You Can't Go Home Again
Last night my clustermate called me. She had just gotten back from a trip to the States and she wanted to talk about it. She had a glorious time. First home to Mass and then off to Orlando with the family.
She then told me about the trip back to Ukraine, which included crying uncontrollably in the security line at the airport. "What's wrong with me?" she asked, "I didn't cry when I left in October." "That's because you didn't know what to expect," I responded, knowing all too well the difficulties of coming "home" after settling in. "You're right," she said, "it was an adventure then..." Uh huh. It's reality now.
She then narrarated all the hardships she encountered once at home finding her kolonka turned off after getting into a cold shower and then accidently getting stuck in her bathroom, having to literally break down the door; going to the phone company to ask about her intnernet service only to find out she owed them something like $40 when she had paid before she left. And not getting information about how to reinstall her internet either.
Stuff like this happens all the time, but after coming back from the States it can be just a bit too much to handle and breakdowns are only natural. We all have our limits and they are almost always pushed.
My own personal trial is the train station. I don't mind waiting for trains and I'm pretty comfortable with the process, even when I have to go all the way to Odessa, which still a pain, is okay. I'm talking about buying the tickets, which several of you already know about (as I texted Leah about the agony I was going through and how close to death some on-lookers were). It just takes forever, and there are always people around breathing down your neck and even my cheat sheets that I always make (they look like this: 4 Август Ник-- --> Кривий Риг) and pass to the Kaca lady don't always work. Sure, you may not read Cyrillic but you get it. The date, where from and to. Never easy. So then, while I wait in an endless line that literally keeps getting longer before I get closer to the window, I become the most arrogant and impatient foreigner known to Ukraine. I hem and haw saying "This is ridiculous!" outloud to myself, wondering why I just can't buy my tickets online like a normal American in America would do. People come up to me and ask questions which I never know answers to, then someone outs me as a foreigner and it becomes funny to everyone there but me, as I just stand and scowl at them all.
I once had a kaca lady tell me she was on an "English break" and shut her window after I had been waiting in line for at least a half hour. Guide books muse that this is Eastern Europe's charm, these non-customer service oriented Soviet throwback work ethics, but I swear it is my kryptonite and I think at times it will break me.
The moral of this entry: While I may be having a great time here and learning a lot, it can still at times be a major pain in the ass, which is only made worse by thinking "in America..." Such comparisons are not fair and uncalled for and more times than not, ruin my day. It's not hard to go home. It's hard to come back.
She then told me about the trip back to Ukraine, which included crying uncontrollably in the security line at the airport. "What's wrong with me?" she asked, "I didn't cry when I left in October." "That's because you didn't know what to expect," I responded, knowing all too well the difficulties of coming "home" after settling in. "You're right," she said, "it was an adventure then..." Uh huh. It's reality now.
She then narrarated all the hardships she encountered once at home finding her kolonka turned off after getting into a cold shower and then accidently getting stuck in her bathroom, having to literally break down the door; going to the phone company to ask about her intnernet service only to find out she owed them something like $40 when she had paid before she left. And not getting information about how to reinstall her internet either.
Stuff like this happens all the time, but after coming back from the States it can be just a bit too much to handle and breakdowns are only natural. We all have our limits and they are almost always pushed.
My own personal trial is the train station. I don't mind waiting for trains and I'm pretty comfortable with the process, even when I have to go all the way to Odessa, which still a pain, is okay. I'm talking about buying the tickets, which several of you already know about (as I texted Leah about the agony I was going through and how close to death some on-lookers were). It just takes forever, and there are always people around breathing down your neck and even my cheat sheets that I always make (they look like this: 4 Август Ник-- --> Кривий Риг) and pass to the Kaca lady don't always work. Sure, you may not read Cyrillic but you get it. The date, where from and to. Never easy. So then, while I wait in an endless line that literally keeps getting longer before I get closer to the window, I become the most arrogant and impatient foreigner known to Ukraine. I hem and haw saying "This is ridiculous!" outloud to myself, wondering why I just can't buy my tickets online like a normal American in America would do. People come up to me and ask questions which I never know answers to, then someone outs me as a foreigner and it becomes funny to everyone there but me, as I just stand and scowl at them all.
I once had a kaca lady tell me she was on an "English break" and shut her window after I had been waiting in line for at least a half hour. Guide books muse that this is Eastern Europe's charm, these non-customer service oriented Soviet throwback work ethics, but I swear it is my kryptonite and I think at times it will break me.
The moral of this entry: While I may be having a great time here and learning a lot, it can still at times be a major pain in the ass, which is only made worse by thinking "in America..." Such comparisons are not fair and uncalled for and more times than not, ruin my day. It's not hard to go home. It's hard to come back.
posted by Molly | 3:33 AM
1 Comments:
Oh, I think that she knew. We don't get many female English speaking tourists where I live.
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