Acccidents of birth

I lived in the same place for twenty years, then moved twice last year, from my old condo in Arlington to a new one, and from there to Kyiv. Now I'm moving again, back to the U.S. After this I'll be ready to stay put--for a little while, anyway.

Yesterday I had lunch at "Chili Pizza" which is spelled "Cili" and, of course, called Silly Pizza by all the English speakers here. Sitting outside, I suddenly saw that the building across the street was on fire.

Whoa! Did anyone else see it? The wait staff stood around watching. One finally pulled out a cell phone. People across the street were pouring buckets of water on the flames (it was a small, localized fire). A couple of fire engines came screeching around the corner, but by then it had been extinguished by the amateurs and their buckets. It was like something from a Marx Brothers movie.

This year, unfortunately, I haven't really gotten to know local staff at the school due to language barriers. But on Tuesday I got a chance to spend time with a Ukrainian teacher who's about my age. Zina's English is pretty good, and she became more loquacious after we drank some wine.

She grew up in a two-room flat with her parents: they slept in the living/dining room/kitchen. She had her own room, which led directly into the other room--no privacy for the parents. When Zina got married, her husband moved into the flat. Then she had a baby, so there were five of them.

She divorced and wanted to get on a waiting list to buy her own flat. To do this, Zina had to earn points by doing work required by the state. So she, a teacher, took a course to become a crane operator. She taught during the week and operated the crane on weekends and after school.

Zina was close to having enough points to move up the list. Then the USSR collapsed. The points were worthless. "I was number 82 on the list in 1991," Zina told me, "and I am still number 82."

I couldn't help but think of the ease with which I bought that new condo last year. So many people were screwed, in so many ways, under the Soviet government and then after its demise.

Exit

It's not easy to pack up and leave anywhere, but it seems especially hard to depart from Ukraine. I dread looking for bubble wrap in this city, where the search for a pair of shoelaces can turn into a week-long quest. I can't find boxes either; I called several shipping companies to ask if they sold boxes. Nope. I asked Igor my landlord where to get boxes. "No, it is not possible, you cannot buy," he said, "You must go to outdoor market and ask sellers for boxes."

But after spending two and a half hours at the post office, waiting in the customary three lines and getting varying answers to my questions, I don't have the energy to go ask for boxes.

Road Work

For the past few weeks, while crossing the street near my apartment in Kyiv, I've seen a big hole in the asphalt. This is not a pothole, not a shallow crevice, but a deep pit you can look into, right in the middle of the street.

One morning last week I noticed that some tree branches appeared to have fallen into the street. In the afternoon the branches were still there. "Well, that's a hazard," I thought, and decided to pick up the branches when I crossed the street.

The branches were there for a reason. They were stuck into the pit.

Independence Day

Patty was inspired to have a 4th of July party here in Germany, partly because this is the first time I've been around on July 4th. Last week she told me on the phone, "We'll have the usual American stuff--hamburgers, hot dogs, corn on the cob, potato salad. And in your honor, let's have a Commie Corner!"

So, in Kyiv, I bought caviar, chocolates, and this wonderful Ukrainian vodka, called (roughly, with transposition) "Horlytsya." I brought the vodka in my carry-on and managed to get it out of Ukraine. However, I arrived in Prague for my connecting flight and remembered those pesky EU regulations that prevent you from carrying liquids on board.

Those security agents get enough free booze. I went to the duty-free shop, gave my Ukrainian vodka to a startled and grateful clerk, and bought Russian vodka, properly packaged and vetted to carry on board.

Today my nephews and I made red, white, and blue rice krispie treats which unfortunately look like the French flag. Mac painted a Ukrainian and a Soviet flag for the Commie Corner, and Manfred contributed a big chunk of the Berlin Wall that he acquired in 1990. I hope no one's offended.

Exact change

A rich person living in a poor country should always remember to carry small change. Here in Ukraine, someone with only a 100 UAH note (about $20) might as well be penniless, or hrivna-less. It's impossible to buy a bottle of water at a kiosk, or a few pieces of fruit at the market. You'll be met with aggrieved shocked stares. So I've learned to keep several 1, 2, and 5 UAH notes on me all the time.

It's important to carry coins as well. Vendors ALWAYS ask for exact change. After a few weeks here, I knew what clerks were asking after I handed them money: "do you have 50 kopeks? or 20 kopeks? or two hrivna?" I tried to buy water at a kiosk and was refused; the water cost 4 UAH 40 kop., I gave the clerk a 10, she asked for 40 kop., I didn't have it so she wouldn't sell me the water.

It's understandable at kiosks, but this happens even at big stores. I bought some CD's at "Mega Makc" which is something like Best Buy. The price was 29 UAH; I gave the clerk two 20 UAH notes and he asked me for a 10. Since I didn't have it, I was the cause of much consternation as the clerk ran to a couple of different cash registers to get change for the equivalent of a $4 bill.

If you try to pay for something with 50 UAH, hoping to hang onto those 20 UAH notes for a taxi ride or something, salesclerks have been known to peer into your wallet, point to the 20 UAH, and try to get you to pay with that instead of the 50.

Right now I'm visiting Patty in Germany, a rich country, where you can give anyone a 20 euro note for a 1 euro purchase, no problem.