mother: so, bearing in mind the Chernobyl fallout, what would you say to the UK as it’s looking at increasing nuclear power?
guide: get it from France.
(Yep, pass on the problem to someone else. Extraordinary answer from our guide at Chernobyl, in response to my mother’s questions).
pharmacist: how many tapes you want?
me: two please.
pharmacist: we only have one.
me: I’ll take one then.
(At the pharmacy getting bandage tape – the day this stops being amusing is the day we quit Kiev).
I’ve been observing the last few days. Nothing really interesting but just noting odd stuff while I’ve been going to and from my exams. Needing something to put off the horror of examinee’s block I’ve been diverting my attention to the local environment, particulary when travelling to and from the lovely British Council building where the exams are being held.On the metro people never face each other like in other countries, but stand with their backs to you. Even if they dash on at the last minute and squish themselves in between a fat old babushka and a chunky leather-jacketted ex-KGB type man, a person will manage to turn themself around and face the door. I wish it could be like this in all cities because a) when the doors open everyone is facing the right direction and you don’t risk being spewed out backwards onto the platform and maybe under the train and getting squished and b) you’re saved from someone’s niffy morning breath in your face at rushhour. See, there are some civilised aspects to life here.
Heading down the escalators to the metro, practially no one walks down and never walks up (obviously when leaving the metro otherwise that would just be stupid). You never get shoved in the ribs by someone with massive shopping bags or a sharp briefcase hurrying to get there first. This is extraordinary in a land where everyone hurries to get everywhere first – queues, traffic etc.
It’s 10C and pavement cafes are still open and people are STILL sitting outside. I decided to join them today and loved it. With a scarf and warm coat it’s very toasty and romantic. It’s sort of prolonging the inevitable I suppose (i.e. being flat-bound in winter because it’s too horrid to go out).
It’s 9C and people are eating ice cream – OUTSIDE. These crazy people eat ice cream all the way through winter – it might be -10C and the queue is a mile long outside the ice cream kiosks. I have no possible explanation for this.
borjomi, the worst water in the world, is the only ‘food’ that’s sold in our chemist downstairs. That’s because it IS a medicine because it tastes like Andrews liver salts and is purely evil. Restaurants – take it off the menu, please!
Try to google a picture using ‘happy Ukrainian’, ‘friendly Ukrainian’ even ’smiling Ukrainian’ and you will struggle to find anything remotely resembling what you’re looking for. I tried it today to get a suitable picture for this post and eventually found this picture under ‘laughing Ukrainian’. A picture of Chernobyl also came up but I assume this was ‘not laughing Ukrainian’.
Anyhow, to the point of the story. Just like the start of spring, the onset of autumn seems to bring about a change in the nature of Kievites. Perhaps it’s their last chance to be nice before the onslaught of winter. Just like being nice in spring was a nod to summer?
Well whatever it is, I had a day last weekend being charmed. Anyone reading this will think I’m not a full pack of smarties, and it may be something to with having reduced expectations as an expat, but these days I just go all gooey and grateful when a Kievite is nice to me.
It started when I breezed into the Premier Palace hotel on my way to the gym and the nice doorman* said may god bless me this wonderful Sunday and that Jesus loved me. I asked if Jesus’s love would propel me faster on the treadmill and he laughed. He probably thought I needed all the help I could get.
Then in the changing room the crazy spy** woman looked me up and down and said I had a “karasha forma”. By her gestures I took this to mean nice boobs and was flattered. Then a little scared. But it was a nice touch (ignore the pun).
Then our landlord phoned and asked for the second time whether our fridge had been fixed and that if we had any other problems we must phone him immediately as he would make sure the agency would never sleep with him on their back (oof – don’t visualise that). Our landlord isn’t from these parts but he might as well be considering his love of top-to-toe dodgy leather and the fact he’s lived here 18 years. For landlords to be so on the ball about something as petty as a fridge – well that just doesn’t happen.
That’s not too bad for one day. I’ve had my fill of niceness, so naturally I’m wondering what’s going to come crashing down next. Watch this space…
* actually the doorman isn’t Ukrainian but Angolan. But he’s been here long enough and probably attends one of those crazy new churches to count as being Ukrainian. For blogging purposes anyway.
** this mad orange-haired Ukrainian woman comes to the gym the same time as me and insists on making conversation and asking all sorts of probing questions – which of course I don’t understand. My expat paranoia finally kicked in when she asked which street I lived in and I told her the wrong one. Oh dear, I hope Jesus still loves me…
This cafe is on our road and is a very nice one too – spacious, tasteful decor, not smokey, good service, open all hours, good coffee and exceptional hot chocolate (more on that later).
On arriving I asked for the ‘menu anglisky pazalusta’ and it came promptly. There was a page – titled – ‘toasts’. As it was 11C outside and I was starving, I reckoned a lovely toasty melty cheese sandwich would do the trick. Even if it did say it had gherkins in it. But who am I to be choosey? These days I tend just to put up with whatever lands in front of me, which actually on the whole isn’t too bad once I pick the right places. I must try not to whinge.
Now, if a menu tells you that the product is a ‘toast’ and that it comes ‘warm’ would you not expect something that is toast-like and warm? Sort of like a toasted sandwich? Not hot, mind, warm – one can’t expect too much. So would you expect to be presented with a half sandwich (3 slices of bread in triangles) that has been microwaved and is sticking in a sweaty puddle in the middle of your plate?
No, I thought not.
For a minute I wondered if I could do it – could I really swallow (if I got past the mastication stage) a soggy microwaved fake cheese with gherkin sandwich and floppy browning lettuce bits? And I came to the conclusion (quite slowly I must admit, thinking – can I be bothered to go through with the complaining / explaining / accepting process that was ahead of me?) that no I really couldn’t do it.
The nice waiter was a little startled that I was rejecting this vile creation, even when I pointed out that it was soggy, limp etc etc:
waiter: But it is a toast
me: No it’s not a toast
waiter: In Ukraine, this is a toast.
me: Look, I’m really sorry but I just can’t eat this. Can you really expect me to eat this? Look at it. (why did I need to apologise?)
waiter: But we don’t make these sandwiches here, we have supplier.
me: uh right (like that makes a difference).
waiter: blank totally non-comprehending look, shruggs his shoulders, takes the offending item away.<
I was fully expecting to be reprimanded by the scarey devoushka manager but no, not at all. The charge didn’t even appear on my bill (why am I grateful for that?). And in fact I went on to order a coffee and a hot chocolate, which were positively perfect and I was very happy with what I got. Especially as the cappucino froth had a perfect heart pattern etched onto it and not a two’s up finger (I’m also grateful for that).
And the hot chocolate was actually hot chocolate – yes melted dark chocolate with cream and that’s it. It’s not drinkable, you need a spoon. I’ve been twice into different cafes when friends have ordered a hot chocolate and not got what they wanted, but one of these creations instead (it’s “French” hot chololate by the way. Ah, of course) and they wanted what they got for sure.
And that’s the rub – life here is full of compensations – you put up with crap knowing that complaining just isn’t going to change anything and then get extra happy (irritatingly gushingly happy in my case) when you get something decent in front of you.
And it’s annoying because in the cafe I felt proud of myself for complaining. Anywhere else I wouldn’t hesitate, but here?
You put up with crap because the waiter/waitress was nice to you and the service was good. Which is is rare in Kiev. This happened with MDF a few weeks ago when he didn’t get what he wanted, but ended up wanting what he got “oh it doesn’t matter really, they’re so nice in here”. And it seems that to encourage the good service we keep going back to this restaurant – which actually isn’t that bad and the mojitos are pretty good.
Maybe that’s why we put up with not always getting what we want – we’re too oiled up with beer and mojitos to care.
I couldn’t believe it when I arrived in Britain and all these people are reading the Sun. Why you want to read a paper with a woman with her boobs out on page 3? If it was France she would be on page 1!
