I realized I’ve been wearing the same clothes to work out in all week. I know to you this probably sounds disgusting, but it didn’t even register on my scale of abnormal. The clothes still smelled like laundry detergent. It seemed sacrilegious to throw them in the hamper after a mere 60 minutes of physical activity.

I went to a class at the gym on Wednesday morning. In lieu of a description, there was an acronym on the schedule “24 S.E.T.” For those of you who are as culturally illiterate as I am, I will enlighten you. It’s an hour workout on “The Biggest Loser” television show, and it is not for the fainthearted. Nor is it for those who haven’t picked up a dumbbell in 15 months. I was huffing and puffing like Joe Camel. The techno music and florescent lighting didn’t help.

My experience at the gym isn’t far off from my latest reassessment of American life in general. Both are loud, bright and clean. I left the gym with my head spinning and took refuge in the quiet, dark car, wearing my two-day-old shorts and T-shirt.

One of the things I missed most while in Ukraine was Church. I’d try to recreate the experience with music and Bible reading in my apartment, but I was really longing to be back in an American pew. Well, I got my wish. Sitting in a stadium style seat in Dallas, Texas, I was shocked by how cultural the whole experience was. I know, that’s what I said I was missing, American Church, and that’s exactly what I got. A blueprint of the new, hipster house of worship, complete with a chatty young minister wearing jeans and tennis shoes and confessing his former addiction to porn. Ah, pornography the most fashionable of sins. Drugs take it too far, sex is too political, but porn is just the right amount of naughty to be a permissible confession from the noticeably non-pulpit. This is an admittedly critical reflection of what I’m sure was a genuine worship service for many middle to upper class predominately white Texans. I just couldn’t get into it.

Since church isn’t about what makes me feel good but instead about worshipping and glorifying God, I decided to keep going. Not to the specific church in question (I don’t live in Dallas), but to another imperfect church for imperfect people. After the service, I decided to hit up a Sunday school class. What I really value about the church is the blending of age groups and sharing of wisdom. I don’t want to go to a class filled with people like me. I’m with me all the time. I know how I think. So I picked a class called “Blended by God,” and listed for “All Ages.” As I walked into the room I noticed young couples, older singles and then a familiar face, a high school friend’s mom. “Claire!?!? What are you doing here?” she exclaimed. Feeling slightly put off by the unwelcoming tone, I responded, “Going to church?” a little unsure of myself. “But you’re in the wrong class! This is Blended by God,” she said in exasperation. I tried to reason with her, “Aren’t we all blended by God?” Then she gave it to me straight. “This is for divorced families and remarried people.” Oops. That euphemism was a little too vague for culture-shocked me to pick up on without someone spelling it out for me. I need a lot of spelling out and directness these days. Americans are just too polite to give it to me.

A week after I landed in Houston, I have already counted six people in their pajamas in public. I stare at them with an open mouth and judging eyes. Shaming them in the Ukrainian fashion. To be clear, I’m not talking about sweat pants. I mean legitimate nightwear: flannel fabric, patterned designs and drawstrings. After the high-fashion world of Ukraine, I find this appalling. I got stares for wearing flats, albeit nice leather ones, instead of heels. But this is too much. Of course, I quickly remembered several pre-Peace Corps experiences where I dawned nighttime garb outside my own four walls. I wore pajamas to take finals, to elementary school on several rebellious occasions, and undoubtedly to make a quick run to the store once or thrice, although I don’t particularly recall it.

My first full-day in America, my sister and I were going to get Tapioca Bubble Tea at the mall.

Pause for respect of the Bubble.

I emerged from my room in jeans, a round-neck sweater, and some slip ons. “Oh, you feel like dressing all cute,” my sister said from her hoodie and workout pants.  She reluctantly put on a pair of jeans. What’s funny is that I had purposely chosen a casual outfit. But after strolling around the mall, I realized by comparison I had in fact, dressed up.

In other fashion news, moms wear tennis shoes and chew gum and look and act remarkably like their children. I am trying not to be annoyed by this. Honestly, I don’t know how I missed this stuff before. Or why it should bother me. Such is the confusing world of being shocked by your own culture.

On a happier note: Grocery Stores. Wow. I grazed the gargantuan produce section, chuckling at both the selection (watermelons in December!) and the presentation. Misters rain down from above, sprinkling fruits and vegetables for extra shine and appeal, and all items are scrubbed to perfection to begin with. In Ukraine, not only do we eat in season (which has its benefits, I know, I know), but the food in stores is covered in dirt. I mean, if it came out of the ground, you can tell. Beets, potatoes, onions, carrots, etc are caked with earth and displayed haphazardly in bins. Presentation, what presentation? You know food tastes good. Why bother enticing you with bright orange carrots or brilliant beanstalks?

My first few days have been a sensory feast. Besides the optical offenses and delights, I’ve been amazed by how many good smells are in this country. I hug people and catch a whiff of detergent. It is enchanting. A walk around the neighborhood with my family (how wholesome) left me sniffing after dryer sheets. It’s not that everything stunk in Ukraine. It’s that I rarely noticed smells that weren’t food related. And yes, some things like trash heaps and crowded buses did not emit a pleasant aroma. But everything from pillows to carpet is scented to me now. I find myself walking into a room and taking a deep breath, and smelling people’s necks when I hug them. I probably should work on that last part.

Filling 21 days is a daunting task, but I’ve been doing my best to stay entertained. The reopening of the best wireless café in town has helped exponentially. While this is far from a holiday for many people, for those of us who are still healthy, it oscillates from feeling like prison to one big party. With 25 national holidays, Ukrainians rarely need to invent reasons for celebration. But I can’t tell you how many times I’ve raised my glass to the quarantine in the past 14 days. It’s never meant to be offensive. We are genuinely thankful for another day of health, another day of rest, and of course another excuse to crack open a spirited beverage.

I’ve never written a post about a Ukrainian holiday. This is not for a lack of them. It’s exactly the opposite. There are so many and the celebrations are so elaborate and exhausting that I don’t think writing about it can do them justice. But with another unscheduled week on my docket, I thought I’d give it a shot (pun intended).

Should you find yourself with about eight to 12 hours to kill and at least ten of your closest friends, then you would have the beginnings of a Ukrainian party. The entire party takes place around the table, guests seated and dishes rotating. The host spends the morning/day/night shuffling back and forth from the kitchen to the dinning area. The number of dishes served is generally seen more important than the quantity of any one dish. For example, your serving size of each salad is only a few spoonfuls because there are four or five of them. The host will rotate around, rinsing off plates between courses. The table is blanketed in salads, soups, and bread items first, then meat dishes, more salads, and other vegetables and fruits. Finally, after about six hours of this, you are ready for dessert, which will be several cakes, ice cream and chocolate, served with tea or coffee.

During all of this, you will be toasting the holiday, your host, your country, your favorite soccer team, etc with shots of liquor, preferably vodka or cognac. This must promptly be washed down with a choice of items including homemade juice, carbonated water, pickles, brown bread, or, a crowd favorite, pig’s fat, salted, peppered and sliced, called “salo.” Everyone is allowed and encouraged to make toasts, but only one person can pour the drinks all night. It is custom for it to be the man of the house, but any old Y chromosome will do. There are a few breaks throughout the party for which you are permitted to leave the table: dancing is always encouraged, and answering your cell phone is not considered rude. The men take several smoke breaks throughout the party, and the women often rearrange the plates or help in the kitchen when this happens. The rare man who doesn’t smoke becomes the darling of the night, getting more attention and time with the women than any of the others.

One of my more memorable Ukrainian party experiences was on New Year’s Eve 2008. In my experience, NYE is pretty overrated. The excitement builds until midnight and about half an hour later people start heading for the door. I think Ukraine is possibly the only place NYE celebrations are bigger than the hype. I was wholly unprepared for this level of festivity. At about 2 a.m. I noticed everyone getting coats and shoes on. I had been dosing in my seat and was thankful for the exit opening. I gathered my things and headed outside with all the other guests. But to my surprise instead of leaving, we were grilling shish kabobs in the snow. Nothing like a nice marinated stick of meat before you hit the hay. Had I known the party would continue until 2 p.m. the next day, I probably wouldn’t have considered it a bedtime snack.

While all other parties pale in comparison to an 18-hour bash, the last night in my training village where the owner of the local bar opened a case of champagne and turned on a strobe light as we were trying to exit certainly makes my list, as do all the in-school celebrations that still shock my western sensibilities. My favorite quarantine bash had a four-course dessert that I will not soon forget. With my vacation to America coming up next month, I wonder how our celebrations will stack up. For one thing, I know I’ll be shocked when the meal ends after only an hour or two.

I’ve always enjoyed telling a good story. And my lot in life has cast me plenty of them. My friends and family often remark that an inordinate amount of strange things happen to me. As far back as I can remember, I’ve come home saying, “You won’t believe the day I’ve had.” My ability to find trouble, redemption, and humor all before lunch led my family to categorize my stories as “Claire’s World.” They didn’t come up with it entirely on their own though. I penned that phrase in an elementary miniseries about talking monkeys, tree houses, and babies left in baskets on doorsteps. Basically all the things I thought were missing from my slice of reality. While my penchant for creative writing was short-lived, the phrase stuck. So when I’d call home from Baylor with my famous—and on occasion infamous—refrain about my day, my parents were amused but never surprised. My time in Ukraine has been full of stories. There have been enough goat attacks, (yes, plural), classroom shenanigans, public transportation adventures and language debacles to keep the phone bill exorbitantly high. But lately I’ve encountered something truly bizarre. I don’t feel like I have any stories worth telling. My days are normal and uneventful. In my eyes at least.

It’s 9 p.m. in Ukraine, which means it’s lunchtime in Texas. I’m online chatting with my sister Amber. “What’s new with you?” she asks. “It started snowing this week,” I reply. This was the single-biggest event of my recent history. I was truly appalled when white chunks of ice and powder started cascading from the sky on October 13th.

Autumn, I hardly knew thee.

About thirty minutes passed before Amber grew tired of my descriptions of the barren landscape. “So what else is happening?” she prodded for a subject change. “Oh, not a lot,” then I thought a little harder. “I did get detained by the police this weekend,” I replied. “WHAT?!?” she said. “Spare no detail!” I really wasn’t that pumped about telling the story. For me, it had seemed pretty uneventful, barely worth mentioning. “It’s really not that exciting,” I told her and began to recount the humdrum tale.

My friends and I had decided to take a trip to L’viv to commemorate our first year in Ukraine. We arrived in the city, guidebook in hand, early Saturday morning and hopped on a tram. “This is fun,” my friend Molly said. “We don’t have these in Frankivsk.” After buying three tickets, we took our seats. It had only passed one stop when a woman flashed her badge at us and asked to see our tickets. Smiling, we produced them. Law-abiding citizens that we are, we felt no concern with her request. She told us that we hadn’t followed the rules and needed to pay a fine of 60 UAH. We actually understood her Ukrainian perfectly, but needed a logic translator. How could the tickets be wrong? We bought them on the tram, and besides, we had only gone one stop, even if we bought some low-level ticket, it surely took you this far. Another woman showed up, and they were in no mood for conversation. They began to shout and point to their badges with increasing hostility. Fellow passengers came to our rescue, “Leave the girls alone,” one man said. “This isn’t how we treat people in L’viv.” Sensing they were outnumbered, the badge-welding women demanded that we exit the tram with them.

Out on the street, the confusion escalated. We called our Peace Corps Safety and Security Officer, who is like a magician when it comes to getting Volunteers out of tight spots. They refused to speak with him. Straight-up wouldn’t do it. After about ten minutes of this impasse and us still in the dark as to our alleged crime, we had a stroke of genius—We put him on speakerphone. Suddenly, they couldn’t help but talk. Our victory was premature, however. After a few minutes they stopped and said, “That’s all. I can’t say anymore.” Apparently there is a strict code of secrecy among tram ticket checkers. Although highly tempted to just walk away, at the advice of our SSO, we followed the women to the police station. He assured us it was not a big deal and he would be able to sort it out better with the police.

We walked into the station and the officer looked up kindly at us. Molly flashed a big TV Reporter smile and said “Hello.” Immediately he asked, “Where are you from?” Molly answered, “America.” Now the women were getting even more upset. “They can speak Ukrainian, you know! Don’t believe them if they say they can’t.” To be fair, it did seem prudent at that time to play the I-don’t-speak-the-language-card, even though we had understood nearly every word they had said. Our Ukrainian hadn’t helped, and had somehow landed us in a police station so we decided to fall back on our mother tongue. When I felt a Ukrainian answer was completely necessary, I purposefully spoke with errors. I doubt this had any bearing on the final outcome, but after a few short minutes at the station, we were free to go. And told to make sure we time-stamped our tickets next time we rode the tram. Apparently you can go one stop without it. So the public defenders of L’viv had watched us buy the tickets and waited until we “broke the law” to fine us.

“Like I said, it wasn’t that big of deal,” I typed. But Amber’s digital laughter and exclamations left me doubting the dullness of this story. It did have all my usual components: trouble, redemption, humor and a noon expiration date. Somehow, it had flown below the story-worthy radar. Then I realized this wasn’t the only lead I had buried lately. There was the broken-down bus with a leaking roof that tried to drop off all fifty passengers an hour outside of town, my neighbors who only wash their clothes on delicate cycle because they are afraid of the noise and motion their new washing machine makes, and of course the combination water-gas-electricity outages that accompanied the snowstorm. All of which sound perfectly mundane in my head until I get them down on paper.

One of my friends likened my situation to a disaster zone. “Oh it’s not that bad,” I assured her. Upon further reflection I realized lack of light, heat, and water would probably qualify as a disaster in most parts of the world, but all it meant here was that the students wore gloves in class and we shortened each lesson by fifteen minutes. My family is incredulous that I don’t have pictures of any of these so-called calamites. But it seems weird to take pictures of my ordinary life, even if I am wearing a rain jacket inside a bus while a steady stream of water pours over my head. It’s just another day in Ukraine.

It’s been a year of borshch and bucket baths, Ukrainian and Russian, snow, flowers, sun, and falling leaves. It’s been a year of independence, serious and often painful growth, increased confidence, and grit. It’s also been 365 days since I hugged my parents, ate an enchilada, drove a car, went shopping with my sister, or stepped foot on American soil. I know I’ve experienced a lot in the past year, but I’ve also missed so much, like the births of a new little cousin and Riley’s niece, my dad’s knee surgery, and my sister’s baptism. Although I’m thankful for the ways I can stay connected, there’s still a huge feeling of distance from my family, my friends, and my country. It’s almost like there are oceans between us. Oh wait….

Of course, I know it is inevitable that when I return to America I will find myself missing parts of Ukraine. My school, my neighbors, my friends, and my community are so much a part of my life now that it’s hard to imagine not seeing them everyday. Volunteers have a tendency to go one of two ways—they either love everything about Ukraine and are really critical of the US, or it’s the complete opposite. But there is no perfect country. America gets some things wrong, as does Ukraine. So in a nod to honesty and fairness, I made a Top 10 List of the “Best of Both Worlds” to commemorate this auspicious occasion.

1. Organic Food—in Ukraine this is just called “food.” Everybody has their own garden roughly the size of football field and after work as a teacher, a doctor, a lawyer, a hairdresser, or a grocer; they go home and harvest their crop. My friend Svitlana is always amused with my lack of farming knowledge. “Do you know what that plant is?” she asks, hoping I will come through for once. I go for a Ukrainian staple, “Beets?” I was wrong. “It’s potatoes!” she says laughing. That would’ve been my next guess.

I never learned what food looks like coming up out of the ground. Besides corn, I’m totally inept at identifying stalks. While I was initially skeptical of the wonder of natural food products, I’m officially a believer. You know that when you eat a slice of bread in America, it sticks together where you bit out of it, leaving a sort of seal? Bread’s not supposed to that. And it also shouldn’t last for weeks. We put a good deal of chemicals in the dough to make it do all those things. It’s kind of a hassle to buy bread every other day, but it’s a small sacrifice to make considering the difference in taste and texture. Don’t even get me started on organic eggs. The yolk is orange. It stains stuff. And it is amazing.

The list goes on, homemade juice from nothing more than apples, plums and a dash of sugar (which, by the way, could never be confused with salt here, as the granules are totally different in size and shape), milk that turns into sour cream and later butter, ketchup and mayonnaise that put our versions to shame—even their condiments taste better. I do miss the convenience of the American kitchen (and the American life, for the matter), but the quality and freshness of Ukrainian food is something we could—and should—take a cue from. No, we can’t all become farmers, but we can make more of an effort to know what’s in our food and where it came from.

2. Patience—This has definitely been one of the most painful lessons in Ukraine. Waiting. On practically everything. Nothing happens overnight here. Or at least nothing that you want to happen does. I wake up to the water or the gas turned off, but not to a repairman at the door. Although at first every unknown detail set my heart aflutter, I think with each uncertainty I’m becoming less anxious. After having no water in June, I keep about 80 liters of water stored in bottle and jars in my apartment now, a fifty percent increase from my previous reservoir. So when the water was switched off all last week, I was still able to wash dishes, clothes, and my own body. Getting anxious doesn’t make anything happen more quickly, however being prepared makes it more bearable.

Ukrainians have plenty of practice at being patient. But this virtue is not uniquely theirs. In “Three Cups of Tea,” co-author Greg Mortenson calls patience “the most important lesson I’ve ever learned.” Mortenson builds schools in Pakistan and Afghanistan to educate children, especially girls, in rural areas. “We Americans think you have to accomplish everything so quickly. We’re the country of thirty-minute power lunches and two-minute football drills. Our leaders thought their ‘shock and awe’ campaign could end the war in Iraq before it even started,” (p150). There’s no telling what calamities, personal or professional, we could avoid with a little more patience.

3. A Healthy Dependence on Family—What strikes me most about the difference between how Americans and Ukrainians relate to their families is the complete lack of stigma in Ukraine of being too attached to your mom. Case in point, a ring-tone that sings, “My mom is calling.” I am not even kidding. It says that in a tiny child’s voice. Loudly, over and over again. “Who’s calling? It’s your mom, your wonderful mom is calling, answer, answer, because your mom is calling.” Can you imagine this tone selling once in America? Yet it is a crowd favorite here. I’ve heard it on everyone ranging from 10 years old to 35. I couldn’t believe when I heard it go off in an 8th grade class and no one laughed.

They aren’t ashamed that their moms call them. And they call often. They announce it to the world, with pride. “Yeah, that’s right, Mom’s calling. Jealous?” they seem to say as the smugly take the call. It’s a running joke in America when someone gets a call that it’s probably just their mom. This is one of the many cases where American humor doesn’t translate to Ukraine. While I think the idea of everyone talking to their mom five or six times a day is a bit much, I do believe that Ukrainians understand more about what it means to be a family than Americans do sometimes. There shouldn’t be shame in taking care of each other, of knowing when you need any kind of help, and when you are in a position to give it to do so willingly and sacrificially. I think American families could stand to trust each other more, to depend on each other for more.

A key difference in Ukrainian culture is that children are raised to be dependent on their parents. A good child is one who returns home after college and takes care of the house, the garden, and the aging parents. I’m not suggesting that American society stop raising its children to be independent, but I do think there is a middle ground our lives would be richer for finding.

4. The European Workweek—OK, if I’m honest with myself and you, faithful reader, I must admit that I’d take the European Workweek over organic food for the rest of my life. The amount of free time you have while still working “fulltime” is nothing short of magical. Granted, life processes take a lot longer here. I can easily spend a whole day washing one load of laundry and cooking three square meals. But I can do that in my pajamas listening to Coldplay. A full schedule for a secondary school teacher in Ukraine is 18 hours, with one day a week completely free. You are also only at school for your lessons, if you don’t have a class until 3rd period, you stroll in the door at 10:30 a.m.

While I only have firsthand knowledge of an educator’s schedule, my friends here in other professions have a good bit of free time as well. Instead of a tipped scale, there’s an actual work-life balance. I still can’t get my mind around the fact that if you work 40 hours a week in America, that’s considered a really good schedule. And only two weeks for vacation? The whole year? Yikes. You get 31 days here, standard, and some professions get more. This doesn’t include the 25 national holidays.

5. Toasts—I don’t think I’ve ever shared just how different the drinking culture is in Ukraine. It’s quite the production. Like most aspects of life here, it’s a group activity. And merely being together doesn’t cut it. You have to drink every sip together, and with a toast no less. There are rules though, and it isn’t as arduous as it might seem.

The first toast is always to “the meeting” whether it’s friends meeting after work, or to celebrate a birthday or one of many holidays, the first toast goes to the occasion. The second toast is to “us” or to friends in general. It’s a play on words in Ukrainian and doesn’t translate in English. The third toast is always to women and love. There are several anecdotes shared the men usually stand while they are told and as they toast the women. I won’t translate the anecdotes here as I consider this a family show. The fourth toast is supposed to be to men, but by your fourth shot of vodka it become less important what the toasts are for exactly.From then on it’s pretty much a free-for-all of glass raising. I’ve heard toasts to America, to Borshch, and to vodka itself. The important thing is not to forget to make a toast, never mind the reason. And of course never to drink alone.

The fun part about this group mentality is that everyone gets the same amount of tipsy at the same time. There’s not the one guy who pounded the bottle and is making everyone else uncomfortable, nor is there the guy who doesn’t drink and is making everyone else a different kind of uncomfortable. Everyone’s in it together. While I don’t want to take the tradition back entirely, (I am looking forward to vacation from vodka) I do like the idea of making toasts to mark holidays and as a show of appreciation for friends.

6. Trust—No matter what isolated complaints you may have about government or law enforcement in the US, overall we trust them to do their jobs. Corruption, bribes, extortion, these are things we are shocked to discover, things that are publically shamed. In Ukraine, they are sadly still a way of doing business. To find an honest politician or police officer is the exception, not the rule.

One of my friends is in the process of “buying” her house. Even though they built it themselves and own it, they don’t technically have an address or official papers from the local government. In order to receive mail and have official standing in the community, they have to go through a process of forms and signatures. And bribes. Sitting on her kitchen table there was a pile of goodies including chocolates, cognac, vodka, gourmet coffee, and lace napkins. “Whoa,” I said smiling, “What’s all this for?” It was really an innocent question. I assumed she had a party or a friend’s birthday coming up. She pursed her lips. “What is it called when you give someone something for doing something for you?” she asked. “ A payment?” I offered. “No, no,” she said. “When it isn’t legal. Something below the table.” It hit me, “Oh, you mean a bribe,” I said a little embarrassed. “Yes! That’s it. How do you spell it,” she asked as she grabbed paper from the cabinet, and proceeded to label the stash in perfect cursive penmanship “Bribes.”

There is a recent advertising campaign with billboards proclaiming, “Don’t take bribes.” This moral directive goes without saying in America. It’s not that people don’t still use bribes. They most certainly do. But at least they are forced behind closed doors and live in fear of being caught. It’s not something you’d say, leave out labeled on the kitchen table.

7. Unnecessarily large beds—Yeah, I said it. They are unnecessary. That doesn’t mean they are any less enjoyable. Beds are like practically everything else in the former Soviet Union: space efficient and utilitarian. Low to the ground, slightly smaller than a regulation double bed, with no springboards or pillow-top mattresses. There aren’t even fitted sheets. The package with my T-shirt sheets remains my favorite and most-used.

While we’re on the topic of largess, how about the plate size in America? It is HUGE. My friend Natalya has family in New York and they mailed her some fancy paper plates that she brought to a summer picnic. We thought they were platters. We seriously started piling all the fruit on one and the bread on another until she told us they were our plates. It was bigger than my face, and none of my food touched. If you think our shock at the size is funny, you should have seen us when she tried to throw them away after the meal…

8. Chairs with backs—Oh, how I miss the back. Stools and benches reign supreme here, especially in the kitchen. If you are lucky enough to own chairs with backs, you only break them out for special occasions when you are eating in the living room. Daily furniture is almost always backless, and the few chairs that might have backs and are in regular use are often turned at an angle to fit in a small space, rendering the back useless. Maybe this and the bed thing contributed to my slipped disc…

9. Reliability—I think this is the ying to the patience yang. I am glad for the patience I have acquired here, but I miss the reliability of American life. Not just in running water or electricity, but in every sphere of life: business meetings, social gatherings and politics. If we set a date for an election, it will take place on that day. If you have a meeting that’s going to start at 10, it does. There’s a calming power in the predictable, one that allows you to plan for the future, to set goals and meet them, and to improve your quality of life. Flexibility is still important, even when you have the well-oiled wheels of America turning right on schedule, but having predictability will be a welcomed change of pace when I return home.

10. Individualism—I miss this most of all. Individualism exists in Ukraine, only it’s highly suspect and often shunned. Parents don’t question their children, “If your whole class jumps off a bridge, are you going to follow them?” The conversation is more likely to go, “Your class jumped off a bridge today, and just where were you?”

Doing what everyone else does was a survival mechanism in the Soviet Union. All being a creative artist, a critical writer, or an original thinker got you back then was a one-way ticket to Siberia. One of my older colleagues passed me a tattered English handbook of grammar during a meeting. It had been her father’s, before he was sent to Siberia under suspicion of being an intellectual. She wanted to share it with me, and tell me what kind of man he was. “He said the only place you can really be yourself is in your mind. They can take everything else away, they can hold everything else against you, but what you keep inside is really yours, it’s really free,” she said through teary eyes.

So this is the legacy of Ukraine, centuries of war and subjugation, leaving its citizenry understandably hesitant to stand out from the crowd. And here I am, the girl who for years wore clothes inside out, refused to comb the back of her hair, and carried bird bones in her pocket. I felt the need to be an individual in America, so you can only imagine how here I long to wear my tennis shoes to run errands, smile at strangers, and encourage my students to speak freely in class and help me pick topics for our lessons. All of these practices break the Soviet mold and make people nervous.

I go through spells where I get all gussied up before I leave the house even if I’m only running to the post office across the street, or I walk through town with a stone-cold expression that matches the stare of my peers. But more often than not, I hate myself for playing along. More than fitted sheets, large plates and chairs that aren’t stools, I miss the wealth of encouragement to be myself that is ingrained in the American psyche.

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.

As a writer, I admittedly have a limited knowledge of science, math, and business principles. But, as a writer, I get the benefit of everyone else’s knowledge. I love sitting across accomplished individuals in fields I could never begin to work in and taking away the gems of their experience. They may have spent the last twenty years working on a new theory but by the time I leave, I can explain it in 500 words or less. Journalists are full of little talking points about politics, natural disasters, scientific discoveries, and yes, even economics.

If I could pick any field to understand perfectly it would be economics.  This, by the way, was true before the whole global financial crisis. I’m not a bandwagon economist. I’ve always been curious.  And pretty much out of my league. Knowing my own weaknesses, I am always happy to consult greater minds. One of my favorite sources when I worked for The Baylor Lariat was an economics professor, a wiry man of about 95 lbs and infinite patience. I liked him so much I even used my last three hours of elective credit to take a class at the Business School: The Economics of Poverty and Discrimination. Really, I’m not that person who takes one psychology class and starts diagnosing people as passive aggressive or having issues with their mothers. I know my understanding of economics is limited but that doesn’t stop me from participating in the conversation.

“I’d like to bring a watermelon home to Nazar,” my friend Svitlana said on our vacation in Crimea. “He loves melons.”  While I personally have seen her son devour delicious fruit on a number of occasions, her statement shocked me.  We were about 500 km away from home, without a car. We were about to walk several kilometers with our luggage, get on a crowded bus for two hours, then walk some more and board a train for 30 hours. Adding a five-pound fruit to the equation didn’t add up to me. “But it’s so heavy.” I said. “And we can buy watermelons at home.” Her look of incredulity matched mine, “But they are cheaper here,” she said. “And it will be a present from Crimea.” Sound bytes of my college economics class came flooding back, the opportunity cost of not having to carry a watermelon for the next two days surely outweighs the five percent discount. By using her energy to carry that watermelon for 300 miles, she is forfeiting some pretty valuable rest time in my opinion. Ultimately she decided against it. It was a rare victory for the opportunity cost of time in Ukraine.

Buying notebooks in Ivano-Frankivsk, my friend smirked and pointed to the price, “6 UAH,” she said, “It’s 11 UAH in Tysmenytsya.” Ever the bargain hunter, I bought two. But as we were walking out of the store, a thought came to me. When you factor in the 5 UAH bus faire and the 30 minutes of traveling roundtrip, it’s at least the same price, if not more expensive.  I tried this thought on for size with my friend in a less matter-of-fact-way.

ME: It’s great that we got the notebooks so much cheaper here.

HER: Yes, it is great.

ME: But what about the bus faire? Doesn’t that even things out?

HER: But Frankivsk is prettier than Tymenytsya, and we can go the big bazaar here.

ME: True, it is more interesting in Frankivsk, and the time it takes us to get here is worth it.

HER: I never thought about the time.

Time isn’t money in Ukraine. The whole model of economics that assigns a monetary value to free time is irrelevant in Ukraine. It’s quite the luxury to see life that way.  This principle is center stage in the Ukrainian kitchen. It takes about three hours to make veriniky from scratch. This meal is a staple here, especially in winter. It’s akin to ravioli but has a taste and texture all its own. First, you mix ingredients for the dough, then you knead it for about five minutes. Then you flatten it with a rolling pan, tear it into little strips and stuff it with cheese, meat, potatoes, or fruit, all of which you have probably personally grown, seasoned, and grinded. Or, you can go to the store and buy a package of verinky for 8 UAH.

After cooking veriniky once on my own, I was completely surprised that I am the only one of my friends who buys it at the store. To them, it’s basically free to make it. Three hours is absolutely worth 8 UAH to me, despite the fact that I won’t make any money in that time spent reading, watching TV, or going for a jog.  I get paid in relaxation. I never thought of this idea as “American” or “Capitalist,” I just thought of it as economic common sense, the basic motivation behind all the decisions we make: What does it cost me? What do I lose when I chose one option over another? It’s not that Ukrainians don’t operate under the idea of opportunity cost; they do. Only time isn’t even in the equation.

I get more than my usual dose of stares from moms pushing newborns in strollers and kids playing cards on the bleachers, but I also have—without fail—been flagged down on the track every single day since I started this little ritual. I’m talking hands-waving-blocking-my-path-flagged-down. Usually, it’s an older man telling me that I’m a woman and shouldn’t be sweating so much. I am not kidding. They are very concerned. However, I have had a couple of more interesting callers. There was the man on a bicycle who questioned my form, (I like to run with my thumb tucked under my pointer finger. I don’t know why, it just feels good to tuck), and another older gentleman who stopped fishing to tell me that it’s better for my health to run in the morning, specifically 6 a.m. I’ll take my chances with evening runs. A sweaty, nervous young man named Oleg ran up from the bleachers one day and stated in English “Stop, please, You are an American, yes?” He wanted information on the English Club. And, finally, there was Oksana, my favorite flag-down to date.

In belabored English she told me to come to the school gym. “Now?” I asked. “Now,” she answered as she took my arm and led me off the track. I was halfway through my workout and stopping mid-stride left me breathing heavily and dripping sweat all over her. She released my arm. “This way,” she said. “Gym. Monday, Wednesday, Friday. 25 hryvnia. All month.” With my interest growing, I asked her what we would be doing. “I lived in New York. Two years,” she said beaming. “I lived in USA.” I congratulated her, and repeated my question. “One hour,” she said. “People come,” then stopping for emphasis, she said “Women. Women come.”

We made it upstairs to a small room with wooden floors and mirrors on one side. She removed a workout mat and 4 lb weights from her bag. “Next time,” she said. “You bring.” She looked at her watch. “6 o’clock,” she said shaking her head. “Ukraine.” For the next ten minutes I couldn’t really understand her. She angrily made calls on her cell phone and often hung up mid-sentence. Finally, two women came in the door. “Aha” she said judgmentally, and we started.

With music blasting over a crackling radio, four women embarked on an aerobics class of sorts. To be fair, I’ve never been to an aerobics class in the states. So perhaps my presence there would feel as foreign as mine did here. But I respectfully doubt that. We started with a simple warm-up of stepping and arm-circles, this quickly escalated into something resembling kick-boxing, and the next thing I know I’m being handed a large wooden stick. This is where the workout gets a little more, well let’s say provocative. After doing untold things to the stick, we picked up makeshift weights in the form of Sprite bottles filled with sand. Enter Tae-Bo. Right hook, left hook, kick! Repeat. We continued this pattern with few variations for about five minutes. Then she pulled out her mat. The other women had towels. I had my Ipod. I run light. Oksana frowned and laid her jacket on the floor beside me. I really think I would have been better off just straight-up on the floor. The jacket was quite slippery. And the zipper hurt. But Ukrainians have this thing about not ever, ever, sitting on the bare ground.

The same goes for not having open windows. Fear of the draft and cold surfaces is stronger than a fear of fire or heights here. So I slipped and slid all over the place as I attempted to honor the culture and keep pace with the class. It was a constant struggle. While holding poses and pulsing our abs, Oksana would ask questions in English. “What does my shirt say?” she asked. “I love making waves,” I read with amusement in between reps. After an hour, this combination workout-English lesson came to an end, and I was exhausted.

I wonder who will flag me down tomorrow.

Parts of the intensely shared life that is my reality are endearing.  Sitting at a table that would be uncomfortable for six in America, there are at least 10 people, elbows touching, plates wedged in at all angles. There’s never a question of enough space. Entire families live in single rooms, people sleep in armchairs, you eat standing up, but you never consider inviting less people over.  In a teacher’s meeting at school, I searched for where the English faculty had congregated. I shuffled over to the back corner, stepping over the physics department, and giving a cordial nod to the geography teachers. I slipped in next to my three friends.  It was halfway through the meeting before I realized we were only using two chairs. Personal space is as scarce as a tortilla chip in Ukraine. But it’s  not only the physical that’s compacted, it’s mental and spiritual spaces as well.

Coming home from my favorite corner store, my neighbor called out to me from her balcony. “I have mail for you,” she said. “From Aaaa-merica.”  She always sings America, giving it a mystical, cheerful quality that I’ve come to revere.  I scamper up the steps, drop off my eggs and bread, and walk into her apartment. “It’s a lot this time,” she says excitedly. “Dance! Dance!” I do a little jig and hand her a souvenir magnet from Crimea. She holds it in her hands like treasure and passes over my stack of mail.

“That one is pictures,” she says pointing to the biggest package which was bulky and heavy. Her grandson Vadik speaks English and read the customs declaration, which was partially honest but purposefully vague. “This one’s from your Riley,” she says winking at me, “and the last one’s not interesting, it’s just work stuff from Washington.” While I’m truly grateful that she picks up my mail when I’m out of town, the unbelievable part is that she not only scrutinizes every envelope, she expects me to open my mail in front of her. If I start to leave or hesitate to rip into them under her watchful eye, she makes small talk about the stamps or the address labels and guesses what she thinks is inside. Despite the fact that opening someone else’s mailbox is a felony back home, I can’t deny her.  Although practically blind and completely illiterate in English, she’s just too earnestly interested in my personal correspondence. I give in. She claps her hands together and hums as I tear across the seal. I translate partial phrases, summarize main ideas, and describe the pictures. She holds the letters in her hands and squints with a magnifying glass for any familiar word. “Ukraine!” she cries at a letter from my friend Janice in the package reportedly containing photographs.

I reveal two large bags of contraband Swedish Fish. My absolute favorite candy. I immediately open one and give her a handful. She squeezes one between her thumb and pointer finger. She smells it. She plops it in her mouth. Chew, chew, chew, chew. Swallow. Gasp! “Was that gum?” she asked with concern pointing to her intestines and making an X with her arms. I assure her it is safe to consume, but she goes back to the kitchen and shows me a pack of gum. She shakes her head and points to her stomach. Even though I have a pretty decent Ukrainian vocab, there are still words like digestion and water soluble that I  don’t know. I pop four fish into my mouth and chew them up. “Mmmm,” I say. “It’s okay, really. You’re supposed to eat them.” Suspicious yet intrigued, a common emotional combo for her, she extends a small coffee cup for me to fill. “For Vadik,” she says.

My two weeks in the Black Sea came complete with an advanced course in group mentality. Traveling in a group of four, I assumed we would have two rooms of two. Instead we pulled two extra beds into one room. It didn’t save any money. The rate was per person. They just wanted to all be together. All the time. We woke up at the same time and ate the same meals at the same time. If someone bought a bottle of water, the first thing she did was offer it sacrificially to the group.  Regardless of the inevitable culture clash of traveling as the solo-American, it was a unforgettable trip. Over wine one night, my 33-year-old friend, a mother and wife, who traveled for the first time without her husband or son told me something I can’t stop smiling about. “I feel that I’m different since you came here” she said. “I feel that I became stronger.” That one comment was worth every shared seat, letter, and drink in Ukraine.

Believe it or not, being engaged and in the Peace Corps is not the easiest thing in the world. When I started dating Riley, I was finishing my application to the Peace Corps. I remember questioning rather to even include the fact that I was in a relationship since it was so new and seemingly tenuous. Little did I know a year and a half later he would be flying to Ukraine to propose.  Life is full of surprises

The last six months since he popped the question have been exciting, depressing, humorous, confusing, and wonderful all at the same time. The fact that I can plan a wedding from 6,000 miles away is cool. The fact that I only see my fiancé on a computer screen is not. The pain of missing him is compounded by two factors: firstly, everyone is always telling me how sorry they feel for me. This makes me feel sorry for me, too. I mean, really, who goes and gets engaged and then lives in another country for two years? This is illogical, I hear all the time. And then I start to believe it. I see my friends get engaged, shop for dishes and curtains, and get married. In less than a year. Spending nearly everyday together. I get more cynical. That’s the way it’s supposed to be, I tell myself. This is cruel. Which brings me to my second point.

The Peace Corps is not the Marine Corps. I can leave at anytime. It’s my choice to be here. I’m not a masochist. So why don’t I just go home? Live in the same time zone as Riley, pick out china patterns, and be married by Christmas. Well, there’s this tiny little detail. I actually don’t think that I just chose to be here. I feel useful, needed, and challenged in Ukraine. I believe God wants me here. It should make it easier that Riley thinks that, too. But it doesn’t always. I routinely forget this vital fact. And when it smacks me in the face, I rebel against it. The other night, I was talking to Riley and admitted that I just really wanted to come home. I said I wished that instead of doing web development work, he had a steady job with health benefits so he could support us while I looked for work in the states. I said I didn’t know how much longer I could be away from him.

I was coming from a pretty selfish standpoint. I missed him. I missed laughing together and eating ice-cream and watching Cowboys games. But, he came from a different place. He said half-jokingly, “Maybe God knows if I had that kind of job right now you’d come home, and I really think you’re supposed to be in Ukraine right now.” Joking or not, it struck a chord, and I knew God was trying to tell me something.  And I hated it. I literally writhed and whined, lamenting my plight in the world. My friend Molly was over, and I complained to her, “I don’t want to be mature about this.” She replied with a chuckle in her ten-year-older-than-me-knowledge, “Don’t worry, you’re not.” 

God is really teaching Riley and me some pretty important lessons in all this. Like the fact that we are not God. We cannot even begin to do this on our own. Of all the lessons we have to learn as a couple, this is probably the best foundational one. The other day, I was listening to music and feeling melancholy when a song I had never heard came on. The lyrics went like this, “Those who trust in the Lord are as strong as mountains. They will not be moved.” I really needed to hear that. I needed to be reminded that my God is a constant source of strength. And I am human. Trusting in myself and in Riley is not going to cut it. 

As fate would have it, after weeks of trying to track down a protestant church in Ukraine (no small feat!), I finally found a phone number for a Baptist Church about an hour away from me. I called a very enthusiastic and slightly confused man named Vladamir, the local pastor. The trip to Burshtyn was filled with obstacles, like hailing a bus in the middle of the street and getting off at the wrong stop. But we made it. And Vladamir was there to greet us. As soon as we got to church, we felt like family. I know that sounds cliché, but as foreigners in the former Soviet Union, this is not a common feeling. It takes a while for people to trust you and welcome you into their homes. While Ukrainian hospitality is no myth, this was the first time I felt it instantly. Never mind the fact that I didn’t understand half the things being said. They were smiling, gave us hot tea, and kissed us on the cheek. Before the service started, Vladamir gathered Molly and me to pray with a couple of other people. We listened as intently as we could to their heartfelt, Ukrainian language prayers. I didn’t get most of it. As a government employee and secondary school teacher, my vocabulary is limited to social and professional contexts. When it came to my turn to pray, I was afraid. I literally had no words. Then Vladamir said, “In English.” I had forgotten I knew a language effortlessly.  

To open the service, we sang a Christian hymn “How Great Thou Art.” Molly and I couldn’t stop smiling. It was in Ukrainian, of course, but we knew the melody and could translate most of it. One of the funny differences between Ukrainian and English is that we have a lot of little words that mean big things and they have a lot of long words that mean small things. So in translation, the Ukrainian version of “How Great Thou Art” is simply, “Big You.” I mean, really, that gets the point across. So Molly and I sang “Big you, Big you” and thought, truly, How Great Thou Art. God is as strong as a mountain and quite big enough to see Riley and me through this and much more. After spontaneously being asked up front to give our testimonies (in Ukrainian, of course) as the 35mm cameras clicked and flashed, we were ready to sit down. In the back. But Vladamir had another request. “Now you will sing a song?” He half asked, half told. I assumed he meant the whole church would sing a song while we were positioned up front. I was mistaken. He actually wanted Molly and me to belt something out a cappella in English. The congregation waited expectantly. I, true to form, burst out laughing. I have zero musical talent. Molly shook her head and said “We can’t, we can’t,” in Ukrainian. They encouraged us more. I started to translate “Big You” in spoken word, but Molly decided to give them a little taste and sang the chorus. They were looking for more, but we just took a bow and sat down. The sermon drew on Matthew 7, where Jesus asks “Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him.” I know that God wants to give me only the best kind of gifts. I know this on my best days. But when I’m at my worst, I think I know better. The next verse I recognized quoted was Psalm 144. I looked it up in my Message translation of the Bible and it began, “Blessed be God, my mountain.” My attention was officially grabbed. 

The day came to a ceremonious end as we ate lunch together and were implored once again to sing English worship songs. We were jolly but at a loss. Then Natalia said she knew only one song with English words, and God reminded me once more that with Him, there’s no turning back, no turning back.