Every Stone

My plane was an hour and a half late getting in to Frankfurt. Not just any hour and a half, but an additional hour and a half spent next to two small children whose parents couldn’t be bothered to sit with them and instead placed them next to me while they sat in the row ahead. And pretended to be deaf to the cries of “Mommy!” that lasted throughout the flight, relieved only by the moments of concentration as the kid alternately kicked strategically sideways at my legs and made some smells you forget children can make until you’re seated next to one for hours. No earplugs for that.

My nose just couldn’t catch a break. In the Frankfurt airport they still allow smoking. It smelled only faintly better than a seedy bar at 2 am. The smokers all looked unjustly smug. Some of them might even have flown in for the pleasure of polluting the terminal and looking smugly at wheezing travelers. But there were some funny moments. As I ran to the gate, my leisurely lay-over gone, I passed a dad with two long-haired little boys carting an animal carrier. I could see the face and whiskers of a ginger cat, relatively unperturbed despite the uncoordinated swinging at the end of the little boy’s arms, far too short for the boxy container.

The Kiev airport is somewhere above Abuja and Honduras for having AC; it’s below almost every US and European airport. That said, the passport line was not bad, even if the attendant was impatient with my retarded realization of the need to sign — it’s a .2” area, I swear — and the baggage claim was extremely quick. My Ukranian colleagues met me right at the exit and escorted me directly to the car. There was only a moment of reluctance to follow, awaiting some form of identification on their part — the sign said only “Rebecca.” Shouldn’t have watched that BBC documentary.

There’s only one highway in Ukraine, the road from airport to city, and apparently drivers love to make use of it. I peeked at the speedometer — 160 km/hr. No seatbelt in the back. There was, however, a radio, which they had turned up to blare, much to my amusement, Coldplay, Britney Spears, Madonna, and Rihanna. We stopped at a mysterious middle point to have a discussion with a man on the side of the road very briefly and continued on to my lodgings. Having shooed out the realtor and tech guy, who set up my internet, one Ukranian colleague offered to bring me water and food, of which I had neither. Fifteen minutes later he returned with the essentials: a large bottle of water, some slices of American cheese, and a package of fruit-flavored “sweets.” I thanked him very seriously, he gave me a lecture opening the two enormous locks on the door, and I proceeded to starve for the remainder of the day, sustaining myself on the sweet cakes, water, and the few chocolate raspberry bars that survived my uncanny tendency to sleep through meal carts on long flights.

Day 2. Met in the morning to discuss progress and my job here. Went through some of central Kiev. People are, as insisted, beautiful. Very thin, with very narrow builds which make them look even thinner. Beautiful architecture. Construction everywhere. Seems very safe. No one speaks English; there are very few signs in English aside from store ads. Occasionally a menu will be in both English and Ukranian, which is helpful. Ukranian style of meeting is funny: three hours beating your head against a wall for an agreement that will be forgotten the next morning. Both in Frankfurt and here I’ve gotten hideously hostile looks for asking for decaffeinated coffee. There it was powdered — shades of Abuja — but at least here I’ve found a place I can get real decaf with a minimum of derision.

My US colleague here is already acquainted with some cafes and restaurants, but he had yet to find a grocery store. That was our big adventure today. We found an open-air market, then a mall, and finally the below-ground supermarket. Nearly everything — bread, fruit, etc. — is weighed and wrapped for you in that department, which we didn’t know. We both got scolded gently by the bread lady — she just tsked and took my bread and wrapped it for me.

Even when not walking around stealing bread, both Chad and I are pretty easy to spot. My coloring stands out — not too many naturally dark-haired, dark-eyed people, and no curly hair that I’ve seen — and neither of us have features that fit in at all. Then there’s our clothing. He stands out because he’s unfashionable for Europe; I do because I’m not only unfashionable but far too conservatively dressed. In the morning, you don’t notice it, maybe because the younger women are sleeping in. Most things don’t happen before noon as a rule, I’m told. By 10 or 11 am, it’s like you’re going clubbing in daylight. Women’s clothing is universally revealing and principally transparent. What isn’t skin-tight is see-through. What’s neither is skimpy and likely outright loud. Neon orange mini-dresses. Brilliant silver halter tops. Backless black tanks. Butt-exposing denim shorts. Of course, it’s probably not much different than the average American high school.

This evening upon returning to my apartment I found myself in possession of some amazing multi-grain bread, muesli, what seems to be .5 percent fat milk, a bit of dubious turkey and cheese, three apples, two teas, and a large bottle of water. Excellent. (How could I have made fun of the offering brought me yesterday when, given an entire market, I scarcely did better?) We stopped for coffee at my insistence. I’d had a terrible headache all day, which even as I type I feel returning, and so I dosed myself with a latte. Very effective. Then, a meeting later, I walked back to my apartment, kicked myself for not getting more food, and ate apple, turkey, cheese, and bread for dinner. Mm. Tonight: Al Gore and John Barry books. Tomorrow: more coffee and Lexis-Nexis.