2 years...that's an eternity

I'm not sure that I ever experienced "culture shock" in it's purest form. There's not a gut-wrenching brand of poverty in Ukraine or an extreme filth issue or even a visual ethnic difference that smacks you in the face and makes you question how in the world you ended up there. Ukraine provides more opportunity for "culture stress" than anything else. Culture stress is less of a smack in the face and more of a drawn out, walking pneumonia sort of adjustment. It comes on slowly but will flare up and pull you down on occasion. It's not a shock that you recover from or get used to, though. Rather, you find that you get used to the inconsistent nature of your stress. This is why I kept peanut butter, Coke, and Gilmore Girls on-hand. The "how in the world did I end up here/why in Heaven's name have I stayed" questions come around when you least expect them, and you realize that you're not ever going to fully adjust to being a Ukrainian. That happened mostly because...well...I'm NOT a Ukrainian. Try as I might.


It took me quite a while to begin to understand this cultural transition issue. The pieces of the puzzle sort of began falling into place somewhere in mid-November of my first year. I'd been in Ukraine for about a month. The weather was changing; the sun was coming up later (like, 8) and setting earlier (like, 4). The days were darker, the nationals were grumpier, I was more idiotic every day, it seemed. I'd had about 4 Russian classes at that point and was realizing what an uphill battle that was going to be. Every time I tried to speak, people were horrified at my lack of skill and most weren't particularly nice about it. I knew that I looked like such an outsider every time I stepped out of my apartment. I was just starting to get into the classrooms, and I felt like I wasn't accomplishing anything since I wasn't doing much of what I'd been sent to do.

Although I spoke practically no Russian and literally no Ukrainian, I still attended the weekly Thursday night prayer meeting at church. I usually stood (that's right- stood, as opposed to sat) next to Ira, who would lean over and translate the beginning of prayer meeting (Bible reading, prayer requests, etc). Somehow, even with the language barrier and the fact that we were standing, this time of the week was a stable time for me. I usually ended up tuning out everything that was going on around me and just had my own prayer time with the Lord. I think most of the prayers came out something like, "God, what am I doing? I need help...can't even think of where to begin asking for help...I feel stupid and ridiculous and no one is going to listen to a girl who can hardly say one complete sentence in Russian..." and often the tears would come at that point. Prayer meeting was often quite wet for me.

After one particular prayer meeting, Ira and I were chatting for a second, and she said, "Erin, what's wrong? You don't look like yourself." That did it. I quite literally broke down and just cried and cried. Poor Ira. She didn't even know what to do with me. I tried to say things that were coherent, but mostly things came out like, "...can't speak Russian...hate feeling stupid...got yelled at...can't buy things...don't understand..." Ira was great. She hugged me and let me cry. Then, she prayed for me and said that she just knew that I would speak wonderful Russian by the end of 2 years. That's when I thought, "2 years...that's an eternity."

I wasn't sure I'd make it.

There is a direct correlation between sunlight and attitudes.

The days were getting shorter and darker and tempers were following suit. I could not go anywhere without being grouched out by grumpy Ukrainians who just couldn't deal with my ignorance of culture. I'd ventured out to the bazaar, local grocery stores, schools, church, and on the occasional walk in the increasingly cold outdoors and consistently ran into grouchiness. I was developing thicker skin out of necessity.

I'd been in Ukraine for about 2 months when it was time to mail in my first expense report to the Company who supported my life expenses. I spent about 2 hours trying to ensure that all of my figures were in the right spreadsheet columns and meticulously taping and numbering receipts. I'd given myself a headache by trying (practically futilely, I might add) to read the receipts and determine what each was for. I ended up guessing and praying that my guesses wouldn't result in lack of reimbursement. After buying a washing machine, I REALLY wanted that reimbursement.

It took me a couple of days to work up the courage to take myself to the post office. I'd called Ira and had her write out exactly what I was supposed to say to buy stamps and mail my package. Apparently, it wasn't the kind of thing where I could just buy stamps and stick it in a mail slot. I practiced saying my phrases over and over, feeling like an idiot every time. I felt like an actor in a cheesy spy film, practicing my best "Russian mobster" accent. It was awesome and awful.

On the big day, I bundled up, packed up my paperwork, and headed to the post office downtown. I always really liked this building because of its classic Soviet architectural style. Once I got there, things started off with a bang: quite literally, as I rammed full-force into a door that was painted shut. Why, exactly, do they make for-display-only doors? Everyone in a 10-foot radius stopped to stare. There's not a real way to recover from that.

Once I got inside, I discovered that I loved the architecture inside even more than I loved the outside...and that's where the love ended. I walked up to the first teller that I came to and waited in line. When I got to the counter, I took a deep breath and gave my spiel. At the end of my well-prepared speech, the woman looked at me with a bored, who cares? look and rattled off a string of Russian words that sounded like gibberish. I asked her to repeat, and she said exactly the same thing, only louder. I had to ask again, and this time, I got an angry repetition as well as hand gestures pointing me to a different teller.

Frustrated, I moved to the indicated teller and waited in another line. When I got to the counter, I repeated the same scenario that I had with Teller #1. I was losing momentum as I moved to yet another teller. Before I even began rattling off my speech, Teller #3 fixed me with a cold and piercing stare that cause me to fumble and drop the figurative ball. After I finished butchering my worn-out line, she continued staring but eventually said something and held her hand out expectantly. It caught me so off-guard that I hesitated ever so slightly. Wrong move. The cold stare became a burning-with-hateful-irritation glare, accompanied by a yell of instruction. Thankfully, my brain kicked into gear, and I handed her my package. My confidence had been shattered, unfortunately, and I dropped every coin I tried to pull out of my wallet (Ukrainians usually insist on correct change, so dealing with the coins was absolutely necessary) and even had to chase one across the floor.

After watching her go through a series of mail-related actions that made no sense to me, she looked up at me, spat out some angry-sounding words, and gesticulated toward the door. I high-tailed it out of there and got on the first bus that came by (thankfully, it was going my direction). Once I got home, I pulled out my stash of peanut butter, a spoon, and a disc of Gilmore Girls. The trip to the post office had just wiped me out for the day and left me with no other choice, obviously.

New Friends

Victoria told me that she and some friends would meet me in the Center (of town) at 6:30. I was so excited to have met someone, I agreed without hesitation. It wasn't until I realized that it was dark outside at 4:00 pm that I started to have misgivings about my ability to get to the Center by 6:30.

I left my apartment at 6:00, just to make sure I had plenty of time to get there. I didn't realize it at the time, but I could have left my apartment at 6:20 and would have had time to get there... It was a good thing that I had taken a little extra time, though: a) I wasn't entirely confident in my city-navigation skills and b) I realized when I got to the Center that I wasn't sure of how to cross the street. Crazy as that may sound, it really was confusing. The bus stop is on one side of the busy street and there isn't a convenient crosswalk near the bus stop; you actually have to go underground and cross in an underground mall area. I didn't know this, and it took quite a few minutes of watching other people before I actually figured out what it was I was supposed to do to get across the street.

Once I FINALLY watched enough people disappear into the underground maze and discovered that they were magically coming out on the other side of the street, I put on my big girl suit and followed them. Amazingly, I did, in fact, end up on the other side of the street, in the center of town. Perfect.

The next obstacle to overcome was locating the group of girls I was supposed to be meeting. Earlier in the day, it had seemed to simple. I was pretty sure I remembered what Victoria looked like, but I hadn't factored in the darkness and the large number of college-aged students who would be hanging out in the Center. Oi.

I began wandering, attempting to look nonchalant and confident, while actually starting to sweat about finding the girls. I made an entire loop around the Center without finding anyone and trying to look cooler and calmer than I was. Thankfully, I heard someone call my name. I'd like to think that I pulled off the oh-I-just-walked-up-it's-nice-to-see-you look rather than the I'm-so-relieved-that-you-found-me look.

There were more girls with Victoria than I had imagined- probably about ten. I was a little frazzled at the thought of being the center of attention for ten girls who thought of me as the novelty item. I continued to feel frazzled as they began bustling me- in the dark- toward another bus stop, everyone chattering at me and firing questions about my life. Somewhere between the Center and the bus stop, the group of girls pared down from ten to four...I'm not sure how that happened. Maybe my answers were too passe.

I very trustingly allowed them to shuffle me onto a bus whose destination I did not know. I chatted with them for what I thought was a reasonable length of time for a bus trip across town...but we kept going...and going...and I started wondering if maybe I'd stepped into a Russian spy movie wherein the unsuspecting American gets conned into a spy ring or something. In retrospect, I realize that 17-year-old girls probably wouldn't be the ones to con me. I could be wrong...but I wasn't, in this case.

FINALLY, we arrived at our destination which was an almost American-esque shopping mall. I was so excited! American though it may look, I was quickly reminded that I was not in America when I realized that the entrance to the mall was, in fact, at the back of the building. I would not be exaggerating to say that the bus stop is located 2 football field lengths from the entrance to the building.

Once we were inside, I was thrilled to feel like I was back in the States. Such a rarity! Plenty of light, well-organized stores, brightly colored posters, an ice skating rink! The girls led me to a cute little tea shop that was somewhat reminiscent of a Starbucks. They treated me to tea and cake and several hours of conversation. Many of my worries about how I would connect with girls who were from such a different culture and who spoke English as a second language were assuaged that night. I felt like I was living up to my potential.

I was abruptly shoved back into my Ukrainian reality after leaving the mall: we all crowded into a teeny tiny marshrutka (van-style taxi where you sit on top of everyone and usually end up standing and hunched over) and rode in silence back to the Center. Hours after I'd left my apartment, I returned with a happy heart and new friends.

Introductions

After my brief and harried introduction to Poltava Transportation, I began gearing up for my next hurdle: first day in a college classroom. I was going to have my first classroom experience just a few short days after my trolley lesson, so I made a trial run of getting there by myself the day before I was supposed to be there.

Although Poltava is not a large town, by any means, it does take a while to learn one’s way around. After having lived here for a while, I realize how straightforward most of the city is laid out. However, when I had only lived here for a few days, Poltava seemed to be a labyrinth of scariness.

I carefully counted bus stops and turns between my bus stop and my destination. Because my only exposure to this route had occurred at night, I was unable to recognize the physical landmarks or the names of the bus stops (which didn’t really matter because the stops are not labeled) and was forced to rely on counting stops. I made it successfully to the university, walked around for a few minutes, and then tried to determine how to get back home. I couldn’t locate where the bus stop on the other side of the street was. I walked around, like a lost tourist, for quite a while before I followed a crowd of people who led me to the stop. By the time I made it home, I was thoroughly overwhelmed with the experience, sounds, pushing, shoving, and fast-paced nature of the whole process. However, I had made it there and back.

The following day, I was all full of butterflies and sick feelings. It was to be my very first day in one of the universities, and I had no idea what to expect. There really is something quite dreadful about being alone and terrified; you might be just as terrified if someone else is with you, but at least you can share your terror. I gave myself a pep talk in the mirror next to my door before I headed out. I’m sure it looked funny, but again, I was alone, so who was going to make fun?

I made it to the university, and (after wandering around the corridors for ten minutes, feeling lost and despairing) I found the Director of Language’s office. She bustled me off to a class that was already in session, causing me to feel flustered and awkward. The professor seated me at the head of the class and introduced me. I felt very awkward an unprepared, having thought I would be observing. The professor immediately began peppering me with questions, encouraging the students to jump in. I proceeded to answer questions about myself, my life, my university, my family, and American politics for the next 45 minutes. It was my first experience in fielding questions about which way I vote, how much I make, and how much I pay for my apartment.

The professor did, eventually, redirect attentions from me to the lesson at hand. She passed me a copy of the textbook so that I could follow along. While the students- who happened to be a group of students who study all of their lessons in English, rather than Ukrainian- read from the book and answered questions provided by their professor, I sneaked glances around the group at the table.

There were only about 8 or 9 students in the classroom, and most of them were girls. They all seemed to be so tall and thin. Most had long hair and were absolutely beautiful. The fashion seemed to be skin-tight, straight-legged jeans tucked into super-high heeled boots made from shiny plether. Shirts were flashy and tailored- no sign of a t-shirt in sight. I felt a little frumpy in my practical, flat books and my cardigan. Watching the students’ faces was interesting; I tried to guess what their families might be like and what kind of personalities they had. I also tried to guess which ones looked like they would have been my friends, had I been a fellow student.

I caught the eyes of a couple of the girls while I was making my inspections. We traded hesitant smiles, and I tried not to be creepy. I winked at one girl when she caught me, and she winked back, smiling. As I was so absorbed in my observations, I was caught off-guard when the professor asked me to read a section aloud.

I read a passage about international economics (that I did not understand at all) to the best of my ability. When I finished, they clapped.

“Beautiful. It sounded like music.” The professor asked the students if they agreed. I blushed. “Would you read some more?”

I read several more articles about economics and international management, enduring unwarranted compliments after each.

A moment before the bell rang, the professor encouraged the students to get to know me. She told them it would be wise of them to exchange cell phone numbers with me before leaving so that they could arrange to visit outside of class. She gave them a stern look and encouraged them to meet with me so that they could practice their English with a native speaker, especially one with so nice an accent.

The bell rang, and the class scattered. I was rather disheartened that no one seemed to want to get to know me. I turned to thank the professor, and when I turned towards the door, I saw the Girl who Winked staring at me.

“Hello. My name is Victoria. I would like to get your phone number. Would you like to have tea with myself and some of the other girls sometime?” She smiled and handed me a piece of paper on which to write my number.

“Oh…I’d love to! Thank you!” She smiled again and headed out.

A few hours later, back in my apartment, I got a phone call from Victoria. She invited me to meet at the central monument of Poltava with a group of girls from their class. We would go together to have tea. She had wasted no time in taking the professor up on her admonition. Little did I know that she would turn out to be one of my favorite people from my time spent in Ukraine.

BUSted: Tapping into my fear of public transportation

After 2 days of Mike’s expert handling of the typical Ukrainian run-around, we had signed a “lease” on the Pretty Apartment. Quick as lightening, we moved all of my belongings (including the washing machine that we’d just had delivered and put into place) to the new apartment and canceled the lease with Mr. Wanted-to-spend-the-night-and-thought-it-was-fine landlord.

The new apartment was not only aesthetically nice but infinitely safer. The building was much smaller: only 5 stories, and my apartment was only on the 2^nd floor. Instead of one door from the landing into the apartment, mine had TWO doors with 4 locks and 2 deadbolts. The apartment was immediately christened “Fort Knox.” My first night in my second new apartment was not clouded by tears and fears.

Having cleared the hurdles of moving and settling me into Poltava, the Rays returned to Dnipropetrovsk, as they had their own lives and responsibilities to tend to. As I watched their car pull away, I had a moment of panic: What AM I doing? In a foreign country- by myself??

I calmed down quickly, though. I was armed with quite a stash of cell phones numbers, including Ira’s and two other English-speaking girls, Nastia and Maya. I would have to call one of them in the very near future because I had a pressing need: how to use the transportation system.

I was extremely nervous about this. Public transportation in Ukraine isn’t like public transportation in other European countries. I knew that they don’t post routes or schedules AND that I’d have to learn the areas of the city AND how to read the signs in Russian. All of that was enough to make me sweat. Thankfully, Ira was proactive and contacted me about setting up a time to go over Transportation Orientation 101.

The afternoon after the Rays left, Ira met me at my apartment building, and we went for a walk. We stopped in a small park and claimed a bench to use as our classroom. Before sitting, Ira spread two of her notebooks on the bench, explaining to me the Ukrainian belief that sitting on cold surfaces would cause infertility in women. I tried not to gape at her and sat- rather uncomfortably- on her notebook. Ira began to draw a map of Poltava. She explained the differences in trolleys, buses, and marshrutkas and their respective prices. Thankfully, she clearly labeled the map she was creating for me with the Ukrainian names of the different parts of the city. We made a quick list of some of the places I would need to go on a weekly basis, and she made a list of the different options I had for traveling to each location. I began to get confused, though, when she explained that it was very easy to get on a bus going to a certain sector of the city- by way of the longest route possible. She said it was important to pay careful attention to the order of the stops listed on each sign.

My nervousness returned; I’d seen the signs propped in the front windows of buses and knew that I’d have to be a speed reader (in Ukrainian, no less) to catch all of the places listed. I was just going to have to do some quick memorization.

After our crash course on transportation, we headed off together to Thursday night prayer meeting, which was a new experience in-and-of-itself. Following prayer meeting- with my brain turning to mush because of culture/language overload- a large gang of young adults from the church informed me that we were all going to head downtown, as a practical lesson in transportation.

I thought this was an excellent plan…until we got to the bus stop. I realized that it was exceedingly difficult to read the signs in the dark, and most of the vehicles were zooming in and out so fast that I couldn’t even begin to sound out the words on the signs in the front windows. Trolley #12 pulled in, and we got on. Ira began explaining to me how payments work and about basic trolley etiquette. I was immediately overwhelmed. There were no seats available, so we were all standing. In my case, “standing” translated into rocking- splay-legged- desperately hanging on to the overhead bar (which caused me to swing around like a kid on monkey bars). If trying to remain vertical wasn’t enough, I realized that I was going to have to dig in my purse and find money to pay for my ticket. I still wasn’t terribly familiar with the coins and bills, and I was wary of releasing my hold on anything stable to search through my wallet. In the dark. As I was rummaging around in my purse and frequently falling and bumping into other passengers, I realized that my time in Ukraine was destined to be fraught with humiliating experiences.

And, I discovered all of this before we even hit the tumultuous surface of the cobblestone road. I will leave up to your imagination the image of my attempts to remain vertical on that road...

What Now?

I woke up at 6 the next morning, my phone vibrating on the floor by the bed. My eyes were puffy from crying and my head was throbbing, but everything was better when I answered the phone and heard my mom.

“Hey, Baby. Are you ok?”

I struggled for a second; I didn’t know if I should tell her all of it or if I should smooth it over until I had a brighter ending. I decided to tell her. I tried to keep my voice even so that I wouldn’t scare her. When I finished telling her the story, I had to know something.

“Why did you call me right now, Mom?”

“Well, I just felt like something wasn’t right. I wanted to check on you. Apparently, I was right.” She paused for a second, then said, “I’m going to pray that you move to a new apartment. Today.”

“Mom, I don’t know how possible that will be…”

“I know. I’m going to pray that, nonetheless. In fact, I’m going to give the phone to your Daddy so he can pray about it with you right now.”

A couple hours later when I got up in earnest, my outlook on the day was a little brighter (it couldn’t get too much worse than it had been the night before, I guess). I was significantly comforted by the fact that my parents were praying about my situation and had, doubtless, already called others to ask them to pray about it, too.

My spirits rose even higher when Mrs. Linda told me at breakfast that Mike had already decided that we were going to look for a new apartment. My face must have shown my relief, because she said, “I thought that might make you feel better. I know you were being brave last night, but I knew you had to be terrified. We prayed about it for a while after you went to your room last night, and we felt that you need to move.”

I felt so relieved! However, at the same time, I felt guilty and very much like an inconvenience. With the daylight came feelings of doubt: was it really that scary? Did I make more out of it than there actually was? I knew that those were dumb thoughts, but they crept in anyway.

The three of us met with Oksana a little later so that she could take us to meet the realtor. I felt sheepish and silly; I don’t like having a fuss made about me. I didn’t want anyone outside of the circle to think that I was changing apartments because the apartment wasn’t good enough for me. Several of the church ladies had already been expressing concerns that it wouldn’t be adequate for me, and I most definitely didn’t want that rumor spreading around as fact. Mike had filled Oksana in on the situation, and she was properly concerned for me, fretting and fussing in an attempt to make me understand that life would, indeed, get better.

The realtor took us to the first apartment, and my jaw hit the floor. It was SO nice. Everything about it had a kind of elegance, compared to my Apartment of Disaster. The wallpaper was pretty, the curtains were solid colors that matched the rooms’ décor, and the bathroom was exquisite. No turquoise going on in there. My hope started to peak, and I felt a need to beat it down; I knew there were others to look at, and there was a good chance that I wouldn’t be living in the fantastic apartment I was currently standing in. Before we left, the landlord’s wife (who had been standing on the fringe of our group during the tour) looked at me, winked an I’ll-convince-him-to-sign-you-as-our-tenant kind of wink, and kissed a babushka Kiss of Approval in my direction. The hope started to surge again.

Option number 2 brought me back to reality: most apartments for rent are not the model of beauty that we’d just left. The whole place smelled of cabbage, the bathroom doors didn’t shut fully or lock, the family living there hadn’t packed a thing- making it harder for me to see what was actually there under all of their possessions. I told myself that I should go ahead and look at this one as “home.” It would probably be more in our price range, and it was smaller, which would definitely make more sense, seeing as how there is just one of me.

We didn’t discuss the apartments until we had parted company with Oksana and the realtor and settled in at a pizza restaurant for lunch.

“I think we should try to get the first apartment.”

My heart almost stopped when I heard Mike say that. I couldn’t believe it!

“The prices are the same, and if we take the first apartment then we won’t have to get a second apartment for the Hands-on girls.”

I knew that two girls would be joining me in January and working with me for 4 months. Mike continued, “You won’t mind them living in the same apartment with you, will you?”

“No, sir! Definitely not!” I would be infinitely more than happy to have roommates, especially if that meant the Fancy Apartment rather than the Cabbage Apartment. After this had been decided, I was more able to enjoy my pizza.

After lunch, Mike began the process of trying to make all the right contacts and track down all the paperwork. The more phones calls he made, the more discouraged I began to feel. It seemed like every person he talked to had nothing but bad news for him.

At one point, we were parked outside of the hoped-for apartment building, sitting in the car while Mike made call number 57, and totally unbidden, a song from many moons ago began playing in my head: “God will make a way/ when there seems to be no way/ He works in ways we cannot see/ He will make a way for me/ He will be my guide/ Hold me closely to His side/ With love and strength for each new day/ He will make a way/ God will make a way.”

I hadn’t thought of that song in ages, but as I sang it in my head, I felt inexplicably calmer. Suddenly, I knew I was going to be living in that apartment. I just knew it. For once in 48 hours, I didn’t feel like I was on the verge of tears.

Breathe in, breathe out. LOCK THE DOOR!

Mike escorted me up to the apartment, ensuring that I actually made it to my door before passing out. We said goodnight, and I entered my cheerless, marginally destroyed apartment. I locked the double doors behind me and started to take off my shoes, Ukrainian-style. I was pretty well exhausted, so it took me a minute to figure out what was wrong with my surroundings. On the bench inside the door, there was a bag of potato chips. This wouldn’t normally be strange…unless you’re me. I never have potato chips around because I’m allergic to potatoes. Hm. Maybe one of the workers left that.

When I put my boots on the floor, I noticed something else strange: a pair of men’s shoes. My fuzzy brain rationalized that maybe one of the workers left an extra pair of shoes. That didn’t really make sense, but that was the least scary thought I could come up with. Something started pricking at the back of my mind, sparking me into a more alert mindset.

I began working my way through the apartment, turning on all the lights, becoming more jumpy with each sound. I started registering what I was hearing: tv, the clinking of dishes, a radio (maybe?), someone talking on the phone. I got to the bathroom and saw that the toilet seat was up. I knew that I had not left the bathroom in that state. To the left of the bathroom, I noticed that there was a light coming from under the door to the room that was to remain locked at all times (the landlady’s family used the spare room in my apartment as a storage facility). I stealth-creeped over to the door and nearly died when I heard a man’s voice on the other side of the door.

I ran- Roadrunner-style- into my bedroom and closed the door. Maniacally, I pushed a chair and a trunk against the door and fumbled with my phone to call the Rays. I tried to remain calm, but I’m not sure how well I succeeded. Mike answered, and I said, in a fairly controlled voice, “Um, I’m pretty positive that there is a man in my apartment.” For a fleeting second, I felt like an actress in a horror movie, contemplating what could best be used as a weapon, if it came down to it. Mike said to stay in my room, and he’d be back in a flash.

I sat in my room, praying in fragmented thoughts, trying to breathe calmly. I realized that if the mystery man hadn’t tried to attack me yet, he probably wasn’t a serial killer. Still, I did not want to spend the night in the apartment with him. I shuddered at the very thought.

Mike called me when he was standing outside the door, and I crept back down the apartment hallway to let him in. He went down to the closed door and knocked. He had to knock a few times before the door yanked open. I took a few steps backward at the sight framed in the doorway: a 60-something-year-old man stood there, crazy gray hair, clearly drunk, clutching a bottle of vodka, staring blearily at Mike, and revealing a mouth full of gold teeth.

Mike started talking to the man in Russian, and I continued my fragmented prayers: keep safe, protect, Oh Lord, please, don’t want to live here with him, who? After a minute or two, Gold Tooth took a step toward Mike, gesticulating with his hands and raising his voice. My overactive imagination immediately raced forward, imagining that a fight was about to break out. Thankfully, it didn’t. After a few more minutes, Mike turned to me, almost imperceptibly, and told me to pack a bag for the night. I retreated into my room and shakily started throwing things into the smallest bag I could find. As I was zipping it up, Mike stepped into my room and told me that I was going to go back to the Christian Center to stay with him and Mrs. Linda that night. He also told me not to worry- he’d explain things back at the Center.

I held myself together pretty admirably for a while. I felt pale and shaky, but the tears stayed in, and I was able to talk about things calmly. Mrs. Linda gave me the world’s longest hug and prayed for me before I ducked into my room that night. Mike explained that the man was the landlady’s husband, who had come in from the village to help with the kitchen issues. He decided to stay the night rather than trying to return to the village.

Oh, ok. Well, of course. That made perfect sense…

I got in bed that night and opened my Bible to have a brief quiet time. I was reading 2 Corinthians and stopped at verses 5 and 6: “For when we came into Macedonia, this body of ours had no rest, but we were harassed at every turn- conflicts on the outside, fears within. But God, who comforts the downcast, comforted us.” For the second night in a row, I broke down and cried. And cried and cried. I pulled myself together and then cried some more. I did, indeed, feel extremely harassed, conflicted, downcast, and fearful. It took me a while to calm down enough to look for the comfort in my situation.

I found comfort in several things that night: the Rays were there to care for me. There was a place for me to stay at the Christian Center. The man had not been a stranger bent on killing me. Halfway around the world, my family and friends were praying for me- I just knew it. And, most importantly, I knew I was supposed to be in Poltava, even if it was to be my Macedonia for a while.

With those thoughts on Repeat in my brain, I fell asleep.

Just like Midas- only it's not turning to gold.

I slept fairly well after my cathartic time of unpacking and prayer that first night in my apartment. I think all the crying combined with the leftover jetlag wore me out enough so that I entered a comatose-like state. I awoke the next morning to a beautiful, sunshiny…wait, no; that would be overcast, windy, gray day. I had a new motivation, though, to tackle the rest of the unpacking process. It was going to be a good day.

While I was in the shower, I thought that I heard workers beginning to drill something in the building. I thought that was odd, seeing as how it was only about 7:45 in the morning. As I continued getting ready for the day, the drilling sound grew louder and louder. I decided that they seriously must be drilling right outside my front door. I decided to check it out.

I looked out of the front door and saw nothing, but the noise was most definitely louder. That’s when I looked to the right, into the kitchen, and saw the Refrigerator of Frankenstein. I stood, shell-shocked, watching the refrigerator (which, by the way, looked like it was Soviet-made, too) moving across the floor in the kitchen and making the drilling sound.

All my years of watching MacGyver episodes starting flashing back to me, and I found myself wishing that I knew where my duct tape was. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was going to do with it, but it had to be helpful, right? I decided my first move should be to unplug the refrigerator; I didn’t really have much in there yet, so it shouldn’t be too much of a problem.

When the Rays arrived to pick me up for errand-running, I explained and acted out the fridge situation. Mike also discovered that I had a plumbing problem with my kitchen sink. Basically, I just needed to stay out of the kitchen. He got on the phone and began calling in reinforcements, while Mrs. Linda decided to get me out of the house. Again, I think she recognized the signs of impending emotional trauma.

As the day progressed, more problems arose. Mrs. Linda shepherded me through my new neighborhood, showing me the ropes of using the bazaar, how to store my purse in the locker at the grocery store, where the closest pizza place was, etc. Periodically, she’d call Mike to check on the apartment progress. After every phone call, she skillfully avoided my questions about the “progress” being made and instead directed my attention to a new task. That feeling of impending doom grew stronger and stronger.

Mid-afternoon, Mike took a break from the junkyard kitchen and took me to the local internet provider office to attempt to arrange internet hook up. This was my first experience with the complicated system of paper work and documents that is the foundation for everything in Ukraine. After about an hour of signing, stamping, and relocating offices multiple times, I was told that I would have internet in about 2 weeks. I knew my mother was going to love that two-week delay. I kept reminding myself, though, that I could be in the middle of the desert somewhere with no electricity, much less internet. Surprisingly, this thought did NOT brighten my mood.

Mike eventually explained the state of my kitchen to me; it was necessary, seeing as how I was about to walk into my partially-demolished apartment. He told me that the kitchen pipes had to be replaced. The electrician was going to have to come rework the electricity in the kitchen wall behind the refrigerator. One of the cabinets was completely ruined because of the pipe issue. Oh, and I’d probably be needing a new refrigerator. Gracious goodness- I’d only been there ONE DAY. How could so much have gone wrong?

The three of us had dinner plans with some friends from Salvation Church that night. We put the thoughts of the Disaster Area behind us and trooped off to Andrei’s and Oksana’s. Dinner was great fun! I met Andrei, Oksana, and Oksana’s daughters, Ira and Tanya. Ira’s English is phenomenal, so I was able to carry on a complete conversation with a future friend, which brought great encouragement to my overloaded mind and emotions. Around 10:00 pm, after 3 hours of dinner and visiting, I hit my jetlag wall and became somewhat catatonic. The Rays decided it was best to extricate me and take me home for another crash and burn kind of night. Little did I know that my day had not yet reached its climax.

First Night in Poltava

That first night in Poltava was one of the most memorable nights of my life. I looked around my drab, sad little apartment and wanted to cry. I didn't feel like crying because it was so ugly but because I was so alone. The building was so dark. My eighth-floor apartment was full of dark-colored (ugly) wallpaper and mismatching, (ugly), Soviet-era furniture that was moldy and uncomfortable. The Rays had spent several hours with me, trying to hide rags, broken bits and pieces of odds and ends, and garish sets of curtains that darkened the room considerably.

Mrs. Linda was hyper-aware of the drabbiness and depressing aura of the apartment and had spent the evening bustling around, trying to surreptitiously cheer things up. I think she could sense the loneliness creeping in, even as I was holding it together and assuring myself that the hideous décor could be changed. As most every room in the apartment contained at least one ludicrous piece of decor, she suggested that we travel through the apartment, taking pictures and documenting the absurdity of it all. In my overwrought, overly-tired state of mind, this activity truly brightened my perspective. I was able to release a lot of tension by striking crazy poses and contorted faces in the pictures- my favorites being in the misshapen tub and underneath one of the two sets of mounted antlers in the entryway. As entertaining as that was, though, once the Rays left for the night and it was just me and the apartment, the loneliness settled in in earnest. I was totally consumed with feelings of insignificance and abandonment. I felt the loneliness in an almost physical way.

I occupied myself with unpacking for a while, but I had a hard time storing things because all the drawers and closets were full of the landlord’s possessions…and mothballs. After getting ready for bed in my head-spinningly turquoise bathroom with the rusty appliances and tepid water, I went to clean off my bed.

I’d hastily piled things into my room- mostly onto my bed- in an effort to create walking space. Unfortunately, in order to get into my bed, I had to clean it off. I found the envelope full of the notes that Amiee had gotten people to write me and pulled out the next one. It was in Amiee’s handwriting, and it wasn’t just a note. I fingered the Gilmore Girls dvd in my hands while I read Amiee’s note. She explained that she was including one of her dvd’s in my package because she thought that one particular episode on that disc my bring me some comfort. What a sister!

I put the episode of Gilmore Girls on my laptop and started sorting through one of the suitcases on my bed. Amiee was right- the episode brought me a sense of familiarity and comfort. It kept me from succumbing to the tears that I’d carefully been blocking all night. As I sorted through the suitcases, I found, tucked into a corner of the suitcase, a thick envelope. I didn’t remember packing it, so I was really curious as to what it could be. When I opened it, a stack of cards fell out; each one was covered in my mom’s elegant calligraphy. My eyes watered up as I realized that my mom had carefully cut, calligraphied, and decorated (with fall-related stickers, knowing how much I love fall) dozens of Bible verses. I sat in the middle of the room and cried as I flipped through them all. My loneliness and sense of loss slowly melted away as I read the words of encouragement she had sent me:

Psalm 34:7
“The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear Him, and He delivers them.”

Psalm 37:5
“Commit your way to the Lord, trust in him and He shall bring it to pass.”

Psalm 54:4

“Surely God is my help; the Lord is the one who sustains me.”

That night, I prayed like I’d never prayed before; I was so overwhelmed with realization that this new phase of my life would be full of a struggle with loneliness and that the only way to beat it was to remember Who could sustain me. My entire life to that point had been my training ground- surrounded my family, friends, and a church that taught me truth. Ukraine, though, was going to be my practical.

As I finished praying and dried up my tears, I had a whole new take on life. Things were going to be great. I was going to be fine. I was going to be a conqueror!

…and that’s when I first heard the noises coming from the refrigerator.

I like to write...it's cathartic

I like to write as a way to rid myself of nervous energy. I've started trying to write out significant memories from my time in Ukraine- in narrative format. It's my method of choice. Usually, I just write for my own satisfaction, but I thought I'd put some of it on the blog for those of you who are interested. It probably won't be chronological, and I may not explain things fully sometimes. If you read it and have a question, I'd be happy to answer it! I just want to make sure I don't forget things. I think Ukraine is aging me faster than usual, so I better get started before my memory goes!