Every Stone

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Okay, this is the final bit from Ukraine before I start sending Istanbul and Athens emails. Forgive the post-dating. I wrote yesterday, but had a complete meltdown with all the goodbyes scheduled into my day that I didn’t send.

As I write, I am surrounded by all manner of hostile Ukrainian electric devices. The water-boiler thing is barking at me from the kitchen instead of gurgling pleasantly, and the washer is screaming and whining from my tiny bathroom, the sounds tearing through the flimsy wood of the door and my not-quite-as-tiny living room. I can feel its heaves through my bare feet on the floor as I sit hunched over my laptop on the coffee table. My lamps and refrigerator seem to be holding up, but, unlike these other devices, they don’t require working knowledge of Cyrillic — or as one colleague referred to it multiple times in a really very knowledgeable way soon after he arrived, “acrylic.” If he weren’t so sanctimonious, it wouldn’t be funny. But is he is, so it is. The washer won’t stop, and it won’t open. Two other members of the consulting team have broken washer doors trying to retrieve clothing. Both hold or have nearly completed graduate degrees, scarily enough. It’s that complicated. Again, knowledge of “acrylic” is necessary. (Of course, the guy who said “acrylic” broke his washer door. Maybe he should be removed from the sample.)

Even without the stress induced by my appliances, the past week and a half would have been very stressful. J and M arrived Sunday afternoon, and my prep for their stay began several days prior to their visit while the visit itself was a multi-day, multi-hour meeting extravaganza. Scheduling has been hell from start to finish.

Our pre-meetings meetings went something like this:*

They propose yet another meeting, this one to begin at 6 am, and I put my foot down. They compromise by asking, “What will J be doing after dinner?”
What I thought was, “Complaining about you, as you’ve had him in meetings since 9 am, and swearing he’ll never attend another meeting with you.”
What I said was, “James and Mary will be jetlagged and will probably want to spend evenings unwinding.”
Unsaid throughout was “Are you kidding me?”

There were also endless meetings on all other subjects — ads, events, speech-writing, message box, polls, and focus groups — throughout the past ten days. A central figure in my Kiev adventure, Y2, was present at most of these meetings. To introduce Y2, he’s an oddly charismatic, chain-smoking former psychiatrist, probably mid-fifties or early sixties, who favors collarless white shirts with a black designer suit and sharp sunglasses. Y2 tends to speak in the metaphors, poetry, and fables that many Ukrainians feel most comfortable using to discuss politics. (In every focus group, people refer to the fable of the swan, the pike, and the crayfish to describe the political situation.) He’s also our ad guy. Having made the ads behind the Orange Revolution, he initially had no interest in our input and dismissed focus groups as worthless. Trying to prepare any ads or scripts in advance was “luring the wolf from the forest,” or, tempting fate. That he was being asked to consult with us on the opinions of focus groups was offensive; even more offensive was that he was not getting the results immediately following the focus groups. We’d met briefly at the groups and he demanded that I send the verbatims — quotes from participants of the groups — to him directly following the groups. I told him I’d pass on the request.

For our second meeting, four of us were tucked away in a suspiciously Sopranos-esque establishment. C and I passed two guards and went two floors up into a private room to meet them there. It was somehow both upscale and seedy. At this meeting, Y2 shoved two emails at me and pointed emphatically at the highlighted portions. He’d had someone write an English email to our pollster. The highlighted sections condemned the pollster for not letting “his girls” give Y2 results. He screamed at C for five or ten minutes, trying to force him to give results on the focus groups. When he wouldn’t, Y2 regrouped and asked for C’s personal opinion. No go. So he moved to me, thinking I would be more susceptible to his tactics. He’s probably right. I hate being yelled at. But I didn’t tell him. It wasn’t until the third time he screamed his demand that I came up with a solution.

I said, “Please tell Y that it’s like asking a poet to comment on a ballet to ask me to give him an opinion on the focus groups.”
The national poet of Ukraine is a big deal. I gambled with the metaphor.
The colleague translating looked at me. “Poet?”
“Yes, tell him it’s like asking a writer to review ballet. A writer can only review writing.”
Dubious, he translated. Y2 looked at me oddly, but stopped asking and shifted gears finally to another topic. From then on, he was markedly nicer.

That’s a taste of Y2 1.0. Now we have Y2 2.0. Over the past week and a half he’s suddenly preaching our message box and quoting our data with the fervor of the converted. At the meetings on Monday and Tuesday, he made no fewer than four or five lengthy poetic speeches in support of our strategy. He also apologized to me profusely for yelling at me next he saw me and kissed my hand, which the guidebook informs me is an old-world custom in Ukraine. On Tuesday, when I motioned to speak for the first (and only) time, he shushed the leader of one of the parties and demanded everyone listen because I was going to speak. After I made the (throw-away) comment, about the necessity of a concrete policy (immunity) upon which to focus in order to rebuild credibility, and giving several of the data points supporting it, Y2 immediately stood up and gave another poetic address. “We must pay attention,” the translator related to my great surprise and amusement, “to this word Rebecca has used. She said ‘concrete.’” And he continued on, endlessly it seemed, using my name at least once more. The team was divided between laughter and astonishment, all being well aware of Y2’s history of less-than-feminist treatment of women on the project.

Now that Y2 is on board, things may be easier, but he’s still very difficult to deal with. There was an explosion following his protest of a change to the bloc name on Tuesday after which he threatened to quit numerous times. As one of the senior consultants says, “He’s in the zoo but not in the cage.” If we can manage to keep him in our zoo, that’s pretty good.

Although there have been many very positive developments for our relationships in Kiev and for the campaign, such as the Y2 development, altogether the last week and a half has been a prolonged panic attack. Preparation for J & M began well-before they were to arrive and the negotiations intensified in the days before their visit, our two camps haggling endlessly over meeting times and bullet-points. The campaign wanted meetings from 8 am to 8 pm and every meal. They wanted to know what J & M’s schedules would be every minute of the day. They wanted all travel information. They wanted to know favorite colors and ice cream flavors. Okay, maybe not the last one, but it was absurd. We created a more detailed and comprehensive agenda than I’ve ever seen — which is saying something, for both DC and Cambridge are filled with people fond of self-importance and endless minutiae. After painstaking hours of combing through the schedule, translating and retranslating, as soon as we reached the meeting dates the Ukrainian staff proceeded to discard our schedule immediately, directly approaching J & M to add meetings I spent hours fighting to have removed and to demand meals I’d kept free.

Although it seemed nothing could be more miserable than spending four hours at lunch discussing pickup and drop-off details, both days of meetings proved jarringly tense. We were driven in a black Mercedes, ushered past armed guards, and escorted by an agent to a wing where we were kept contained, unable to go outside or even depart as we chose. Several times we were instructed not to speak English in the hallways. Minor hiccups several times resulted in a conflagration of ridiculous proportions. When a translation error resulted in the omission of my name from the security list for a meeting Tuesday, after I’d established and followed up on the list of attendees a week previously, I gave up entirely on retaining any semblance of calm or cool and actually started waving my arms, becoming a terrible PA cliché. Exacerbating the anxiety and disorganization throughout was the hording of information by all (Ukrainian) parties. The secrecy and division makes it impossible to do anything. Monday may have been the first time that many of the ostensibly key campaign staff ever sat in a room together. Twice Tuesday we were sacrificed to internal conflicts, thrown into meetings with no warning or preparation facing hostile attendees. The highlight was the hour spent Tuesday morning in the West Wing. Not one by two handshakes from the client. Bam, as Bryan would say. An amazing day and one to remember, July 3.

When Tuesday night (finally) came I went to bed early and slept well into the next day. Much-needed rest. Having accomplished my principal mission here, orchestrating J & M’s visit, I escaped Wednesday into Kiev. Under Bessarabska Square in the Metrograd, a massive underground mall, I found a tiny English-language bookstore with rates only slightly north of exorbitant. Delight at finding the store finally only barely outweighed the experience of navigating that commercial labyrinth. Like the rest of Kiev, it lacks Latin signage. I actually don’t resent that. Well-done. Except when I need to get to the bookstore. I could have saved the entrance fee to the Pecherska Lavra two weeks ago and simply gone underground in the mall. There are probably just as many bodies entombed there. Tourists, though, not monks. Hidden in nooks and crannies you’ll find Latin-alphabet shoppers who, like me, found themselves wandering in circles but were unable to reach sustenance or make egress in time.

Armed with John Grisham and a Lonely Planet guide for Mediterranean Europe, I trekked back over Kryshchatik and to the Maidan. It was raining by this point — it’s been raining for days now — but I was so happy not to be wearing full business attire and sitting through a three-hour meeting that I didn’t even mind the dousing. I met a friend for dinner at our favorite Belgian restaurant, availing myself of vereniky one last time before departing, and then another consultant for a walk and dessert at a Fellini-themed restaurant just off the Maidan. Amazing black currant sorbet. I was tempted to try the “nut” sorbet out of curiosity but ultimately went with the safer option.

Today I went back to the Podil, passing St. Michael’s and St. Andrew’s, and picked up some art and items for remembrance. I met a photographer selling photos of various parts of Kiev he took beginning from 1982 and, with the help of a friend, talked to him for a bit. In his fifties or sixties, a few inches shorter than me in flip-flops, and, of course, shirtless — it was a hot day, after all. He went to school nearby the Uziz in 1956 and traded his friend a book for a camera that year. His first photo was of the Uziz, and he’s documented it ever since — despite the encroachment of cars and other beasts of modernity, which he vocally protested to us both. The oldest photo he had with him for sale was a 1982 shot in the Pecherska Lavra; another, from 1986, was a simple but striking shot of a cat at the Lavra. The thing that made that photo remarkable was the story. He remembered the moment perfectly. He’d filled his equipment bag with cat nip and left in the middle of the path to get that shot. There were a few other photos with similarly striking stories, and I ended up with 5 inexpensive but stunning prints and new insight into life in Soviet Kiev.

Light lunch with V in the Podil followed by a last lunch with C in the pizza restaurant, which we call “Chili’s,” that overlooks the Maidan. It’s incredible to look out and remember image and coverage of the Orange Revolution. Pleasant feeling of lunch ruined by more conference calling and pointless organizing, though somewhat revived by a flat glass of champagne and conversation with a few random parliamentarians at the reception for the event the client held today. I saw the client again, and heard him speak. That was great, really, but the highlight was the gossip of each delegation about the others. One Scandanavian country’s representative mocked Andorra. “Why,” he sniffed, “are they even here?” I snorted into the caviar that I had no intention of eating. He continued, oblivious, “I mean, the only reason anyone goes to Andorra is to buy tax-free items.” When introduced, E and I were to play off any questions about our origin. I smoothly mumbled a few things about logistics and Harvard and flipped the name badge that said “Advisor” onto its face. (By “smoothly,” I mean as clumsily as possible.)

Tomorrow is Turkey. Finalizing the plans for my trip has been a rocky process. Everything by email or Skype from Ukraine to Turkey and Greece. Everyone has been nice and helpful, but after reading a few dozen travelers’ reviews, I’m fantastically concerned about freak accidents of booking and ending up without a hotel in Istanbul, sitting by the side of a market on my 70-lb bag full of separates and heels. Still, I’m excited and looking forward to this adventure. To read, by suggestion, are “The Black Book” and “Istanbul.” Reviews look amazing. Yet again reminded of my narrow interest in American, Latin American, and British literature, and shamed into expanding intellectual horizons. Sadly, I won’t be reading them in time for my trip. It hadn’t occurred to me to travel to Turkey and Greece before arriving here. Very ill-prepared. And still no clue how to get my baggage onto the Turkish and Greek airlines. They have a 20 kg limit, and I have a 70-lb bag. My conversion isn’t so good, but I know that’s not going to work. Suspect will load up, wearing as many outfits at the same time as possible and toting laden-down carry-ons.

As I finish the email on Thursday, as I’m preparing to pack for Istanbul, various pieces of clothing have only recently been retrieved from around the apartment where they sat drying. I lost my fight with the washer and ended up hand-washing everything in the sink, feeling like a total idiot. That’s Harvard for you. Not at all promising indication of domesticity to come. The itinerary is Turkey from Friday to Tuesday, at which point I fly to Athens and stay there one night in a hotel before hooking up with Ashlie for a few days and returning finally on Saturday (or is it Sunday?) to Dulles.

* Dialogue fictionalized.