stevenpiziks (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stevenpiziks) wrote2010-07-07 06:01 pm
stevenpiziks) wrote2010-07-07 06:01 pm
Entry tags:
Ukraine: MONDAY, JULY 5, 2010
JULY 5, 2010
Today started out ordinary. We got up, showered, packed, ate breakfast. Sasha was grouchy again, partly because he isn’t a morning person and partly because he’s leaving his Ukrainian family behind for an unknown length of time. Yesterday at one point during the drive through his home village, he said he blamed me for this. If I hadn’t “taken him away from Ostapy,” he’d still be here.
“I would have lived at the Internat until I was sixteen, then come back,” he said.
“And Maksim?” I said quietly.
That stopped him for a moment. Then he said, “Maksim would have been adopted by someone.”
“Would he?” I said. “Ukrainian law says you can’t separate siblings. No one could have adopted him until he was eight years old. Not many people adopt children of that age.”
“Yes, they do,” he argued. “All the time. I saw lots of older kids get adopted. One was nine, and another was twelve like me.”
“And you would want him to live in an orphanage by himself until you were sixteen and then =maybe= get adopted so you could return to Ostapy instead of both of you coming to America with us.” I almost added some adjectives about Ostapy, but I didn’t.
“Yeah,” he muttered, and the argument stopped.
So anyway he was grouchy this morning.
The hired mini-van arrived, and we climbed aboard. This time, under orders from me though Gene, the driver drove more reasonably. We arrived in Kyiv without incident and found the flat Gene and the driver had arranged for us for the night.
The flat’s entrance lay through a very narrow archway of yellow brick that the van just squeaked through. A parking away was just inside it, and we found the door to the building. I paid the driver and, luggage in hand, we picked our way over some broken cement and mud to the door, where a wide staircase made of iron and tile spiraled upward. Like most Ukrainian apartment buildings, the hallway was dingy, dirty, and smelled bad. I could see my mother was cringing, so I leaned over and told her that even though the halls are awful, the flats are usually very nice. She didn’t look convinced.
The flat was on the second floor, and a youngish woman with dark hair met us. The flat was just fine, to Mom’s relief. Two bedrooms, kitchenette, hardwood floors. The bathroom isn’t that great--the sliding shower door jumps the tracks and the toilet smells--but it’ll do for one night. Gene has the couch, Sasha and I have one room, and Mom has the other room.
We dumped our stuff off and then went down to the main square to look around. It was unchanged from when I was there last time, but I made Sasha stand in front of the various fountains and statues for photos as contrast to the last time. We had lunch at a Tartar restaurant and got some very good food. Gene pointed out that the waitresses, all Tartaran, had Sasha’s coloring, and I privately mused about how far a set of genes have traveled.
Afterward we went shopping. Mom still hadn’t found a doll for her sister-in-law or a fridge magnet for herself. We went down to the open-air market on the street that winds down in front of St. Andrew’s cathedral. This cobblestoned street leads down, down, down, and further down into Kiev, and is lined with merchant stalls, mostly of people selling crafts, paintings, and souvenirs. Gene warned us that we can bargain prices, which I already knew from last time. I was secretly hoping to find the woodcarver who’d done the wonderful witch Kala and I found last time but we couldn’t afford.
I bought another nesting doll. The asking price was 160 grivna, and I had the seller pull apart several nesting dolls and put them back together again, then I offered him 100 grivna. He looked shocked at this and came down to 140. We went back and forth and I paid 120 for the doll. Gene said I was a good bargainer, though I really only saved myself five bucks.
Sasha really wanted a lighter with the symbol for Ukraine on it, which the seller wanted 100 grivna for. I offered 50. The man shook his head and repeated the original price. I handed him the lighter back and took Sasha’s arm to walk away. He stopped me and said, “Eighty.” “Seventy,” I said, and he took it.
The big mistake I made was when Mom found the doll she wanted. It was a foot high wearing a traditional Ukrainian May Day outfit. Asking price was 350 grivna. I offered 300, and the man took it immediately, which told me I should have offered 250 or even 200. Ah well.
We continued on our way, winding down, down, down the street. Sasha bought several other little souvenirs, ones too small to bother bargaining over. We paused at a shop for something to drink and kept going, until finally it was time to stop. Gene found us a taxi and we went back to the flat. We were all hot and sweaty, so we took showers. We’d intended to go the monastery next, but Gene told us they closed at five o’clock, and it was already four, so we nixed that.
I wanted to go down to the opera house to see if there was, by chance, a ballet playing tonight. Sasha gagged over this, but I said there was apparently nothing else happening, so we should at least investigate. At the square, though, all the taxis Gene talked to were either taken or wanted 100 grivna to go to the opera house. That was way too much, so we started walking. Gene assured us it wasn’t far.
What he didn’t tell us was that it was all uphill.
See, last time I’d taken the subway to the opera house, so I didn’t know the lay of the land around the place. We trudged up, up, up, and up. Gene kept stopping passersby to ask directions, and each time they said it was just a little ways ahead. Turn down that street and it’s a little ways ahead. Turn down that street and it’s just a little ways ahead. And always uphill. It was like one of those nightmares where you can’t seem to get where you want to go.
At last we did get to the opera house. It’s a big baroque building of yellow stone. I mean, huge. There’s a whole school attached to it, see. We--and by “we” I mean Gene--checked the schedule posted outside.
Their season ended yesterday. They were on sabbatical until September.
Yargh!
However, the wonderful buffet restaurant I remembered from last time was only half a block away, so we were able to eat supper there. We ducked inside just as a thunderstorm hit. I had flattened fried chicken, mushroom bread, mashed potatoes, beet salad, some soup, and mushroom stroganoff. Delicious! I love going to a different country and trying different food, and I try to avoid American-style foods as much as possible on the grounds that I can get those whenever I want back home, but when would I next get real Ukrainian (Irish, etc.) food?
All of us were extremely tired after all the uphill walking, so we elected just to head back to the flat for the evening. We might try for the monastery or one of the war memorials tomorrow morning, but I have my doubts.
I’m ready to go home, myself.
Today started out ordinary. We got up, showered, packed, ate breakfast. Sasha was grouchy again, partly because he isn’t a morning person and partly because he’s leaving his Ukrainian family behind for an unknown length of time. Yesterday at one point during the drive through his home village, he said he blamed me for this. If I hadn’t “taken him away from Ostapy,” he’d still be here.
“I would have lived at the Internat until I was sixteen, then come back,” he said.
“And Maksim?” I said quietly.
That stopped him for a moment. Then he said, “Maksim would have been adopted by someone.”
“Would he?” I said. “Ukrainian law says you can’t separate siblings. No one could have adopted him until he was eight years old. Not many people adopt children of that age.”
“Yes, they do,” he argued. “All the time. I saw lots of older kids get adopted. One was nine, and another was twelve like me.”
“And you would want him to live in an orphanage by himself until you were sixteen and then =maybe= get adopted so you could return to Ostapy instead of both of you coming to America with us.” I almost added some adjectives about Ostapy, but I didn’t.
“Yeah,” he muttered, and the argument stopped.
So anyway he was grouchy this morning.
The hired mini-van arrived, and we climbed aboard. This time, under orders from me though Gene, the driver drove more reasonably. We arrived in Kyiv without incident and found the flat Gene and the driver had arranged for us for the night.
The flat’s entrance lay through a very narrow archway of yellow brick that the van just squeaked through. A parking away was just inside it, and we found the door to the building. I paid the driver and, luggage in hand, we picked our way over some broken cement and mud to the door, where a wide staircase made of iron and tile spiraled upward. Like most Ukrainian apartment buildings, the hallway was dingy, dirty, and smelled bad. I could see my mother was cringing, so I leaned over and told her that even though the halls are awful, the flats are usually very nice. She didn’t look convinced.
The flat was on the second floor, and a youngish woman with dark hair met us. The flat was just fine, to Mom’s relief. Two bedrooms, kitchenette, hardwood floors. The bathroom isn’t that great--the sliding shower door jumps the tracks and the toilet smells--but it’ll do for one night. Gene has the couch, Sasha and I have one room, and Mom has the other room.
We dumped our stuff off and then went down to the main square to look around. It was unchanged from when I was there last time, but I made Sasha stand in front of the various fountains and statues for photos as contrast to the last time. We had lunch at a Tartar restaurant and got some very good food. Gene pointed out that the waitresses, all Tartaran, had Sasha’s coloring, and I privately mused about how far a set of genes have traveled.
Afterward we went shopping. Mom still hadn’t found a doll for her sister-in-law or a fridge magnet for herself. We went down to the open-air market on the street that winds down in front of St. Andrew’s cathedral. This cobblestoned street leads down, down, down, and further down into Kiev, and is lined with merchant stalls, mostly of people selling crafts, paintings, and souvenirs. Gene warned us that we can bargain prices, which I already knew from last time. I was secretly hoping to find the woodcarver who’d done the wonderful witch Kala and I found last time but we couldn’t afford.
I bought another nesting doll. The asking price was 160 grivna, and I had the seller pull apart several nesting dolls and put them back together again, then I offered him 100 grivna. He looked shocked at this and came down to 140. We went back and forth and I paid 120 for the doll. Gene said I was a good bargainer, though I really only saved myself five bucks.
Sasha really wanted a lighter with the symbol for Ukraine on it, which the seller wanted 100 grivna for. I offered 50. The man shook his head and repeated the original price. I handed him the lighter back and took Sasha’s arm to walk away. He stopped me and said, “Eighty.” “Seventy,” I said, and he took it.
The big mistake I made was when Mom found the doll she wanted. It was a foot high wearing a traditional Ukrainian May Day outfit. Asking price was 350 grivna. I offered 300, and the man took it immediately, which told me I should have offered 250 or even 200. Ah well.
We continued on our way, winding down, down, down the street. Sasha bought several other little souvenirs, ones too small to bother bargaining over. We paused at a shop for something to drink and kept going, until finally it was time to stop. Gene found us a taxi and we went back to the flat. We were all hot and sweaty, so we took showers. We’d intended to go the monastery next, but Gene told us they closed at five o’clock, and it was already four, so we nixed that.
I wanted to go down to the opera house to see if there was, by chance, a ballet playing tonight. Sasha gagged over this, but I said there was apparently nothing else happening, so we should at least investigate. At the square, though, all the taxis Gene talked to were either taken or wanted 100 grivna to go to the opera house. That was way too much, so we started walking. Gene assured us it wasn’t far.
What he didn’t tell us was that it was all uphill.
See, last time I’d taken the subway to the opera house, so I didn’t know the lay of the land around the place. We trudged up, up, up, and up. Gene kept stopping passersby to ask directions, and each time they said it was just a little ways ahead. Turn down that street and it’s a little ways ahead. Turn down that street and it’s just a little ways ahead. And always uphill. It was like one of those nightmares where you can’t seem to get where you want to go.
At last we did get to the opera house. It’s a big baroque building of yellow stone. I mean, huge. There’s a whole school attached to it, see. We--and by “we” I mean Gene--checked the schedule posted outside.
Their season ended yesterday. They were on sabbatical until September.
Yargh!
However, the wonderful buffet restaurant I remembered from last time was only half a block away, so we were able to eat supper there. We ducked inside just as a thunderstorm hit. I had flattened fried chicken, mushroom bread, mashed potatoes, beet salad, some soup, and mushroom stroganoff. Delicious! I love going to a different country and trying different food, and I try to avoid American-style foods as much as possible on the grounds that I can get those whenever I want back home, but when would I next get real Ukrainian (Irish, etc.) food?
All of us were extremely tired after all the uphill walking, so we elected just to head back to the flat for the evening. We might try for the monastery or one of the war memorials tomorrow morning, but I have my doubts.
I’m ready to go home, myself.