I always underestimate the process of acclimation when arriving in a new country. Somehow I expect to just jump right off the plane, and into a familiar routine – to sleep and eat on schedule, to explore from place to place without feeling lost or overwhelmed. Then, once I’ve landed and set my feet onto unfamiliar ground, I remember… it is in fact a process, and sometimes you just have to take things one step at a time.
Today we visited the city, and took the metro into downtown. Walking from Mariya’s quiet neighborhood across the bridge and toward the Metro station, it was obvious by people-watching that I’d misestimated the sense of style in this country. As Mariya suggested, I brought conservative clothing: short sleeves, knee length skirts, flat sandals that were comfortable to walk in. While this worked out well for comfort, the vast majority of women our age and even older were wearing much less – itty bitty shorts, midriff bearing tops, high stiletto heels in the early afternoon. Being female, I also couldn’t help but notice the standard of beauty among all the women walking around. Never in my life have I seen so many size-two to double zero, 5 foot 8, C to DD cup sized, blue-eyed women walking around in one place. (Except maybe Manhattan Beach, but this is the real thing.) Apparently, Joe Biden made a comment once about Ukraine having the most beautiful women in the world… well, within the first ten minutes of walking around I don’t think anyone could argue with that.
Of course there are also a reasonable number of good looking guys – but as Matt pointed out, the ratio is still pretty unfair. Almost every guy I have seen in his late teens to mid-20s has been clean-shaven, well-built (until early 30s when they get vodka/beer bellies) and surprisingly fashionable, most wearing nice shoes and no sunglasses to cover their light-colored eyes. Matt with his beard-in-progress and me with my Irish/German looks both stand out as clearly not from here… but hey, at least we have Mariya!
For lunch, we visited a place which phonetically translates to “poo-zata-hata” (“Fully Tummy Hut”) and all three of us got a nice dose of culture shock. Being worthless at reading or speaking any Russian, Matt and I have been relying completely on Mariya to navigate and translate. Problem is, in the 12 years since Mariya moved from the Ukraine, the country has decided to nationalize and make Ukranian its national language instead of Russian. (Ukranian is about as different from Russian as English is from Spanish.) Everyone still speaks Russian, but all the signs, advertisements and in our case food labels at the buffet are written in Ukranian, so when we arrived at the peak of lunch hour to this crowded buffet, it quickly turned into chaos.
First, we entered into the exit, not knowing which way to navigate through the crowded tables full of people with plastic trays. When we finally got in on the right side, Matt and I stared bewildered at the dozens of cafeteria-style entrees lining the buffet. Some of it looked like salad – I recognized cut up cucumbers and tomatoes covered in dill. There were piles of meats – one looked vaguely like sausage, and there was definitely rice, but others were battered and fried, and covered in sauces that neither of us recognized. People were pushing us forward in line and yelling out orders, but Matt and I couldn’t do anything but point. Mariya taught us that “eta” means “that” so I just waved my hand and said “eta!” at whatever was closest, and prayed that they didn’t ask me questions.
By the time we made it through the buffet line and to the checkout, I had a plate full of food, and I couldn’t tell you what it was. We got to the checkout counter, and the lady said some number I didn’t understand, so I gave her a 100 bill. (Roughly equivalent to $12.) She was clearly annoyed that she had to give me change, but I had no idea how to respond. We were all flustered, and Mariya said something to her in Russian that she scoffed at, but then at least it ended well. I got my change, we eventually found a table, and after a few bites of food we had all calmed down.
“You have to remember that ten year old Masha is giving you a tour of the city, and I’ve never been here without my Mom” Mariya reminded us when we sat down. “It’s not easy for me either.”
Matt and I can’t read, write or speak, and Mariya isn’t fluent in the written language, but at least between the three of us we’re figuring it out as we go!
Monday, June 21, 2010
Welcome to Kiev!
Yesterday evening we arrived at Mariya’s grandparents’ apartment in Kiev, and I could barely finish dinner before collapsing onto the pullout couch bed. Even as the jet lag and compiled exhaustion from the last few weeks hit me, something about the tiny apartment felt comforting. Her grandparents smiled and hugged us hello, and even in a completely unfamiliar place, the pictures of little Mariya and stories I’d heard about this place gave me a vicarious sense of home.
I woke up this morning to cars rushing by outside, loud birds chirping, and a piercing sunlight beaming in from the porch balcony. Mariya left the patio door open for fresh air, and the world outside was already awake and buzzing at 7am. After a traditional breakfast of pancake-like biscuits made of cheese and raisins, we took turns showering in the raised bathtub then headed eight stories downstairs to explore her old neighborhood in the “West Bank.”
This particular part of Kiev is situated on an island west of the main city, and is primarily residential – all around us are stacks of high density apartment buildings, joined together by narrow roads and identical plazas that are decorated with small communal gardens and brightly painted playground sets. I took nearly a dozen pictures of the apartment building facades alone, because they fascinate me – talk about a homeowner’s association nightmare! Every apartment has a balcony, but residents are free to cover/not cover, and decorate them as they wish. The result of this is a patchwork of wood, aluminum, splotchy yellow paint, plastic, metal, and nearly every other exterior façade you can imagine.
Mariya explained to us the history of these apartments, and how they were built in the 1960s to house large families in compact and economically efficient places. Considering the rough times Ukraine has faced in the last century, the patchwork balconies are an interesting expression of individual taste for this little island- withstanding a history of famine in the 1930s, being occupied by the German soldiers during World War II, living through the dictatorships of Lenin and Stalin, a broken economic system under Soviet communism, and in recent history, the horrible Chernobyl nuclear disaster. (Chernobyl is only about 40km north of here, and Mariya’s mother and uncle lived with her grandparents in this apartment when it happened.)
As we walked through the quiet neighborhood, Mariya (or “Masha” as her family calls her) pointed out all of the familiar places from her childhood: her old apartment, only a quarter mile down the road from her grandparents. Her colorful elementary school with painted tires buried along the entryway. The rusty little playground that she used to play in as a child, with her secret hiding spot tucked away in the bushes. The peeling wooden bench her mom used to sit on and watch her, still painted in the same faded primary colors.
We watched the sun set along the river, and talked about plans for the next few days - visiting the city with her grandparents. Going to the opera. Meeting up with Mariya’s childhood friend, and her stepmother who picked us up from the airport. Kiev is a beautiful and historic city, and it sounds like we have a lot to look forward to!
I woke up this morning to cars rushing by outside, loud birds chirping, and a piercing sunlight beaming in from the porch balcony. Mariya left the patio door open for fresh air, and the world outside was already awake and buzzing at 7am. After a traditional breakfast of pancake-like biscuits made of cheese and raisins, we took turns showering in the raised bathtub then headed eight stories downstairs to explore her old neighborhood in the “West Bank.”
This particular part of Kiev is situated on an island west of the main city, and is primarily residential – all around us are stacks of high density apartment buildings, joined together by narrow roads and identical plazas that are decorated with small communal gardens and brightly painted playground sets. I took nearly a dozen pictures of the apartment building facades alone, because they fascinate me – talk about a homeowner’s association nightmare! Every apartment has a balcony, but residents are free to cover/not cover, and decorate them as they wish. The result of this is a patchwork of wood, aluminum, splotchy yellow paint, plastic, metal, and nearly every other exterior façade you can imagine.
Mariya explained to us the history of these apartments, and how they were built in the 1960s to house large families in compact and economically efficient places. Considering the rough times Ukraine has faced in the last century, the patchwork balconies are an interesting expression of individual taste for this little island- withstanding a history of famine in the 1930s, being occupied by the German soldiers during World War II, living through the dictatorships of Lenin and Stalin, a broken economic system under Soviet communism, and in recent history, the horrible Chernobyl nuclear disaster. (Chernobyl is only about 40km north of here, and Mariya’s mother and uncle lived with her grandparents in this apartment when it happened.)
As we walked through the quiet neighborhood, Mariya (or “Masha” as her family calls her) pointed out all of the familiar places from her childhood: her old apartment, only a quarter mile down the road from her grandparents. Her colorful elementary school with painted tires buried along the entryway. The rusty little playground that she used to play in as a child, with her secret hiding spot tucked away in the bushes. The peeling wooden bench her mom used to sit on and watch her, still painted in the same faded primary colors.
We watched the sun set along the river, and talked about plans for the next few days - visiting the city with her grandparents. Going to the opera. Meeting up with Mariya’s childhood friend, and her stepmother who picked us up from the airport. Kiev is a beautiful and historic city, and it sounds like we have a lot to look forward to!
Friday, June 18, 2010
On the Plane to Ukraine
An hour into the plane ride and I'm already feeling my travel bug jitter again.
On the way in, I picked up an "El Pais" - the Spain equivalent to the New York Times - and found my seat next to an elderly German couple who appeared flustered with the seatback TV screen. "Emmm...." the woman next to me groaned, then gestured at me desperately and pointed at her tv screen. Apparently, her entertainment system's version of Sex and the City was playing in English, with Arabic subtitles. Neither language was doing much for her.
We fiddled with hand gestures and buttons, trying to fix it to no avail. My German is non-existant, and her English was just as bad. About five minutes in, I had a crazy thought - what if they speak Spanish? "Hablas Espanol?" I asked them , skeptically. "SI!" she answered back with an enthusiastic sigh of relief, and suddenly a whole new world was opened up between us.
We figured out the whole subtitle mess, and ended up having a long conversation about how she and her husband were visiting San Fransisco from Munich, and were on their way now to Italy. They taught me a few words in German, (which will be good to remember for next week in Hamburg...) and I taught them how to say "thank you for your help" in English. By the time drink service had come around, I was feeling thouroughly proud of myself.
Running with this culturally savvy momentum, I decided to be ambitious and try out the plane's "learn to speak Russian" program on my seatback TV. I got past "please", "thank you", "good bye" and "I love you" with some sense of accomplishment... but then the game moved to level 2 and sentences like "Excuse me, can you please take a picture of me?" popped up, and I gave up. I couldn't even move my mouth to prounounce half the words, nonetheless distinguish between each of the syllables.
Looks like I'll be sticking to Spanish, and leave the Russian to Mariya. Wish me luck!
On the way in, I picked up an "El Pais" - the Spain equivalent to the New York Times - and found my seat next to an elderly German couple who appeared flustered with the seatback TV screen. "Emmm...." the woman next to me groaned, then gestured at me desperately and pointed at her tv screen. Apparently, her entertainment system's version of Sex and the City was playing in English, with Arabic subtitles. Neither language was doing much for her.
We fiddled with hand gestures and buttons, trying to fix it to no avail. My German is non-existant, and her English was just as bad. About five minutes in, I had a crazy thought - what if they speak Spanish? "Hablas Espanol?" I asked them , skeptically. "SI!" she answered back with an enthusiastic sigh of relief, and suddenly a whole new world was opened up between us.
We figured out the whole subtitle mess, and ended up having a long conversation about how she and her husband were visiting San Fransisco from Munich, and were on their way now to Italy. They taught me a few words in German, (which will be good to remember for next week in Hamburg...) and I taught them how to say "thank you for your help" in English. By the time drink service had come around, I was feeling thouroughly proud of myself.
Running with this culturally savvy momentum, I decided to be ambitious and try out the plane's "learn to speak Russian" program on my seatback TV. I got past "please", "thank you", "good bye" and "I love you" with some sense of accomplishment... but then the game moved to level 2 and sentences like "Excuse me, can you please take a picture of me?" popped up, and I gave up. I couldn't even move my mouth to prounounce half the words, nonetheless distinguish between each of the syllables.
Looks like I'll be sticking to Spanish, and leave the Russian to Mariya. Wish me luck!
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