Sunday, Day 6
I am really writing this on Monday, and not Sunday. But in the interest of consistency, lets call it Day 6. Let me explain life at the dacha. I almost feel guilty, at this point, for getting paid to go there, so to justify it with research and documentation, dacha life:
You wake up in the morning feeling amazingly rested because you slept in a room with open windows facing the sea and breathed salt water all night. You stumble down the tiny narrow stairs in your bathing suit and eat zavtruk, which is eggs or small sausages, and cheese and bread, tea and coffee, etc.
You walk to the beach, stay until noon, swimming and sunning and catching fish and finding shells, and then go back to the dacha for “lunch” except it’s kind of an entire afternoon affair with slow grilling and smoking of the fish you just caught, lots more bread and cheese and fresh vegetables from the garden followed by mass quantities of watermelon and a weird melon that’s sort of a cantaloupe and sort of honeydew, but neither.
Then, around 5, when you’ve finally stopped eating and have started to digest, you go back to the beach to cool off during the late afternoon heat. You come back, drink some beer, maybe have a late night snack, and finally give up on eating and drinking outside when you can’t stand the mosquitoes anymore. Rinse and repeat.
Now to be more specific, I got the best sleep of my life. Dad, not so much, I think because he was hot, no AC, and he very generously gave me the room with the better breeze. On our way to the beach, Valia asked me if I would wear a Parielle, which is like a sheer wrap-thingy that you put over a bikini or whatever.
I had whispered to Dad earlier that they think it’s really weird that we wear clothes to the beach. Not at the beach, but to the beach. I mean yes, it’s a five minute walk, but in those 5 minutes you go through all the dachas, cross the only road around, up a hill to go over train tracks and through a little market until you get to the sand. So wearing clothes seemed appropriate to us. Plus, it’s not like we were decked out in evening wear, you know, shorts, t-shirts.
So Nastia and Valia kidnapped me, and Valia tugged on her Parielle and asked me, “If I buy you one of these, will you wear it?” So they began to haggle and look for the exact pink to match my bathing suit; Nastia finally found one (actually not very obnoxious looking!) and we snatched it up. Everyone felt much better. Sasha brought the fishing net (big big net with a square frame) and fished with Nastia later in the morning. They caught about a million shrimp, and were careful to throw the other living things that we don’t eat (little snakes and stuff, gross!) and even the seaweed back in the sea.
This second day, the water was much more calm and less salty, the current changed and most of it was flowing from the Limon. Less waves, more fish for Nastia. We later cooked these and ate them for lunch, and by we I mean everyone else, because after seeing them alive, even loving shrimp, I could not bring myself to eat them (except for the three that Nastia’s grandmother, Lara, peeled and put on my plate, which I felt obligated to swallow and quickly wash down with vodka.
I never knew this, but Dad almost died choking on a fish bone when he was around 2 years old and since then really hasn’t enjoyed eating fish, or at least fish with bones. He may have gone hungrier than he let on a couple times. We ate a lot of fish over the weekend, but this second day we also had svinya, pig, pork, (not me, but them) which Sasha cooked on a grill outside even though it was thunderstorming, and basically it smoked the meat and was delicious.
We ate and drank more than normal, I think because it was raining and we knew we weren’t going to hurry back to the beach. So Nastia taught me more card games, and genius, wrote out for me the Russian alphabet. (The only problem is she wrote it in her little-girl cursive, but I still am making sense of it all.) She helped me with the sounds of all the letters, which, for the most part, are fine except for about three letters, all almost indistinguishable for me, that all sound something like “Shch” but who knows.
So then we played Battleship, but, you know, Russian style, so instead of saying C7, I had to use the Russian alphabet. Such a good way to learn but Battleship has never left me so stressed out. Finally the sun came out and we went back to the beach, and Nastia and I practiced each other’s alphabet with sticks in the sand and made sand castles. Awesome to feel like a little kid again.
We all sat around until 8 and then ate and drank some more. It was sort of sad to close up the dacha again. Nastia and I exchanged addresses, in our respective languages, and Sasha drove us home. It was such a scary ride this time in the dark, no lights anywhere, and all these sharp turns that kind of came out of nowhere (I was sandwiched between Dad and a gigantic woman in the backseat so at least I had cushioning on either side).
I conked out after we reached lighted roads and I stopped clenching my jaw in fear, but not before seeing another car slam on its brakes and almost cause an accident to let a hedgehog cross the road, and after Dad told me that the night before, he stayed up late enough to see the stars come out and the big dipper was right-side up! I totally love it! (But of course I missed it myself and the city lights are too bright I think.)
I am absolutely eaten alive by mosquitoes, I have them everywhere, including my bellybutton. So I think I’ve gotten the gist of the day down, and I learned my lesson not to wait until the day after because it already seems way too foggy. I’ll try to remember yesterday’s words, but I think they might be blending in with today’s. And the dacha was at Carolina Bougass.
Words:
diamond: boubna
spade: peeka
clover: triefa
heart: cherva
beer: pivo
reva: little fish that Nastia likes
shrimp: clevietkey
key: clooch
flower: tsvietok
hot: holodno (general)
cold: gareecho (general)
base: baza
enough: vsyo
cheese: sir (rolled “r”)
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
Georgia/Russia
Just want to give an overall note that we're fine and the Georgia/Russia conflict is really disturbing but not impacting us otherwise. People are really pissed. As you can imagine. I'm urging Dad to buy Russian newspapers and read from their perspective, and we're seeing it everywhere on TV. So interesting to be here while this is happening. Lots of Georgians here in Odessa on vacation, too.
5th day! Dacha
Saturday, Day 5
Let me begin by stating that I peed in an outhouse in rural Ukraine today.
Actually, no, lets never mention that again ever. Today we woke up and Sasha picked us up and we went to the beach. We split a beer in the car at 10 am. The dacha is far away from the city, and we are in the country now. Sasha was a very good driver and so knowledgeable of history; it was a really interesting ride. I saw a goat on the way through but I could have sworn it was an antelope and I said this out loud and everyone laughed and laughed.
Then Valia said, “No, it’s not an antelope, it’s a JERK!” and Dad and I cracked up, and he translated what a jerk was and then she said “I meant goat!” and Sasha laughed so hard I thought he should have pulled the car over.
We passed countryside where Germans lived in their own villages when they essentially just plopped themselves down here. I am having spider anxiety as I type so I cannot recall a lot of facts at the moment. The spiders here are huge, and plentiful, and all over the ceiling, over the bed, and they sure as hell look like Black Widows but Sasha assures me they are not. Super.
Anyways, the dacha is very very old, about the size of a 1 or 2 bedroom house, but two stories, no AC, hardly any lights or electricity (one bathroom, and no, I don’t think there are lights in there, or if there are, I am pointlessly doing everything in the dark) but in that way it’s pretty fun to stay in for a night. The patio and backyard is gorgeous, essentially just flowers and vegetables and fruits (pumpkins, grapes, apples, plums, cucumbers, zucchini, etc etc) and we have been eating all of them.
The sea meets a Limone here, so we’re a few minutes walk from either freshwater or saltwater beaches. I don’t think we have a word for Limone, and I am entirely creating this spelling phonetically. A Limone is like a small sea that has freshwater, and it meets the real sea. The trick is it’s not a river or a lake…it’s just not. I was there today but didn’t bring my camera, so I’ll try tomorrow.
Sasha’s older sister lives next door, and her granddaughter lives with her. I don’t know where her mother is, but she speaks of her father a lot. She’s 11, her name is Nastia, and she is learning English in school and is very interested in trading languages.
This was the coolest day ever, and if you ever want to learn another language later in life I strongly suggest keeping an 11 yr old around at all times. She’s not intimidating at all, has a lot of patience, and really ingeniously finds ways of communicating with me. It helps that I think she has no female contact anywhere near her age and I’m the next best thing to a fairy princess. Her very own American, which to this rural Russian girl is pretty equivalent with alien. As in ET.
Proof of genius: she knew I knew the word car, but not train, and when trying to teach me the Russian word I had no clue what she was talking about. So she used her hands to show that she was talking about something in succession, and in Russian said, “car, car, car,” until it was obvious she meant train car, and we exchanged words. So fun.
Plus she’s a girl after my own heart; poured herself beer after everyone in the table said no, swam to the sandbar way out at the beach after everyone said no, and about a million other things that have me totally enchanted. I want to take her home with us! We went fishing, she took me, caught her own bait in the shallows and launched her own line, a total pro. She’s absolutely gorgeous, waist-length hair, sun bleached, tan, and one of those adolescents that’s kind of provocative in her gestures and expressions way too young, and totally unaware of it.
In the course of the day she shyly came up to me and said “hi,” took my hand and led me into the sea, and promptly told me she thought I was beautiful between swallowing seawater while getting bashed around by waves. Not a bad start. Not only did she take me fishing, but picked me wildflowers, asked me a million questions, collected seashells and feathers from the beach too. She looked positively grief-stricken when dad told her we were leaving tomorrow. She painted me a picture and decorated it with flower petals, before teaching me a card game (which is really good, I hope I remember) and confessing that she writes poetry, too.
She asked me, I love this, not if I was married, but if I had a husband. Its really not weird for 22 year olds to be married here, and when I thoughtlessly said, “I’m too young!” when I told her I had no husband, she said that her parents married at 18. My dad translated for her that I just wanted to be really really sure I was with the right person before marrying, and that’s when she told us that her mom left she and her dad for someone with more money. I really want to keep in touch with her, and I hope if I give her my address she can craft me some letters in English, or maybe I can get them translated from Russian.
Sasha and Valia are also entertaining other guests, and they are very nice, and we all have essentially been eating and drinking and going to the beach all day. Dad is a hit with everyone (something of an alien himself, having been gone so long, and I think in a way Sasha never expected to see him again. How funny that Dad didn’t call him until we were already here. I don’t know the degree to which they kept in touch when Dad was in the US, but clearly he had at least phone numbers. I can’t imagine dropping in on high school friends almost 40 years after graduating with them. Well, Al, now that I think about it.)
Dad has very seamlessly integrated himself in conversation and I can tell he feels pretty comfortable, which is so nice! Our family has always been pretty quiet, and I never really even witnessed big loud crazy family parties until maybe getting close to high school friends and their families, and I will admit I was always somewhat jealous, despite feeling overwhelmed.
It’s very comforting to see Dad have friends and look so engaged and in his element with his peers. It’s not something we get to see our parents do very often, and it’s surprisingly not weird for either of us to experience together. I could say so much more but I feel myself falling asleep at the computer and there’s nothing stopping me from continuing this in the morning. Dobry noche.
Words (can you tell I’m in the country?):
noche: night
snailshell: olietka
napkin: salfietka
wave: vulna
pumpkin: tekvah
grapes: vinegras
apple: yableka
cow: korova
train: poyest
Let me begin by stating that I peed in an outhouse in rural Ukraine today.
Actually, no, lets never mention that again ever. Today we woke up and Sasha picked us up and we went to the beach. We split a beer in the car at 10 am. The dacha is far away from the city, and we are in the country now. Sasha was a very good driver and so knowledgeable of history; it was a really interesting ride. I saw a goat on the way through but I could have sworn it was an antelope and I said this out loud and everyone laughed and laughed.
Then Valia said, “No, it’s not an antelope, it’s a JERK!” and Dad and I cracked up, and he translated what a jerk was and then she said “I meant goat!” and Sasha laughed so hard I thought he should have pulled the car over.
We passed countryside where Germans lived in their own villages when they essentially just plopped themselves down here. I am having spider anxiety as I type so I cannot recall a lot of facts at the moment. The spiders here are huge, and plentiful, and all over the ceiling, over the bed, and they sure as hell look like Black Widows but Sasha assures me they are not. Super.
Anyways, the dacha is very very old, about the size of a 1 or 2 bedroom house, but two stories, no AC, hardly any lights or electricity (one bathroom, and no, I don’t think there are lights in there, or if there are, I am pointlessly doing everything in the dark) but in that way it’s pretty fun to stay in for a night. The patio and backyard is gorgeous, essentially just flowers and vegetables and fruits (pumpkins, grapes, apples, plums, cucumbers, zucchini, etc etc) and we have been eating all of them.
The sea meets a Limone here, so we’re a few minutes walk from either freshwater or saltwater beaches. I don’t think we have a word for Limone, and I am entirely creating this spelling phonetically. A Limone is like a small sea that has freshwater, and it meets the real sea. The trick is it’s not a river or a lake…it’s just not. I was there today but didn’t bring my camera, so I’ll try tomorrow.
Sasha’s older sister lives next door, and her granddaughter lives with her. I don’t know where her mother is, but she speaks of her father a lot. She’s 11, her name is Nastia, and she is learning English in school and is very interested in trading languages.
This was the coolest day ever, and if you ever want to learn another language later in life I strongly suggest keeping an 11 yr old around at all times. She’s not intimidating at all, has a lot of patience, and really ingeniously finds ways of communicating with me. It helps that I think she has no female contact anywhere near her age and I’m the next best thing to a fairy princess. Her very own American, which to this rural Russian girl is pretty equivalent with alien. As in ET.
Proof of genius: she knew I knew the word car, but not train, and when trying to teach me the Russian word I had no clue what she was talking about. So she used her hands to show that she was talking about something in succession, and in Russian said, “car, car, car,” until it was obvious she meant train car, and we exchanged words. So fun.
Plus she’s a girl after my own heart; poured herself beer after everyone in the table said no, swam to the sandbar way out at the beach after everyone said no, and about a million other things that have me totally enchanted. I want to take her home with us! We went fishing, she took me, caught her own bait in the shallows and launched her own line, a total pro. She’s absolutely gorgeous, waist-length hair, sun bleached, tan, and one of those adolescents that’s kind of provocative in her gestures and expressions way too young, and totally unaware of it.
In the course of the day she shyly came up to me and said “hi,” took my hand and led me into the sea, and promptly told me she thought I was beautiful between swallowing seawater while getting bashed around by waves. Not a bad start. Not only did she take me fishing, but picked me wildflowers, asked me a million questions, collected seashells and feathers from the beach too. She looked positively grief-stricken when dad told her we were leaving tomorrow. She painted me a picture and decorated it with flower petals, before teaching me a card game (which is really good, I hope I remember) and confessing that she writes poetry, too.
She asked me, I love this, not if I was married, but if I had a husband. Its really not weird for 22 year olds to be married here, and when I thoughtlessly said, “I’m too young!” when I told her I had no husband, she said that her parents married at 18. My dad translated for her that I just wanted to be really really sure I was with the right person before marrying, and that’s when she told us that her mom left she and her dad for someone with more money. I really want to keep in touch with her, and I hope if I give her my address she can craft me some letters in English, or maybe I can get them translated from Russian.
Sasha and Valia are also entertaining other guests, and they are very nice, and we all have essentially been eating and drinking and going to the beach all day. Dad is a hit with everyone (something of an alien himself, having been gone so long, and I think in a way Sasha never expected to see him again. How funny that Dad didn’t call him until we were already here. I don’t know the degree to which they kept in touch when Dad was in the US, but clearly he had at least phone numbers. I can’t imagine dropping in on high school friends almost 40 years after graduating with them. Well, Al, now that I think about it.)
Dad has very seamlessly integrated himself in conversation and I can tell he feels pretty comfortable, which is so nice! Our family has always been pretty quiet, and I never really even witnessed big loud crazy family parties until maybe getting close to high school friends and their families, and I will admit I was always somewhat jealous, despite feeling overwhelmed.
It’s very comforting to see Dad have friends and look so engaged and in his element with his peers. It’s not something we get to see our parents do very often, and it’s surprisingly not weird for either of us to experience together. I could say so much more but I feel myself falling asleep at the computer and there’s nothing stopping me from continuing this in the morning. Dobry noche.
Words (can you tell I’m in the country?):
noche: night
snailshell: olietka
napkin: salfietka
wave: vulna
pumpkin: tekvah
grapes: vinegras
apple: yableka
cow: korova
train: poyest
Friday (4)
Friday, Day 4
Today we got up around 6 after thinking we would sleep so well and that sucked but we ate good food again. Apparently that was all I needed, bc after drinking the biggest cup of the strongest tea of all time, I passed out for another three hours. Deep, amazing sleep. Dad talked on the phone the whole time and made a bunch of plans for us. (we are the same, plans stress us out, but as soon as we don’t have them, we want them. Da?)
Today, we are visiting Olga, who is Manya’s daughter. Manya was my grandmother’s big sister, the only sister out of the 5 women who did not move eventually to the US. Olga is older and we want to be sure she has everything we need so we’re going to visit. Then he called Sasha to ask him if we could do dinner again, and I guess the Olga plans came up because Sasha offered to drive us to Olga, instead of taking tram/bus etc. Very nice of him. THEN, oohh so amazing, Sasha offered to take us to his dacha tomorrow. Dacha is beach house. Dad had one, a little shack he says, and Sasha has one too, about 40 miles away from here. So exciting.
A few things I have been dying to record, though not specific to one particular day or experience. Driving, beach, women. And in that order. They all connect, in a way.
OK, we got a ride to the beach today, from Valia and her driver, and that was very kind and generous of her. At first, it was really really strange to see and hear about people with drivers. Especially not in a limo or something, but in their Honda or whatever. But, after driving around a while here, you couldn’t pay me to drive here, and I’m not just saying that in the way I said it before I bought a car in Tempe. So, I guess in a way, it makes perfect sense that the wealthy would want a their own ride (not the public transit, which actually, though crowded, is really reliable and surprisingly easy) but wouldn’t want to have to navigate the roads themselves.
Further explanation: cars for a long time were very rare here. So, even in terms of basic traffic laws and parking regulations…well, these things are essentially nonexistent. Most of the sidewalks are as wide or much wider than the street, so when it comes to parking, it’s perfectly normal for cars to roll right over the curb and up onto the sidewalk and park next to trees and trashcans and smack in front of doorways. I have pictures of this.
Now in terms of the actual driving, I have never been so terrified of being in a car in my life. I thought Dad was a fairly reckless driver, but I would rather be with him behind the wheel than in a car anywhere in this city. (That being said, I must admit it’s kind of fun, in that this-is-so-crazy-I-will-not-bother-imagining-possible-endings-to-this-ride kind of way.) I have not seen a single speed limit posting anywhere, and, strangely, accelerating as quickly as possible regardless of the cars in front, red light, trolley going by seems to be the habit here. So there’s lots of slamming on brakes and gas pedals as drivers see fit.
And there’re no lanes, didn’t I mention that? Most cars are small, but they seem to think they’re also scratch-resistant, as they will go between parked cars or slow cars or on the other side of the road if they’re itching to step on the gas again. Lev had told us “traffic will be crazy” and most surprising especially to Dad, but never did I think he was being so literal.
So we get to the beach, alive, scratch-free. We walk to Arcadia Beach, about a ½ mile from where the cars are allowed to go. Now I preface this by explaining that I was excited and a little nervous for this trip, knew it would be fun and amazing and emotional, but I really didn’t have time or have the perspective to imagine us getting to relax.
I had no idea that the Black Sea is, essentially, a turquoise mini-ocean, except with fewer waves, clearer water, less seaweed, and warmer temperatures. There are even waves, though not the surfing kind, but the ones that are fun to swim around in. And sea shells. And people walking around selling amazing food. And soft soft white sand. I have missed the water so much, and Arizona has kept me longing for it for a long time. I have always enjoyed the ocean, but you know, had the occasional complaint about cutting my foot on a rock, the temps being freezing cold, or the seaweed wrapping around my ankles. This was basically perfection.
Apparently, Sasha’s dacha is even better. We’ve all heard the idiom, “There’s salt-water in my blood” or something like it. If I am going to entertain such a romantic and somewhat cheesy idea, could I perhaps also suggest that the salt water in my blood might come from this very sea? These girls whacked their ball right near me in the water, and I turned to snarl at them and their interruption of my swim, and saw their happy, patient faces waiting for me to throw their ball back to them (I did. I mean at least I know when I’m acting like an asshole). They smiled big and said “speciba” (thank you) and it suddenly felt so normal, not foreign at all.
Onto the women. Who are beautiful, I should say, before anything else. I kind of find myself staring into their faces, as if I’m looking for someone specific. What I do see is a familiar face, a giant forehead and big eyes, full cheeks that end in a pointy chin, and all the other features little and cute and somewhat contained to the lower half. It’s so weird, but to some degree they really do all look alike.
But the way they dress and present themselves is very strange to me. I must stick out like such a sore tourist thumb, it’s kind of hilarious. Hair is either very very platinum light, or super snow-white dark, and either way it’s long, so long that mine seems short. Some are crayola red. Haven’t seen a brunette other than children, no joke.
The shoes are always high heels. Always. The roads are cobblestones; it does not matter, they negotiate them flawlessly – I have not seen a single woman falter. The other thing is wardrobe, which is sort of 80’s minus the shoulder pads and prostitute skin tight stretch fabric. Dad keeps referencing Pretty Woman, which I think is a fairly hilarious and PC comparison.
To be honest, the women (I’d say under 35? 40?) are nearly all thin, and Dad and I haven’t really seen any woman in a restaurant doing much other than smoking and drinking, which he says is normal. Still, the provocative dressing 24/7 is not flattering, and everyone’s a sausage in their clothes, skinny or fat. To be fair, everyone looks kind of 80’s, decked out in mesh shirts and rat tails or mullets. MULLETS. At the beach, everyone, and I’m talking everyone, was in a thong. Even little girls, like, 8 yr olds. Most kids younger than that were nude, or in speedos. People are very comfortable with their bodies, and its something to envy for sure.
I really had to get that out of my system. In another cranky moment, I was itching to say outloud, “I know this lame but I need you to give me about 18 inches between our noses so I can breathe. Thanks.”
Right now we are watching TV, and it’s really awesome. This is kind of our first night in, and the Russian shows are translated in Ukrainian subtitles. Dad is shocked. He never really saw TV here. He’s baffled that there are Ukrainians who would need subtitles for Russian, and insists they must be from the Western part of the country. All the commercials are for American products (Colgate, Old Spice, etc.) and are so cheesy they translate perfectly with no aid. The spokesman for Schweppes here is a talking tiger.
I wanted Dad to find the Olympics on TV, which I was so excited to see from a different country’s perspective, but he keeps saying, “I didn’t come here to watch the freaking Olympics,” and to that I say, “Good point.” But he is so easily annoyed by this, it is fun to push the issue.
Instead we found footage of Russia attacking Georgia. They are seriously concerned about a war here, between these two countries, which I don’t think we’d see on TV in the states. We just learned part of the reason why there was so much traffic here today was because there were mass weddings with lots of cars and honking and cans on string and blah blah. 08.08.08!!!We saw a bride with her bouquet in a skimpy wedding gown at the beach!
Pink Floyd is coming, we saw it on a sign…in October. In other news, there is a momma pigeon that lives outside our window and she is always sitting on a nest. Either that or a bunch of crap. I call her Petichka, which is bird. There is a kitten, named Kitten (Kotyonuk) outside the apartment. She is orange and I am beginning to plot her escape to the US. This has been a pretty random and beer-influenced paragraph. But I have the sense to save the best for last.
This morning, after nap-of-the-century, we visited Olga. We had our first Odessa tears. Dad and Olga talked about his mother, and she remembers taking care of her when she was pregnant with Dad. They talked about other mutual family members who have since passed away, very sad, like Olga’s husband.
She lives alone in a beautiful apartment that is slowly falling into disrepair, but she is sharp as a tack and seems really mentally alert. She was observant and articulate, and told Dad a lot about the country and ways in which it has changed since independence. Ironically, it was when translating it in English that Dad started to cry. I hope he doesn’t kill me for typing this.
The whole time, to be soothing, Olga just said, “da, da,” with deep sighs. He translated for me that he was very proud of me, because he had just been telling Olga the same in Russian.
We are going to visit the grave (my grandfather’s) Monday, as we think now we will be sleeping over at Sasha’s dacha because it’s just that awesome. Highlights from the opening ceremonies just aired; they only showed Ukraine (in some really great baby blue suits lined in neon yellow) and China. And a quick flash of Bush’s face, then Putin. Goodnight.
Words:
spoon: loshka (love this)
cup: chashka
plate: tarielka
weather: pagoda (yay!)
why: patchimou (I think, patchouli)
I get it/gotcha: ponile/ponila (male/female)
beach: pliage
check: schote (it’s all one syllable, I cant really say it without saying sss-chote)
money- dengy
bird- petichka/petitsa
Today we got up around 6 after thinking we would sleep so well and that sucked but we ate good food again. Apparently that was all I needed, bc after drinking the biggest cup of the strongest tea of all time, I passed out for another three hours. Deep, amazing sleep. Dad talked on the phone the whole time and made a bunch of plans for us. (we are the same, plans stress us out, but as soon as we don’t have them, we want them. Da?)
Today, we are visiting Olga, who is Manya’s daughter. Manya was my grandmother’s big sister, the only sister out of the 5 women who did not move eventually to the US. Olga is older and we want to be sure she has everything we need so we’re going to visit. Then he called Sasha to ask him if we could do dinner again, and I guess the Olga plans came up because Sasha offered to drive us to Olga, instead of taking tram/bus etc. Very nice of him. THEN, oohh so amazing, Sasha offered to take us to his dacha tomorrow. Dacha is beach house. Dad had one, a little shack he says, and Sasha has one too, about 40 miles away from here. So exciting.
A few things I have been dying to record, though not specific to one particular day or experience. Driving, beach, women. And in that order. They all connect, in a way.
OK, we got a ride to the beach today, from Valia and her driver, and that was very kind and generous of her. At first, it was really really strange to see and hear about people with drivers. Especially not in a limo or something, but in their Honda or whatever. But, after driving around a while here, you couldn’t pay me to drive here, and I’m not just saying that in the way I said it before I bought a car in Tempe. So, I guess in a way, it makes perfect sense that the wealthy would want a their own ride (not the public transit, which actually, though crowded, is really reliable and surprisingly easy) but wouldn’t want to have to navigate the roads themselves.
Further explanation: cars for a long time were very rare here. So, even in terms of basic traffic laws and parking regulations…well, these things are essentially nonexistent. Most of the sidewalks are as wide or much wider than the street, so when it comes to parking, it’s perfectly normal for cars to roll right over the curb and up onto the sidewalk and park next to trees and trashcans and smack in front of doorways. I have pictures of this.
Now in terms of the actual driving, I have never been so terrified of being in a car in my life. I thought Dad was a fairly reckless driver, but I would rather be with him behind the wheel than in a car anywhere in this city. (That being said, I must admit it’s kind of fun, in that this-is-so-crazy-I-will-not-bother-imagining-possible-endings-to-this-ride kind of way.) I have not seen a single speed limit posting anywhere, and, strangely, accelerating as quickly as possible regardless of the cars in front, red light, trolley going by seems to be the habit here. So there’s lots of slamming on brakes and gas pedals as drivers see fit.
And there’re no lanes, didn’t I mention that? Most cars are small, but they seem to think they’re also scratch-resistant, as they will go between parked cars or slow cars or on the other side of the road if they’re itching to step on the gas again. Lev had told us “traffic will be crazy” and most surprising especially to Dad, but never did I think he was being so literal.
So we get to the beach, alive, scratch-free. We walk to Arcadia Beach, about a ½ mile from where the cars are allowed to go. Now I preface this by explaining that I was excited and a little nervous for this trip, knew it would be fun and amazing and emotional, but I really didn’t have time or have the perspective to imagine us getting to relax.
I had no idea that the Black Sea is, essentially, a turquoise mini-ocean, except with fewer waves, clearer water, less seaweed, and warmer temperatures. There are even waves, though not the surfing kind, but the ones that are fun to swim around in. And sea shells. And people walking around selling amazing food. And soft soft white sand. I have missed the water so much, and Arizona has kept me longing for it for a long time. I have always enjoyed the ocean, but you know, had the occasional complaint about cutting my foot on a rock, the temps being freezing cold, or the seaweed wrapping around my ankles. This was basically perfection.
Apparently, Sasha’s dacha is even better. We’ve all heard the idiom, “There’s salt-water in my blood” or something like it. If I am going to entertain such a romantic and somewhat cheesy idea, could I perhaps also suggest that the salt water in my blood might come from this very sea? These girls whacked their ball right near me in the water, and I turned to snarl at them and their interruption of my swim, and saw their happy, patient faces waiting for me to throw their ball back to them (I did. I mean at least I know when I’m acting like an asshole). They smiled big and said “speciba” (thank you) and it suddenly felt so normal, not foreign at all.
Onto the women. Who are beautiful, I should say, before anything else. I kind of find myself staring into their faces, as if I’m looking for someone specific. What I do see is a familiar face, a giant forehead and big eyes, full cheeks that end in a pointy chin, and all the other features little and cute and somewhat contained to the lower half. It’s so weird, but to some degree they really do all look alike.
But the way they dress and present themselves is very strange to me. I must stick out like such a sore tourist thumb, it’s kind of hilarious. Hair is either very very platinum light, or super snow-white dark, and either way it’s long, so long that mine seems short. Some are crayola red. Haven’t seen a brunette other than children, no joke.
The shoes are always high heels. Always. The roads are cobblestones; it does not matter, they negotiate them flawlessly – I have not seen a single woman falter. The other thing is wardrobe, which is sort of 80’s minus the shoulder pads and prostitute skin tight stretch fabric. Dad keeps referencing Pretty Woman, which I think is a fairly hilarious and PC comparison.
To be honest, the women (I’d say under 35? 40?) are nearly all thin, and Dad and I haven’t really seen any woman in a restaurant doing much other than smoking and drinking, which he says is normal. Still, the provocative dressing 24/7 is not flattering, and everyone’s a sausage in their clothes, skinny or fat. To be fair, everyone looks kind of 80’s, decked out in mesh shirts and rat tails or mullets. MULLETS. At the beach, everyone, and I’m talking everyone, was in a thong. Even little girls, like, 8 yr olds. Most kids younger than that were nude, or in speedos. People are very comfortable with their bodies, and its something to envy for sure.
I really had to get that out of my system. In another cranky moment, I was itching to say outloud, “I know this lame but I need you to give me about 18 inches between our noses so I can breathe. Thanks.”
Right now we are watching TV, and it’s really awesome. This is kind of our first night in, and the Russian shows are translated in Ukrainian subtitles. Dad is shocked. He never really saw TV here. He’s baffled that there are Ukrainians who would need subtitles for Russian, and insists they must be from the Western part of the country. All the commercials are for American products (Colgate, Old Spice, etc.) and are so cheesy they translate perfectly with no aid. The spokesman for Schweppes here is a talking tiger.
I wanted Dad to find the Olympics on TV, which I was so excited to see from a different country’s perspective, but he keeps saying, “I didn’t come here to watch the freaking Olympics,” and to that I say, “Good point.” But he is so easily annoyed by this, it is fun to push the issue.
Instead we found footage of Russia attacking Georgia. They are seriously concerned about a war here, between these two countries, which I don’t think we’d see on TV in the states. We just learned part of the reason why there was so much traffic here today was because there were mass weddings with lots of cars and honking and cans on string and blah blah. 08.08.08!!!We saw a bride with her bouquet in a skimpy wedding gown at the beach!
Pink Floyd is coming, we saw it on a sign…in October. In other news, there is a momma pigeon that lives outside our window and she is always sitting on a nest. Either that or a bunch of crap. I call her Petichka, which is bird. There is a kitten, named Kitten (Kotyonuk) outside the apartment. She is orange and I am beginning to plot her escape to the US. This has been a pretty random and beer-influenced paragraph. But I have the sense to save the best for last.
This morning, after nap-of-the-century, we visited Olga. We had our first Odessa tears. Dad and Olga talked about his mother, and she remembers taking care of her when she was pregnant with Dad. They talked about other mutual family members who have since passed away, very sad, like Olga’s husband.
She lives alone in a beautiful apartment that is slowly falling into disrepair, but she is sharp as a tack and seems really mentally alert. She was observant and articulate, and told Dad a lot about the country and ways in which it has changed since independence. Ironically, it was when translating it in English that Dad started to cry. I hope he doesn’t kill me for typing this.
The whole time, to be soothing, Olga just said, “da, da,” with deep sighs. He translated for me that he was very proud of me, because he had just been telling Olga the same in Russian.
We are going to visit the grave (my grandfather’s) Monday, as we think now we will be sleeping over at Sasha’s dacha because it’s just that awesome. Highlights from the opening ceremonies just aired; they only showed Ukraine (in some really great baby blue suits lined in neon yellow) and China. And a quick flash of Bush’s face, then Putin. Goodnight.
Words:
spoon: loshka (love this)
cup: chashka
plate: tarielka
weather: pagoda (yay!)
why: patchimou (I think, patchouli)
I get it/gotcha: ponile/ponila (male/female)
beach: pliage
check: schote (it’s all one syllable, I cant really say it without saying sss-chote)
money- dengy
bird- petichka/petitsa
Friday, August 8, 2008
Thursday, Day 3
Thursday, Day 3:
The first thing that needs to be recorded is that, even with our squeaky beds, we slept through the night!! Hooray! We finally can open our eyes and taste our food, etc, etc.
Last night’s dinner was really fun. In my post-nap cranky I was really unsure of spending another few hours on the fringes of Russian conversation, but I readjusted myself and had a great time with Sasha and his wife. She toned him down a bit; he’s such a character. Dad told him I have a fondness for the Lada cars and how small and cute they were and he said “just let me install you on the roof and we will make a picture” or “pretend to open the door while we make the picture” and so on! (Even I am saying, let me make the picture, lately.) He said I am like his wife; so easily off-kilter by the jokes and humor, such an easy target (obvious?).
Sasha and Dad spoke of the corruption in today’s Ukrainian society, how many people you have to bribe in order to get things done, play the game, etc. He is basically in charge of the construction of things (like traffic lights, etc) by the port. Big job. He is Jewish too, but his grandfather was in the KGB, so it was much easier for him to build a life here. Such an ironic statement, right? His wife is not Jewish.
Sasha actually was visibly surprised to learn that my mom is Jewish, too. “You have a Jewish wife?” he said. “I thought you married an American!” What a loaded statement. Many times, both Dad and I referred to something/someone as “Russian” and Sasha would be quick to correct us, no, not Russian, Ukrainian. Identity for him is much more allied with Ukraine since he stayed through the fall of the USSR. Their family had just been to Mexico, and they speak lovely Spanish and French.
I got praised for my snippets of Russian speech, pointing at dogs and cats and saying their names, or even the pleases and thank you’s.
Today had such a good start. We made tea and ate bread and sort of a kielbasa/salami cross, though I cannot explain better, and cheese which is sort of like feta and sort of like cottage cheese, and also, at the same time, neither. We ate with our hands, and that felt really good. We then went to the café, used the computer, drank coffees, and came back to the apartment, and met up with Valya, the wife of the dude with the Bentley and bodyguards.
It was nicer and less intimidating to be with her, and she was so helpful and generous. She took us around in her car (for a long time, I thought, who is this dude driving?? Are we in a taxi? Is this a relative? And then, finally I understood it was a driver. I am sometimes on a need-to-know basis). We saw Dad’s college, and, really interesting, saw the prospective students lining up before the lists of those accepted into the school for the future fall semester!
Also, the article I was sent about the mass grave of Jews from WWII discovered at a construction site in Odessa? We went there. Super creepy. We totally walked right through the ongoing construction.
Best part: she took us to the beach, and then left us there for an hour to swim in the Black Sea. (She’s grandma-aged, not exactly the jump-in-the-sea type.) The Black Sea is said to have healing powers, so I’m planning on getting over my bum ankle and maybe having 20/20 vision by the time we leave.
What’s really funny is, while she left us, she went back to the center of the city for something-or-other, and someone from our apartment building recognized her (because I guess her and her husband’s wealth make her quite famous in town?) and knew she was talking to Dad, and asked to be let into our apartment so they could fix something. They were super apologetic and suddenly very accommodating – our connection to her made them want to spruce our apartment!
We swam in the water and it was very clean and not too salty and just amazing to be in water! Lots of little fish and sea glass and pretty stones. I took some. We saw former residences of Soviet figures and KGB people, now converted to Newport-like estates by the sea.
After she dropped us back off, we had lunch/lunner, and it was so so delicious. I had a salad with peaches and avocados and chicken and almonds and I know this is not very important but it was phenomenal so I must include it to prove Beckian wrong; the food is OK here. Bought water (without bubbles, finally, I hate damn bubbles in my water) and got matches so we could light the stove.
We came back around 5, only to get a phone call from Boris and his wife, family friends, wondering where we are! They thought we would be arriving around 5, not leaving our apartment at 5, and we were all beachy and needed to shower. Dad already felt bad, bc of a miscommunication: somehow Boris thought he was supposed to pick us up from the airport when we landed, and, unbeknownst to us, waited there for a long long time before giving up. I think this was why he would not come and get us to come to his house for dinner, and it was a long, hot bus ride away.
So Dad showered, left it running for me, and I ran in to find the bathroom flooded! (The shower head is just on a hose, not fixed to the wall, so I guess it slipped and…showered the whole floor. I said that one of us needs to know how to not be so awkward and ditzy bc one of us is going to end up walking into a car or something.) So I finally showered, then completely wasted being clean sweating on the bus, and arrived and Boris was (poor guy) waiting for us of course. Dad must have been super nervous (these people knew his mom before WWII) and introduced me as Renata!! (My cousin, from Israel, his brother’s daughter is named Renata…like, what? Shto?)
We laughed it off but he was very sorry after and asked me not to write that here (sorry papa). I think its funny in retrospect. I was not really introduced to anyone so what I gather is this: grandparents Boris and Vera were there with grandson (shoot, nameless?) and friend (who spoke perfect English and went to high school in Rochester) and their son, Sasha. Dad remembered Sasha which means he was old enough to be a walking talking creature before my dad left the USSR.
Very little English and very awkward sitting before food and wine was flowing and I performed my Rachel-botches-Russian antics which is unfailingly amusing. (I heard Zavtra, and thought it was Zavtruk, and said “breakfast!” but Zavtra is “tomorrow” and has nothing to do with food. Crap.) This is all just as funny as dad translating Russian with Russian for me, or not remembering a simple word (cow) in English or Russian, and so on.
Sasha the son is going horseback riding tomorrow, I think (all in Russian, hence the zaftra mistake) and Dad told him I like horses and I think I’m invited? Not horseback riding on the beach, but in the city, which is cool. Trying to get Dad to come too. We’re home now, tired from the bus ride back. I can’t think of anything more to say.
Oh crap yes. Before I forget. This isn’t a thing-that-happened, so much as an observation. Until now, this place, Odessa, has been about as real and tangible to me as Neverland. So, I am realizing, only coming to understand now, as I sit here, that this trip is essentially like dancing with Peter Pan, getting sprinkled with pixie dust, or whatever other cheesy metaphors I could think of. This is as surreal as it gets, and the only thing that makes it any closer is physically writing these sentences, “I did this…” and “we did that..” etc. This sounded really poetic in my head but I am tired. Words, before I pass out:
zaftra: tomorrow
apple: yableka
pill: tablietka (a mishearing, from taborietka)
write: pisatt (soft “t”)
sorry (like excuse me, not like, so sorry I ran over your cat): isvinityeh
sorry sorry: prostityeh (poor cat)
good: horasho
I: ya
cow: korova
I have a hard time with R’s, because you have to roll them, and an EE-ish type noise that I can’t really differentiate from the “ee” sound we have. We don’t have a letter for it.
(notice that my words avoid them)
PS, This is the most important part of yesterday. Vera, Boris’ wife, said I look like Dad’s mom. Neither of us (he or I) have really ever seen pictures of her while young, so, somehow, this helps us both understand her. I am honored to look like her, or even receive the comment even if it was just a nice thing to say.
PPS, Just spoke to my waiter in English and made him so nervous he tripped over a chair. Then he said “sorry!” Dad tried to make up for this with something that he didn’t translate to me.
The first thing that needs to be recorded is that, even with our squeaky beds, we slept through the night!! Hooray! We finally can open our eyes and taste our food, etc, etc.
Last night’s dinner was really fun. In my post-nap cranky I was really unsure of spending another few hours on the fringes of Russian conversation, but I readjusted myself and had a great time with Sasha and his wife. She toned him down a bit; he’s such a character. Dad told him I have a fondness for the Lada cars and how small and cute they were and he said “just let me install you on the roof and we will make a picture” or “pretend to open the door while we make the picture” and so on! (Even I am saying, let me make the picture, lately.) He said I am like his wife; so easily off-kilter by the jokes and humor, such an easy target (obvious?).
Sasha and Dad spoke of the corruption in today’s Ukrainian society, how many people you have to bribe in order to get things done, play the game, etc. He is basically in charge of the construction of things (like traffic lights, etc) by the port. Big job. He is Jewish too, but his grandfather was in the KGB, so it was much easier for him to build a life here. Such an ironic statement, right? His wife is not Jewish.
Sasha actually was visibly surprised to learn that my mom is Jewish, too. “You have a Jewish wife?” he said. “I thought you married an American!” What a loaded statement. Many times, both Dad and I referred to something/someone as “Russian” and Sasha would be quick to correct us, no, not Russian, Ukrainian. Identity for him is much more allied with Ukraine since he stayed through the fall of the USSR. Their family had just been to Mexico, and they speak lovely Spanish and French.
I got praised for my snippets of Russian speech, pointing at dogs and cats and saying their names, or even the pleases and thank you’s.
Today had such a good start. We made tea and ate bread and sort of a kielbasa/salami cross, though I cannot explain better, and cheese which is sort of like feta and sort of like cottage cheese, and also, at the same time, neither. We ate with our hands, and that felt really good. We then went to the café, used the computer, drank coffees, and came back to the apartment, and met up with Valya, the wife of the dude with the Bentley and bodyguards.
It was nicer and less intimidating to be with her, and she was so helpful and generous. She took us around in her car (for a long time, I thought, who is this dude driving?? Are we in a taxi? Is this a relative? And then, finally I understood it was a driver. I am sometimes on a need-to-know basis). We saw Dad’s college, and, really interesting, saw the prospective students lining up before the lists of those accepted into the school for the future fall semester!
Also, the article I was sent about the mass grave of Jews from WWII discovered at a construction site in Odessa? We went there. Super creepy. We totally walked right through the ongoing construction.
Best part: she took us to the beach, and then left us there for an hour to swim in the Black Sea. (She’s grandma-aged, not exactly the jump-in-the-sea type.) The Black Sea is said to have healing powers, so I’m planning on getting over my bum ankle and maybe having 20/20 vision by the time we leave.
What’s really funny is, while she left us, she went back to the center of the city for something-or-other, and someone from our apartment building recognized her (because I guess her and her husband’s wealth make her quite famous in town?) and knew she was talking to Dad, and asked to be let into our apartment so they could fix something. They were super apologetic and suddenly very accommodating – our connection to her made them want to spruce our apartment!
We swam in the water and it was very clean and not too salty and just amazing to be in water! Lots of little fish and sea glass and pretty stones. I took some. We saw former residences of Soviet figures and KGB people, now converted to Newport-like estates by the sea.
After she dropped us back off, we had lunch/lunner, and it was so so delicious. I had a salad with peaches and avocados and chicken and almonds and I know this is not very important but it was phenomenal so I must include it to prove Beckian wrong; the food is OK here. Bought water (without bubbles, finally, I hate damn bubbles in my water) and got matches so we could light the stove.
We came back around 5, only to get a phone call from Boris and his wife, family friends, wondering where we are! They thought we would be arriving around 5, not leaving our apartment at 5, and we were all beachy and needed to shower. Dad already felt bad, bc of a miscommunication: somehow Boris thought he was supposed to pick us up from the airport when we landed, and, unbeknownst to us, waited there for a long long time before giving up. I think this was why he would not come and get us to come to his house for dinner, and it was a long, hot bus ride away.
So Dad showered, left it running for me, and I ran in to find the bathroom flooded! (The shower head is just on a hose, not fixed to the wall, so I guess it slipped and…showered the whole floor. I said that one of us needs to know how to not be so awkward and ditzy bc one of us is going to end up walking into a car or something.) So I finally showered, then completely wasted being clean sweating on the bus, and arrived and Boris was (poor guy) waiting for us of course. Dad must have been super nervous (these people knew his mom before WWII) and introduced me as Renata!! (My cousin, from Israel, his brother’s daughter is named Renata…like, what? Shto?)
We laughed it off but he was very sorry after and asked me not to write that here (sorry papa). I think its funny in retrospect. I was not really introduced to anyone so what I gather is this: grandparents Boris and Vera were there with grandson (shoot, nameless?) and friend (who spoke perfect English and went to high school in Rochester) and their son, Sasha. Dad remembered Sasha which means he was old enough to be a walking talking creature before my dad left the USSR.
Very little English and very awkward sitting before food and wine was flowing and I performed my Rachel-botches-Russian antics which is unfailingly amusing. (I heard Zavtra, and thought it was Zavtruk, and said “breakfast!” but Zavtra is “tomorrow” and has nothing to do with food. Crap.) This is all just as funny as dad translating Russian with Russian for me, or not remembering a simple word (cow) in English or Russian, and so on.
Sasha the son is going horseback riding tomorrow, I think (all in Russian, hence the zaftra mistake) and Dad told him I like horses and I think I’m invited? Not horseback riding on the beach, but in the city, which is cool. Trying to get Dad to come too. We’re home now, tired from the bus ride back. I can’t think of anything more to say.
Oh crap yes. Before I forget. This isn’t a thing-that-happened, so much as an observation. Until now, this place, Odessa, has been about as real and tangible to me as Neverland. So, I am realizing, only coming to understand now, as I sit here, that this trip is essentially like dancing with Peter Pan, getting sprinkled with pixie dust, or whatever other cheesy metaphors I could think of. This is as surreal as it gets, and the only thing that makes it any closer is physically writing these sentences, “I did this…” and “we did that..” etc. This sounded really poetic in my head but I am tired. Words, before I pass out:
zaftra: tomorrow
apple: yableka
pill: tablietka (a mishearing, from taborietka)
write: pisatt (soft “t”)
sorry (like excuse me, not like, so sorry I ran over your cat): isvinityeh
sorry sorry: prostityeh (poor cat)
good: horasho
I: ya
cow: korova
I have a hard time with R’s, because you have to roll them, and an EE-ish type noise that I can’t really differentiate from the “ee” sound we have. We don’t have a letter for it.
(notice that my words avoid them)
PS, This is the most important part of yesterday. Vera, Boris’ wife, said I look like Dad’s mom. Neither of us (he or I) have really ever seen pictures of her while young, so, somehow, this helps us both understand her. I am honored to look like her, or even receive the comment even if it was just a nice thing to say.
PPS, Just spoke to my waiter in English and made him so nervous he tripped over a chair. Then he said “sorry!” Dad tried to make up for this with something that he didn’t translate to me.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Day 2 in Odessa, Wednesday
Day 2, Wednesday:
Ok, before I launch into day 2, the end of day 1 was absolutely hilarious. Dad and I get into our beds (finally, beds!) at around 10 pm, and almost instantly, fireworks go off. We get up and look out the window (after my heart started beating again) and saw they were in the square right outside our balcony and positively filling the place with smoke and ash. If you know about my love-hate relationship with fireworks, and the Rachel-gets-blinded incident of Trumbull Day 2004, then you know I was really freaked out, but we braved the balcony to try to get pictures (which we pretty much failed to do but it was funny).
By 4 am, both Dad and I were so overtired/wide awake we started chatting through the walls and pacing the hall and finally I suggested we make tea in the kitchen bc we both were going nuts. We get into the kitchen (contacts out, glasses in NY) and I realize – where the hell is the stove? When we went to the grocery store the day before, we didn’t get a lot fo things for fear of not having proper pans. We came home, checked for pans…and felt satisfied. Just like Dad and I to not even notice we cant find the stove. Then, at 4 am, to realize we’re missing it.
Dad finds the electric kettle, is baffled, and I walk him through using that (thank you, Piper Center, for teaching me the art of the electric kettle). So we’re sitting at the kitchen table sipping our tea and I wonder, what’s that thing on top of the washing machine? And then, holy crap, that’s not a washing machine (though we have one, in the bathroom) but a stove/oven with a weird cover thing on it. We laughed so hard, though that may have mostly been from sleep deprivation. The best part: we can’t get it to light. We messed with it for a while, tea cups going cold, dawn slowly rising over the balcony, but between the lighter and the smell of gas and the fact that we both were delirious, we decided to give up for now. Nothing to cook anyhow.
We “went back to bed” (sort of) till 7, then got up, wandered around, looked for breakfast, realized the restaurants are all closed until 9 am here. Went in a new direction, saw the Opera House, Pushkin’s statue, the Potemkin steps, Bubba’s old neighborhood, Boris’s old apartment, and a lot of techno music blaring in still-unopened cafes, and my first look at the Black Sea (!! Dad so calm through all of this) all before 9 am.
A lot of wild dogs (perfectly harmless, or so they seem, just uninterested in humans) roam the opera grounds. Kind of a beautiful juxtaposition. Sat, used the computer at a café while we had giant eggs and tiny coffees. Came back for a little while before meeting with Sasha, Dad’s high school friend.
…Who picked us up in the biggest car we have yet seen in Odessa (SUV) and had a driver, no less, and took us back to his office. Here I encountered my first true experience of (not my own, that happened years ago) but my father’s open embarrassment that I am not bilingual. “Only English” with an apologetic shrug of the shoulders; hard for me to see. Sasha’s assistant, bringing us coffee, said in English, “In my opinion, that is not very good, to not know Russian.” Sasha’s children, and even his grandchild, speak Russian fluently. (And it is Russian, by the way, and not Ukrainian, that nearly everyone is speaking here.)
We three walked to the park, Shevchenko Park, which was incidentally on my father’s list of things to visit) and saw where they used to play when they were little. There were ruins of a building that used to house artillery, or more accurately, point it at incoming ships in case foreigners thought of misbehaving, and Dad said he actually used to crawl into them.
The park was sort of in a sad state, lots of weeds and stuff, which made Dad a little sad. The port had grown and there were many more ships and cargo and things of that nature where there used to be beach, swimming. Further down, much further, there was still swimming, or so we think, because a lot of people were walking in bathing suits and even had floats.
We saw the memorial for lost sailors and fallen sailors of WWII, and Sasha told me the story of when he and Dad were climbing on roofs, for kicks, and were going into an attic (then this was revised, they admitted to be causing trouble and were being chased and were fleeing into an arbitrary attic) Dad’s behind (ahem, bum, ass, etc.) literally got caught in a window frame and he was stuck. I have never felt like more of my father’s daughter!!! And to think we had been blaming my clumsiness all on Mom! Sasha pushed him through the window and the frame went with him, that’s the only way he "came detached."
Had a long, very long lunch which drained my energy and ended in more consumption of coffee, before returning to the apartment and (much to our dismay) falling asleep. Dad claims he tried to wake me after not long, but I don’t remember this at all. I apparently made a great case for sleeping more but I was totally sleep-talking. Now we’re going to dinner with Sasha and his wife, who Dad also knows. This is a lot of listening-to-Russian for me.
It is so so painful to not be able to read Cyrillic. I can’t understand much Hebrew, but I can read it, phonetically, from the Hebrew letters, and I really want to learn this alphabet. The worst is menus. Almost everything else is discernable.
Dad just whipped out a deck of George W. Bush playing cards. He said “someone thought he was republican and sent them to him, they say ‘re-elect Bush’” and he brought them as a souvenir for…anyone!
And, little known fact, Russians wear wedding rings on their right hands. When divorced, instead of removing, they move to the left hand, at least when they want to advertise.
Words of the Day:
dog: Sabaka (I think Chewbacca and go from there)
breakfast: zaftruck
good day: dobry den (same as Czech)
water: vada
coffee: coffee (hurray!)
check: schote (ss-chote, but all one syllable, very hard for me to say)
lada: really old school Russian fiat, basically. 70’s.
table: stole
chair: stool (easy!)
stool: tabulietka
car: machina
store: magazine
Ok, before I launch into day 2, the end of day 1 was absolutely hilarious. Dad and I get into our beds (finally, beds!) at around 10 pm, and almost instantly, fireworks go off. We get up and look out the window (after my heart started beating again) and saw they were in the square right outside our balcony and positively filling the place with smoke and ash. If you know about my love-hate relationship with fireworks, and the Rachel-gets-blinded incident of Trumbull Day 2004, then you know I was really freaked out, but we braved the balcony to try to get pictures (which we pretty much failed to do but it was funny).
By 4 am, both Dad and I were so overtired/wide awake we started chatting through the walls and pacing the hall and finally I suggested we make tea in the kitchen bc we both were going nuts. We get into the kitchen (contacts out, glasses in NY) and I realize – where the hell is the stove? When we went to the grocery store the day before, we didn’t get a lot fo things for fear of not having proper pans. We came home, checked for pans…and felt satisfied. Just like Dad and I to not even notice we cant find the stove. Then, at 4 am, to realize we’re missing it.
Dad finds the electric kettle, is baffled, and I walk him through using that (thank you, Piper Center, for teaching me the art of the electric kettle). So we’re sitting at the kitchen table sipping our tea and I wonder, what’s that thing on top of the washing machine? And then, holy crap, that’s not a washing machine (though we have one, in the bathroom) but a stove/oven with a weird cover thing on it. We laughed so hard, though that may have mostly been from sleep deprivation. The best part: we can’t get it to light. We messed with it for a while, tea cups going cold, dawn slowly rising over the balcony, but between the lighter and the smell of gas and the fact that we both were delirious, we decided to give up for now. Nothing to cook anyhow.
We “went back to bed” (sort of) till 7, then got up, wandered around, looked for breakfast, realized the restaurants are all closed until 9 am here. Went in a new direction, saw the Opera House, Pushkin’s statue, the Potemkin steps, Bubba’s old neighborhood, Boris’s old apartment, and a lot of techno music blaring in still-unopened cafes, and my first look at the Black Sea (!! Dad so calm through all of this) all before 9 am.
A lot of wild dogs (perfectly harmless, or so they seem, just uninterested in humans) roam the opera grounds. Kind of a beautiful juxtaposition. Sat, used the computer at a café while we had giant eggs and tiny coffees. Came back for a little while before meeting with Sasha, Dad’s high school friend.
…Who picked us up in the biggest car we have yet seen in Odessa (SUV) and had a driver, no less, and took us back to his office. Here I encountered my first true experience of (not my own, that happened years ago) but my father’s open embarrassment that I am not bilingual. “Only English” with an apologetic shrug of the shoulders; hard for me to see. Sasha’s assistant, bringing us coffee, said in English, “In my opinion, that is not very good, to not know Russian.” Sasha’s children, and even his grandchild, speak Russian fluently. (And it is Russian, by the way, and not Ukrainian, that nearly everyone is speaking here.)
We three walked to the park, Shevchenko Park, which was incidentally on my father’s list of things to visit) and saw where they used to play when they were little. There were ruins of a building that used to house artillery, or more accurately, point it at incoming ships in case foreigners thought of misbehaving, and Dad said he actually used to crawl into them.
The park was sort of in a sad state, lots of weeds and stuff, which made Dad a little sad. The port had grown and there were many more ships and cargo and things of that nature where there used to be beach, swimming. Further down, much further, there was still swimming, or so we think, because a lot of people were walking in bathing suits and even had floats.
We saw the memorial for lost sailors and fallen sailors of WWII, and Sasha told me the story of when he and Dad were climbing on roofs, for kicks, and were going into an attic (then this was revised, they admitted to be causing trouble and were being chased and were fleeing into an arbitrary attic) Dad’s behind (ahem, bum, ass, etc.) literally got caught in a window frame and he was stuck. I have never felt like more of my father’s daughter!!! And to think we had been blaming my clumsiness all on Mom! Sasha pushed him through the window and the frame went with him, that’s the only way he "came detached."
Had a long, very long lunch which drained my energy and ended in more consumption of coffee, before returning to the apartment and (much to our dismay) falling asleep. Dad claims he tried to wake me after not long, but I don’t remember this at all. I apparently made a great case for sleeping more but I was totally sleep-talking. Now we’re going to dinner with Sasha and his wife, who Dad also knows. This is a lot of listening-to-Russian for me.
It is so so painful to not be able to read Cyrillic. I can’t understand much Hebrew, but I can read it, phonetically, from the Hebrew letters, and I really want to learn this alphabet. The worst is menus. Almost everything else is discernable.
Dad just whipped out a deck of George W. Bush playing cards. He said “someone thought he was republican and sent them to him, they say ‘re-elect Bush’” and he brought them as a souvenir for…anyone!
And, little known fact, Russians wear wedding rings on their right hands. When divorced, instead of removing, they move to the left hand, at least when they want to advertise.
Words of the Day:
dog: Sabaka (I think Chewbacca and go from there)
breakfast: zaftruck
good day: dobry den (same as Czech)
water: vada
coffee: coffee (hurray!)
check: schote (ss-chote, but all one syllable, very hard for me to say)
lada: really old school Russian fiat, basically. 70’s.
table: stole
chair: stool (easy!)
stool: tabulietka
car: machina
store: magazine
Later on Day 1
Later...
Ukrainian dollars are called Grevny. I had found the Russian/Ukrainian word only, but had not known how to pronounce it in Cyrillic (it looked like Hevny). We got about four and a half Grevny to the dollar, which is crap since it used to be 5 and up. Luckily, Dad had some Euros, and they happily took those. Our poor Canadian dollars and British pounds were rejected. Oh well.
After Dad came back he called some of the relatives here; they’re excited, especially to take us to the beach it seems. I passed out on the couch and was embarrassingly cranky when woken up. Everything looks like a bar (and is not even pronounce-able, for the most part, for me) so it was a bit of a task finding food for dinner. Dad kept saying, “I don’t know any better than you do! I haven’t been here in 28 years!” but eventually we sat down at a really nice place and laughed about how every Russian woman we saw was blond and thin and only drinking tea and smoking cigarettes.
The woman renting us the apartment also told Dad to not speak English unless he had to, because then he would be “a target”. I wasn’t there when they discussed this, but I really wish I had been, because now he’s super paranoid and pretty much refuses to speak to me in English in public! (It’s actually pretty endearing, he talks to me in Russian as though after hearing it enough it will all just make perfect sense to me, and then eventually translates if I pressure him enough/look openly confused. But there were a few times he slipped into Russian from English because he “caught someone reading his lips”. This will be one of the hardest things for us to deal with, I think.
We couldn’t stop ourselves from beginning to explore, even though my damn ankle looks practically explosive. We went by Dad’s old apartment where he grew up, and the gate was open! I got lots of great pictures! We went to a square where he used to sit on a chain link fence with his friends and I got a picture of him by it now, like 20 years later (and the same post office! …but different cobblestones).
The big circle in the center of town, right by Deribasovskaya, is essentially untouched, which is why I think it is all the more strange to Dad, who expects to see it full of his friends and the kind of people and activities he saw growing up. How strange to see kids getting pony rides from horses in tutus, and little boys on those little motorized trucks! But the garbage cans are exactly the same (it’s pretty cool, they tip over).
After the shower extravaganza of my lifetime, I’m clean and actually less sleepy than before, and couldn’t tell you what time zone we’re functioning on if my life depended on it. It’s 11 am in Tempe, and 9 pm here. Goodnight?
Today’s words:
Ukrainian Money- Grevny (4.62/1)
Cat- Coshka
Kitten- Kotyonok
Post Office- Potchta/Poshta
Daughter- Doytchka
Ukrainian dollars are called Grevny. I had found the Russian/Ukrainian word only, but had not known how to pronounce it in Cyrillic (it looked like Hevny). We got about four and a half Grevny to the dollar, which is crap since it used to be 5 and up. Luckily, Dad had some Euros, and they happily took those. Our poor Canadian dollars and British pounds were rejected. Oh well.
After Dad came back he called some of the relatives here; they’re excited, especially to take us to the beach it seems. I passed out on the couch and was embarrassingly cranky when woken up. Everything looks like a bar (and is not even pronounce-able, for the most part, for me) so it was a bit of a task finding food for dinner. Dad kept saying, “I don’t know any better than you do! I haven’t been here in 28 years!” but eventually we sat down at a really nice place and laughed about how every Russian woman we saw was blond and thin and only drinking tea and smoking cigarettes.
The woman renting us the apartment also told Dad to not speak English unless he had to, because then he would be “a target”. I wasn’t there when they discussed this, but I really wish I had been, because now he’s super paranoid and pretty much refuses to speak to me in English in public! (It’s actually pretty endearing, he talks to me in Russian as though after hearing it enough it will all just make perfect sense to me, and then eventually translates if I pressure him enough/look openly confused. But there were a few times he slipped into Russian from English because he “caught someone reading his lips”. This will be one of the hardest things for us to deal with, I think.
We couldn’t stop ourselves from beginning to explore, even though my damn ankle looks practically explosive. We went by Dad’s old apartment where he grew up, and the gate was open! I got lots of great pictures! We went to a square where he used to sit on a chain link fence with his friends and I got a picture of him by it now, like 20 years later (and the same post office! …but different cobblestones).
The big circle in the center of town, right by Deribasovskaya, is essentially untouched, which is why I think it is all the more strange to Dad, who expects to see it full of his friends and the kind of people and activities he saw growing up. How strange to see kids getting pony rides from horses in tutus, and little boys on those little motorized trucks! But the garbage cans are exactly the same (it’s pretty cool, they tip over).
After the shower extravaganza of my lifetime, I’m clean and actually less sleepy than before, and couldn’t tell you what time zone we’re functioning on if my life depended on it. It’s 11 am in Tempe, and 9 pm here. Goodnight?
Today’s words:
Ukrainian Money- Grevny (4.62/1)
Cat- Coshka
Kitten- Kotyonok
Post Office- Potchta/Poshta
Daughter- Doytchka
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