Every Stone

June 21 was Thursday, right?

We had our last round of groups. It wasn’t until then that I realized that the groups from Wednesday had been half from Chernobyl, meaning we’d been very near Chernobyl. You’d think I would have known earlier, but the process is mysterious.  We pile into a van, drive for five hours, and get out and do focus groups in a random building, usually a school. At some point during or post-travel I hear a Ukranian town name that means nothing to me, or to most Ukranians, given the size.

Our Thursday town was even smaller than our Wednesday spot. We stopped just outside of town — or maybe we were in town, that’s how small it was — to have lunch, where someone did me the unkind favor of making an introduction to borsch. I mentioned the habit of combining bizarre ingredients earlier. Shrimp was the specific plaint that time. It’s a weird ingredient to put on everything. Well now the issue has blossomed into a war against sour cream and mayonnaise. They’re on everything. Including borsch. Including dessert.

So, there I was, really hungry, despite the pirogies O brought me that morning, and faced with a bowl of borsch and a few blintzes (blinis) covered in sour cream. (There was also a dollop of mayonnaise somewhere, no doubt.) So we ate. A few not-too-serious regrets ensued. Perhaps more interesting than the food was the decor. The decorations throughout the restaurant, we pieced together from the shared English skills of the group, were very Soviet. They were actually made of parts of a type of box that was well-known and oft-used throughout the USSR. On the ceiling there was this indescribably mysterious — and hideous — decoration that we decided must resemble rye before harvest, as the restaurant name was something along those lines.

We worked out of a school again. It was sweltering in the room, but we had better equipment — two televisions, one to show ads and another to show the group so our translator could see their lips moving and translate better. It’s also helpful to see body language, etc. Our perfect system was thrown off just once when a tractor passed by the window, totally obliterating all audio communications. Our pollster began typing commands to the moderator furiously, who seemed to ignore them, come to find out that he’d already asked the questions but we’d missed them entirely because of the tractor. Does that count as technical difficulties? Odd issue.

Funny side story: O had taken to vetting bathrooms for us (the pollster was another young woman), and I say “vet,” but the bathrooms had all been horrendous and he had yet to draw the line — I figure it’s more of a safety issue, checking for KGB in the restrooms perhaps. The first time it happened, I was very startled. He gave his usual cry of “moment, moment” that precedes any major movement on my part — major travel including walking more than 10 feet from him — and barreled past me into the bathroom. He inspected it. Deemed it okay. Then switched on the light, and stood outside the door. He repeated this process in the school bathroom on Thursday and, for the first time, decided it was simply untenable. (If a Ukranian man decided the restroom was too bad to use, I don’t want to know its condition.) O charmed his way into using the restroom at a spa down the street. “Charmed” meaning, they were likely too confused to deny entrance to this large protective man.

We stopped at the same restaurant for dinner, but O, after making a cursory inventory, hopped back into the car and steadfastly refused to let us eat there. We pressed, and he’d only say “Mafia.” As it’s never a sure bet whether that’s a joke here, we pressed only a bit further. He let us hang for a few hours before telling us it was because of a “lazy woman.” Apparently our waitress from lunch had failed to make a good impression on him – admittedly, we cleared our own plates — and he refused to give her more business. We were so delighted not to be eating more sour-cream borsch that neither complained about waiting until midnight to eat. We had no doubts until we finally did stop. The food at our midnight middle-of-the-countryside diner was much worse than lunch. Dinner was a cup of mayonnaise and a Stella. I prefer the smoked cheese, chocolate, and beer combination of the previous night. There were both sour cream and shrimp in my cup of mayonnaise, I think. So bad it was funny. What can you do? Threats of vodka were, luckily, abandoned, and we limped home around 1 am.

June 22 was Friday. We had a long meeting about the schedule for my bosses’ visit at an Asian restaurant in a private room, in which we had to speak in low voices. It was all very Robert Ludlum. The super-secretive procedures here have become a source of amusement to most of us, although we all follow them religiously, because they’re straight from the bestseller list. (“Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get me,” one colleague repeats whenever we tease him.) The thing I remember best is that at some point during this very stressful, intense meeting it became very clear that one of our Ukranian colleagues did not, in fact, have anything in his eye. He was winking at me deliberately and at odd intervals. Once established, it became more and more clear.

That evening we greeted two new arrivals, B and V, who joined us and boss B for dinner at a great little Western European restaurant. I tried vereniky, a pirogie or dumpling type dish, and had it with meat filling while C and others had potato and mushroom. Both were excellent. I have a new favorite Ukranian food. Food was accompanied with Georgian wine, which was wonderful, if very sweet. The new additions are terrific company and both had stories of past trips to offer, such as the process for getting a sword through customs. Not as easy as you might think. Our friend V walked me home, as it was late, and got shaken down by two police officers for his trouble. It’s safe, but not that safe.

Saturday we met over coffee, some colleagues American and Ukranian, and the third new addition, with whom I worked in Nigeria, E, made his appearance. The winking by Ukranian colleague continued, to my bafflement. Afterward we set out to find notebooks for C and myself, having filled up legal pads, and got our introduction to Soviet department stores — as V referred to it, formerly empty-shelf department stores. Like the grocery store, the department store was composed of a series of self-contained departments: electronics, make-up, school supplies, children’s clothing, etc., each of which required separate payment and transactions.

That night we had dinner at a Ukranian restaurant, the name of which translates to “Cheers.” More vereniky. (It’s addictive.) In addition, this time, we had a type of dessert that begins with an “n” with jam and honey, a Ukranian crepe essentially. It was delicious. More adventurous group members had borsch. I’m still off the stuff. More winking.

June 24, Sunday, was spent tracking down things to do. A trip to cathedrals was postponed and a walk to the beach (Hydropark) suggested, but the weather interfered. At least the walk let us see more of the city. Lunch was at a chain-esque restaurant I’d been resistant to but found to be delicious. There are pictures AND English translations for all menu items, which, intrepid as one tries to be, can occasionally be reassuring after weeks in a foreign country. After lunch time with E, having coffee, buying cherries at the market, and browsing converters at the department store we’ve come to be fascinated by.

We called a colleague for dinner at an Irish pub that was reputed to be good, and it was. Chicken here, along with fruits and vegetables, has always been good. The smokiness of restaurants, however, is not. Allergies are going full-bore. E ordered a spring chicken that looked depressingly like, well, a baby chicken. Disturbing.

Yesterday’s lunch (and today’s) were at a cafeteria-type restaurant, an arrangement that’s very popular with Ukranians incidentally. Hmm. More vereniky today along with the Nestea sweet drink I’ve taken to drinking as a pale imitation of the amazing iced tea in Virginia and North Carolina. (Having avoided it for 20 years, I find I suddenly love it at 21 and now crave it.)

Today’s project has been working on the bosses’ presentations, which I ran by C over coffee and “nut and caramel’ pancakes at a coffee shop uptown. Dinner was tremendous pizza — yes, great Italian, again — and some local beer, served by an incredibly eccentric Scot who lives in a log cabin with his wife and daughter and their 5 pitbulls somewhere outside of Kiev. Couldn’t make this up. He sounds like Sean Connery.

The presentations were approved, so now for the remainder of the week. Perhaps travel planning. Thursday and Friday are major holidays here, so I’m considering taking a mini-trip to Estonia or Turkey before the more major travel I’m planning to Greece. Thoughts? Will try to do something more exciting so the week isn’t a diary kept by a series of meals.

New photos are up from St. Sophia and St. Michael cathedrals, taken tonight. New downloads of Amy Cook’s “Fireflies” and Sara Bareilles’ “Gravity” are recommended for fans of folksy, sweet music. (Music and movies are lifelines here.)