A whimsical, scattershot look at springtime in Kyiv

Dynamo Kyiv v Manchester City, 10 March 2011 (2:0)

You’ll have to forgive the lengthy delay between posts. I can attribute this to two things. One, spare time has been in short supply. I’ve been keeping myself busy and have had little time for literary pursuits. Two, my artistic energies have been taken up by a small side project, which I won’t discuss right now. I will, however, elaborate more on this later, and at some point in the not too distant future, I will share exactly what it is I’ve been working on. I don’t want to jinx anything, but at the moment, it’s too early to tell whether it well bear any fruit. And not to sound too cryptic or anything, but it is something purely professional and it is connected to the written word.

In the meantime, let’s go for a brief recap of various bits and bobs that have been consuming me as of late.

Not as bad as Blair, I hope (look here to see what I mean)

I’ve recounted (cue the broken record) on countless occasions some of the various old wives’ tales or superstitions of the quirky locals wherever I’ve been. I’m currently suffering from a sore eye socket and it reminds me of a similar problem that my colleague Kole had in Bishkek, where the doctor advised him to apply a boiled egg to the afflicted area. I had an ear infection – of this I was certain – but the doctor instead insisted it was arthritis in my jaw. One of my students, a doctor, was kind enough to examine my ear – during class, even – and confirmed my suspicions. Antibiotics cleared that up in no time. Who needs a boiled egg?

Another superstition that drives me up the wall is the one about draughts and lower back pain. The classrooms can be sweltering and since being here, I’m encountering a problem that I never seemed to have had before: a ridiculous amount of underarm sweat. It’s so bad that I usually wear a jumper or jacket over my shirt just to hide the offending, malodorous area. And this despite using an American clinical-strength deodorant. Other teachers face the same issue. And no matter how sauna-like the classroom gets, students absolutely refuse to allow me to open any windows or even the door for fear of the dreaded lower back pain. One of these days I’m going to crack.

And yes, women here still believe that sitting on a cold floor will freeze your ovaries and render you sterile. May I remind you that this used to be common conventional thinking in the United States as well…in the 1950s. Guys, the cold war is over…

One thing that really rankles with me is assumptions, especially when it comes to my place of origin.

I would never stoop so low as to say I suffer from some sort of ‘identity crisis’ but at times I’m not really sure where to call home. Growing up, the only constant I ever had was Belfast, where my mother is from – my beloved granny’s house was the only place that was always there for summer or Christmas visits. I lost that home when she died nearly five years ago and from that time, New Hampshire became my default home, despite the fact that I’ve not spent more than a year of my life there. I’ve spent more time in my life outside of America than in it, in fact.

I certainly sound more American, there’s no disputing that, though some students beg to differ. Students here say I have such a lovely, crisp, easy to understand ‘English’ accent. In fairness, I am hard pressed to tell the difference between Russian accents, but my students in New Hampshire last year told me something similar. I certainly enunciate things a bit more in the classroom (when doing pronunciation I stress my ‘T’s’ and ‘schwas’), but I wouldn’t say I have anywhere near an English accent. It does depend on who I’m talking to, but these days it’s all fairly unconscious on my part, whatever accent I’m producing.

I just hate when it is assumed I’m American because of my accent. I’m not claiming not to be, don’t get me wrong. But I would consider myself more 50/50.

I’ve already faced unsolicited ‘lectures’ from colleagues on how things are done in Britain (from pub culture to customs to pop culture). I’ve been asked if I like football (‘or soccer, as you call it’) and whether I know the rules. When I tell people I support Ipswich, they look befuddled, wondering how I know of any teams outside the Premiership’s elite. One colleague is kind enough to ‘translate’ things into American English for my benefit (‘now petrol, or as you would call it, ‘gas’’). Again, one of these days I’m going to crack. This really winds me up.

The British ambassador is hosting a do here on 29 April, in celebration of the royal wedding (don’t get me started on that nonsense!). Last December, my sister was visiting at the time of the ambassador’s Christmas gig, so I dragged her along to that. It wasn’t the most thrilling time in the world, but the food and drink selection were impressive and we had a pleasant enough time, mainly making fun of pissed people dancing.

This upcoming do is for ‘British citizens’ only.

I haven’t been invited. Just about every other non-Ukrainian teacher has.

I was born in England. I’m a British citizen. I have a British passport. In the irony of all ironies – forgive the hyperbole – I’m technically not even an American citizen at the moment since my American passport has expired and I’m in no hurry to renew it.

I’m fuming. I will lodge a complaint – with whom I don’t know – and then see if I get an invite.

And if I do, I’m going to tell them to fuck off. I’m leaving the same day anyway for my spring holiday.

It’s the principle of the thing.

Speaking of ‘beg to differ’, does that sound right? A recent Economist Johnson blog discusses certain expressions and how their meanings have changed over time, to the point where some expressions now mean the opposite of what they originally intended. For example, it ‘begs the question’ actually means ‘to assume the conclusion’. But we certainly don’t use it in that way these days.

The Guardian Review also touched upon this theme, though with the angle of popular sayings being distorted into something different. Here are a couple of notable examples I like:

• ‘to have your cake and eat it’ is actually ‘Would you both eat your cake and have your cake?’ (John Heywood)
• revenge used to always be ‘bitter’ (Paradise Lost) and we are meant to ‘forget and forgive’ (King Lear)
• ‘and so we meet at last’ is actually ‘and we meet, with champagne and a chicken, at last?’ (Lady Mary Wortley Montagu in The Lover)

I look forward to the day when I can recite that line to a special someone with a chicken (should I roast it first?) under my arm, clutching a bottle of bubbly.

Back to the theme of rootlessness and what is home again for a minute

My dear friend Rachel, currently working in Tbilisi, some months ago suggested doing a trans-Black Sea/Caucasian book exchange, and I was the lucky recipient of Gregor von Rezzori’s The Snows of Yesteryear. He too faced an upbringing of always being on the go, and one particular passage hit home:

‘…the remembrance of the town of my childhood serv[ed] merely as a scaffolding on which to model a mythic site in which mythic events take place.

[W]e know that memory is anything but reliable. It selects at random what it wishes to store, discards what is not to its liking, underscores the emotional, sublimates and distorts. Thus I contributed both intentionally and unintentionally to the growing loss of reality for my place of origin, adding the odium of implausibility to its – and thereby also my own – already legendary reputation for shifty unreliability.’

I can hardly better what he states, other than to say this: so much of my past is a hazy blur and I find myself unwittingly inventing details and stories when memory fails me. If there’s a ‘shifty unreliability’ to my tales of yesteryear, it’s all unintentional.

Religion has its place

In honour of the start of Passover, earlier today I went to a Jewish restaurant (Tzimmes) for lunch, read Schlomo Ben Ami’s Scars of War, Wounds of Peace: the Israeli-Arab Tragedy and watched an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm, which I’ve given up on after 4 episodes of the first series. (I found it tedious, obnoxious and annoying)

I’m not religious, but one of the finest meals I’ve ever had was a Passover meal at my pal Matt’s house during my 3^rd year at university. It was a scrumptious delight.

For those who didn’t catch this on Facebook, the eerie video featuring my doppelganger. I think he even sounds a bit like me.

Flavorwire.com details the ’30 literary quotes (sic) that just might get you laid’. When I discovered this site, I was intrigued to see what was in store. But on the whole, they’re terribly trite. In my book, none would really do the trick (pun, as always with me, very much intended).

The only one worth a damn is an absolute gem. It resonates with me (and no, I haven’t actually used it):

“A little she strove, and much repented,
And whispering, ‘I will ne’er consent’ — consented.”

(Don Juan, Lord Byron)

I’m no expert on how relationships work, but in my frequent observations of couples in action in these parts (meaning, generally, Eastern Europe), I’ve made my fair share of analyses and I don’t want to repeat them all again, so let me concentrate on what seems to be the primary paradigm for relations between men and women.

First, especially in Ukraine, is the wide gulf in terms of looks between the sexes. This is no profound statement on my part, it’s more or less stated as fact by all parties: expats and local women alike (a few local men have even agreed with this assertion). You could be forgiven for feeling the world is a wickedly unfair place when coming here and seeing all the mismatched couples, the strikingly gorgeous and glamorous femme fatales and the oft-gormless, wiry, wimpish men. Not being the most sartorially blessed person, I’ll refrain from commenting on what I consider the ghastly male fashion (with the black, pointy-toed shoes, jeans and black leather jacket combo a particularly cringeworthy, gruesome sight). But I have to ask myself what’s going on here. I see similar scenes repeated in cafés, restaurants, parks, and bars all over the capital. And I can understand this in older couples – my parents are guilty parties here – but not so much in younger ones, and it is this: the overwhelming lack of inspiring-looking conversation.

Most of the time, I see something akin to this: a couple, the man looking listless, bored, attempting to make small talk of some sort. The woman, flowers in hand (or if at a café, in vase), looking listless, bored, not even feigning interest, and not attempting much in the way of small talk. If there’s a television on, you can bet that they’re both intently focused on that. When I do eavesdrop and manage to understand a smidgeon of what’s being said, it usually relates to what’s being ordered, what’s being eaten, where the toilet is located, and whether it’s time to move on to the next location, to assume the same humdrum lack of conversation there. I honestly don’t get it.

Not to generalize, but rudimentary research and perceptive insight have revealed this basic theory: there are few greater stigmas for a Ukrainian female than being single. The overwhelming majority of women are in a relationship. But, and this is a big but, the overwhelming majority, while not actively looking for a new partner, are very much open to a new one.

But that begs the question (!): will the new one be any better than the old?

Unfair though the situation may seem, on the other hand, Kyiv remains a veritable goldmine of options. I’m lucky to have chosen a lifestyle where finding someone is not usually a problem. Finding the right someone is another matter. I want to be careful with what I say here, but I’ll leave it with this: sometimes, it’s difficult NOT to score. You actually have to make more of an effort to remain single. And this isn’t arrogance on my part, trust me on this.

I’m not sure what the proper label for this dilemma is. It’s definitely not a Catch-22, but it’s in the same ballpark. Or not? Hell, I don’t know.

If I had to choose one word to describe the typical Ukrainian relationship, it would be thus: perfunctory.

That sums it up perfectly.

But wait, an observation about other couples

Twice over the past few years I’ve witnessed this scene, which is amusing and perplexing.

Once, at Heathrow airport, I watched two couples giving each other an overwrought, emotional teary farewell at the departure gates. It really appeared as if they were never going to see each other again. I couldn’t help but sneak a glance every now and then, it was definitely Oscar-worthy material. But then, bizarrely, they both proceeded to go through the departure gates and board the plane together – I know, because they were on my flight. Sadly I lost sight of them whilst on the plane, but I then saw them at passport control, looking fairly happy again.

I saw something similar with a couple just about to board a train in Romania last summer. The same epic farewell, tears flowing, ‘I love yous’ tossed back and forth…and they boarded together.

Baffling, but intriguing. Theories?

Some people have expressed concern when I relate heart-warming stories of how adorable and cute are the kids I teach (they’re in the 8-10 range). They are generally sweet, with only one or two in the category of those I wouldn’t mind strangling. They behave well, for the most part, though it can be tough at times since I’m no strict disciplinarian. Recently, when they were being particularly boisterous and I was having trouble controlling them, I had just got them under control and was ready to launch into an activity, when one of them let rip with a fart of cacophonous proportions. There’s no way I was keeping a straight face with that one. The whole class burst into uproarious laughter and then we all almost fainted from the noxious fumes. Once I’d opened the window and aired the room out again, the same little turd blasted out another rhythmic chorus, with the same predictable result. I failed to keep a straight face for the rest of the lesson. They can be cute. The kids, I mean.

But doesn’t this fly in the face of my intense dislike of children? Does this make any difference on whether I want to have whippersnappers of my own in the distant future? No. In fact, quite the opposite. Eighty minutes three times a week is quite enough, more than enough even, to satiate any desire of having my own monsters. For that amount of time, they’re tolerable and fun. Anything more, not a chance. I still think anyone under the age of 5 should be banned from aeroplanes. And yeah, that’s a complete non-sequitur, but I don’t care.

Another non-sequitur, but how about another farting story

Loyal readers will be fully aware of my obsession with the internal rumblings of our gastrointestinal system. And seeing as how the topic of farts has come up yet again, I’ve been eager to share this one for a while, for no other reason that I love exposing myself as a crass human being. And embarrassing my sister.

One night, many years ago, we stayed in a hostel in Dublin. We were in a dorm room of at least eight beds, though if memory serves correctly, there might have been more. Anyway, after a Guinness-fuelled night on the town, we stumbled back into the dorm room, where everyone else was already sleeping. We kept as quiet as possible, as you do in such situations. But barely had we settled into bed when the fun really began. Over the course of the next hour or so, the two of us proceeded to empty out all of the evening’s toxins and gases to the melodic sounds of the Dublin Hostel Orchestra. We bombed and blasted away with our percussion section, laughing hysterically as each boomed louder than the previous one. In no time, we could hear rumblings and exasperated sighs from our fellow travellers, as the soothing tunes aroused them from their peaceful reveries. The muffled laughter that followed each sonic boom provided the backing vocals to our performance. The grumbling and expressions of displeasure from our audience got louder and louder, though at no point did anyone actually pipe up and attempt to silence the symphony. Were they afraid of ruining our performance?

I’m glad I got that all out.

Art in the desolate wilderness

I was rather joyed to come across this on the Economist’s Prospero blog a while back. In July 2009, I visited Karakalpakstan, in western Uzbekistan near the Aral Sea, and the Nukus Museum of Art:

An essential museum you've never heard of

THE Nukus Museum of Art in Karakalpakstan, one of the most remote regions of the former Soviet Union, is a modern-day miracle on many levels. Its creation, collection and precarious persistence seem entirely improbable… Like the Irish monks who helped save the written word during the Dark Ages, a man named Igor Savitsky worked to save Russian avant-garde artwork during the decades of dark Soviet repression. In 1932 the Soviets called for an end to so-called "degenerate" bourgeois art, halting one of the most fertile and creative periods of modern art anywhere in the world. Instead, the Soviets unleashed several decades of shticky socialist-realist paintings of happy factory workers and robust women working the land. No official museum dared show anything else.

The link to the Karakalpak Musem of Art is here. A map of Uzbekistan here.

While I do recommend Uzbekistan for a visit, I’m not sure it’s worth venturing all the way out to Nukus just for this museum. I appreciate art in all its guises, and I was impressed with the collection, but it was a pretty bleak place. (to read my recap of my experience there, click here)

The museum on the left, Soviet death trap on the right

And here, on the far right, is the young lady that could have become my wife

I’ll end on this nugget of wisdom, from Gregor von Rezzori. I’m not sure if I agree or not, but at the moment, it’s proving to be a sort of consolation:

‘To preserve something valuable, one has to know how to renounce it in good time.’