Ya Amerikanitz

Every story has a beginning, and this one started two Decembers past with a lengthy application process and a disturbingly thorough physical examination. 3 months ago it took an unexpected turn when the Kazakhstan country program was cancelled. Having been reassigned to another former Soviet country, I began preparing my belongings and my life for the Ukraine. Sadly, the majority of my enthusiasm was spent on Kazakhstan, so I did next to no research to prepare myself for this country or its language. I'll be as surprised as the rest of you by what's coming next.

I had finally gotten my two bags below the acceptable weight limit, which the Peace Corps is so kind as to augment from 75 to 100 pounds on account of the bitter cold winters. With the car piled full, my mother and I set off to Bishop International airport for the first of four flights this week. I hop to Detroit in the smallest plane I've ever ridden, then continue on to D.C. There in Georgetown, I meet the other 61 people who have committed to serving in Ukraine, bringing the total number of volunteers in the country to well over 400. There's a surprising and immediate camaraderie between the group of us, all being a unique personality type and all at the exact same point in our lives: same aspirations, same anxieties. Lengthy seminars seem to fly by under the pressure of such anticipation and in the midst of such good company. It seems like no time at all before we are all on a Lufthansa jet over the Atlantic.

I've done this all before, and not simply the prolonged transportation. Peace Corps expectation number one is that I am prepared to give my life to this country for at least 27 months, but I spent a cumulative 42 in Korea. I've learned a second language, and then without total immersion. I lived with a host family and integrated into the local culture. Despite having done all this and without the assistance of a 51 year strong organization or a family of 489 peers, I still can't get myself to sleep on either the flight to Frankfort or to Kyiv. When we finally touch down in a half dug up parking lot for planes and presidentially descend the staircar into the blustering flat expanse, I feel delirious but relieved. I'm finally here.

For the next 2 days, training abounds. What should I do to stay safe? What will my host family be like? What will my classroom be like? What's the alphabet? Already my peers are being more precisely defined. Separated from the other volunteers who have come to work with community or youth opportunities, the other 11 English teachers and I form what's known as a "link." Together we will live in neighboring homestays, meet for group work and field trips, and support each other for the next three months. Even more specifically, among the 12 of us two "clusters" are formed, each with six teachers. We will be a language, culture, and methodology class until finally we are separated further: we will all be alone when we are sent to our sites in June to begin actual service.

In the village of Orset, known for its discotheque and river banks, I drag my luggage off of the bus and am accepted into the arms of Ludmila. While my new host mother is kissing my cheeks, her husband Nikolai is heaving my 100 pounds of luggage onto the roofrack of his 1979 Lada Sputnik. On the dashboard, a bumper sticker reads "I heart IBM," but the icons of Jesus and Mary indicate otherwise. We drive across the street without even a rope thrown across the luggage for appearances. The rusting is so severe that I can count the pebbles whisking below through the jagged holes. Their home is a spacious, stove heated, one floor house with a shed out back for the dog Ram (spelt PAM in Cyrillic). "Koli," as he's called, sits in his smoking corner by the stove every thirty minutes while "Luda" peels potatos on a nearby stool, the two of them striking an almost perfect stereotype. My bed is in one corner of the den, across from the curio cabinet and beside the faded pair of recliners. Luda practically force feeds me borscht, apricots, buttery dumplings, chicken and potatoes, and rye bread with sausage, spicy mustard, raw onion, and cold pig fat. If you know me at all you know I'm absolutely thrilled.

The room.

The family has three boarders, all of them college boys going to a local university. Leonid and I look at pictures intently, then pull out my map for pointing time. Thanks to Google translator, we're able to explain our families and majors. Through the powers of Uno, we bond and learn colors in each others' languages. "Zilony!" he declares, knowing I haven't a single green card. "Again zilony!"

At night, I sleep in my corner with the obese cat Mambo at my feet. The bed is slightly short, but comfortable and exceptionally warm. I expected a perpetual chill to hang over the house and the country as a whole, but I had to learn the word for "hot" very quickly. The parrot serves as my alarm in the morning, screeching for food when the sun rises. And I thought it would have been the rooster.

The door between my room and the rest of the house. It's a curtain.

My cluster rocks. It's very encouraging to have five comrades in the same neighborhood who are all going through similar adjustments. We will be spending around half of our waking life together, so I'm relieved to find we all get along. The other half of my life is with Luda, Koli, the boys, and the animals. I couldn't feel more supported or safe, sometimes even overly so. Everything goes swimmingly for now, but the pessimist in me can't help but wonder how long this honeymoon period can last (at most until the winter...).