The best laid plans

I came to Kyiv with all sorts of grand ambitions: I’d really get my Russian up to scratch, further develop my career, broaden my range of reading, exercise regularly, be a bit more adventurous with my cooking, keep in better touch with friends, and update my blog more regularly, even 2-3 times a week. So much for all that. I’ve instead become drowned in work with barely enough time to breathe. In that sense, I suppose I am ‘furthering’ my career. And though I have started Russian lessons, I’ve been unable to dedicate myself much to this pursuit. Instead, I’ve gone and done silly things like watch way too much crap Ukrainian football and joined an amateur theatre group, with rehearsals for a Christmas pantomime now taking up 3 of my precious hours every Sunday. At least I’ve managed to get away to Lviv for a weekend already.

In the meantime, I plug away at work, which despite one or two hiccups (mainly due to my ongoing technophobia, to be discussed in an upcoming post) is going rather well. But fret not kids: uncle Danny isn’t about to bore you with details of work!

Ignore the following paragraph.

[Current inner monologue revealed: I must eliminate the posturing, the waffling and just get down to it. In other words, stop trying to deliver a well thought-out, polished piece every time, and just concentrate more on throwing a few thoughts together on a more regular basis.]

Tennis, anyone?

I thoroughly enjoy playing tennis and deeply regret that I’m unable to play more of it. It’s one of the few sports I take seriously, too seriously, in fact, when I play. I’ve never been great at it, but I think I can hold my own against the odd semi-decent player.

One of my students has been on at me to play tennis with her, which would be tempting for various other reasons, though in this case the task is awfully daunting: she’s a former junior Olympic champion! Like hell I’d stand a chance against her without humiliating myself.

This calls to mind many years back when I worked in Boston, when of one of my colleagues Christine and I discussed playing some tennis after work. We had agreed on a date when my colleague Jim so kindly called me over to his computer and showed me a few news stories he’d gathered discussing Christine’s tennis prowess at university: she’d been the #1 player on her team and had won all sorts of titles. Sod that, I thought, there was no way I was going to stand a chance there and I promptly made my excuses and we never did play.

One of the great faults of taking any sport seriously is that tempers often get in the way of my performance. Playing tennis my first year at university with Dr Wasabi Islam was a great treat for me, probably not so much for him. One evening, there were 4 of us on court playing under the lights and I was losing my cool when the shots weren’t going my way. At one point, I let loose with a torrent of foul language and whacked the ball baseball style out of the courts and onto the street.

‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ asked Dr Islam. ‘Go get the ball, come back, and sit down over there. You’ll watch us play.’

I duly obliged, and went off in a sulk while the rest of them played. After about 20 minutes of this punishment, I was invited back into the game.

‘Are you going to behave yourself now?’

‘Yes,’ I muttered sheepishly.

At the extreme level, I broke my fair share of racquets, which is fine if you’re Marat Safin and can afford this type of luxury. In one of my darker moments, whilst on holiday in Grenada with my girlfriend, I smashed a racquet after only a few minutes of playing. My girlfriend was by no means a good player, and this was meant to be nothing more than a bit of light-hearted pitter-patter, so she was no doubt taken aback by my antics and refused to take any further part in my petulant charade. So it was back to the pool and the swim-up cocktail bar for the duration of that trip.

Besides tennis, I’ve been known to lose my cool at other sporting pursuits: baseball, where my crowning moment of glory was being tossed from a game for hurling my bat at the umpire’s legs after being called out on strikes (in my defence, it was an atrocious call); miniature golf, where I’ve been known to whack balls in rage when they don’t roll the right way, regular golf, where I’ve launched the odd club or two off into the distance and even snapped an iron; and bowling, not a sport I’d want to profess to taking too seriously if I want to maintain any street-cred, but one in which I definitely stropped and huffed around way too often. Another favourite tactic used to be slinging my hat down onto the lane after an errant ball.

Though I’m not terribly good at regular golf, I tend to lose my cool only at sports I’m at least halfway decent at. So rest assured, my dears, that when it comes time to play a bit of football, basketball or skiing, I generally maintain my composure no matter what minor tragedy befalls me.

Back to the story at hand, and this pesky student

I’ve tried to explain that I’m not on her level but she doesn’t seem to care. Now, and I’m not sure whether this has any relevance at all, but she’s a very attractive young woman. And very attractive women who play tennis very well are even more attractive (see Caroline Wozniacki, for example, who would be merely just ‘attractive’ if she didn’t play tennis, but is infinitely more so because she’s so good). This is, thus, a huge distraction and even more of an imposing task. I don’t want to embarrass myself, especially when I have to face her a couple of times a week in the classroom. She wipes me all over the court, and suddenly she’s got all the leverage.

On the other hand, I really want to get back into playing, and I am sorely tempted – time permitting, of course – to take some lessons in the interests of getting back into form. It would be a tremendously great feeling if I could break her serve a few times and take a game or two off her, at the very least.

I should also point out that I’m good at dealing with adversity on the tennis court. One of my proudest moments came a few summers ago, when I was playing with my sister against the doctor’s orders. It was back when my foot was in pretty foul shape and I had no business being on a tennis court. My stubbornness won out in the end, and I played against my sister virtually on one foot. This has to be one of the proudest achievements of my life, the more so considering I beat her 7-6, 6-0. She will no doubt claim her ‘tennis elbow’ was acting up. What’s truly disturbing is that I still remember this in so much detail. I think it’s time to move on.

Back to the women playing tennis thing: I’ll confess that this is not my theory, but that of my high school pals Ravi and John, but they used to claim that there was nothing more unattractive than an attractive woman who can’t play tennis. In fact, it’s one of the most awkward sights one will ever witness the fairer sex performing and is a massive turn-off, along with the chicken dance and the Macarena. Conversely, of course, is that an attractive woman is that much more attractive if she plays tennis well. We’ve covered this route already.

Let me apply a corollary to Eastern European fashion: high heels. I’m no great lover of high heels (I go more for the high boots), but women who can’t walk well in high heels is equally as unattractive as lousy tennis players. The trouble is, high heels are absolutely de rigueur in these parts, yet I’d say roughly 70% of women can’t walk properly in them. When you factor in the ubiquitous cobbled streets, that number soars to 90%. And the further east in Europe you go, the higher the heels seem to go. That means that only a tiny minority can pull this treacherous feat off with any aplomb. For the rest, it’s the daily awkward sight of women stumbling around uncomfortably simply for the benefit of mankind. But surely men can’t be attracted to such clumsy women? I’m probably the wrong person to ask, for even that 10% at the upper echelon fails to really do it for me. I’m a big fan of a woman being comfortable – that is far more attractive to me than anything else. 

The moral here? Stick to what you’re good at. And keep your cool.

One excuse out of the way

That of the quest for a comfortable computer chair. Though it wasn’t nearly as easy as it should have been.

To save myself the bother of putting a chair together at home, I bought one ready-assembled from the furniture store. But this involved lugging it onto the metro and trying to get through the throngs of people without whacking anyone in the process. Passers-by were generally amused at the sight of me carrying this chair, and even more so when I plopped myself down into it whilst on the train. Eventually, after a bit of huffing and puffing, I got it home, and sat down, eager to start working away at my computer.

Barely a couple hours later, as I leaned over for my coffee, the whole bloody chair gave way and I went tumbling over onto the floor, thankfully unhurt, and with coffee unspilt. So much for that.

A few days later I returned to the shop, determined to get a refund. I knew this would be a daunting endeavour, what with the standards of customer service and the general public’s impatience to queue for anything. After a lot of jostling and bickering, I managed to at least exchange the damn thing – they refused to give me a refund, claiming I must have rocked back and forth in it. Anyway, it was onto act 2 with me and the chair and the metro and the same bemused passengers smirking at me in my chair. This one has held up – for now.

By the way, incidents like these are a textbook example of what my sister calls The World Against Darnell Syndrome, or TWADS. In a nutshell, the deck hasn’t been stacked in my favour, and I generally have it more unfair than most in this world. It really is difficult being me in this world when so many forces are conspiring against me. I can’t reveal the origins of this condition, for it stems from the most absurdly politically-incorrect origins, and I’d lose most of my readership and a third of my friends if I revealed the reasons behind it. I’ll have to leave it there for now.

As for this amateur theatre group malarkey I’ve got myself wrapped up in: never make a drunken promise, one. Two, don’t keep a drunken promise. Three, don’t go to an ‘audition’ of something you aren’t sure you want to be a part of and then put in a stellar performance to get a plum part or two.

This is the position I’ve become embroiled in. I’ve dabbled in a bit of theatre before with the kids, usually at summer schools but also in San Sebastian where I directed a ‘Theatre Club’ performance with a group of whippersnappers and put on a spectacle called The Day of the Robots in front of a packed theatre of friends and fellow teachers. And I’ve done a bit of acting here and there, but nothing too serious. Until now.

I thought it would be a bit of a laugh: do a couple of rehearsals over a fortnight, have a few drinks, a bit of banter, and then a small show, mainly improve-style, in front of a select audience of my peers. But no: this is some serious shit! Over 2 months of rehearsals, 3 hours a week for the first month or so, then 5-6 for the 2^nd month; original, full-blown costumes and everything; a production crew with light and sound ‘experts’; and to be performed in a proper theatre with ticket sales and advertising and an expected decent-sized audience consisting of much of Kyiv’s expat community. And there’s a fair range of people acting – a few teachers, but mainly some older teenagers, younger brats and people from the local community. This isn’t childs’ play at all! I’ve got to memorise lines and everything!

Damn it.

As for the play, if you’re familiar with the Reduced Shakespeare Company’s repertoire, where all of the bard’s works are performed in a comedy-packed 2 hours (there’s also an American History version), then you’ll recognise this effort: it’s titled The Brothers Grimm Spectaculathon, and your dear author, after putting in a stellar audition, has been ‘rewarded’ with 3 roles: Rumpelstiltskin, the main [unnamed] dwarf from Snow White, and the host of a ‘This is Your Life’-type show. A lot of responsibility has been thrust upon my shoulders, and I can’t be letting them down now. With my sieve-like memory, this is going to be one hell of a challenge.

If anyone happens to be in Kyiv on 12 December, by all means come along. On second thought, you’d better not. By then I may have humiliated myself as a sportsman and a thespian. As well as a teacher, for good measure.

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.