Chernihiv.

I’ve spent the past six days stuffing an impossible amount of Ukrainian into my brain, yet the sticking rate is seemingly low, and with it comes an incessant abundance of additional vocabulary. Now—I’ve always prided myself for having a taste, if not a knack, for language, or at the very least, my ability to fake it. While in France, my foundation and confidence allowed me to express myself with some proficiency. But here in Chernihiv, I’ve found nothing of the sort within myself.

Language is life. And I don’t intend to sound trite, but this communicative reality is intensified when one is unable to express herself. I spent what felt like 20 minutes attempting to introduce myself in Ukrainian. Fortunately, I’m able to laugh at myself—repeatedly.

I have been embraced with nothing but loving kindness here, and I am overwhelmingly grateful for it. My host mother tucked me in with kefir and a kiss last night, and my cluster-mates can laugh with me when I choke on every word I encounter. Soon, I hope, I’ll experience the childish joy that accompanies the freedom of understanding and being understood.  Soon. Soon?