Ludmila Semyonova is a stereotypical Russkaya (Ukrainskaya) grandmother. She’s wears the same two or three outfits around the house everyday. Changes into her Sunday best, including little hat, when she goes strolling or to buy drinking water from the local water truck. She’s lived in this same flat for about twenty years. I actually don’t know that much about her beyond her age (75), the fact she has a daughter living in Kharkov and that she likes to watch the Russian version of The Nanny (complete with Russian version of Fran Drescher, who is just as annoying to listen to except without the distinctive laugh). She and I don’t talk all that much, mostly because she knows no English and when I try to use my fledgling Russian with her she doesn’t understand me. I like to think that is more because she’s hard of hearing than any deficiency on my part, but I’m sure it’s a bit of both.
Since I work primarily in the evenings I spend my mornings at home where she and I stay out of each other’s way. She doesn’t cook much for herself let alone for anyone else and after the first week’s confusion as to the exact arrangement of things, I’ve been providing my own means of sustenance which makes for interesting trips to either the supermarket, preferably, or the regular market place. Because of this my diet is a simple one of sausage, bread, and eggs, oh my! Along with cereal, coffee and (thank god for frozen foods!) pelmeni, the Russian equivalent to stuffed tortellini and vareniki, the Ukrainian version. Unfortunately for me, pastries and cookies are many, various and everywhere, usually involving some sort of cheese (they have a dozen types of cottage cheese). My will power has left me since I learned how to say “Give me please…” Also candy of all sorts can be found here. From 1,001 chocolates to a hundred types of caramels, if you can imagine it, they probably have it.
As for my flat… I was lucky enough to get a whole room to myself, a fairly good-sized one as well. It has a twin bed-futon like thing that’s falling apart and the pillow is I’m sure made of sand in a bag but hey, at least it’s something. There is a nice empty (until my excessive amount of luggage filled it) wardrobe and a table where my laptop, books and work stuff all sit in some semblance of order. I live on the 10th floor of a 12-storey Soviet-era building. Meaning – a big white block that looks like every other big white block on the street. There is a doorman and woman who monitor who come in and out of the building. Usually there are quite a few babushki (plural of babushka) sitting out in front of the door so it’s like walking the gauntlet when I wish to enter or exit. One day the head babushka asked me my name on my way out and I said “Dasha” (which is a real Russian name and easier for people than Dacia). So now the head grandmother recognizes me and greets me as Dashenka (the diminutive of Dasha). The gauntlet has thus been breeched.
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