Spelling

In mid-January I returned to Kyiv after a visit to the States. Weary from the long flight, I opted to stay at the Borispol "Luxury Airport Hotel" rather than take a 6-hour night bus back to Lutsk. It took me a good 45-minutes to locate the hotel. The woman at the airport information desk informed me to "just take the shuttle," and the baba next to me on the shuttle laughed when I asked her (more than once) if this stop was the hotel. "Of course it's not this one, devushka" she chortled, "this is the other terminal!" I know by now that it's hilarious to watch foreigners make transportation mistakes, as I have often been subject to some combination of pity, ridicule, and amusement. "Amerikanka needs help!" "the girl can't find the bus station!" "Why are you here?!" "You should have just taken the train!" many have shouted. It is both humbling and maddening for one who prefers to remain inconspicuous.

I finally found the hotel only to discover that it was merely a block from the terminal. I could have easily walked there in ten minutes. I entered and glanced around, immediately relieved that I was already accustomed to the cultural nuances. I observed the lobby—chilly and dimly lit, courtesy of a few florescent lights. There were several uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs, all strategically misplaced, accompanied by bouquets of artificial floral arrangements atop rickety tables. All of this was surrounded by peeling, powder blue wallpaper. Such decor, I thought, might create an unwelcoming tone for the uninitiated. But for me, it meant that there was a room with a bed waiting for me, and surely sleep would come. I handed the receptionist my credit card.

"Can you pay in cash? There's an ATM outside" she asked in Russian.
"Does the credit card machine not work?" I responded in Ukrainian.
"One minute, I'll try..."

She took my card and ran it through the machine. It made the familiar, appropriate noises and I breathed a sigh of relief. I signed the receipt, and she handed me the key. "Room 302. The elevator is that way. Goodnight." I found my way to the room and put down my bags. I drew open the faded, minty-green window curtain and looked out at the sun setting over the grey, broken pavement, remembering again where I was.

The following day I caught the afternoon bus to Lutsk. The ride is about five to six hours, depending on traffic. The main highway from Kyiv to my Western Oblast is fairly smooth compared to most Ukrainian roads, allowing for semi-comfortable snoozing. Just as I began to doze off, I heard a man's voice behind me, broken English words scattered throughout his conversation.

"No, Andriy, no...listen to me" he spoke sharply into the phone to whom I presumed was his son. "Biieeciikelllll...BIEcikel" he said in English, followed by his spelling "I—R-Y-D-E—M-I—B-I-E-C-I-K-E-L"

I snickered under my breath, amused by the crude misspelling, quickly followed by a sense of strange obligation—Should I correct this man? "No," I thought, "that would be weird."

"Andriy, stop. Listen to your father," he continued. "Now write this down: W-I—W-Y-L-L—G-O—S-W-E-M-I-N-G."

I wondered if this man would even want me to correct him. I started to think about what might happen to Andriy the next day at school. I envisioned him getting all of the answers wrong. Scolded by his English teacher, he would retort with a time-honored "but my dad said!" a justification that, for whatever reason, is believed to end the discussion. And what would his teacher say? Would she call Andriy's father, informing him of his own inadequate English skills? Would he argue with her? Would this evoke a deeper sense of failure and shame? One that transcends the triviality of these misspellings, only to attempt to mask them with denial? Why punish Andriy for his father's sins?

I thought about how I had the power to save this man from such indignity. How easy it would be for me to spare both father and son from this embarrassment.

"I—L-A-I-K—T-U—R-A-N" he resumed.

I thought of my own father helping me with math. Memories of endless late nights staring at my math book splayed open on the kitchen table, waiting for someone who knew what to do with it. "Don't worry, kiddo!" he would assure me, "I was terrible at math too. I got by with remedial Algebra in college. You're like me, better with language and ideas. You won't need it!" Grateful for the encouragement, I too got by. Yet I was always left wondering if I would be different, better, were the bar set higher. My own depressing college semester of remedial Algebra as punishment for the sins of my father. Andriy and I weren't so very different after all.

"No," I decided, "why interfere."  I was overthinking it. Anyways, Andriy should be doing his homework himself. Surely there was a dictionary lying around that could outspell dad.

I arrived in Lutsk around 7 and headed to my little home, ready to begin the completion of all the work I had begun. Little did I know I would be leaving again in just over a month.

Taken on my last day. Lutsk, Ukraine.