Clearly this narrative is taking a very liberal view of our linear conception of time. One moment, I am schlepping around Kyiv in search of elusive hostel accommodations with _________________ , and the next I am breathing deep at Bukovel in the Carpathian mountains, with my newly-acquired in-laws by way of my dad, via Марія: Стьопа and Надя.
It was arranged via Skype (again, via Марія) that her brother, Stepan << Стьопко>> would pick me up from Hotel Lviv on July 28th and drive me to the mountain resort town of Bukovel, щоби побути на природі.
During our Skype chat, Стьопа joked that, "На Буковелі дівчина старого дідуня цілує," which kind of weirded me out, and I responded, "Ну, я навіть свого чоловіка не цілую... чомуж мені дідуня цілувати?!" All joking aside, I am not sure if Стьопа envisioned the full package that is Big Nin, delivered in-person and gift wrapped in two decades worth of tattoos. The objectifiable Slavic Barbie in stilettos and mini-skirt I am not... I am, however, of the age when one appreciates the benefits of sensible footwear.
Yet arrive at Hotel Lviv on July 28th he did, Mr. Стьопко, and at 6:45 am rather than the agreed-upon 7 am. He shares the "If you arrive 15 minutes early, you're already late," mentality with my dad... must be a Ukrainian thing, I guess. I, on the other hand, half-Uke that I am, tried to extend my slumber as long as possible. As a result, when Стьопа arrived, I was only half-ready. We still managed to hit the road by 7:05 am--I consider this to be a personal accomplishment.
Стьопа is very soft-spoken, with a thick head of white hair ("бо я люблю сметану їсти," he explained), and calm eyes that resemble cucumber slices. His face is a roadmap of laugh lines betraying his Ukrainian wit, despite initial shyness. He is fit for his age (55), and a dimpled smile gleams with a few gold teeth thrown in for good measure. Стьопа is OG for real.
Now, don't get me wrong, Стьопко is a very kind, generous, and friendly man... but I must say that his city drivin' is not the best. He explained that he does not travel to Lviv often, and that he is unfamiliar with the layout of the city. A couple of blown red lights, some wrong-side-of-the-road action, one traffic stop, and a narrowly-missed collision with two elderly pedestrians crossing the street in Івано Франківськ can attest to this.
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| Ivano-Frankivska Oblast in Western Ukraine, en route to the Carpathian resort town of Bukovel |
It turns out that we are making a pit stop in Старе Богородчане (Bogorodchany), where Стьопа calls home--along with a clan of Марія's relatives. My impression is that we are stopping briefly to pick up Стьопа's wife, Надя, and that we will be on our merry way.
After hearing my dad's accounts from the 90's about visiting a село where one of our grandparents' relatives live, I should have known better.
Стьопа stops at a roadside магазин to buy bread. Bread is a staple of the Ukrainian diet, and is generally served at every meal. Ukrainians love them some хліб... maybe that's why I've never been able to fully kick the carbs. This ain't no Stroehmann's though--it's baked fresh and people buy it every day, or every other. Old school.
We get the bread and we're back on the road. Literally, it's an unpaved gravel road. People wait in clusters alongside it for buses to pick them up... eventually. Баби with their закупи meander at a snail's pace, men in work uniforms pedal their bikes with the urgency of a hanging tree sloth.
The houses in Старе Богородчане are typically one-story jawns with shingled roofs. The plaster walls are environmentally-economical--interiors stay cool in the summer and warm in the winter. Each and every house has a садочок beside, brimming with colorful flowers. Cats bask in grassy patches of sunlight, dogs trot around, leash-less, fields of sunflowers sway gently, brooms lean against plaster exteriors, a cow lumbers lazily through one-car traffic. It's like driving through every illustration of a stereotypical Ukrainian village that I've ever seen--these places really exist?!
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| It kinda had this type of vibe... (painting by Ari Roussimoff) |
Стьопко pulls up to a metal gate at the head of a long, grassy driveway. A shirtless man with a toothless grin and twinkling eyes begins to run from a distance, presumably to open the gate, but halts when Стьопко gets out to do it. We start up the drive, a penned up German shepherd announces our arrival. Next door, penned up chickens peck at the ground while a humungous white-feathered turkey struts among them.
We hang a left at the haystack and pull up between a well with a water pump and a pretty little house. "Заїхали," says Стьопко as he turns off the motor of his VW Golf. Little do I know, I am about to meet the (entire) family...
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| The welcoming abode of Стьопа and Надя |
Стьопа invites me inside. Despite the pile of shoes by the door, he assures me that I need not remove my Tims. Immediately, I am greeted with a hug by a sturdy woman with brown hair and eyes. "Вітаю тебе!" she exclaims warmly. I simply return the embrace. She gives me the grand tour, and moments later more people arrive (forgive me if I can't remember all of their names!).
A young woman about my age with a blonde toddler on her hip and two little boys at her feet step into the home. All of them wear вишивки; traditional embroidered shirts are typically worn by Ukrainians on special occasions. I blush to think that they are wearing them on my account...
Next, a tiny (but also sturdy) woman with a big ol' gold toothed smile exclaims, "AH!" and tightly wraps her arms around me. Later, I deduce that this is Оля, sister of Стьопa, mother of the young woman who is about my age. Оля excitedly tells me about her own son, who is only a few months younger than her daughter's son, and that everyone thinks the two boys are brothers when really the younger boy is the other's uncle. Оля laughs heartily at this... That's some Maury-ass shit!
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| All in the family! |
The parade of people continues to pour into the house. The shirtless, toothless man (Стьопа's maternal uncle) shows up, now clad in a вишивка as well. He is so short and skinny that he looks like an elderly little boy wearing his father's clothes, which drape loosely from his slight frame. Yet he is strong as an ox--has to be pushing 80--his skin is brown from the sun and he moves about with the agility of a 20-something year old.
Next, a young man--late teens, early 20's?--stumbles into the house shirtless, barefoot, bloodshot, and still drunk from the night before. "Повернувся з весіллю в 7-мі рано!" laughs Пані Надя at her nephew-in-law. Boys will be boys...
A woman of about 5'10" with black hair and pale blue eyes arrives pushing a stroller containing a blonde male replica of herself. Also with her, two tween-age girls, I am guessing between the ages of 9 and 12. It is apparent that their innocence remains untainted by rampant Miley Cyrusization and pre-adolescent consumerist I-Podian glut that afflicts the youth back home. They race each other to the handmade swing set, which seemingly provides them with endless entertainment.
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| He's on to me... |
Another young man arrives. He resembles Оля's toddler to a T. Is this Оля's son as well? We say hello--I notice that he eyes me studiously, analyzing my every move. Am I the first American woman he has seen in person--me in my Timberland boots, skinny corduroys, with men's plaid shirt, purple hair, and piercings? I probably look like a cartoon character to him...
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