The bane of English teachers abroad: the student crush

Above: I tried to buy this painting of Ahh-nold in Krakow, Poland, but the artist wanted 500 Zloty, or about $230. Sorry, Arnie, you just ain't worth that much to me. Still, imagine coming home from work and seeing this hanging above your mantle everyday.

The best college student presentation I ever heard was given by a tall, black-haired, sensuous Spanish lady in my International Communication Class. Maybe it wasn't the best, but I certainly didn't mind the way she coyly mispronounced the names of countries, or the way she brushed her hair aside when she was thinking. She was the sexy foreign exchange student, and playing the role of your average Fred Fraternity, I and my male classmates were never more attentive.

That was all fun and games until I became that sexy foreign exchange teacher. It was certainly eye-opening to change places with my college professors within three months of graduation, but it was shocking to suddenly be the "It" English teacher on campus. Risking narcicism and a facetiousness I've known only among college greeks and politicians, I have been reluctant to relate my new experience as the foreign teacher dodging the advances of his all-female classes. Alas, I will tell all.

My best friend and roommate Brett had warned me about Ukrainian women and how, if you're not careful, you could suddenly be asked out by a 37-year old colleague(which actually happened to Brett). He also explained that Ukrainian men have a life expentancy of about 50 years, which might be due to their morning breakfast routine of a beer and a pack of cigarettes(no joke, I hope to do a story about this), dangerous working conditions and poor jobs, pollution, and raging alcoholism. Needless to say, there are slim pickin's for the women of Ukraine and, as in Flannery O'Connor's story, a good man is hard to find.

This might contribute to the once vast numbers of women emigrating from Ukraine, a major social issue. Women who get married here, have kids, and then leave for EU countries like Spain, Italy, Portugal, Poland, etc. and then start another family(more on this later). Brett's point, and the point of two Harvard students that taught here with him, was that women aren't necessarily interested in a green card to the United States(a common stereotype among Americans, and often isn't true, but does exist), but are just looking for a good guy. Hence, Ukrainian Catholic priests, who can marry, are popular among the ladies because generally they tend to be good husbands. But anyway, back to my dilemma.

I became suspicious that something was in the water here when a student asked me out my first week of teaching. I think I handled it well, explained my policy of "no dating students"(she wasn't actually my student, but a student nonetheless), and changed the potentially suggestive beer at a bar date to a platonic cup of coffee at a cafe. Dodged one bullet.

I have four classes at UCU(only three of which I'm actually getting paid for), and the elective I teach is American Culture. I missed the date for posting class descriptions, so I had to advertise on a billboard with a sign up sheet for at least three students to make it a registered course. Apparently, I wrote a pretty good course description because six girls(a medium sized class at UCU) showed up at the first session. The following class, I had 10 students. Then 12, all girls. I had turned down three more because of scheduling conflicts(Ukrainians think they can sign up for a twice-a-week class, then only come one day a week), when another two girls showed up at the office a week ago asking to join. I had already maxed out my registration limit(12) and was reluctant to let them into the course, but they mentioned they had friends who wanted to join my class.

"How many friends?" I asked.

"oh, I don't know," they said, "maybe 10?"

I turned them down, too.

I had a similar experience with my graduate course, intended for 5th year students. Many of them come from Ivan Franko University in L'viv and are excellent students. However, I was a bit disappointed when only 2 people showed up the first day. The next class, I had four students, three of them girls. Three weeks into the semester, 11 new students I had never seen before walked into the class, all women. The small course curriculum had to be completely rewritten, but we are now focusing on journalism and literature in that course.

I thought I might throw the dogs off my scent by using Ukrainian cologne, or what Americans call "body odor." Alas, I couldn't stand my own stench or the dandruff, and I broke down and bought a stick of deodorant and started showering more often. My recent poverty, something I thought was kind of a fun experiment, doesn't seem to lower my stock value either. I pondered telling people that "I'm taken," but they might get suspicious since I'm living with a dude.

Nonetheless, girls are the ones who come to my classes most often, are most attentive and take the classes seriously. At least I can be grateful for that. Just this past weekend I went on a pilgrimage to Stradch, a memorialized site of a modern martyr-a priest that was murdered by the soviets-and the tragic grave of those slaughtered in a Tartar massacre. I was not surprised when I suddenly became the person-to-take-your-picture-with and girls began practicing their limited english on me. I talked to one of them about the article I was writing for the university and rolled my eyes at the giggles I heard from the others.

"And how old are you?" I asked, penning away answers.

"My age?" she said innocently. "Why I'm 16."

Yeah, maybe I will go with "I'm taken."

Lost in caves, spelunking with Ukrainian pilgrims

Above, top to bottom: Candles are lit as pilgrims plunge into the dark abyss of Stradch's caves on October 4th, 2008; an UCU student gets me lost as wander the caverns by candlelight, suddenly stumbling upon wide rooms filled with simple shrines to the Virgin Mary, icons and statues of Christ; a group of pilgrims pray over a little girl, bottom left, as she lays on a stone in the main chamber of Stradch; a few Ukrainian guys are blinded and scared by my strobe trap I left for them, notice the expressions; we put out the lights before tromping out into the rain.

I photographed a pilgrimage for the university on Saturday, October 4th. I didn't mind the walk through muddy fields, the rain or the villagers who always asked me, the only person on the pilgrimage who didn't speak Ukrainian, where we were going. No, I didn't mind any of that, especially when we got inside the caves. 

Some 800 years, the Mongol Tartars invaded Ukraine and pillaged the countryside. Along the way, they slaughtered a lot of people, and the villagers of Stradch, a small town outside L'viv, fled to a cave to seek shelter. They were stopped by a vision of the Virgin Mary that appeared from the wall(now immortalized by a sculpture) to warn them of the wall in the cave(and thus, the lack of an escape route). The monks of Stradch, according to the seminarians I was with, approached the mongols and offered their lives in exchange for the villagers'. The mongols ignored them and killed everyone anyway, but the monks' actions are nonetheless considered heroic. 

I wandered those same caves by candlelight on Saturday afternoon. Few things get me as excited as photographic opportunities. I was able to photograph(shakily, and underexposed without a tripod) inside the caves with the help of my Nikon D300's incredible ISO capabilities. For those of you that don't speak camera, let's just say that my camera is awesome. I was able to take at least a few good frames with almost no light and no tripod and decent results, which I find incredible. 

I began tossing my strobe around the caves and triggering it remotely, as can be seen in the 4th from top photo. These guys were a little ticked, but I don't think they figured out what it was. Cell phones, candles and camera flash provided enough light to find our way, but we quickly got lost. The shallow, potholed cave floors were hard to navigate in the dark, and I didn't understand the directions that were being given to me in Ukrainian. When we got out, it was pouring rain and we had to stand in it for closing prayer. Still, it was a BLAST.

Vat ees thees box for moveez?

"Mr. Mike, I cannot find man with key," says Ivan, shrugging nonchalantly as I push the attendance sheet in front of his face.

I've been sitting here for 20 minutes, trying to keep the seminarians distracted while Ivan looks for the key to the video room. I don't even teach this course, but does it really take 20 minutes to find a key to a room everyone in the seminary has used at least once? Marian answers the call and bursts through the door, solution in hand.

Handing my copy of the The Scarlet and the Black to Ivan, I follow the black-cassocked future-priests as we vault through the white-washed walls of Khutirivka Seminary in L'viv. "The Video Room" is a pie-shaped glass-walled room at the end of a hallway with a few chairs, a TV and VCR, and a pimple-faced Ukrainian techie who leaves in disgust as soon as we enter.

Ivan whips the tape out of the box and shoves it into one of the VCRs sitting below the television. It burps and eats the tape like it was guzzling vodka.

"Ooo, nie dobry(not good)," says Ivan.

"Moze(maybe). . ." another seminary begins pushing buttons violently while another two run to get more chairs.

At this point, the high-pitched chatter of Ukrainian exceeded my comprehension and I filled in the dialog for myself.

"What's this cardboard thing?" says Marian, flipping open the cassette case and examining it. "Can we eat it?"

"No, no good," says another, "you would have terrible heartburn, worse than borscht."

"Da? Maybe salt . . ."

"Oh! I know, if I push all the buttons at once and you punch the VCR, then maybe we get the tape out, nie?"

"No, you have bad connection," says Stephen, chewing on a piece of exposed copper wiring. "I will fuse them with my teeth."

I point out that there's no UHC cable for video to the seven young men in black gathered around the VCR, so this is all pointless. We switch to english briefly as they give me puzzled looks, and then they dive back into Ukrainian.

"What the hell is he talking about?"

"I don't know, he doesn't have a full unibrow. He can't be man."

"Maybe he is Jew . . ."

"Just keep fiddling with this thing, and saying 'Toshiba' a lot. He will think we are fixing the problem."

Ivan comes crashing through the door and everyone stops what they are doing. There is no UHC cable. Period.

I finally succeed in ejecting the tape from one VCR by overriding the eject button, but it doesn't matter at this point. I abandon the attempt at my first movie and sound the retreat back to the classroom.

Continuing a previous class debate, the students split up into two groups: one for 'religious America' and one for 'secular America.' They like this activity, but I figure if you've spent the last few years studying latin, Thomas Aquinas, and philosophical dissertations, then debates on secularism are about as close to a field trip as you can get. The debate goes well until I ask them what kinds of religious groups we can find in America.

"Protestants!" yells Marian.

"Who are protestants?" I prod.

Our rough list includes baptists, presbyterians, evangelicals, 7th day adventists, scientologists(which was debatable) and mormons. I suggested the Amish, but they gave me blank stares when I tried to mime what it meant.

"Catholics! Muslims! Orthodox!" they yell. Da, da, da.

I explain the percentages of Americans that believe in each to the best of my knowledge(approx. 45% Protestant, 25% Catholic) and that Americans, on average, change churches every seven years. They whistle.

"And Jews? You have Jews?"

"Yes."

"What are they like? Do they behave?"

"Well, they're pretty much like everybody else," I say.

Knowing Ukrainian history(particularly volatile with respect to Judaism, more on that later) I patiently explain that I have family in Skokie, Illinois, which has a Hasidic Jewish population.

"They don't bother you?"

"Nope."

I change the topic and soon they are asking me if I would marry a Ukrainian girl. You'll have to wait for that post. I end class and explain I have to catch the bus in 10 minutes.

"You will be teaching us on Wednesday?" says Yaroslav after class.

"I don't know," I say, shrugging. "Maybe."

"What do you do in your free time?" he asks.

I explain my activities, and he nods approvingly.

"Maybe we can have english language discussion sometime? Like a group or something?" Yaroslav says.

"Yeah, maybe," I tell him. "It was great meeting you."

We shake hands and he turns out the light for me. I run to catch the bus.

Welcome to the Neighborhood

Above, top to bottom: Somebody's goats chained up in front of the neighborhood complex, next to the road; a man offloads cars near the avtovoksal(af-toh-volk-sahl) bus terminal near my neighborhood on October 2nd; near the front of my neighborhood; boys play with toy guns on an unusually sunny and warm day; a brother and sister make their way home not too far from the prison adjacent to my neighborhood.

I asked a friend which part of my blog he likes best(see the poll on the upper left) and he said the pictures were the biggest help.

"I have no idea what the Ukraine looks like," he typed. 

In answer to his request and your prayers, I am including a project on my neighborhood in the blog. I am labeling my posts, so if you ever need to look for posts on my "neighborhood," you can just type it in and search. 

Brett had described this place as a "Soviet *expletive*-hole" before I had come, and the term couldn't be more accurate. Bulldozing outlying villages, the communists erected giant concrete boxes that were the equivalent of filing cabinets for people. Most of the apartment are designed the same way or look exactly alike. The building are in terrible condition and many of them, built with slabs of concrete, are falling apart. The electricity goes out often and at random(sometimes in the middle of my wash cycle) and electricians come at their convenience(sometimes never). 

There are piles of rubble and trash scattered about, water trickles from unknown sources down the roads, and the 'sidewalks' are sunken-in concrete pieces covered in mud. There are a number of mangy stray dogs that wander the block and a few soviet fountains(also concrete) that no longer work and are covered in vegetation. They make good playgrounds for the kids. 

All-in-all, it's not exactly the ritz, but it ain't bad. The neighborhood seems very safe and I feel comfortable walking around at night. It's mostly families and old people, so the number of rowdy drinking parties and male hooligans(5 or so drunken guys, the only group I really consider a threat) is pretty low. My neighbors are nice, but people don't like to be photographed. 

Train station conversations, yummy kebabs, and lockers

Polska, Pierogies, and Piwo, part 3

Above, from top to bottom: Out for a walk on the path to the Kosciuszko Mound just outside of Krakow on the afternoon of September 27th; Precariously taking pictures while riding a bike on our way back down from the mound, Sept. 27th; Amanda and I, lacking bike locks, capitalize on our location by hiding our bicycles under a tree in the forest surrounding the Mound, but later realize that everyone saw the bikes anyway. I had only given my Marquette ID as insurance, so we were willing to take the chance; a group of rollerbladers race around the Rynek Glowny at breakneck speed on a beautiful Sunday afternoon; and a bicyclist on Friday night outside Wawel(Va-vel) Castle. 

Having been to Krakow four times, I was most surprised this time by the changes and prosperity in the city. As Amanda said, the poles "seem content and happy with their quality of life. Krakow has not been completely secularized like England has and it seems like people stick to their values here," as she said on her blog. And she's right, they are happy. Happier than ever before. 

Amanda and I experience the happy arm of the law while sitting on a park bench drinking beer and eating a spicy kebab. The kebab, might I add, was made by an egyptian lawyer who studied at Jagiellonian University but couldn't practice due to polish law. So he made spicy kebabs(pita bread filled with meat, lettuce, tomato, onion, sauces and spice). They were delicious.

Anyway, I was under the impression that it was legal to drink in public as it is everywhere in Europe(especially in the east). It's not. Eyes watering and fanning our mouths, we guzzled our smooth Dog in the Fog piwos(beers) as two police officers approached us and kindly asked if that beer was made with alcohol. A variety of smart-ass answers in polish flashed through my mind, including "moze . . "(maybe . . . ) or "oczywyscie, ja zawsze pije piwo w niedziele potem kosciola"(of course, I always drink beer on sundays after church), but I told him the truth. 

Being the nice guy that he was, he smiled and wagged a finger at us as he raised his bushy eyebrows and said "ah, but there is no drinking in public." To which we said "oh, really? I had no idea." We waited till he walked away and guzzled the rest of our beer from our empty kebab sleeves before running away. 

Polska, Pierogies, and Piwo, part 2

As Nowa Europa(New Europe) modernizes in its economic rebirth, Poland's strong culture and national identity will be a major influence on the region and the world's perceptions of it. Krakow, a classical polish city full of culture and untouched by World War II, is bursting with life and is the proud home of Jagiellonian University, the second oldest university in Europe. Expect more of Poland, they are just getting started.

Above, from top to bottom: Polish National Hacky-Sack Champion Matteusz foot juggles a tiny bean-bag soccer ball outside the Sukiennice(or 'Cloth Hall' where tourists shops sell goods) on the evening of September 26th; clubbers wait in line for the Nova Club on the Plac Nowy at 11 pm on September 27th; outside the Galeria Krakowska shopping mall next to Krakow's train station on the evening of September 28th; THE BEST KIELBASA you'll ever eat is on Ulica Gregorzecka between the train station and Kazimierz, the name of the business is 'Kielbasa y Bulka' which literally means "Sausage and Roll" and that's exactly what you get, best kept secret in Krakow and great after a few beers(piwo); and a fire juggler entertains a crowd to the beat of drums and morrocas in the Rynek Glowny on the evening of September 28th.