Somewhere along my plan to run every day in September, day 22 to be exact, the plan backfired in the form of a slipped disc. I winced in pain on the last lap of my daily regime as I felt my lower back tighten up. I didn’t think it was a real “injury,” just some unexplained tension working itself out. I slowed my jog, stretched, did a few cool-down exercises and walked home. As I attempted to go through the normal evening motions of my life, helping my neighbor with his English homework, watering plants, cooking dinner, and ironing my clothes for tomorrow, I kept taking little stretch breaks, which consisted of me writhing around on the floor in increasing discomfort. I broke down and broke out an ice-pack, took some Advil, and went to bed. The next morning when I rolled over to switch off my alarm, I gasped at the pain in my lower back. After catching my breath, I tried to stand and pain radiated down my back into my left hamstring and my calf began to cramp. Yelping this time I rolled back into bed and onto my side.

A call to the Peace Corps Medical Office felt a bit like talking to a psychic. As I went into my story about the daily jogs and the back tension, the questions were all on target. “Does the pain get worse after you’ve been sitting or laying down for awhile?” “Does the pain also go into one or both of your legs, into your hamstring and calf?” “Does it hurt when you cough or sneeze?” Yes, Yes, and oh heck Yes, I answered. “Sounds like you slipped a disc,” he said.

I was unconvinced, despite the mound of evidence. I’m too young for this, I thought, which was confirmed by Internet research denoting the average age of slipped discs as 30 to 40. Well, that proves it, I said to myself. It must only be a pulled muscle. “Now I’ll just walk over to the kitchen and put some ice on it while I make breakfast,” I decided with confidence. If I had actually been able to get out of bed, this would have been a noble plan for my morning. Instead I floundered around until I submitted to the fact that at the ripe old age of 24, I was temporarily out of commission.

The past two days have consisted of a lot of lounging. My neighbors keep a steady stream of food and other treats flowing across the hall every couple of hours. My favorite of which is a tube of cream that is supposed to soothe sore muscles. It’s sticky and smells like Fruity Pebbles. I wanted to say Fruit Loops. It’s a more universally known reference, but alas as a connoisseur of sugary breakfast foods I must admit it is the pebble and not the loop that best fits this aroma. In between scent-testing mystery creams, I wrote about seventeen articles and proposals in my head. Too bad I couldn’t get into a position where I could hold a pencil or type on a laptop. Instead I was on one side, legs bent, arms spread out, eyes staring at the ceiling or walls. Fortunately I have no shortage of entertainment on these brightly painted, stained walls. I had never noticed the line of lime-green that runs spottily about two feet above the baseboards on every wall in my bedroom. Somehow in the midst of light blue and brown flecks, columns of white diamonds trimmed in brown swirls, I missed the green sideshow.

The ceiling has its own problems, with three sunken rows presumably from water damage on the next floor, and then there are the spots. Dark red spots, in the upper right corner of the ceiling (as viewed from a prostrate position on my bed) that resemble blood. I came up with a whole story, lying there unable to wander into more exciting quadrants of my apartment. Maybe there was a flood upstairs, a man, diving through the rushing waters to save his children hits his head on an unseen kitchen stool, knocking him unconscious, thus the water/blood combo. OK, so they look more like watercolor spots, but then again the blood would be diluted from the floodwaters…

Now it’s Day 3, and I can finally, with the aid of two pillows, sit upright in an armchair and type. I know you’ve already been reading for a while, and I appreciate that, but I’ve been incapacitated for the last 48 hours just organizing all this in my head. Trust me, there’s still a bit to go. Get a cup of coffee, take a 7th inning stretch, and park yourself back here, because below are three of the best stories I’ve never told.

There’s no cake in prison

I know I haven’t exactly had a difficult life, growing up in the suburbs with my nuclear family, getting a car on my sixteenth birthday, wrecking it a year later, then it was off to college, and so on and so forth. But the hardest thing I’ve done thus far in my sheltered little life isn’t pumping water from a well or hiking to school in the snow (uphill both ways!) in Ukraine, it was picking out a birthday card at Hobby Lobby. For a man in prison.

When I was a student at Baylor, I was also a mentor for at-risk youth in Waco. The program was specifically for kids of incarcerated parents. My childhood fascination with Alcatraz spilled over to my adult life in the form of a passion for prison and prisoners. Tanya* was my mentee, and we didn’t exactly get along swimmingly in the beginning. But, two years after we first met, we had fallen into a sort of rhythm; the kind where I asked questions, prodded, let the silence hang, and she did her best to humor me by answering half the time. She didn’t have parents to rebel against so I was the next best thing. I tried to keep up my end of the bargain and I hassled her about her homework, who she was hanging out with, and what she did after school. I’d even ask her friends what they wanted to be when they grew up and what their favorite subject was in school, to Tanya’s infinite embarrassment. And pride. I knew, like any 20-year-old surrogate parent of a teenager, that she secretly liked when I asked all those annoying questions. She needed to know that someone cared. So as a grand finale of sorts, for Tanya’s 14th birthday I asked her what she wanted. I said, “What would you like for your birthday if it could be anything?” She thought about it for a whole minute (as she liked to say), and then came up with this gem. “You know, I want one a dos parties, like in da movies, with balloons and sh–, stuff, and evrabody will come and we’ll eat cake. I never had one a dos parties befo’.” Now I got really excited about this idea, not just because Tanya had actually thought about and answered one of my questions, but because she had a good, feasible idea that we could do together.

So one day after class I picked her up in my Honda with the list of supplies we had made last time and our estimated budget. I was teaching her economics, event planning, catering, and best of all, she was really excited about it. We headed into Hobby Lobby visibly giddy and grabbed a cart. She popped a wheelie on it and disappeared down one of the aisles. I chased after her; shooting stern looks to assure the clerks I was in control of the situation. But who was I to ruin this moment? She was literally a kid in a candy store. On her almost birthday. I found her pouring over birthday cards. “Hey, Tanya, you don’t need to buy a card for yourself,” I said half-jokingly, half-wondering if this was one of those things having your dad in prison confuses you about. “I know, dummy,” she said. “It’s for my Dad. His birthday’s next week. So’s my grandmas. We was all born in June. We cool like that.” I tried to play it off, “Oh, great, well let’s just pick one out then,” I said nonchalantly.

Thumbing through the brightly colored envelopes and glittery cards, we searched for the perfect one. May all your dreams come true! said one card with a beach sunrise in the background. “Nope, dat ain’t gonna work,” Tanya said matter-of-factly, “He locked up, how his dreams gonna come true?” She grabbed another one with a picture of a father and daughter on the cover, inside it read Number 1 Dad! “Pshhh, he know dat aint true, shooooot, been behind bars since I was two,” she said to no one in particular, but the after-work crowd in pleated khakis and loafers took notice. I smiled to the alarmed strangers and patted her on the back, “Let’s just keep looking, OK? Something’s bound to work out.” The next card read, It’s your birthday, do whatever makes you happy! “Ha,” she said. “Yeah right, can’t even get a piece a cake on his birthday. There ain’t no cake in prison, ya know?” We went through every card in the humor section, and were halfway through the father-daughter section when we found it: a birthday card you can give someone in prison. With balloons on the cover and an outline of a dad and child holding hands, the inside read, No matter what, you’ll always be my Dad. Happy Birthday. Statement of biological fact. We have a winner.

I wonder if the author of this card had prison birthdays in mind. Clearly there was an acknowledgment of a complicated relationship involved, but it got the point across with a little birthday flair thrown in. I think a tacit goal of the greeting card industry is not to apply to prison, I mean really, it’s not a hallmark moment. But even inmates have birthdays, and families, and kids, and don’t they deserve a bit of cheer, albeit tempered? I’m glad one of those cards fit the occasion, even if it meant somewhere a greeting card writer was a realist with a dad in prison. After that, the rest of our shopping trip was a piece of cake.

Wash me white as snow

Since picking out a birthday card for a prison was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, this next story is about the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. I wouldn’t want to ruin the bleak picture I’m painting here in between the four stained walls of my Soviet-Era Apartment.

In Ivano-Frankivsk, Ukraine there is practically everything you could ever want for sale. There are big box stores with two-ply toilet paper, sushi, mangoes, post-it notes, and so much more. There are electronic stores with laptops, desktops, toasters, blenders, DVD players, and the greatest invention of all, washing machines. The sad thing about these stores is that everyone is dying to get in them, but no one can afford to buy anything. It’s like a museum from the future. Teenagers walk around, ogling the flat screen TVs and touching all the buttons on the stereo systems. Couples walk hand-in-hand, a lover’s stroll down row after row of amazing inventions from the 21st century.

But while the stores are bustling, the checkout lines are not. Cashiers chat on their cell phones, fix their hair and play with the pricing gun. They should really start charging an entrance fee, selling tickets, giving guided tours, maybe even have a gift shop with miniature, non-functioning versions of the gadgets. But then, people probably wouldn’t come in droves, and it wouldn’t even have the semblance of a store anymore. People like her wouldn’t come in just to look if they had to pay. People like her would stay at home. I wish they’d started my capitalistic plan the day before I needed a birthday present and wandered into the electronic super store. Maybe then I wouldn’t have her image stuck in my head.

I hate going into this store. I see all the shiny appliances, their convenience shouting at me, “I could save you so much time! I am easy to clean!” I drown them out and head to the toaster aisle. My friend Molly lives in a dorm. She doesn’t have a kitchen so much as she has a hot plate and a refrigerator. The hot plate heats up painfully slow and renders the task of toast an affair to remember. I figured the least I could do was spring for a toaster on the day of her birth. Even inmates had properly toasted bread, right? So I looked down the long row of toasters, and picked the cheapest one. I meandered around the museum, wiped dust off the paper shredders, and headed for the deserted checkout line. The cashier was startled by my presence and began to ask questions, “You’re going to buy that?” she wanted to confirm before getting too committed. “Yep,” I said. “I need to get the manager,” she said and sprung forth from her swivel chair.

As I waited for her I surveyed the museum, expecting to find the usual suspects. Instead I saw a slight old woman with a hunched back. Her wool sweater, pantyhose and silk kerchief were about 2 months too early in the climate calendar, but she didn’t seem to notice. She clasped her wrinkled hands together and peered at the washing machines. Oh how she peered. Leaning over the edge, nearly touching the lid with her unsteady hand before drawing it back up to meet the other one against her chest. She dawdled from one model to the next, squinting to read the fine print, but mostly just admiring the machine. This magical machine that cleaned clothes and bed sheets, and curtains and had the power to turn a full day’s worth of work into a few short hours of painless, effortless waiting. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. I tailed her from behind the row of microwaves, stealing glances at her earnest, hardworking face. And I ached. How many loads of laundry had this woman personally scrubbed and rinsed and rung out in her life? How many days, weeks, months would that time stack up to be? And there it was. Technology’s answer for hands chapped and cracked by the constant work of washing. Right there within her reach. And yet, not. She took one last glance at the shiny white boxes with silver dials, and walked out of the store. Despite how much change she had undoubtedly witnessed in her life, she was still stuck in the past, the 21st century just beyond her grasp.

With a fork jabbed in my eye

OK, enough with the depressing stuff. Nothing drives away the gloom like Baby Jesus and a pile of fake snow. I love a good Christmas party. The cheap tinsel, the decorated tree, the holiday cookies, it’s all so jolly and predictable. You know what you are getting when you are invited to a Christmas party. If you like that sort of thing, you go. If you don’t, well, it’s easy to avoid. The holidays are a busy time.

I personally try to attend as many Christmas parties as possible. I even organize a couple to keep my count up there. There are work parties and house parties, charity parties, and church parties. They all have their distinct and subtle codes of law, but an experienced holiday party-goer like myself needn’t be reminded of them. It’s common sense. Alcohol at the work and house parties, none at the church or charity ones, games at all, although of varying kinds suitable to the chosen crowd, and of course presents at all. Whether it’s a Secret Santa, a raffle give-away, or the sacred White Elephant bit, someone always gets a present. It’s Christmas. I usually have a pretty good handle on my party etiquette, but I also have this tendency to take things a little too far, for the sake of comedy of course.

To me, a good prank isn’t a shoe-polished car, it’s shoe-polishing your friend’s car that just starting dating a new girl with “Just Married!” and tying tin cans on the bumper, preferably while he picks her up for dinner and a movie. Don’t be too hard on me; they ended up tying the knot a year later. You’re welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Stewart. One of my life mottos besides “Always be prepared,” (those Boy Scouts know what they’re doing), is “All’s well that ends well,” if only that applied to this next story, I might have told it sooner.

It’s somewhere between December 24th and final exams, during my freshman year of college, a special time of discovery and merriment. I had been attending a Methodist Church off-campus since the first week of school with my sister Amber, a wise ol’ senior, and a finance major nonetheless. She knew people who already went there, and I had a crush on a guy in the college Sunday school class. It was a match made in Heaven. By the time Christmas rolled around we were regulars. The theme for our Christmas party was chosen democratically: White Elephant. The people had spoken.

I remember my first White Elephant party. It was for my high school journalism club. Yeah, I was that cool. I got a box of wheat thins, and gave a set of fake press-on nails. The problem was, my gift ended up in the hands of the effeminate male sponsor of the club. He told me to “Back off, sister!” This was my first miss-step at a White Elephant party, but certainly not my last.

Amber and I arrived at the party, gifts in hand, fresh from a run to Wal-Mart. We giggled and placed them under the tree before heading to the kitchen to fill up our plates. We found a table with some of Amber’s friends and settled in. I’m pretty sure they were talking about boring business-people-in-training topics because I don’t remember much of the conversation, until one girl started talking about beauty pageants. “I’m just saying I’ve been in beauty pageants before, and I don’t think she could compete,” she said smugly as she forked a piece of apple pie.

She was a pretty girl, but so obviously career-driven and professional I was surprised she had a staked interest in such an activity. As the conversation evolved to new topics, investments, arm wrestling, Argentinean wines, I realized she was just extremely competitive about everything. I decided to have some fun. As I goaded her about her beauty pageant credentials, she had complete confidence in every answer. I kept pressing, in the spirit of Christmas, relentless Christmas, until finally she blurted out, “I could beat that girl with a fork jabbed in my eye!” I had successfully taken it too far, or perhaps she had, and we hadn’t even gotten to the presents yet.

We gathered around the tree and someone in a particularly festive sweater laid down the rules. “Take a number, we’ll start with number two. Pick a present, open it, then the next person can either steal a present already opened or choose another one. Presents can only be traded three times. You can’t take it back from the person who took it from you. Number one goes last.” Except for the last part, this didn’t seem very Biblical. But the man’s sweater lit up, and he had perfectly coifed hair. I didn’t argue. What’s great about White Elephant parties is that inevitably someone doesn’t understand the basic premise. They won’t admit it though, instead they go out and buy a legitimate present, wrap it up, and lay it unsuspectingly under the tree next to self-help books by professional wrestlers and furry lampshades. God help them. They don’t know any better. What happens next is that everyone wants that present, the real present, no matter their ability to use it or not. It’s new, almost always with tags, and it doesn’t belong in the dollar bin at Wal-Mart. An instant craze is born.

We went through a few presents of clip-on ties, giant, used candles in shapes of mythical creatures, and an inflatable toilet seat, before the infidel was revealed. A pair of warm, wool, Ug Boots. Size 6. Everyone oos and awws, as a 19-year-old man looks over his new shoes with pride. “Well done!” people shout, in spite of the fact he couldn’t get these boots past his ankles. When Ms. Congeniality is up, she steals the present, the first kill of the night. Her dainty feet would love to walk the runway all snug and warm in those hideous things. She proceeds to try them on and proclaim a perfect fit. “Of course, they don’t make much sense in this climate,” she kindly advises her fellow gift-grabbers. “But hey, they’re my size. I’ll take them off your hands.”

As the night goes on, she has successfully fended off all potential suitors with wisecracks about the impracticality of fur-lined boots in Waco, Texas. There she is, the champion of the night, and she didn’t even have to jab a fork in her eye. There’s a knock at the door and the head Pastor walks in, along with our Sunday school class teacher and his prepubescent daughter, Stacey. They smile, shake hands, and take a seat. The game continues, a snake beanie baby, an actual lump of coal, a pair of tube socks. Yawn. Next up is an older gentleman, the man of the house, he sweetly offers his number to Stacey. “Go ahead,” he says. She looks at all the already opened gifts, but the lure of what might be hidden in newspaper or tin foil beneath the tree is too strong. She goes for a small gold bag. I shoot Amber a glance. “That’s ours!” I tell her urgently with my eyes in our telepathic sister language, “and it’s highly inappropriate!” Just five minutes ago and it would’ve merely been funny, with no minors in the room or senior church staff, we would’ve had a good laugh and been done with it, but noooooo.

She pulls out the tissue paper and dumps the contents on the ground. Starkly, yet festively, contrasted against the green Christmas tree skirt, were red fishnet stockings, with a black silhouette of a busty woman in heels on the packaging. Amber and I continue our silent conversation across the room,” We should apologize,” she says. “Are you crazy?” I respond. “This room is full of college guys, we are in the clear here. Be cool.” The pastor scratches his head, and starts to laugh. Nervous tension released. Stacey smiles and holds them in her lap. Quick, who’s up? Somebody open a new present and distract us. An elderly man in the back raises his number in the air, “I think I’m next,” he says, “and I’d like to see those boots.” Subject officially changed, all eyes flew to the boots. “Sure,” she said smiling. “Try them on!” But they weren’t for him, a loophole. “I think they’ll fit my granddaughter just right,” he says. It’s always a crowd-pleaser to mention how you will give the gift to someone else, and anyone with “grand” in the title is a trump card. This was one night our fork-eyed contestant had to settle for first-runner-up.

I made the mistake of watching Love Actually, a Christmas movie, in early December. I thought it would help put me in the holiday spirit. I hadn’t really counted on all the cultural references to traditions I was missing, and the general theme of the importance of being home for Christmas. When the movie ended, I felt remarkably further away than ever before. But I still had enough of a sense of humor to laugh at how my best idea to cheer myself up had backfired.

As the days increased in number, and the 25th got closer and closer, my interest grew. Just what would my first Christmas in Ukraine look like? Ukraine is officially Greek Orthodox Catholic, meaning that they celebrate Christmas on January 7. I learned that I would be attending work on December 25, and this disturbed me greatly.

I pictured myself going through the day just as any other. But, I hadn’t counted on the enthusiasm of my neighbors and fellow English teachers for the American holiday. On December 23, my neighbor came over with a handwritten-note from her 14-year-old grandson, “Will you go to the Holy Supper with us tomorrow?” it said in neat, cursive letters. Her family was Roman Catholic and would celebrate Christmas on December 25. I enthusiastically accepted the invitation and my mood lightened a bit imagining that I would be at a church on Christmas Eve after all.

The dinner was served in traditional Ukrainian fashion, with gigantic portions, exactly twelve dishes, and plenty for everyone. After a delicious supper of borshch, fried fish, mushroom soup, potatoes, fresh-baked bread, beet salad, and a half a dozen more dishes I can’t remember, it was time for church in Ivano-Frankivsk, a neighboring city. The snow had been falling all day, but it picked up speed in the spirit of Christmas and I marveled at the size of the flakes falling before my eyes.

The church was absolutely packed, and we made our way to the standing-room only section on the left side of the sanctuary. As I took in the view Christmas trees and nativity sets, I listened to the hum of Ukrainian prayers offered aloud by kneeling babusyas. There was an interesting blend of the familiar and the foreign before me, and I smiled thinking of how shared experiences, no matter how small or large, bring people together. Still, I had a feeling this wasn’t going to be the most familiar of services.

Despite the fact that it was a Roman Catholic Church, I was in a different hemisphere, with a new climate, culture, and language to contend with. I said a little prayer that there would be at least one thing in the service that would make sense to me and give me a feeling of home. As I opened my eyes, the church went dark. Candles were lit and passed down the aisles. Then, the organ played Silent Night. I let out a soft chuckle. God was just showing off by opening the service like that. And it’s a good thing He did because the entire service was conducted in Polish, and I didn’t understand a word of it. I think He knew I would need the encouragement at the beginning to make it through two hours of Polish standing up.

Toward the end of the service I got another glimpse of home when we exchanged the peace. To be honest, I wouldn’t have known what was going on, but I guess I was giving off an American radar signal because a young man turned to me and said in English “Peace be with you.” I returned the sentiment in Ukrainian, and we both laughed. As we shuffled out of the church, the big wooden doors swung open and snowflakes started swirling inside. 

I awoke on the next day filled with hope for my first White Christmas. I threw back the curtains with anticipation, and I was not disappointed. Trees were bent with the heavy weight of snow, and my windows had the kind of frosty frame that we buy in cans in Texas. I switched on some Christmas tunes and snapped photos from every window in my apartment before enjoying a cup of hot tea and watching the snow fall. I was awakened from my silent reverie with the reality that I had to go to work today. I bundled up, grabbed some homemade gifts for my colleagues, and started my hike to school.

I opened the door to the English Teacher’s lounge and was greeted with many wishes for a Merry Christmas. As I handed out burned CDs with Christmas carols, their faces lit up like children’s. But then the mood changed, “We didn’t get anything for you!” they cried. I assured them that their countless acts of hospitality in the past two weeks were more than sufficient, but they were unconvinced.

“We must get you a TV,” one teacher said. “And the Internet,” another chirped. “Today?” I asked incredulously. “Yes, come with me,” they said. “It’s Christmas, we’ll see what we can do.” And, in perfect Christmas-miracle fashion, by the time the school bell sounded I had both a working television and access to the Internet in my apartment.

I don’t think I’ve been this excited about a Christmas present in a long time. I’ve rediscovered the beauty of the world wide web in a way I never imagined that I could, but three months without it gives you a new perspective on the genius of Google, the immediacy of e-mail, and the wonders of 24-hour news updates.

My training site was in a village of less than 5,000 in the Northeast of Ukraine. My permanent site is a city about twice that size in the Southwest. Instead of predominately Russian, I have Ukrainian. Instead of the plains, I have the Carpathian Mountains. Instead of having a host family, I live alone,although that’s a relative term when you’re the first American in town.

Yesterday no less than five neighbors dropped by to see if I needed anything and to bring me food, curtains, and a teapot. My apartment was sparsely furnished when I arrived a week ago, but it has been steadily gaining bits and pieces of home décor. I’m a television set and a kitchen sink away from the lap of luxury.

The good think about joining the Peace Corps right after college is that you don’t have a lot of luxury in your memory bank. Not only is my apartment the biggest place I’ve ever had to myself, it’s also the first time I’ve ever lived “downtown.” Granted, downtown in a city of 10,000 isn’t exactly NYC, but it beats the dorms and the suburbs.

From my bedroom window I can see the beginning of the Carpathian Mountains, and from my kitchen I can see the golden domes of a traditional Eastern Orthodox Church. I’m a five-minute walk away from my school, and just about anywhere else I need to go. If I have a craving for peanut butter or avocadoes, I’m only a fifteen-minute bus-ride from Ivano-Frankievski, an Oblast Center (the Ukrainian word for biggest city in the region).

I’m the first volunteer in my city, and I’ve been welcomed like a celebrity. The principal of the school met me at the train station and drove me to town in her car. After settling in and meeting my neighbors, I was fed a delicious breakfast at school and introduced to everyone as “Our American.” Although the names and faces are a little jumbled in my head right now, I have never felt more appreciated of cared for by such a large group of strangers before.

No matter who I speak with, young or old, male of female, they all inevitably ask the same question: What are you doing here? My landlord is completely boggled by the fact that I have left my family, friends, and country for two years to live in the former Soviet Union. My favorite version of the question was phrased this way over dinner: I know why Ukrainians go to America, but why do Americans come to Ukraine?

When the daylight is short, the wind is cold, and the electricity functioning intermittently at best, it’s sometimes hard to answer. But, when a neighbor invites me over for borshch, or a child stops to greet me in the street, I remember what the mission of the Peace Corps is all about. I’m not here as a political figure, or to try to change Ukraine. I’m here to be a friend, to spread a message of peace and understanding, and to teach English to the next generation of Ukrainians. To many of the people in my city, I am the first American they have met. The fact that I’m here, learning Ukrainian and having a cultural exchange with them is invaluable in their eyes and mine.

At our Swearing-In Ceremony in Kyiv, the U.S. Ambassador to Ukraine, William Taylor, spoke to us about the history and future of Ukraine. He talked about how the whole world is watching this new democracy develop, and that we all have a stake in how it turns out. Proficiency in English is just one way that Ukrainians can become a bigger player in the world market.

My training site was in a village of less than 5,000 in the Northeast of Ukraine. My permanent site is a city about twice that size in the Southwest. Instead of predominately Russian, I have Ukrainian. Instead of the plains, I have the Carpathian Mountains. Instead of having a host family, I live alone,although that’s a relative term when you’re the first American in town.

Yesterday no less than five neighbors dropped by to see if I needed anything and to bring me food, curtains, and a teapot. My apartment was sparsely furnished when I arrived a week ago, but it has been steadily gaining bits and pieces of home décor. I’m a television set and a kitchen sink away from the lap of luxury.

The good think about joining the Peace Corps right after college is that you don’t have a lot of luxury in your memory bank. Not only is my apartment the biggest place I’ve ever had to myself, it’s also the first time I’ve ever lived “downtown.” Granted, downtown in a city of 10,000 isn’t exactly NYC, but it beats the dorms and the suburbs.

From my bedroom window I can see the beginning of the Carpathian Mountains, and from my kitchen I can see the golden domes of a traditional Eastern Orthodox Church. I’m a five-minute walk away from my school, and just about anywhere else I need to go. If I have a craving for peanut butter or avocadoes, I’m only a fifteen-minute bus-ride from Ivano-Frankievski, an Oblast Center (the Ukrainian word for biggest city in the region).

I’m the first volunteer in my city, and I’ve been welcomed like a celebrity. The principal of the school met me at the train station and drove me to town in her car. After settling in and meeting my neighbors, I was fed a delicious breakfast at school and introduced to everyone as “Our American.” Although the names and faces are a little jumbled in my head right now, I have never felt more appreciated of cared for by such a large group of strangers before.

No matter who I speak with, young or old, male of female, they all inevitably ask the same question: What are you doing here? My landlord is completely boggled by the fact that I have left my family, friends, and country for two years to live in the former Soviet Union. My favorite version of the question was phrased this way over dinner: I know why Ukrainians go to America, but why do Americans come to Ukraine?

When the daylight is short, the wind is cold, and the electricity functioning intermittently at best, it’s sometimes hard to answer. But, when a neighbor invites me over for borshch, or a child stops to greet me in the street, I remember what the mission of the Peace Corps is all about. I’m not here as a political figure, or to try to change Ukraine. I’m here to be a friend, to spread a message of peace and understanding, and to teach English to the next generation of Ukrainians. To many of the people in my city, I am the first American they have met. The fact that I’m here, learning Ukrainian and having a cultural exchange with them is invaluable in their eyes and mine.

At our Swearing-In Ceremony in Kyiv, the U.S. Ambassador to Ukraine, William Taylor, spoke to us about the history and future of Ukraine. He talked about how the whole world is watching this new democracy develop, and that we all have a stake in how it turns out. Proficiency in English is just one way that Ukrainians can become a bigger player in the world market.