and in general. Old ladies and men hover around the young and cheerful loiterers, such as myself, in expectation of something. Perhaps money, perhaps a chance to dole out wisdom gathered through a tough life of stable Soviet times and the transition to an unstable ‘democracy’ to this new generation of materialists.

I finish the now cold ham and cheese sandwich and down the last drop of Obolon Sobornaya. Suddenly I see an old woman rushing towards me, and I understand what it is she wants, after months of observation of this unique and intriguing culture. The beer bottle. She wants neither money, nor pity, nor to give advice. She simply wants the nice green glass that could mean an added few copecks to her measly pension. As I hand over the bottle she says in a weak and hoarse voice, “Дай Бог Здорова!” “God give you health!”. I smile and head into the cafй to check what’s new in the cyber world of electronic mail, pondering whether it is ironic or not that she asked God to give me health after I effectively killed dozens of brain cells and put my liver to hard work with the 5.4% brew. Ironic I decide, but interesting.

Chapter 19 – Liberation Day, 23 August

After months of depravation, oppression and overall depression, at last the day long awaited for had come. The German army is pushed out by brave Soviet men and women, leaving Kharkov to its inhabitants again to begin rebuilding their homes and lives. A day that will forever be remembered, Liberation Day, 23 August 194…?

Well I’m not entirely sure. I wasn’t here then or even born for that matter. But I do know that it is a very important date, even more so than modern Ukrainian Independence Day which follows immediately after on the 24th of August. Also I know there is a statue to commemorate this great day. I know this because now I live opposite of that giant of Soviet art.

That’s right folks… I moved… again. The 1st of July brought not only the insane heat we’ve been experiencing but also it brought Sasha to my flat to help transport my overabundant belongings from Cold Mountain to 23 August. I now live with one Ukrainian girl who is a student at my school. We share a two bedroom, first floor flat, without balcony but with an automatic boiler. Yeah!! No more scary lighting of ancient gas boilers! Also we have fairly consistent running water, which is a feature I lacked in the very first flat I lived in. She has a television with cable, including the beloved BBC World Edition news and she lets me watch it whenever (unlike scary Babushka who used to lock the door thus prevented my acquisition of news from the outside world).
That’s the positive features. The negatives: More bugs (cockroaches, spiders and freaky little refrigerator bugs) than I’ve EVER seen in a single household I’ve lived in, including a terrifying mutated 4-legged giant spider who decided to move into my bathtub for a while. Eventually I explained that the flat was for humans only and placing him on a newspaper, I released him to the wild again (put him outside my flat where insects belong!). Another downside is the bed, I’ve traded sleeping on the living room couch – which was surprisingly comfortable – for a super old and thus indented twin size bed. That’s okay I suppose, they have chiropractors in England.

Overall it’s a good situation, the bathroom and kitchen have been retiled, although there is no bathroom sink (just the pipes protruding from the wall where one would go) and so brushing my teeth in the bathtub is the norm. For the past few weeks my roomie has been in the Crimea, so I’ve had the place to myself for a while. It’s also right across the street from a Huge and Expensive supermarket as well as an extensive and cheap outdoor market (where I now normally shop). This flat is closer to the city center and thus work, so I can sleep in even later and still get to work relatively on time.

It was hard moving again and for a while I doubted my choice, but it has been a good experience learning about another part of the city and I have finally been able to keep up with world events such as the bombing in London, the IRA declaration of cessation of fighting and the Discovery success. Now as my time rolls to an end here (see post Long Overdue Update) I will say goodbye to all my flats and hope to move to an apartment where all things will be in one place (i.e. a bathroom sink IN the bathroom, a bed that doesn’t roll me into a ball shape, a boiler that needs no help to start itself and most important – NO MORE BUGS!!) Well, a girl can dream, can’t she?

Chapter 18 – Staryi Saltov

Alexander – Александр – Alex – Саша (Sasha)
In Russian the diminutive for Alexander is Sasha, like in English it can refer to a person of female of male gender. In this case it is a male student of mine named Sasha. You may wonder why I chose to give you the etymology of the name instead of just telling you the story of Staryi Saltov, but you see it’s all about setting the mood… drawing you into this rather uneventful story… did it work? Well hopefully if you’re still reading thus far.

About two months ago I met Sasha when I visited his class (part of my role here as ‘native speaker’ is to visit other teachers’ classes and be an audio aid). After the class he and I started talking about international travel, student organizations, etc., exchanging phone numbers in the process. A few weeks later we met again randomly in the main park area behind Lenin (his statue that is). We spent about four hours talking and translating a Russian song into English. After that we started to met more frequently, he came over to my money-pit flat (the second flat I lived in, that is) and worked on my computer, since he’s a programmer here and knows his stuff. He also gave me some movies – American films dubbed, Dubbed! in Russian. I Hate dubbing but Russians Hate subtitles and therefore all movies are, sometimes half-assedly, dubbed into their preferred language.

Moving on, about a month later Sasha invited me to his birthday party at a lakeside resort called – dan da DA! – Staryi Saltov. Very popular with summer vacationers. I was one of a dozen privileged friends to make the hour long trek outside of Kharkov to a reserved old-school wooden cabin. There was my Sasha and his girlfriend Ira, his best friend, Sasha and girlfriend Katya, then another Sasha and his girlfriend Yulia and then Kostya and Natasha (can you tell the popular name here?!).

As the boys started gathering wood and setting up for the BBQ, Katya and I laid on the shore for a while soaking up the sun. The only problem with this idyllic scene is the fact that I have no shorts at all and was wearing long black pants on June 23rd in Ukriane (i.e. HOT). After a while however we headed back to the cabin and as everyone was gathering we ate, drank (yes, vodka was involved again) and were all very merry. The lingua franca was Russian, except for a few occasions when Sasha or some other of his friends wanted to practice their English and of course when Britney Spears was blasting on the stereo!

When the food was mostly finished and the drinks were running low the dancing started. I cannot lie, I took part in all aspects of Slavic birthday traditions from the insane number of vodka toasts (to your birthday, to life, to friendship, to drinking, to anything-so-long-as-we-have-booze!!) to the philosophical chats (conducted in Russian which raised my confidence in my language ability) to the crazy karaoke (which apparently is Very popular here) and the makeshift club dance party.

It was a damn good time until about 2am when my stomach, liver and kidneys all went on strike to protest my abuse of them. I couldn’t sleep (rather, I couldn’t lie down as the room would spin and stomach churn in a most horrible foreshadow of things to come … up that is). After drinking about a litre and a half by myself of water (which the boys pulled from a nearby spring) and about a half dozen trips to the loo (the bushes behind the cabin) I was eventually able to lay down without too much trouble. The next day came late and I felt like shit, understandably.

The one tradition which I tried and refused to finish was the Ukrainian Hangover Cure – after waking up, drink another beer in the morning and the pain and anguish will disappear. Yeah, right! I had about a sip of the beer Sasha opened for me and decided that was one custom I couldn’t hack. So it was back to the good old water and time prescription for me.

That day was spent recovering, sitting on the shore and dipping toes into the no-so-clean water, eating and chatting with some more friends who finally came by bus. We played some fun games, this time in English as the newcomer friends all spoke it proficiently. Also I went on my first catamaran ride on the lake! (Pictures to come, I Promise!!) It was fun except that my stomach was still teaching me a lesson by its protest and bobbing up and down on a lake wasn’t the best way to ingratiate myself to my knackered organ. Eventually the scary landlady pushed us off after yelling at us about the trash and state of the cabin (which was exactly the way we found it…) we left for the city once again.

This time the one guy with a car had left earlier in the day and the rest of us, six altogether, had to hitchhike our way home. I left that to Sasha as he negotiated a price with a random car that stopped by the road. (I love how you can get anything in this country if you just have money. Complete strangers will take you near to where you want for just about 20 gryvnia… aahhhh capitalism at its best.) Arriving back near the metro we finally parted and went our separate ways, Sasha and Ira off together and I to my home to rest for the remainder of the day and pray for a quick recovery, or if not quick at least full recovery. And yes, I did recover and haven’t touch vodka since… well maybe that’s not entirely the truth… but that’s another story for another time… stay tuned!

Chapter 17 – Trip to the Zoo

A few weeks ago now (sorry for the extreme delay) a student and I went to Kharkov zoo together. Ostensibly, for me to give him information on America as he was planning to go and work there for a while in July or August, as well as also to show me the zoo – one of the main attractions here. First however we had lunch at a nice little pizzeria in the park and chatted about US and every day life there. However since I’ve been away for so long, it was quite a task trying to remember what every day life is like there, but it was a good exercise for me so as to not forget completely. After gorging on some delicious pizzas we went to the zoo – about a 5 minute walk away from Freedom Square.

Excitement mounted as he paid for the tickets (a few gryvnia) and we crossed over the threshold. We enter and I look around with interested, foreign eyes. The zoo is much smaller than it’s counterpart in Denver. (By the way, the US sister city of Kharkov is actually Cincinnati.) We make our way past food stalls in the middle of the path and turn right to find the bears.

Recently renovated, the enclosure for the black, brown and polar bears (oh my!) still seemed to my western trained eyes as small and sad. The area was about half the size of that from the Denver zoo and was shallowly filled with really nasty green water for the black and brown bears and slightly less green for the polar bears.

We then went on to visit the snake and other creepy crawly things room, which was housed in what seemed an old bomb shelter – dark, deep beneath the earth with not much ventilation. I decided that if the children I saw here weren’t scared and running out of the building screaming, then I should try to be tough and emulate them. I saw some pretty amazing turtles, though again in cramped quarters. Luckily there were no spiders in this part so all was well unless one of the snakes decided to make a run of it and escape, which none of them did. Moving on we went to see the bird keeps.

There were the usual parrots of all color and size, then some owls and of course… chickens?! Yep, in case you’ve never seen a chicken on a farm you can come to the Kharkov zoo. Next to the chicken coops were the cages for the foxes. This seemed like a bad idea to me, like have a cat hospital next to a Chinese restaurant but hey, maybe it works for Ukrainians. Saw some foxes in a bit of a sorry state and smelling foully so we quickly moved on to the big players – tigers and lions!

Well, I won’t go through each and every animal we saw. Basically there were a lot of typical zoo animals like elephants and tigers, as well as some not so typical animals like wolves, Mongolian horses and a strange little black RUOS’ (Rodents Of Unusual Size). After seeing most all of the animals we headed towards the exit discussing the sad state of their habitats and life philosophies more generally. At the exit we parted company. Now I may cross of the zoo from my list of “things to see in Kharkov” list – one down, a hundred more to go!

Chapter 16 – The fool: Tarot Readings in Russian

Since high school and university time, I’ve been aware what a party pleaser it is to have tarot cards with me and that many people love to have their cards read, whether they believe in them or not. When I went to Russia, during junior year of college, I made the mistake of leaving my cards at home in Denver but luckily managed to find another deck there in St. Petersburg.

This trip I was smart enough to bring one of my decks. I also managed to pick up a new, interesting and bit more complex deck in London. I read a little bit in England, but since I’ve been in Ukraine and the cat got out of the bag that I read tarot, that has been my extracurricular activity (unfortunately I didn’t think enough to charge for it). The twist? Well I have to do it mostly in Russian as two of my most frequent requests for readings come from Kostya, the night security guard (whose day job is history teacher at a local secondary school) and Sergei Ivanovich, the assistant director or financial director or something for the school. (I’m not entirely sure what his job is in fact, I just know that he’s the husband of Katya, definitely the director of the school and that he pays me. I guess that’s all I really need to know, right?) Although Kostya knows English well enough to have some normal, basic conversations, the vocabulary for tarot is something he lacks in English and therefore I resort to Russian to try and explain. Whereas with Kostya it’s more a matter of Russlish, with Sergei Ivanovich (who knows “I go home”) I have to do all the reading in Russian.

As exciting as that sounds it’s actually rather difficult and there was a while when I read the tarot cards for just about every teacher in the school, except for one Julia who is quite religious and believes it is the work of the Devil. (That was a little awkward conversation.) Most other people however have been satisfied with their readings and it definitely is good practice for me as I learn that you don’t necessarily need a specific word as long as you can describe around it and get the point across.

Case in point – I was telling Kostya that he fears oppression or that he was being oppressed… something to that effect. But I didn’t know the word oppressed (угнетать, in case you were wondering the same thing). Well in order to explain the feeling, I said quite innocently the very simple and obvious fact that “the Soviet Union oppressed its people”. Kostya stared at me and asked “Why the Soviet Union?!” I told him that’s what we learned in school in the United States and certainly it must be true as we don’t learn propaganda in the land of the free. He laughed and said, “We learned that the United States oppressed its people!” So there you have it boys and girls… all the world needs in order to understand each other and dispel misinformation and the party line is a little intercultural communication via the Cards. Perhaps that is the route to world peace; except for those who believe I’m going to burn eternally in Hell for associating with the Devil’s work… well, maybe not world peace then.

Chapter 15 – The Money Pit

For the first two months of my time here I had to deal with a babushka who was only hosting me to get the money. I donÂ’t blame her really, pensioners get very little here and for the inconvenience of letting me occupy her second room, she was able to get enough dough to redo the wallpaper in her kitchen and fix up the bathroom a bit too. However I wasnÂ’t quite so keen on the deal since I was expecting to have a bit more socializing time (to practice my Russian) and also just have a nice environment to come home to. Since that wasnÂ’t the case I decided to move into another flat that my friend was renting while she was away all month at the summer language camp.

This new flat had two rooms and no babushka. It was only on the 4th floor instead of the 10th and had a little balcony. The only major disadvantage (or so I thought at the time) was that the water boiler was a manual gas thing. Meaning every time I wanted hot water, I had to light the boiler myself. Some people informed me that this was a great advantage because as it often happens here in summer time, in buildings with central boilers, the hot water is turned off for a while. Of the ‘minor’ disadvantages, the bathroom reeked of a foul, unidentifiable smell that was easily mitigated (for a while) by running the water down the sink. And the beds were not the usual Soviet style futon, but two actual twin sized beds, which unfortunately sank about one foot in the middle concave-like.

So I adjusted to my new environment, sleeping on the couch in the ‘living room’ because the two beds in the bedroom were disastrous. I learned and became fairly accustomed to the water boiler after accidentally once turning off the water before the gas – the biggest no-no that the landlady insisted I not do. After a while I began to enjoy all the space to myself and invited Sasha (translated as Alex), a student from my school, over to my flat to drink tea and fix my computer. It was alright until the day a strange man knocked on my door and told me something very emphatically in Russian.

“Hslnapoine ankdjo woclknls kj;ioie!!!”
“Что?! (What?!)”

Luckily Sasha was there that day and he was able to translate for me the fact that the strange man was my downstairs neighbor and water from my flat was leaking down into his flat… great… Well what could I do now? Call the middle-woman from the school who deals with the landlady and tell her the problem. That done the landlady came over and we waited for the plumber. I wasn’t allowed to use the water in the kitchen, more specifically the hot water tap in the kitchen, I could still use the cold water tap as that was in a different pipe that wasn’t leaking. So what did I do when I needed to take a shower?! Certainly not take a freezing cold one. I found the biggest pots in the flat, filled them with cold water from the bath tub, put them on the stove and heated them up. Then I put the water back into the bathtub and took a bath. If I had felt like a pioneer woman before with the manual gas boiler, now my transformation was complete with the old-school bath preparation. Luckily I only had to do that once as the next day or a day later the plumber came back and ‘fixed’ the plumbing (for the second time, I might add).

Finally things were okay… for a while. One day I accidentally poured my loose leaf tea leaves down the kitchen sink drain (kitchen sink is also from circa 1952, and therefore more of a large, shallow metal basin than a ‘sink’ as we have in the West). Suddenly then my sink didn’t want to drain anything and instead leaked out another hole, this time I was able to catch the runoff in a bucket before it bothered my neighbor again. Unable to use that sink however, I was forced for the last two weeks of living there to wash my dishes in the sink in the bathroom (the one with the nasty smell, remember?). This time I went to the landlady myself. I found her at her job in a bazaar down the street. Working my way through all the shops and whatnot I was able to find her and tell her the problem (having prepared what I needed to say in Russian beforehand). She promised to come back that week and have it taken care of, but I was already moved out of the place before the problem was corrected.

I lived in the Cold Mountain (Холодно Гора) neighborhood for a total of three months. A day or two after I moved into the money pit flat described above, a student from the school offered me a room in her flat as her roommate had suddenly moved out. I accepted thinking it would be great experience living with someone again, this time younger and having more in common with me. [That experience will be described further in subsequent chapters.] Point is – I had promised to move in with her at the beginning of July and thus only stayed one month in this terrible, water-leaking-foul-smelling-depressing-bed-but-with-two-big-rooms-and-a-balcony flat. Thus ends the story of my pioneering daysÂ…


Look forward to the next adunraveled in Ukraine: Unravled -
Chapter 16 – The fool: Tarot Readings in Russian
Chapter 17 – Trip to the Zoo
Chapter 18 – Staryi Saltov
Chapter 19 – Liberation Day, 23 August
Chapter 20 – Дай Бог Здорова!
Chapter 21 – Ukrainian Woodstock

and much much more!!!.....

Chapter 14 – Company Picnic

One weekend after I returned from my holiday with Darren we had a company picnic in the forest. Same drill as all other picnics in forests, sashlik, salads, etc. However this party, being still on working hours (we believed we were going to have a teacher’s seminar or have some sort of training which never happened) , there was no alcohol except what Ron, the new Canadian native speaker brought for himself.

We so met at work, piled into the hired bus and went to the Alps – the little versions of them here in Kharkov. We found a nice spot and settled in for a lovely day of relaxing. Two of the teachers brought their own little ones and we watched as the little boys ran around and played King of the Forest while the big boys worked on creating the monster fired needed for the BBQ. We played group communication games (all except Ron who would have none of that) and some people played volleyball.

Finally we ate, mingled and talked and then ate some more. Kate, the director, brought out the guitar and we sang a few songs first in English then in Russian. I believe I can say everyone had a great time, even Ron with beer in hand. Then about 5pm I left the picnic early with one of the 20 Julias to go and do some Irish dancing. Very Lord of the Dance. We made our way to the very opposite side of the city. It was my first time but Julia was more advanced. Unfortunately there were a lot of students that day so I didn’t get so much one-on-one time with the teacher but had to try and keep pace with the advanced students and pretend like I knew what I was doing. It was awesome fun! Very, very hard work though and I was sore later that day, though not as sore as I imagined I would be the next day. However I opted out to join them again on Sunday and rather stayed in my new apartment and rested. It was a nice weekend full of activity and good times.

*Note: It may be worth noting that Ron did not last long in his post here. His constant demands to have the school office run like a company back in Canada were fruitless except to precipitate his sacking. He was an interesting man but not suited for the life he chose to try living in Ukraine. I wish him all the best in his future plans to move to Mexico and hope he made it back to Canada safely.

Chapter 13 – Life Of Traveling Rapscallion: Return Of The Boyfriend

I suppose it is about time I describe the best week spent so far in Ukraine. However I will try to avoid the overabundant details that filled the narrative of the Cornwall weekend so as to not bore my readers with the minor and (often intimate) particulars.

Therefore our story begins when Darren’s Ukrainian Airline plane landed at Kiev Borispol International Airport. He came, he saw, he conquered… No, wait, that was Caesar. Ok… so then Darren came, saw and left. The End.

Sorry, what did you say? You want some more detail than that? Well, I can’t leave you quite so uninformed, perhaps. Then let us begin the story once again from Borispol airport. One detail that may be worthy of note was my intricate journey to meet Darren there. I arrived in Kiev by the early morning express from Kharkov. After finding and paying (mostly) for the rental flat, I made my way to the airport shuttle station with 14 gryvnia in my pocket. Believing that was enough for at least one journey to the airport, imagine my dismay at realizing the price had been raised to 20 gryvnia! As usual I was late arriving to the station and now it looked that I was going to be even later to the airport itself. Making a long story short, I managed to haggle with a cab driver who took me from the shuttle station back to the flat in the center of town, so that I could retrieve my debit card, then drive me to an ATM to withdraw more funds and finally transport me and another young man (a Turkmenistani studying business in Kiev) to Borispol, all this for a little fee of course. Amazingly after all that rigmarole I was just in time to stand by the arrival gates and watch as Daz walked triumphantly, guitar in hand, along the gauntlet of family and friends to find me waiting in anticipation (and slightly out of breath from the harried journey).

Sasha, the ever-so-helpful cabbie, was hovering around waiting for the opportune moment to solicit a return journey to the city center. We agreed, as it was easy though more expense than the shuttle. During the ride back, Sasha was kind enough to give us some advice on where to eat and what to see. This was free of charge! Eventually we returned to the flat and waited there to pay the renter the remaining money owed (as I didn’t have enough when I met her earlier). The flat, (or apartment for the American audience) was just off the main road, (or high street for those of the British English persuasion) and thus right near the heart of night life and all life in Kiev. It was a large place with a real full-size bed (as opposed to the fake, couch-bed weirdness I’ve been used to lately). It also had a large living room, including television and fairly new looking kitchen. All this for only $40 a day! (Rather rich blood for me, considering I only earn a little over 5 times that per month, but it was worth it.)

After relaxing for a little while, catching our breath and saying our “It’s been so long!” “I’m so excited to see you again!”, lovey-dovey nonsense, we prepared ourselves to venture out and find sustenance. We walked along the main street, then turned right, then right again and… right once more. Eventually we found a great little outdoor café with a quaint fountain in the middle, under the Golden Gates monument. We had a delicious meal of sashlik (shish-ka-bob) and vareniki (similar to, but different from ravioli) and beer. We ate, drank and were very merry. As the cute joint closed down for the night we departed and turned one more right to complete the circle and return to our temporary home.

The next day was spent walking around the city. We saw a memorial to the Workers, an impromptu amusement park on top of a lookout point and a forest park on islands in the middle of the river. It was an amazingly hot day and we were gladdened greatly by the cooler temperatures and winds around the river. We dipped our feet into the cleaner areas of the Dnipro River and watched children play and old hefty women sunbathe in their lunch-lady sized bras. It was a lovely day followed by a lovely dinner in another outdoor café in the park where we met with some American girls who were missionaries in another part of Ukraine. We chatted with them then finished our meal and made our way back up the hill and through the woods to grandmother’s house we go… no, wait there were woods but not to granny’s house. Back to the random apartment we were occupying.

If that wasn’t enough, and it wasn’t, the day after Darren and I walked around another part of the city, this time in search of monuments and interesting sights. We found them starting with a funicular that took us up the steep hill to St. Michael’s Cathedral. We walked along, photographing here, stopping to talk there and eventually made our way to St. Sophia’s Cathedral complex. There we took an extra long break to hide from the rain and talk about life and love(s). After a while, when the complex was closing up, we decided it was time to move on to bigger and better things. Or at least different things. So we finally, through some difficulty and inspired map-reading found the highlight of Kiev – Andreiyevski Uzviz (Andrew’s Descent). A strip of winding, cobble-stoned road that is the oldest in Kiev and is the place to be for all things kitschy, souvenirs in other words. We arrived to the Uzviz after sunset and consequently as the stalls were closing up. Sunset was spent actually atop the Uzviz watching the pinkish sun disappear behind the Kiev skyline.

Following the souvenir stands down the quaint old-school road, we accidentally created another circle and found ourselves back at the funicular. We went back to the flat but this time managed to make it to a grocery story to buy some things for breakfast the next day. The following morning we feasted on overcooked oatmeal, made edible with slices of banana and apple and instant coffee – a sacrilege in my book but necessity sometimes. This was our last day in Kiev, that night we were to take the overnight train to Kharkov so we went first to the Uzviz once again for gift shopping and bought only two things – little booklets describing the Orange Revolution in English. Then we walked back to the Golden Gates where we took photos with Yaroslavl the Wise. Still not sure who he was or why he was so wise, but I’m sure I’ll learn before I leave. Here we took it easy for a while and chatted. Then, with time running short we hoofed it to the Cave Monastery where the monks who were buried in natural caves beneath the complex were remarkably preserved and therefore believed to be even more holy. Unfortunately the caves were closed (the same caves that I was shoved into by Kate my previous visit to the capital) and thus we had to content ourselves with pictures of the gigantic, gilded cathedral instead.

Satisfied with our touristiness, we rushed a bit, being late as usual for Darren and myself, to the train station to collect our things (being placed in left luggage earlier in the day) and board our train to my city. The overnight train was interesting, as train rides usually are. It was Darren’s first time in a 3rd class (open compartments) ex-Soviet train. We bought our linen and made our beds (top bunks for us both – great idea putting the two short people on the tallest rack but eh, what can be done? Perhaps using growth hormones would be one option). Anyways the ride was uneventful and we arrived in Kharkov on the morrow of Friday as planned.

I realize now that I’ve broken my promise to shorten as best as possible the traveling tales. It’s actually as succinct as I can make it so bear with me a few more lines. This will be quick, I promise!

Kharkov is the Detroit of Ukraine. Old factories, derelict buildings, spotted with the signs of New Russian riches, it is a city full of tough guys and tougher woman. (This is what I imagine of Detroit at least, not having been there myself.) Point being, that there is nothing particularly outstandingly special about this city besides the fact that I live here now. Therefore all I could show Darren was my everyday life here. Babushka’s place, my work, school, my class even! We returned on Friday to learn that John, the other native speaker from America, had refused to substitute my classes while I was in Kiev and so there was no one to lead the class that night. I checked with Daz to make sure he wouldn’t mind if we went in for a little while and had a bit of lesson. He was all for it and so we went to school and did a little Q&A about British life and times. My students loved it and moreover Darren enjoyed the time spent with average Ukrainain people too. After that he and I enjoyed some delicious pizza at a café around the corner.

Our last full day in Kharkov, we just walked around the heart of the city, Sumskaya street. Took some nice photos of Lenin and fountains and strolled through the central park. The next day Darren was to take the overnight train to Kiev and then get to the airport before 7am to board a plane back home. So again we took it easy and just wandered the city, looking at sights and talking all the while. The last night, just before his train departed, we had pizza again accompanied by too sweet wine and a delectable dessert. It was a perfect end to a perfect week and a rather bittersweet moment as I had to again say goodbye to Darren. Through a haze of drunken taxi haggling we arrived at the train station in plenty of time. We sat outside in front of the fountain for a while, not really speaking (a rarity for us!!) but letting the magic of the moment take effect. Finally it was time. We went to left luggage, retrieved his bags and guitar (which went mostly unplayed during the whole week) and went to the platform.

As he boarded the train and found his cabin, she searched frantically through the open windows to find him again. At last she could make out his form in the fourth window from the entrance. She watched, holding her breath and her tears, as he put away his luggage and settled in. He sat down on the seat and then turned his attention to the window. From there he waved to her and she waved back, smiling as big as she could in order to hide the sadness in her eyes. The music playing from the loud speakers on the platform reminded her of an old black and white movie. For a moment, that’s where she imagined herself to be. Suddenly the train let out noises signaling its departure. Her heart leapt into her throat, as she could barely make out the words he was mouthing to her. The train began to move, so did she. The train was pulling out of the station, taking with it such precious cargo. She was having to say goodbye to him again, this time she was at least assured it would not be their last encounter. Walking down the platform to the exit, keeping him always in sight, the music and night affected her and finally she let the tears flow. The train began to pick up speed and eventually her view of his window was gone. She walked back to the public transport that would take her to her lonesome home. Drying her eyes she recounted the days they’d spent together and cheered by the memories made her way home to a restful sleep.

Chapter 12 - Dasha at the Dacha

Anya (school secretary) invited me to her dacha (summer home, used for vacationing and private gardens). It was really no more than a shack but it was fun. Saturday night we made shashlik over a bon-fire (the usual drill by now). Serezha and Pasha (Anya’s husband and his friend) started drinking vodka and managed to finish off ¾ of a 2-litre bottle. Impressive. Anya and I drank one bottle of red wine. Then we sat around the fire and told anecdotes. One of the favorite things to do for Russians and Ukrainians. After that we all went to sleep in the same room (different beds).

Next day - Sunday - we got up about 10:30 and made breakfast of eggs and sausage and tea. While we were enjoying priyaniki (sort of tea cakes) Anya’s father came. He’s quite nice, very funny (from what I could understand, which wasn’t much) and obviously a loving and good father. I can see how Anya takes after him. Then after cleaning up and changing clothes, we went to the nearby pond, where Serezha and Pasha (in Speedos no less!) went for a swim while Anya and I watched and sun-bathed a bit. It was a perfect day! Relaxed, gorgeous weather, good company and generally a lot of fun!

After chilling by the pond for a while, we returned home, a.k.a. shack. Then I went with the boys to fetch water from the spring. An interesting experience indeed! After that Anya and I (with Pasha’s help) prepared a traditional Cossack dinner - couscous with carrots, potatoes, and onions. And Anya made a salad of cucumbers, cabbage and tomato with the ever present dill. It was delicious! For the second course we had of course tea, this time made in the samovar - traditional Slavic tea pot. We finished tea and priyaniki and other cookies Anya’s father brought, then collected our stuff and headed back to the city. They dropped us off (Pasha and me) at University metro station. Pasha went home and I went to the internet café. After writing a few emails and blogging a bit I went home, packed and got ready for my trip to Kiev. Went to sleep at about 1am, generally contented with a wonderful start to the holiday and nervous about the next day, about getting to the train station on time, finding the flat in Kiev, finding the bus to take me to the airport, etc., etc. But that is a story for another time… look forward to next week - LOTR: ROTB.

Dark Day

We interrupt this narrative to inform our readers that a good friend, Carrie Anne (so nicknamed by the author), was killed in a car accident a few days ago in Colorado. We are praying for the recovery of her sister, Emily, as she is still in the hospital with injuries.

Chapter 11 – Kharkov: Denver with a metro

One of the teachers here told me once that Kharkovites are the proudest city inhabitants in Ukraine, meaning that they above all others are most patriotic to their city. From what I’ve seen and experienced I believe this to be true. For instance when I accidentally offended the students of one class when I said Kharkov is a nice little city. “Little!” they all gasped. How could I dare to call the second largest city in the Ukraine a ‘little city’? However I was neither talking about the geographical size nor the population that made it seem like a quaint city. Kharkov has a population of about 2 million people much the same as Denver, the largest city in Colorado. The biggest difference between my hometown and my new adopted town is the public transportation. Having elaborated on the metro above I’d just like to add that it is this feature that makes Kharkov feel smaller than it really is.

One of the first weeks I was here, the day that a Julia and I walked around the city, I ran into one of the students from the school on the street. Not so strange considering Julia and I were in the central part of the city, however a few weeks after that I ran into the same Julia with one of her students in the metro and not just on the platform but in the same carriage. Again a couple weeks later I ran into the husband of a different Julia as we were in the same carriage. I’ve seen this phenomenon happen with many other people on the metro. Friends see each other from across the train car and then are reunited. In London this rarely if ever happens. I attribute this to the fact that Soviet built metropolitans are very simplistic, so much so that you can stand in the same spot everyday and get onto the same carriage, exit from the same turnstile, and so on. Therefore everyone has their own particular place on the platform and when you are given directions they usually include the phrase “Get on the last carriage and exit immediately to your left,” or something similar.

Another reason for the small town feel is the fact that when you’re not riding the metro then you’re walking down the main streets with everyone and their mother (quite literally as babushki here make up a large majority of the pedestrians). So you see pretty much the same people each day, either in the metro or on Sumskaya Street (the main thoroughfare here) or in Svboda Ploschad (Freedom Square). I’m thoroughly convinced that if more Denverites were forced into taking our sad little version of a tram system (a.k.a. Light Rail) rather than our usual gas guzzling SUVs or walking around Downtown (they do so now but still not quite as much as here) then more people would meet by chance and it would create of sense of community that seems to be more pronounced in cities like Kharkov with frequently used public transport. At the very least it will help to reduce pollution and thus Denver’s Brown Cloud as well as the inescapable rush hours and road rage. Having utterly exhausted my soapbox and thus proclaimed my support of all public transport initiatives in Denver, it is now time for me to charge up the ol’ water boiler (another story for another time!) and attempt to shower and do my laundry.

Chapter 10 – Easter in Prison

Easter in the Catholic calendar, I spent in Cornwall and Easter in the Orthodox calendar I spent in prison… ok, well not Really a prison, it was in fact a hospital but you could hardly tell the difference. Until this year I never even realized that they were two different dates for this one holiday. This year Orthodox Easter also coincided with International Labor Day so there was even more reason to celebrate (not that they need more reasons here). But back to the prison/hospital. You may be wondering why I was there? I wasn’t ill, thank God, but actually visiting the other American native speaker here, John.

When I first arrived in Kharkov I was thrown in the deep end, having to take over one class from another teacher who was leaving and then substituting John who had contracted hepatitis. (Yes, it’s alive and thriving here in Ukraine. DON’T DRINK THE WATER!) Refusing to go to a hospital for the first few weeks, he finally succumbed to peer pressure and the fact that he was as yellow as a sunflower. So John was in one of the better hospitals in Kharkov and some of his students were going to visit him on Easter weekend to cheer him up and make sure he was all right. N.B. John doesn’t speak more than 10 words of Russian and he doesn’t intend to learn now. Therefore communicating with hospital staff must have been quite interesting.

I met with…Julia (!) from his class that I was substituting and her mom at a metro station from where we then had to take a trolleybus up to the hospital. Now picture this – a broad street with little traffic (and no lines on the road, they don’t believe in road rules here). One side of the street has tall 10-12 storey apartment buildings in true Soviet fashion (grey, imposing, depressing) with shops on the first floor of every building – food stores, pharmacists, etc. and kiosks selling everything else you could need in front of them. On the opposite side of the road there it stands – the hospital. A series of 4-5 storey buildings looking rather worn-down and abandoned, positioned a little ways back from the road. Between the sidewalk and the hospital is an old school wire fence, probably as old as my father – not to name names here (or ages rather) we’ll say dating from post WWII.

The three of us make our way past the “guard post” watched over by stray dogs and a random babushka (told you they’re everywhere, the former as well as the latter). After quite a bit of confusion as to which building and entrance to go into – many buildings here have separate entrances and stairwells, called podyezd, so that if you enter into podyezd 1 you can’t make your way through to the section of building in podyezd 2 – eventually we found John’s ward. Walking cautiously through the large steal door, Julia and I then walk briskly past the open door of the nurse’s lounge. The nurses, or medsistryi (medical sisters), were in all white traditional looking candy-striper uniforms, including fun little hat. They were not the friendly sort of hospital staff however, as they yelled at us in Russian for not announcing our presence. I let Julia handle this conversation as of course my Russian isn’t quite up to par for confrontational situations and frankly – the nurses scared me. We walk down a deserted corridor, lit only by the barred windows in the small ‘lounge’ area. The hall is all white with doors lining both sides, mostly closed at this time. There is a silence so deep and intense I feel like I’m in a Steven King novel, and am waiting for the next big bad to come and do its business. However nothing untoward happens, we find the one door that is open and hear a small voice calling from inside. “Hello, in here.” In English.

Finally we had made it to John! N.B. John is from Wisconsin so already has the misfortune of not speaking properly accented English (sorry Stacy and all of my other Wisconsonian readers). Added to this he has a speech impediment of some sort as well. A lisp or a misplaced crown, as one of my students who is a dentist proposes, either way he’s hard to understand even for another native speaker! Plus, the way he speaks, words and phrases is very colloquial and sometimes I don’t get it, no scratch that, most times. Luckily he had managed to get a private room, with a bed again dating from the liberation of Ukraine from German forces in 194?, and a small bathroom with tub and toilet. Everything in the hospital fells like an old black and white film, possibly the set of some prison ward or insane asylum. Well after a few minutes of unintelligible chit-chat, Julia and I went to buy him some more food from the market across the street. We bring it back, chat some more and then leave John to his medsistryi and laptop computer, the one modern convenience.

Julia, mama and I take another trolley to a different metro station and they point me the way home, first leaving me with some homemade Easter cake called paska. It’s very much like Easter bread back home, but with the added joy of sugar frosting and sprinkles on top. Saying our farewells with the traditional «Христос Воскрес!» (“Christ has risen!”), we part company and I head back to Babushka’s where I met another friend, this time named Masha for a nice change-up, and we watched all four glorious hours of Lord of the Rings: Return of the King, Extended Edition.

Chapter 9 – Communing with nature – or – Insect air stream

The next day I once again experienced the pleasure of a picnic in the woods, this time a little closer to home. The second invitation from the day before was carried over into Sunday so that on the 2nd day of May I went with one of the thousand Julias here to a patch of forest a 20 minute walk from her home. We were joined by her husband, Slava and two of his friends. The forest here was not hilly but flat with super tall skinny trees. Again we found a place and built a fire that would burn for two hours before we ever even think about cooking anything on it. This time all the food was home-prepared, salad, vegetables, sashlik. It was definitely more delicious than the day before for this reason but lacking in the vital ingredient of booze. This particular Julia and her husband are the two non-drinkers I’ve found in Ukraine, but what they lack in alcoholism, they more than make up for in generosity.

After enjoying another feast and more songs and good times I had to cut out early as I had scheduled an appointment to meet with a different Julia to go play pool. I found my way out of the forest with the help of Slava and as I made my way to the metro I felt totally contented and happy with life and my experiences and generally reveling in the wonderful spring weather and attitude. I should have known then… Having contracted a bit of a cold from the erratic weather I couldn’t breathe properly through my nose, thus I was walking merrily along with my mouth slightly ajar when all of a sudden – AACCCCKKKK!!! F#&K!! What the hell was that??!?!?!?!??! I felt something slam against the back of my throat and before I could even think my gag reflexes reacted. As I heaved (hacked) and choked on the mystery invader of my oral cavity I noticed a gang of “oh too cool” Ukrainian boys next to me. They had watched as I transformed from an average pedestrian to a freak with a hairball issue.

Since the bug, as to my dismay I realized the unexplained object was, had collided with such force into my throat there was no turning back, I had to swallow! Gathering all my courage and pushing all thoughts of Fear Factor out of my mind, I managed the biggest gulp I could muster and tried to help my misfortunate friend down my esophagus into my stomach cavity. Thus accomplished I went casually (trying to regain any composure I had left) to the nearest kiosk and immediately bought some gum to wipe away the memory and taste of bug al a carte. This incident, besides ruining my pleasant mood for that day, proves what I had hitherto believed about the plight of my height. My head lays in an air stream very popular with bugs of all sorts, as I constantly have been attacked by one kind or another, ramming into my face, my nose and now – holy of all holies – my mouth! I hopped on to the metro and tried to no avail to remember how pleasant the picnic I had just left was.

Eventually I found Julia #2 and we headed to the billiard hall. It doubles as a bowling alley and is rather expensive. During the prime time on the weekends it costs about 120 gryvnias per hour to bowl, meaning $24 and they are strict about the time limit, if you don’t finish the game(s) in an hour you still get cut off. Luckily we weren’t there to bowl but to play pool. We therefore spent 17 gryvnias for one hour of pool table time, in which we were able to play just two games, which I may add I won. Finishing that we walked back to the metro along the ‘river’ an even sadder version of the Platte in Denver, what would never pass as a river according to some of my friends. I forwent the pleasure of another day of chanting at the Buddhist center and headed straight back to Babushka’s where I crashed, exhausted from the weekend of BBQs and looking forward to the next day, that I would actually have off and I intended to do nothing – which I accomplished by the way.

Chapter 8 – May Day Picnic and Buddha

I was invited to a picnic by my girl friend from South Africa, Carien and her students from another English Language school. On Saturday morning we convened at one of the many monuments in the city. (This one dedicated to Ukrainians who fought for the communist revolution here, I believe. Also known as “those who protect the refrigerator”*, due to the manner in which the figures are sculpted from one huge chunk of stone, they do look rather frozen. ) After gathering our full numbers and purchasing the necessary food and drink items from the local store we boarded a minibus (mashrutka) and headed out of the city. After a journey of 30 minutes or so we came to the edge of a forest. This was my first time in the Ukrainian forest and it was a sight to be seen indeed.

Rolling little hills (what passes for ski slopes here in the winter) which was mostly covered in birches with some aspens and evergreens sprinkled here and there for as far as the eye could see. The Slavic people are very much in tune with and enjoy nature and therefore everyone was out on this fine first day of spring. After a while we managed to find a nice shady spot and the men set out searching for twigs to start the fire with while the womenfolk chatted and prepared some salad and cold dishes for munching.

This would be a good time to note that I was in fact invited to two ‘picnics’ this day. I figured I could easily make it to both as in my naïve little mind, a picnic lasts for about 2-3 hours. However that is not so here. Nothing is very quick in this culture. From picnics to getting visas and travel tickets there is always a queue, either physical or metaphorical.

It was quite an honor to be witness to the traditional forest picnic. Picture it – 15 people, some old friends, some new and some strangers. All gathered on a beautiful sunny day in the midst of a birch forest in Ukraine. The men without shirts stoke the bon fire and drink beer with the occasional toast of vodka. They tell anecdotes as they tend to the fire. The women gossip happily, chopping vegetables, doing impromptu hair cutting sessions, and building flower chains from the multitude of dandelions around them. After about an hour or two of building an enormous fire and letting it die down to just ashes we finally begin to cook the shashlik (shish-ka-bobs). [Obviously at this point I gave up the idea of a second picnic.]

Again the men take charge as they create a make-shift grill with stones, which they found lying around our campsite and metal rods brought with us. The first round of meat is cooked and like ravenous dogs we dig in. The wine/beer/vodka is flowing and the noise grows louder. Yes! I admit it! I sampled a bit of the indispensable liquid and had three shots of vodka. However, I managed to cut myself off after the third one by remembering all those horrifically embarrassing nights in Petersburg when I didn’t know how to say no to $1 drinks.

After the second round of food we sat down to digest the feast. In between little bursts of rain, we (they) sang songs in Russian. And some people took little strolls through the forest, myself included, feeling a bit like Little Red Riding Hood just waiting to find my wolf. (Found it by the way – another story for another time, perhaps after the vodka flows again.) Then we all played a bit of charades. Finally we packed everything up and made our trek back through the forest to where the mashrutki awaited us to bring us back into the city. And thus ended the first picnic in the forest that signaled the beginning of Spring!

The day before this picnic I was invited to a Buddhist Center here in Kharkov. Strange to hear I know, but it’s true. So after the picnic I had promised one student (who could in fact be a teacher that’s how advanced he is) that I would return for another night of meditation and lecture. It was very interesting and calming. I enjoyed the atmosphere of the place and people I met there. Though I can’t say I’ve converted just yet as the mass chanting in Russian with spurts of Sanskrit kind of put me off, as in I had to try very hard to control my fits of laughter. That and I’m not quite prepared to throw off supposedly following one religious figure (the Pope) for another leader (the 27th incarnation of this sects lama). All in all it was a great day filled with good memories.

*Not direct translation.

Chapter 7 – Metro vs. Tube – Mind the Gap

It’s now time for some general observations about the differences between Kharkov and London. The most interesting thing (for this particular observer at least) has to do with the differences between the London Underground, a.k.a. the Tube and the Kharkov Metropolitan. Allow me to enumerate them for you now:

1. Barriers – As my recent visitor, Darren pointed out, the barriers to get to the trains are a bit bizarre here. London = barriers are closed and open only when you slide your ticket through the machine or place your Oyster card to the pad. Ukraine = barriers are open, but if you try to pass through them with without using a token or card the invisible hand of big brother pops out of the sides and stops you, usually fairly painfully.
2. Escalators – Probably one of the harder adjustments. London = usually fairly shallow and fast moving. Stand on the right, move on the left is standard procedure. Ukraine = super long (like descending into the seventh layer of hell…) and painfully slow (like a geriatric parade). Stand left, right and everywhere in between. Rarely does anyone try to get ahead of the game by walking up or down. I believe it’s a lesson in the Slavic view of life – why try to get ahead? You’re all going to the same place.
3. Bottlenecking – Another fun example of the Soviet experience of queuing. London = during rush hour all escalators are open for business to try and alleviate congestion and get everyone to where they need to be quickly. Ukraine = anytime day or night, one escalator up and one down. Therefore when a train arrives, everyone and their mother (quite literally) moves in a mass mob to the one functioning escalator and creates a fun bottleneck experience. I call it the daily shuffle, as you have to shuffle your feet for about 5 minutes in order to get on the escalator which will take another 5 minutes to bring you to the surface.
4. Directions on the walls – How do you know where you’re going? London = almost everyone has the inevitable Tube map, very handy for those rare journeys out of central London (Zone 1). On the wall opposite the platform is also an eye-catching vertical diagram of all the stations on that line going the direction the train is heading. Ukraine = no such thing as handy little maps. You must get on and ride until you find yourself or until the end of the line, whichever comes first (usually the end of the line). On the walls there are simple, plain horizontal signs for each station after the station you are at. Luckily you always know from which direction the train will come, as in between these signs little arrows show you (usually to the left, as you stand on the platform).
5. Inside the carriage – Surfing the rails vs. reading the paper. London = Just about everyone in London reads something on the Tube. Either the free Metro daily or a book. This most likely explains the higher literacy rate among the British as compared with their SUV-gas-guzzling-car-loving-anti-public-transport counterparts across the pond. The carriages are smaller and filled with differentiated seats; polls and bars are scattered about to hold on to during the journey. Plus, for added convenience, more maps of that particular line and of all central London tube routes are placed throughout the carriage, every two-three feet apart. Ukraine = two parallel horizontal bars only, placed above the long bucket seats, where big-boned babushki squeeze into place creating nine seats where normally only eight butts should be. No one reads very often, preferring to stare blankly and depressingly at the void between their mind’s eye and life. Having no poles to hang on to, everyone has the ability to free-stand using their knees as shock absorbers and shift their feet so as to not fall over. It is rather like surfing (now that I have that experience under my belt) in that it’s a interesting challenge, especially when there is a newbie driver who hasn’t yet mastered the art of slow starting and stopping. The convenient maps spotted in London do not exist in Ukraine. You may be lucky to find one makeshift printed version of a map just above the doors on the carriage, but first you must sort through the billions and billions (said with Carl Sagan like emphasis) of advertisements.
6. Clocks – “Time is merely an expedient of the mind…” London = being of the Western time-consumed culture that Britons are, the London Underground caters to their need to know when the next train arrives. Having not just clocks with the current time but signs denoting the next train’s arrival and to which station it will eventually end its journey. Ukraine = of course they too have large clocks to inform its patrons of the correct time as well as the times of the trains. However wishing to retain its otherworldly air (neither East nor West), their time keeping of the trains counts backwards – from the time the last train left the station. This way, after taking the 5-minute escalator ride to the platform (making sure not to rush) you can discover by just how many seconds you missed the last train. “What?! Ten seconds ago… shit! Oh well I’m sure the next train will come in about… so many minutes… better practice staring into space now.”
7. Leaving the station – The end is nigh! London = bad point about being one of the biggest cities in Europe is that you have a lot of options in the way of directions to take. “I’ll meet you at the exit of Tottenham Court Road tube station.” “The one next to Borders Books?” “No, next to Virgin Records.” “On Tottenham Court Road?” “Nope, on Charing Cross Road.” “Oh right, see you there! (Maybe.)” Ukraine = I have to say the Communists knew how to simplify things. One entrance/exit to each metro station, two platforms, one for each direction and that’s it. Standardization does sometimes have its perks. “Meet you at Sovietskaya metro.” “Where?” “Right there.” “Ok.”
   

Bet you didn’t think that one little piece of everyday life, like commuting, could be worth such intense reflection. Perhaps I need to find some more friends… or maybe try riding the bus more often.

Chapter 6 – Toilet Tales

Not to be outdone by Michael’s tales of bathroom disasters, I have decided to give a little insight into the situation here in Ukraine. First lesson is BYOTP, bring your own toilet paper. Never count on it being provided for you. Therefore I have gotten into the habit, since I lived in St. Petersburg, of nicking as many napkins, Kleenex, etc. from every place I can. Go to McDonald’s, get a cheeseburger and about twenty napkins. Rock on! (Not that I frequent McDonald’s here anyway, unless it is to use a fairly clean toilet and to grab the napkins and run.) However, when you do meet with the luxury of Ukrainian TP it is unlike any sort that you’ve seen before. Basically their version is very tightly rolled (leaving no hole in the middle from which to hang it on anything), light brown/tan (like the color of recycled paper), very thin and coarse. My theory is that these rolls are the crepe paper rejects, the pretty dyes and crinkliness not taking effect, they shipped them out to all the country as toilet paper.

Next lesson which was a bit more shocking was the prevalence of the good old Turkish toilet – a.k.a. hole-in-the-ground. Ukrainians are big fans of tea. Sometimes I drink about 20 cups a day while at the office. All well and good until the tea insists on leaving my body again. The office bathroom is not terrible, though it is a bit disconcerting since the seat is not quite attached and shifts around under your bum. Not a big deal, I can deal with that at least. One day however, after my twentieth or so cup of tea, I was at the school (different location than the office) and I needed to run in between my classes to the toilet. After discerning which strange symbol meant “Women” I walked in to not just a Turkish toilet room but a Turkish prison itself! In contrast to the rest of the school the walls of this room were dark grey forbidding stone work. Old, decrepit and not very friendly. Ok, no problem… I just need to be here for a few minutes. Then I walk into the room with the ‘stalls’. Turkish style toilets? I thought I left those in Japan and never had to squat again… oh no… not so. Ok, again no worries, I learned how to squat for just long enough in Japan, I can handle this. WHAT?!!?!? No doors on the stalls? What are they trying to do to me here? That’s right folks, dark grey cement bricks forming a depressing square, with three half-assed (pun intended) partitions. Inside the pseudo-cubicles a hole in the ground flanked on each side by a bit of tracks to place your feet so you won’t slip and fall on your quite exposed posterior.

After swallowing my fear, disgust and surprise and my bladder reminds me how badly I need to relieve it, I assume the position. Which stall in all my genius-ness do I decide to use? The one closest to the door of course. What happens while I’m trying to hang in mid-air, aim and balance myself so as not to touch anything in this tetanus infested room? The accountant of my school comes in to relieve herself and of course has to pass my naked levitating bum to get to the next open stall. Conversation in any language much less in Russian was beyond impossible at this point. “Oh hi, Inna Nikolaevna, how’s it going?” I don’t think so!! Finish faster, wipe your ass with Ronald McDonald’s face and get the hell out! Don’t forget to wash your hands… sure, using water from the grimy river piped through pipes older than the Civil War with no soap to relieve the stench or experience. Run Forest Run! And thus I had to return to my class thoroughly disturbed and feeling gross. Needless to say I took an extra long shower the next day! Beat that, Super Bladder Man!