People in Ukraine were really nice to me. No, not all of them, all
of the time. See plenty of stories involving attempts to buy tickets, various
seemingly intentional misunderstandings of accurately conveyed and appropriately
constructed language, etc.
Still, lots of people, lots of the time.
Me: I want to put a mural on my wall, but I don’t think I can.
(Meaning, I don’t think I’m allowed.)
Oksana: Oh, I’ll do it for you!
(Actually, in case you’re interested,
I did put the mural on my wall myself, but I didn’t use paint. I made a
stencil, based loosely on a design that I saw on an embroidered towel in an architectural
museum in Lviv. Then, I traced and cut out the design pieces many, many times
on shiny, cheap cardstock and hung them on the wall with tiny bits of masking
tape. Yeah! It took me every episode of The
Wire to get through this process.)
When I met the rector of the university, a short time after my
arrival in Lutsk, he was very welcoming and generous, too. Unfortunately, my
Ukrainian wasn’t quite as strong as I would have liked it to be, three or four
months into my time in Ukraine, but luckily my dear dean of my college came with
me to introduce me and to translate.
Rector: Things in Ukrainian
you don’t understand fully etc. massage!
Dean: The rector says that he will be happy to do anything to help
you to enjoy your time here with us. He will arrange excursions for you. He
will give you a massage. (begins to blush
upon realizing what she’s said)
Me: Um. (blushing)
Dean: (slightly flustered)
No, he will not give you the massage, he will arrange…
Me: Yes, yes, very nice… (nods
to rector, respectfully, smiles)
Rector: (smiling, nodding,
though it’s unclear if he’s caught the confusion) More and more rapidfire
Ukrainian, etc.
Yes, everyone was very nice, very nice. I never did get a massage,
though.
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