You know what they say about excuses?

I don’t care – I’m the king of them. As my closest friends know, I’m forever making the flimsiest of excuses for one thing or another.

Moving in and settling into life in Ukraine, Vol II, has been a prolonged, laborious process. I’ve wrapped up my third week of teaching, yet I’m still finding my feet, and despite having moved into my flat over three weeks ago, I still haven’t properly ‘moved in’, as my living room is strewn with papers, folders and other bits of flotsam, and my bedroom and kitchen are in equally unkempt states.

But more than anything, I haven’t settled in in my head. I still trudge to work each day, or around town on my time off, with a glazed look on my face, wondering whether I really am here. It still hasn’t hit me yet – and yes, I do realise what an overcooked, hackneyed phrase that is. It’s just that things happened so quickly and unexpectedly, and I’m still coming to terms with it. Sounds a bit like a prison sentence – no, it’s not that bad at all.

I’ve got lots of niggling little computer, personal things to take care of – finances to sort out, friends to email (lots of them!) and various other tidbits to catch up on.

And here’s where I make my big excuse (and this is just the perfect segue to talk about my marvellous new flat): I’ve got many things in my swish new pad, but what I haven’t got is a nice desk and chair. The desk is rickety and squeaks, and the chair is horrendous. And when I don’t have a nice desk and chair, I’m out of my writing comfort zone and instead have to sit with the damn laptop on my lap, where after a matter of minutes my thighs start to burn up. It’s probably rendering me sterile in the process as well (not a bad thing, mind).

I do enjoy the start of a new place, where you have to buy all the sundry personal effects to sustain you through your stay, though there are the inevitable frustrations of not being able to find one or two vital things. In years past, with only a 9 month stay on the horizon, I was a bit more thrifty. This time round, I’ve been more extravagant, and I am certainly in the market for a nicely designed, ergonomic computer chair. Once I get that, at least, then there are no more excuses as far as this blog is unconcerned.

The nicest place I’ve lived?

The school here certainly takes care of its teachers, at least so far. In the past I’ve usually had no say in where I’ve lived, as I was taken to my new flat by the school upon my arrival into the country. This time, I was assigned to a lovely young estate agent of Romanian descent, whose job it was to take me and the only other new teacher (low turnover here, always a good sign) around some flats. For some teachers, this is a lengthy, frustrating process (as poor Kerry is experiencing right now in Cairo). The other guy took over a week to find a place, about average. I found one my very first day of looking, and it was the third and final place I looked at.

No prizes for guessing which building I'm in

Though it lacks the dusty, murky charm of the museum in which I lived in Lviv (sans heat, hot water and with 20+ year old jars of pickled vegetables in the cupboards), it’s still a pleasant enough place. Spotlessly clean, with hardwood floors, high ceilings, spacious, big airy kitchen, balcony, two bathrooms, comfortable furniture, A/C (like I need that now) three televisions (including a massive plasma TV in the bedroom) and even a concierge. Most important, it’s extremely modern in a city where 95+% of the apartment buildings (all the British teachers here say apartments instead of flats) are decrepit, crumbling edifices with temperamental hot water supplies. I lucked out. Except for the desk and chair. Oh, and very slow internet.

My landlord is a bit of a shady character, he can’t be older than 25. First time I met him to discuss the lease he was sweating more profusely than anyone I’ve ever seen in real life, a bit like Ted Stryker in Airplane! I wonder where the hell a guy that young got the money to own a place like this. There’s probably something I don’t know and I could be in for an unwelcome surprise one of these days. 

 

A pity about the view, though

The layman’s guide to celebrating birthdays

Just after I’d arrived in Lviv 5 years ago at the beginning of September, I was taken aside by the director for a chat. As my birthday was fast approaching, she politely informed me that the local custom was that the birthday boy/girl was responsible for putting on a spread for the other teachers. And though I had nothing to go on, not having any other birthday celebrations to compare it to, I was told not to scrimp. The previous year, the foreign teacher had bought cake and champagne, a wholly inadequate contribution that didn’t go down too well.

So, wanting to err on the side of extravagance, I put on as lavish a spread as I could afford, blowing well over a third of my monthly salary. Indeed, I set the bar pretty high for that year, as the teachers were blown away by my efforts. A nice way for the new guy to endear himself to the local staff. It seemed like we had almost weekly get-togethers, with an embarrassment of riches on offer, lots of food and plenty of vodka and champagne. That meant that at least once a week I would go into a class tipsy, while some of the local teachers were much further gone. Great times, though not a habit I want to repeat any time soon.

Luckily for me this time round, there was no repeat of that experience. No one knew when my birthday was, which was just perfect – I like to keep it quiet, and being as it’s in September, it’s easy to get away with. By the time you’ve settled in and shared birthday dates with others, my birthday has come and gone and I’m off scot-free. This year was like that, an ordinary day just like any other.

However, after my very first lesson with one group, one of the students emphatically declared that I had to be a virgo. Never one to believe in horoscopes and personality types, I shrugged the accusation off, though she wouldn’t relent and persistently tried to get a confirmation out of me. I mumbled something or other and that seemed to be the end of the matter, but I was terrified that the rest of the class would conspire to find out the truth and punish me for it.

Thankfully, nothing happened on my birthday and we had class as usual. Except that after class, one student waited around for the others to leave, determined to find out my age. He then bet me a bottle of whisky that he was older than me. After altering the wager to ‘a few beers’ (I couldn’t get him any lower), I won the bet, and then of course had to reveal that it was actually my birthday that very day. I then felt guilty – this is already a terrific class, a high level group of university-age students who wanted to go out on a bender after the first lesson and are determined to drag me out for a night on the town. The following class, I sprung for a nice bottle of champagne (they were impressed) and cake. There, my duty done.

But the sweethearts (classes here are around 80% female – result!) wouldn’t let it go at that, and the following class (they were disappointed that I’d neglected to tell them my birthday) gave me some lovely gifts and a very touching card. Amongst the gifts, and this is getting to be a recurring theme with me and my students, were a couple of pairs of elaborately striped socks. My socks have become a running gag with my students (see my posts from 27 April and 4 May) – every class now, they ask to lift my trouser legs so they can see them and have a snicker. What’s so funny about striped socks? Okay, so some of them are multi-coloured and have penguins on them, but so what? It probably doesn’t help that I’ve had on odd socks a couple of times already. Whatever the case, the latest additions to my wardrobe are absolutely splendid and well appreciated.

Some inspirational parting words

Well, I’m slowly adjusting to life in a new home, but is it ‘home’? I’m never really sure what to say when people ask me where home is these days.

The recently departed historian Tony Judt had this to say about growing up in Hackney:

‘Home, they say, is where the heart is. I’m not so sure. I’ve had lots of homes and I don’t consider my heart to be attached very firmly to any of them. What is meant, of course, is that home is wherever you choose to place it – in which case I suppose I’ve always been homeless.’

  

Derby time in Kyiv!

In what is sure to be the first of many matches, I’ve got Dynamo v Arsenal on tap for the weekend. I suffered through the purgatory of watching Karpaty Lviv in the 2nd division five years ago (they’re currently 3rd in the top flight). Let’s hope I’m in for a better ride this season. Dynamo are 2nd in the table to Shakhtar. And yes, Ukrainian football is generally pish.

How did it come to this?

Can you believe the crap this rag comes out with?

Leader, 25 Aug 2010:

Stepping to Odessa: an army-in-exile saddles up for war

In 1940, Charles de Gaulle's "Free French" took up temporary residence in London before entering the fray against their Nazi-held homeland. Seventy years on, the P[ed]zo caravanserai is ready to pack up its own sojourn here and attack a different foreign city. Mr Pedzo's departure may be as speedy as the decision-making process was protracted, with sources close to the commandante hinting he may pitch up at Kyiv's great gates as early as next week. But it's the destination, rather than the timing, of the attack that was always the favoured theme of Pedzologists. Some had pointed to Egypt, with the bountiful supplies of raw materials - namely shisha coals - that heretofore have bled the coffers of Pedzo's partisans. It's a salutary lesson for The Economist that he has instead followed its recommendations, and plumped for a Baltic (sic) invasion. Admittedly, this magazine's track record on proposing military action isn't entirely unblemished (anyone remember Iraq?), and in this case it may again prove that the road to Ukraine isn't wholly devoid of stumbling blocks. It was the unforgiving climate of the Russian steppe that checked the armies of both Napoleon and Adolf Hitler. While Mr Pedzo has proven his ability to withstand such sub-zero temperatures, it's anyone's guess what havoc it will wreak on his Scottish allies.

Tis true, and I’ve now been pitched at Kyiv’s gates for about a fortnight now. I just can’t stay away from this place and had to come back for more.

It was a chaotic, hectic summer with things rumbling along at a frenetic pace. I had no internet access, little time and a fuzzy head that made the decision making process a greater challenge than usual. It all happened so quickly. At summer school, there was constant speculation about where I might end up, and Matt, my director of studies, even posted the odds up on the whiteboard in the teachers’ room in hopes of attracting a few wagers. They started out something like this:

Baku 7-1
Cairo 5-1
Kyiv 8-11 (fav)
Belarus 200-1
Bosnia 125-1
Nothing 18-1

The smart money was always on Kyiv, but I flirted heavily with the idea of Cairo. One of my fellow summer school teachers (and now dear friend) Kerry and I joked about going somewhere together. When she accepted a position in Cairo, the pressure was thrust squarely upon my shoulders to hold up my end of the bargain. You have no idea how tempted I was, honestly and truly. And I hope a visit instead will be of some small consolation. (I fear she’s still upset/angry/annoyed with me )

This is the beauty of teaching abroad: you pretty much have all the choice in the world. What a ridiculously spoilt lifestyle to lead, where you can almost (dare I say, literally?) spin a globe, point to a place, and then go there. I wouldn’t do something that drastic and adventurous, but with so many places to choose from, one can get easily overwhelmed when you are as indecisive as I am. The paradox of choice, innit.

As it was, my heart has always been in Ukraine. The nine months I spent in Lviv some five years ago were amongst the most magical of my life. And though one is always tempting fate by going back to the same place – and yes, I did hear Lviv calling again – I felt that Kyiv would be a sufficiently different enough change. And besides, in the interests of my profession and ‘career’, I’ve got myself a job at an excellent school with very high standards, arguably the pinnacle in the Tefl world, and so at least in that regards it’s something of a step up.

As far as history teaching is concerned…were I well and truly serious about that, I might have considered a year or two in the US to get some experience, though I did have a job in Tbilisi that fell through, as well as a potential opportunity in Abu Dhabi. But I consider it a very healthy sign that neither of those worked out, and I’m back to a place I truly love – I’ve always tended to put the appurtenance of location over job. Once it gets cold, bleak and miserable in a couple of months’ time, I’ll be right back here on these very same pages whingeing and moaning about the greyness of it all.

But what about this for a commitment-phobe like me: I’ve signed a 2-year contract! ‘Massive’ would be a dramatic understatement to say how big a thing that is for me. I haven’t spent longer than 9 months anywhere since 2002, and considering I’ve just signed a 2-year lease on a flat, unless I decide to move out, this will be the first time I’ve lived for more than a year in the same flat/house since I was 15. Seeing as I’ve recently turned a robust 34, that’s 19 years ago. From a philosophical – what else? - point of view, this has to be a very healthy, positive step. And besides, this means I’ll be around for Euro 2012, assuming of course that Ukraine doesn’t have the tournament wrenched away at the last minute. Only one of the four host cities is apparently on schedule to be ready in time, though people here remain overly optimistic. We shall see.

The Warwick v Edinburgh parallel

In 2002, I was faced with an agonising decision. I’d been accepted to both Warwick and Edinburgh for an MSc in International Politics. I knew Warwick had the much better reputation as a programme, but the splendour and delights of Edinburgh were pulling me in that direction. When I got to Edinburgh and told a few other people of this dilemma, including some professors, most people expressed bemusement that I had plumped for Edinburgh. I can’t say I have any regrets.

A similar thing has been happening here in my early days. When I tell people, locals or other teachers, that I used to live in Lviv and was not-so-seriously mulling over the prospect of going back, they usually start gushing about how charming and splendid Lviv is, and how much lovelier it is than Kyiv, and why didn’t I go back there, etc, etc, blah blah…

All I shall say is that I’m glad I opted for Kyiv, but I fully intend on making as many trips back to Lviv as possible. The city has changed a great deal, and I’ve got lots to share from what turned out to be an epic journey back.

How fitting then, that I still have yet to recap the highlights of that June trip to this lovely land. I’ve already regaled/bored my readers with my round-up of Romania, Moldova and my summer school experience on these pages, with all that World Cup malarkey splattered in between. Now that I’m back, I’ll be working on unveiling all of the as-yet-untold tales and other choice tidbits in the upcoming weeks. I still haven’t even got round to posting photos of my travels, though in the grand scheme of things, that’s normal for me. I once left a roll of holiday snaps undeveloped for 3 years before my then girlfriend went and got them developed, only to find that they were holiday photos with a previous girlfriend. I honestly had no idea, though I wasn’t at all believed. My point is simply that when it comes to posting or sharing holiday photos, I’m never in any great rush (that’s a euphemism for ‘I’m a lazy swine’). While I’m on the topic, one of my biggest bugbears these days? People who immediately have to rush over to see the results of any pictures taken on a digital camera. Barely has the picture been captured when the subjects all zip over to see what it looks like. I used to love going on holiday and then taking my sweet time to get the photos back, even posting them off to save a bit of money.

At least now I can use the excuse, a very valid one I think, that only now do I have my very own internet service for the first time in over 4 months. Though it is painstakingly slow: I was having fits the other day trying to watch the US Open on live streaming when it kept freezing. Eventually I just gave up and went to bed.

So there you have it, this is where I am. I still can hardly believe it, and it’s been fun to surprise my old friends here by sending cryptic texts announcing my return.
Along with some older tales and photos from the past months, I hope to create some new, lasting memories of my various escapades and general tomfoolery.

And now, for a bit of ‘Where were you when..?’

I wouldn’t say I’m addicted to news, but I do get somewhat antsy and irritable if I’m unable to follow current events in, at the very least, a cursory manner. Working at a summer school means you’re quite cut off from the world and might miss a semi-big story or two. I’m always worried that I’ll miss the obituary of one of my favourite writers, actors or sportsmen. When they’re a minor figure in the grand scheme of things, it can be months before I find out. In the case of some American sporting figures, Steve McNair and Kirby Puckett spring to mind, it might have been up to a year before I heard the news. For now, I’m terrified that I’ll miss the moment one of my intellectual heroes Eric Hobsbawm kicks the bucket. When Ryszard Kapuscinski passed away nearly three years ago, I received a flood of condolences from friends who knew how much I adored him.

Anyway, in light of the recent 9-year anniversary of September 11 and all of the coverage of ‘where were you when?’ it happened, it got me thinking about the other big events that fall within the same category. I think every generation has at least three big ‘where were you when?’ events, and for someone of my age and background (spending most of my schooling years in American schools), here are the three biggies:

1. The 1986 Challenger explosion
2. Princess Diana’s death
3. September 11

However, more than anything else, it was reading about the 5 year anniversary of Katrina that messed with my head. One of the biggest news stories, certainly in America, from the past 10 or so years, and I just about missed the entire thing. This all fits in with my arrival in Lviv just over 5 years ago. I was en route from Belfast to Lviv with a very cloudy head and an extremely heavy heart. I’d recently returned from a trip to Chicago where Drew and I had had an epic, unforgettable few days and I, uh, ‘met’ a certain someone who was occupying my thoughts (I almost didn’t even go to Lviv because of her). With her on my mind, a two-day layover in Budapest where I spent most of my hours in Turkish baths getting massages, and then my arrival in a new country where I didn’t have internet access or an English-speaking channel (I had only 4 Ukrainian TV channels for the duration of my stay), I completely missed the Katrina story. I remember watching Ukrainian news a few days after the fact and seeing footage of a hurricane hitting New Orleans, but it was only a 10-second clip near the end of the broadcast, and of course, with hurricanes a dime-a-dozen in the August/September months, I thought little of it. Not to belittle the gravity of it all, of course. When I realised, in the ensuing months, just what a catastrophic event it truly was, I kept wondering how it was that I missed it all as it was unfolding. I don’t think I saw any television coverage of the aftermath until at least a year later, and it was only recently that I was made fully aware of the death toll of around 1,800. Talk about feeling ignorant and out-of-the-loop.

(I’ve made two trips to New Orleans in the past few years, and had a chance to drive through the Lower Ninth Ward and see for myself what havoc it wreaked; I have to say that’s it a city I’d like to get back to, I found it mesmerising and utterly compelling.)

I’d like to share where I was on those three aforementioned big dates in history, sticking to the details of where I was and what I was doing, and trying to leave out things like overwrought emotions and other bits of sentimentality.

1. Like a lot of American school children, because of the presence of the New Hampshire school teacher onboard, we were glued to the television sets at school. More than anything, there was a stunned silence and a sense of utter disbelief when the Challenger blew up.

2. I heard the news that Diana was serious injured at about 2am whilst out at various fraternity parties during the start of my final year at Tufts. I have to say that I was already well-gone on various substances by that point, so as new news filtered in, I could barely digest and make sense of it all. To top it all off, at a certain point in the night, I found myself in the company of complete strangers, and in the wee hours found myself at a Bickford’s with only enough money for one fried egg. I somehow got the waitress’s number though I never actually phoned her.

3. Not to make light of 9/11 in any way, but like many people on that fateful day, as we first heard news that a plane had hit the first tower, I thought it was nothing more than an accident gone horribly wrong, that some unfortunate pilot had flown his biplane into the tower and that it might make the news as more of an amusing ‘what an idiot’ piece than anything else. I was working in Boston and used to have a daily morning ritual. Once I got my early work done and checked, I’d ‘reward’ myself by grabbing the sports section of the Boston Globe and heading off to take care of my daily business. I heard the news of the first plane, shrugged it off, and went to do my thing. Never being one to rush my precious morning ritual, I ambled out of the gents’ some minutes later to find the floors in a whirlwind of activity as rumours were making the rounds and people were starting to panic. As the events and enormity of it all began to unfold, there was chaos and confusion and no one knew what to do. Working in the John Hancock building, Boston’s tallest, there was naturally fear about our fate and eventually it was decided to vacate the premises. My girlfriend was in the 2nd-tallest building, the Prudential, and so between us and our families the fear spread like wildfire. This was also a time when many people still lacked mobile phones, so I had no way of getting in touch with her or anyone, and besides, most lines were down anyway. Suffice to say that it was a pretty terrifying day, to say the least.

Coming back to Ukraine, and thinking about how I missed Katrina happening five years ago, I felt compelled to share these tales. In the future, I’ll try and keep things a bit on the lighter side.

Thanks for your patience. I’ll try and do better the next time.