Ukraine: THURSDAY, JULY 1, 2010

[stevenpiziks]

(Still scamming wifi in Kyiv.)  Photos are posted. (jETA: Photos are now visible to everyone.) (ETA 2: The photos are on Facebook and are theoretically visible to "everyone," but apparently that only means "visible to people who have a Facebook account." I'll see what I can do for non-FB people.)

Totally wiped, but I want to write this before any of it fades.

Breakfast was at the hotel in a little side room.  It’s a community affair, set at a long table.  A waitress brought the three of us plates of open-faced sandwiches of bread, cheese, and salami, with tea to drink.  Then Mom and I went up to my and Sasha’s room to organize the gifts we’d brought for Sasha’s family.  We put them in the big suitcase and brought it downstairs, where the taxi Gene had hired for the day was ready.

The taxi was a brown Soviet-era box.  It was teeny-weeny and about twice the age of the driver, a crew-cut guy in black, tall and lean.  I gave the cab a dubious look, but one thing I learned the first time around is that in Ukraine was you go with what you have and assume everything will be all right.  This isn’t an easy concept for someone like me, whose philosophy is to hope for the best but prepare for the worst.

We gave Mom the front seat while Sasha, Gene, and I squashed into the back, and off we went.

The drive took about an hour.  The roads were great, then they were good, then okay, then iffy, then awful.  The iffy roads through some of the village areas were cobblestones--very very bumpy, very very =old.= We reached the outer edges of Ostapy, Sasha’s home village.  Sasha began to recognize certain sites--a railroad crossing, a house, a farm--and became more excited.  The area is forest, half-abandoned farmland, and meadows.  Gene said it used to be very prosperous (collective) farms, but when the Soviet Union broke up and withdrew, the economy collapsed and many of the farms fell fallow, which was where all the meadows came from.

It turned out we weren’t actually going to Ostapy.  We were going to another village nearby, the one where Sasha’s sister Tanya was living with her husband, children, and mother-in-law.  But when we reached it, Gene, who had only been there once several weeks earlier, couldn’t remember which way to the house.  So he called Tanya on her cell phone.  We waited at a T-intersection with a big blue Orthodox church, complete with minaret, nearby, and a couple of Ukrainian farmhouses, the type with corrugated tin roofs, whitewashed peaks, and brightly-painted first floors.  The weather was sunny, hot, and still, and we sought the shade of a tree while we waited.

A few minutes later, a woman in her fifties zipped into view on a bicycle, her head cloth neatly in place.  Her name was Galina, and she was Larissa’s mother-in-law.  She was extremely nice, not the usual reserved Ukrainian.  She hugged everyone, including me, and all but lifted Sasha off the ground.  She remembered him, though he didn’t remember her, and she proclaimed that he hadn’t changed one bit.  We got back into the taxi and followed her back to her house.

When we pulled over to park, Larissa, Sasha’s other sister came out.  She was short and dark blond with pixie-like features.  She gave Sasha a big hug and wiped at her eyes.  Sasha was overcome, too, as was I, but neither one said anything--they couldn’t understand each other.  Introductions were made.  Larissa hugged me and Mom too, and we were invited into the house.

The house was fairly large, by Ukrainian standards.  It had a small fenced-in yard out front with a well near the road, the sort of well with bucket and windlass.  To one side were a couple of fruit trees and out back were outbuildings, including a tiny stable and a storage shed.  A well-worn path led behind the stable to an outhouse.  The stable contained a goat and a pig, and a small flock of chickens, one hen of which had several chicks, wandered the yards.  A door hung with curtains against insects led into the house.  The front room was a kitchen area with a Russian wood stove.  The next room was a main room with a trestle table and benches and day beds to the side.  A huge hutch stored shining china and glassware, and large portrait-style photographs were hung above it.  Most of the area where the wall met the ceiling was hung with white bunting with bright embroidery.  Day beds had been pushed against the walls, and huge pillows with embroidered cases were stacked on them.  Rugs were laid on the floors in the main room and in a side bedroom.  Everything in the house was immaculately clean.

Tanya arrived.  She had long brown hair and was a little taller than Larissa.  She was also more reserved than her sister.  And Sasha got to meet his two little nephews: Nikoly, who was about two, and Valery, who was six months.

We talked a little, using Gene as an interpreter.  Sasha turned out to be shy, and kept running off or hiding behind me.  At first I tried to push him toward his family more, but Mom reminded me that it would be better for Sasha to set his own pace, so I backed off.

The table in the house was set for an elaborate meal, complete with sparkling china and several different sizes of drinking glasses.  Many, many food dishes waited for us--mashed potatoes, blood sausage, sliced kielbasa, cheese, bread, fish (wrapped, breaded, and fried), and relish-style salads (the one with corn, mushrooms, and eggs was wonderful).  Galina, her daughter (whose name I didn’t catch), and Tanya had been working on this since yesterday.  We were just about to start in when Marija and Viktor arrived.  We saw them coming from the windows.

Sasha jokingly said he was going to run and hide, but I know Sasha and he was more than half serious.  Marija entered, wearing a head cloth.  She was quite short and had the sort of face that people get after a hard life--or hard living.  She quietly went straight for Sasha, and they embraced.  I shook hands with Viktor, a mustached man with salt-and-pepper hair, a large nose, and a lot of wrinkles.  Sasha held out his hand to Viktor as well, but Viktor hugged him instead.  This threw Sasha.  Marija hugged me and Mom as well.  Whoever said Ukrainians are reserved never met these people.  Or maybe they considered us part of an extended family who were simply visited for the first time in many years.

We all sat down to dinner.  (The family invited the cab driver to join in, and he did.)  As honored guests, Mom and I were given dish towels to tuck around our waists.  Galina poured little glasses of dark wine for everyone and made a heart-felt toast, with Gene translating.  I wish I’d been able to record it.  She said it was wonderful for everyone to be there, that family was reunited even after time and miles, and that people were the same, no matter what their country or culture.  She was very poetic and moving.  Everyone clinked glasses and drank, and then we ate.  And ate.  And ate.  And when the food was finished, Galina’s daughter brought out an elaborate, four-layer cake piled with whipped cream.  It was stunningly delicious, and I’m hoping to get the recipe from her later.  I was amazed at how she baked it in a wood stove.

Over lunch, I told several stories about Sasha and Maksim.  Viktor especially wanted to know more about Mackie, since (I think) Mackie is his only child.  I told them what Maksim’s personality is like, what his hobbies are, how he’d changed since we adopted him.  I also told the story of how Maksim persuaded me to get him violin lessons, which everyone thought was very cute.  I kept everything light and positive.

At one point I turned to Marija and said, with Gene translating, “Sasha has been in our family for five years, but it feels like he has always been there.  I can’t imagine our family without him and Maksim.  I want you to know that.”

Marija nodded, then said, “People become important in our lives, no matter where they are from.”

After lunch, we went outside and visited.  I learned that Marija and Larissa did indeed visit Sasha at the Internat more than once, but, as I suspected, they never checked in at the office, which is why there was no record of it.  Sasha’s birth father Vladimir wasn’t missing an arm, as Sasha half-remembered, but had a withered arm.  Marija was friendly, but never addressed me unless I talked to her first.  I don’t how much of it was personality, language barrier, or (if any) resentment.  I took to studying her face, trying to learn more about her that way, but it wasn’t easy.

Sasha, Marija, Viktor, and Gene went for a walk together at one point.  I don’t know what they talked about.

A man drove by on a horse-drawn cart piled high with hay.  Mom really wanted a picture, but she couldn’t get him to stop.  We also inspected the well.  I thought about all the work involved in winding buckets up to the top and hauling them around.  Gene said the area is actually a secondary contaminated zone for Chernobyl, which is about 120 miles away.  He flatly refused to touch any water from the well, murmuring, “Chernobyl,” to me in explanation.  Gene said that scavengers have, over the years, emptied the town around Chernobyl of anything salable, including furniture, plumbing, car parts, and even helicopter parts, since the helicopters that dumped clay on the melted reactor became themselves radioactive and had to be abandoned.  The illegally scavenged materials were sold on the black market and have found their way into machines and cars and homes all over Eastern Europe, and no one knows who may be driving a radioactive car or sitting on radioactive furniture or flying in a radioactive helicopter.  How scary is that?

We also gave the presents we’d brought and went through the photo album I’d made.  Actually, we went through the photo album several times because Sasha showed it to each person as they arrived at the party, meaning poor Gene had to translate the same commentary over and over.  I also used my laptop to show the little video clips I’d made of Mackie hamming it up for the camera, which everyone enjoyed very much.  I also played a bit with Nikoly, Sasha’s older nephew, and held baby Valery for a while.  He never cried once while we were there.

Eventually, Sasha declared he was ready to head out.  We made elaborate good-byes and thank-yous, and climbed into the Soviet cab to return to Korosten.

The visit was a positive one overall, I think.  Galina really made it so, as a hostess supreme, and I told Gene I want to buy her and her daughter a gift.  She really went all out, and she set the tone for the entire day.  Even Gene said he’d never met anyone like her.

The drive back to Korosten was quiet--everyone was hot and tired--but when we arrived, Sasha felt restless and wanted to shop.  Gene and I went with him.  We walked up and down the (five-lane) main street of Korosten, but the town didn’t have much in the way of shopping.  At one point, Gene pointed out a store that sold appliances, and in a fit of inspiration, I asked if they sold electric fans.  We checked.  They didn’t, but the owner told us of a store that did.  Our room doesn’t have AC, you see, but a fan would make an enormous difference.

The other store turned out to be the Ukrainian equivalent of Home Depot, with hardware on the first floor and electronics and electrical goods on the second.  The second floor was HOT and HUMID.  It had to be at least 90 in there with 90% humidity.  It was awful.  They had a full range of electronics, though, at prices comparable to an American store.  We also found--ta da!--electric fans, the cheapest of which were only 115 grivna, or about $13.  Ha!  I said I’d take two.

A clerk pulled the fans from the boxes and checked to see that they were working, then wrote up a purchase slip, handed it to me, and directed me to a cash register, which was really a woman sitting at a computer.  It turned out she was cashing out her drawer.  Right there.  In front of a customer.  She carefully counted out huge piles of grivna, recorded each type, logged them into her computer, put the money into a bag held by a guard, logged more things into the computer, printed and signed four forms, stamped them (I kid you not), and FINALLY turned to me.  It took her more than ten minutes to buy the fan.

I told Gene this wouldn’t happen in an American store because the manager wouldn’t allow a cashier to count her own money, and certainly not in front of customers.  And the idea of making customers wait with money in hand?  Unthinkable!  But Ukraine still has Soviet thinking--the store is an arm of the government, and the customers have to wait.

We also stopped at the post office for a few moments of Internet time (fifty cents gets you an hour).  Sasha also bought a bunch of snacks.  He loves these puffy things that resemble the big fluffy Cheetohs in size and texture, but they’re white and they taste like Corn Pops cereal.

Got back to the hotel.  Mom was very pleased with the fan.  We put them together, and oh, they made the rooms so much better.

Supper was next.  Sasha flatly refused to go with us.  He wanted time by himself.  Gene didn’t like the idea of leaving him alone for so long, but I said it wouldn’t be any good or fun for anyone to force him to come--he’d pout and growl and snarl.  “He needs time by himself to think about what happened today,” I said.  “So let’s give it to him.”

We ate at an okay café--vegetable soup, bread, relish-style salad.  Ten dollars for all three of us.  An American hot dog stand would have been more expensive.  The bread didn’t come with butter, and Mom asked for some.  The waitress didn’t bring it until we were nearly done eating, and then charged us for it to boot.  Gene said we could argue to have it removed, but it was all of five grivna, and I said I didn’t need to argue over eighty-some cents.

We stopped for ice cream on the way back to the hotel, where we found Sasha waiting for us.  I had the room key, and he was a little put out that he’d had to wait so long for us.  I pointed out that he could have come with us, which he accepted with slightly grouchy grace.

In our room, I finally got a shower--so much hot stickiness to wash off from the day!  Sasha powered down by watching an action movie and I wrote this journal.

Tomorrow we’re going to Ostapy proper.  Gene said Sasha’s appearance has been heavily anticipated.  Valentina, the head of the village, put one of the pictures I sent of Sasha on the bulletin board at the community hall, and there’s apparently going to be quite a get-together tomorrow.