Thirteen hours was enough for me to travel from one world to another. After a restless flight that began in the middle of the day and left me somewhere else in the middle of the day, I was greeted by a hoard of solemn, grim-faced Ukrainians, following me with their criticizing eyes. I was relieved to find my family members and to drive home, surrounded by big industrial trucks reeking of diesel fuel on huge highways. I spent the time laughing at the futile attempts of the government to cheer up the monotone scenery by putting plants in the most awkward spots, like at the top of street lights. Surveying the scene and trying to see what stayed the same since I last visited, I noticed the identical pale pastel buildings lined up one after each other, looking like they'd crumble apart any second. After a restless trip filled with shivers and sneezes (it was unusually cold for late-August), I arrived at my grandparents' building, which also served as a reminder of the communist era, with its graffiti clad playground and uncared for households.
I come from the city that never sleeps and is filled liveliness, so it seemed like everyone was always drunk or sleeping here. I was used to tall, silver buildings that glimmered in the sunlight, and now I was surrounded by six-story-high Soviet-era apartments with peeling paint. It didn't take me a long time to miss the sound of a train arriving at Avenue M, rather than a twenty-year-old trolley screeching along the vintage rails. The scariest transition I had to make was the food; I was forced to leave my caesar salads behind for homemade katleti (ground beef balls) and salo (cured pork fat). Getting to the popular spot for teens my age in the city (called Khreschatyk), I wore what seemed to me a normal outfit consisting of heels, pants and a cardigan, but was stared down like I was some famous celebrity. It didn't take me a long time to realize that I had to simmer my New York City side down unless I wanted to be harassed by college guys with their poor English vocabularies asking me “vere from Amerika” was I from.
I arrived from the city where random people on the street smile at you to a place where you get dirty remarks and snarls from complete strangers. I felt like I stuck out obnoxiously, with no friends or experience being alone in a country that I haven't seen since I was a preteen. Was I allowed to ask a stranger a question, or would that be considered rude? Were their stares supposed to be flattering or hurtful? Did I dare whip out my iPhone and text in the middle of the street? Did they wonder where I was from? I was bombarded with these questions in my mind, paranoid and anxious, being a foreigner with no experience for the first time. I survived the trip with only a few minor scratches from the woods where I collected mushrooms and a permanent mental image of a rabbit being skinned, but I have everlasting love for my second home, 3000 miles away from my real one.
Being able to escape from the polluted and littered floors of New York City is necessary for all of us once in a while, and I feel like I was able to run away to the perfect place. Kiev was my home away from home, just with my Ukrainian culture intensified and the food organic. It was relieving to finally see my only extended family members that bombard me with genuine love that is hard to come by in the city of no emotions. It's an experience that not only educates me on a whole different lifestyle, but brings me back to my roots, which is a vital so that I won't ever forget who I really am.
I come from the city that never sleeps and is filled liveliness, so it seemed like everyone was always drunk or sleeping here. I was used to tall, silver buildings that glimmered in the sunlight, and now I was surrounded by six-story-high Soviet-era apartments with peeling paint. It didn't take me a long time to miss the sound of a train arriving at Avenue M, rather than a twenty-year-old trolley screeching along the vintage rails. The scariest transition I had to make was the food; I was forced to leave my caesar salads behind for homemade katleti (ground beef balls) and salo (cured pork fat). Getting to the popular spot for teens my age in the city (called Khreschatyk), I wore what seemed to me a normal outfit consisting of heels, pants and a cardigan, but was stared down like I was some famous celebrity. It didn't take me a long time to realize that I had to simmer my New York City side down unless I wanted to be harassed by college guys with their poor English vocabularies asking me “vere from Amerika” was I from.
I arrived from the city where random people on the street smile at you to a place where you get dirty remarks and snarls from complete strangers. I felt like I stuck out obnoxiously, with no friends or experience being alone in a country that I haven't seen since I was a preteen. Was I allowed to ask a stranger a question, or would that be considered rude? Were their stares supposed to be flattering or hurtful? Did I dare whip out my iPhone and text in the middle of the street? Did they wonder where I was from? I was bombarded with these questions in my mind, paranoid and anxious, being a foreigner with no experience for the first time. I survived the trip with only a few minor scratches from the woods where I collected mushrooms and a permanent mental image of a rabbit being skinned, but I have everlasting love for my second home, 3000 miles away from my real one.
Being able to escape from the polluted and littered floors of New York City is necessary for all of us once in a while, and I feel like I was able to run away to the perfect place. Kiev was my home away from home, just with my Ukrainian culture intensified and the food organic. It was relieving to finally see my only extended family members that bombard me with genuine love that is hard to come by in the city of no emotions. It's an experience that not only educates me on a whole different lifestyle, but brings me back to my roots, which is a vital so that I won't ever forget who I really am.
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