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.