Something Smells

The heat is here, and it's driving me nauseous and lethargic. You know how I said, back when I was first taking about Peace Corps, that I didn't want to go to a hot country? That I don't really like the heat, and that Eastern Europe appeals in part because it's not...say...Africa? Since I got to Crimea I've been wondering how hot it really gets here. I can't really trust the locals. First of all, when they give me numbers they're always in Centigrade, not Fahrenheit. I haven't figured Centigrade out yet. Plus everyone gives a different answer anyway--no one really knows, I don't think. Then there's the whole exaggeration thing. Sure, it gets hot. But how hot? Ukrainians probably think 80 degrees (Fahrenheit) is sweltering. What can they really know about heat? I've lived in Hawaii. And most of you reading this probably remember a few years ago, during California's rolling blackouts, when it was so hot the train tracks warped. Now that's hot. Nah, I thought. It'll be hot here, but not THAT hot.

Then, about two weeks ago, the weather turned and I started to worry. Don't ask me what the temperature is, but I'm sweating a bunch. (Not any fun when you're having water issues AND hand-washing your clothes.) One woman I know tells me she loves it in July and August because it's hotter than this. "So hot you can't breathe." I might have chalked that up to exaggeration two weeks ago, but now? Hotter than this? This is plenty hot enough as far as I'm concerned.

A friend of mine, who arrived in Ukraine the year before me, says that last year it wasn't too hot. But then, she also says last year at the end of May she could still wear a light fleece and be comfortable. This year I'm desperately wishing I had more than one tank top, and at least one more short skirt--although by the time I get to the market I'm too hot to want to shop for new clothes. No, this is much hotter than it was last year.

I met a few friends in Simferopol on Saturday, and decided to wear my one tank top. This was really the first time I'd worn it outside, since it's not really school-appropriate. I almost wore my one short skirt, too, but decided I'm too white to show off both my pasty legs and my chalky shoulders. The old babushka (grandmother) who lives in my building and sits outside my entryway lectured me on my lack of color and told me I need to walk more in the mornings and evenings. And go sunbathing, of course. Ukrainians are big on sunbathing.

Well, I thought, I'll wear my tank top while we're walking around Simferopol, and after an hour I'll put on sunscreen. That'll get me a little pink, but nothing painful.

You all know where this is going, right?

I forgot the sunscreen.

I should note here that Ukrainians don't believe in sunscreen. The only reason I have any is because Peace Corps gave us some in our medical kits. You can't buy sunscreen in most stores here--it's more like a specialty, or even a luxury, item. So it's not like I could stop by any produkti (little store) or magazine (also a little store) in Simferopol and buy myself some sunscreen. So instead I just tied to stay in the shade or indoors as much as possible.

Didn't really work, although of course my sunburn could be much worse. I've had worse burns in my life. In fact, this one probably doesn't even make the top five. (Though possibly it's in the top ten.) But I'll definitely be peeling next week. Definitely. Only on my shoulders, though--my face is already so tan that it didn't get burnt. At least, not so I can feel it.

The heat has intensified the "aromatic" atmosphere of Crimea. A while back I went on a picnic, up the coast from Chernomorskoe, where the steppe meets the sea. Walking through the green grasses on the steppe, crushing them under our feet...it was a wonderful smell, so fresh and spicy. It could be the most wonderful thing I've ever smelled. That was the beginning.

Walking to school I smell a sweet, damp, musky scent, almost like fruit decaying. It's the soil, I think. The fruit is not ripe yet, much less decaying. Trees heavy with flowers and bees scent the air as I pass them. An intermittent breeze from the sea brings that salty fresh smell of water and seaweed, sand and sun.

And then there's the spicy, unpleasant smell of sweaty people. No one in Ukraine bathes the way Americans do. A shower every day? Not likely. Every other day? Remote possibility. And clothes are worn (and sweated in) multiple times before they are washed. So almost everyone smells, and not in a good way. And it's only going to get worse as the summer gets hotter, and more tourists descend on Crimea. Busses will be over-crowded and stuffy, with not nearly enough windows open (Ukrainians believe drafts make you sick), and unwashed, smelly people everywhere.

And, sadly, I'll probably be one of those people.

The problem is with clothing--I have only a limited amount. And Only a limited amount of time to do laundry. It's not like in America, where you can drop a dirty outfit in the wash as soon as you get home, make dinner while the wash swirls everything clean, then throw it in the drier while you eat. No, doing laundry by hand means filling up a tub and soaking the clothes for an hour or so, then scrubbing them (and why don't Ukrainians have washboards?), then rinsing them, then wringing them, then hanging them to dry on the balcony. It takes me a good half a day to wash one or two "loads," and then I have to wait for the clothes to dry.

And since I don't have much summer clothing, I always run out of "clean" things before I have time to wash the dirty. Especially since, unlike in winter, a shirt gets all sweaty and gross after I wear it just once.

I hate knowing that I smell. I hate smelling myself! And most of all I hate that I can do nothing about it.

This week I'm going to permit myself to buy two new sleeveless tops and a skirt of pair of shorts at the bazaar. I'm hoping if I go in the morning on a weekday there won't be too many people. Crowds make me claustrophobic. Wish me luck!

Contemplations and Quotations

The sky is overcast and the sea is a pale, pale blue. Two men are swimming. A woman sunbathes. An old man and his grandson walk in the sand. The tinny sound of bad Russian rap drifts down the beach from one of the cafes, where workers are cleaning and readying for summer tourists.

I come here to sit when I have a spare hour between classes, time to wait before the next activity starts. I like the solitude and the openness of the sea. Soon, I know, the beach will be crowded, full of towels, blankets, speedos, and bikinis, and I'll have to find my solitude somewhere else. Even at 9:30 on a Tuesday morning.

Today I am here with a bottle of water and a Snickers (breakfast of champions), waiting for the post office to open. They are on a cleaning break or something; the sign does not say why they're closed, just to come back later. But I could see someone inside mopping the floor, so in my mind I call it a cleaning break. I wrote two letters last weekend and need to buy envelopes. (Why can you buy envelopes only at the post office? This makes no sense to me. They must be for sale somewhere else, if I can only discover where...right?)

This morning I went to school to meet with one of the teachers whose classes I teach. We were deciding final grades for each pupil.

"He is strong in speaking and understanding, but reading and writing?"

"Yes, I know. He never does his homework."

"She is very shy. Sometimes I forget she is there."

"Next is your favorite..."

"Sasha."

"Sasha."

Sigh. "Oh, Sasha. What can we do about Sasha?"

Grading is difficult for me. Beyond the fact that I still don't remember everyone's name (I'm a horrible teacher), beyond grading using a different system, I sit there debating. A 9 or a 10? A B or an A? What does this grade do to a student? What does it mean, coming from me? Will a low grade turn this student off English? Will a higher grade motivate, make him work harder next year?

Strange maybe, to worry about grades, about the permanent impact of a number of a piece of paper. Does not my behavior in class have a greater effect? Yet sitting there I feel a fleeting sense of misplaced power: what I say today could effect a child's entire life.

Ridiculous. And not ridiculous.

Now I am on the beach with my sleeves rolled up, golden tan hands (from being so much outdoors in long sleeve shirts), pink arms, white shoulders. Watching the changing colors of the silent sea (oh how I miss the sound of waves): light blue, turquoise, navy, a hundred shades I have no name for.

I finished a book today, Mr. Wilson's Cabinet of Wonder, by Lawrence Weschler. An endnote quotes Albert Einstein. It is one of the more wonderful quotes I've read in a long time:

The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion which stands at the cradle of true art and true science. Whoever does not know it can no longer wonder, no longer marvel, is as good as dead, and his eyes are dimmed.

The sun is out and the sea is a bright azure blue. Down the beach someone wades cautiously into the water A woman plays in the sand with her daughter. The sunbather has put on a green sundress and is packing up. A truly awful cover of George Michael's Faith drifts down from the cafe....

I am Absolutely Insane

I'm sitting in the salon getting highlights. These are not minor highlights; they're half-my-hair-in-tinfoil highlights, and I'm afraid it was a very bad idea. It's too late to change my mind, of course. I suppose if they're really awful I can dye my hair again, but probably not today. Not before the whole school sees me tomorrow.

I'm afraid they're going to be pink.

This whole thing started a couple of weeks ago. I decided I was tired of the red and that I'd let it grow out. Of course that would leave me with major roots, so I thought maybe I'd try getting highlights, to help blend everything together. I discussed the idea with a friend who came to visit. We were watching The Terminal, admiring Catherine Zeta Jones's hair: straight shoulder-length cut with bangs at about eye-level. (Catherine Zeta Jones looks particularly gorgeous in The Terminal.)

My friend thought I wold look good with that hair style. This friend is very fashionable, and has been trying to make me a little fashionable, too. She encouraged me to go red in December and was thrilled when I bought the tight jeans. ("Carrie, those are not too tight.") Her long-term goal is to get me to pluck my eyebrows. I'm not ready for such a major step.

Still, somehow I found myself in the salon last Thursday getting bangs cut. Bangs! On me! I haven't had bangs since I was...13, maybe. And here I am today getting highlights. (Some of the tinfoil just came off. I can't tell, but it doesn't really look pink. Definitely yellow. Oh boy. What am I doing to myself?)

I'm not sure how I feel about the bangs, although I've had them long enough to get a little used to them. I don't freak out anymore when I feel them on my forehead; that was only the first couple of days. They don't look anything like Catherine Zeta Jones's, of course--they're very Ukrainian bangs--but I've received a lot of compliments on them. I met a few friends in Yevpatoria on Sunday and they all told me how good I am looking. (And since I don't get unprompted compliments from boys all that often....)

But now I've gone and gotten highlights! I'm sitting here waiting for the rest of the tinfoil to come out, and I have knots in my stomach. About hair!

What's come over me?

Upadate, Thursday: I don't like it. Highlights are always harsh at first, of course. I know that. I've seen friends get them. So I'm hoping they kind of blend in a bit more over the next couple of weeks. They're not pink, exactly, but the way the yellow lightens my hair has a pinkish tinge when seen all together. I'll try to get a picture to show you all.