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Sunday, June 24, 2007

Apartment Tour

So, I decided it was high time to show my readership (which I'm sure has dwindled, seeing as how I haven't posted anything for about two months) an inside look at the little place I like to call "the APT" (that means I pronounce each letter individually, which sounds really cool in casual conversation...try it, you'll see). Let's pretend that I've invited you over for some tea or some delicious cherry juice. Seeing as how you have nothing in particular to do on this fine day, and you have always wanted to see my Soviet-era apartment, you rush right over, climb four flights of stairs (or take the elevator, if you're feeling especially eager/brave) and ring my doorbell. I greet you at the door, and ask you to step inside. First things first, you have to take your shoes off, as that is the Ukrainian way, and hopefully I'll have some delightful plastic sandals that are just the right size. After all this is taken care of, you look up to see..



The foyer. Isn't it lovely? Please note the large Elvis bag that I bought for three dollars at Rite Aid and packed at the last second which has now become one of my regular accessories. See all those shoes in a neat little line? Here you have pretty much every single pair of shoes I currently own, minus both winter and cowboy boots, which still means that I probably have A LOT more shoes than most Ukrainians.



After loitering around the foyer for a while, you look slightly to your left and down a very short hallway where you see...
The view of the kitchen from the foyer! "Is that a couch in the kitchen?" you ask yourself, but then realize that the kitchen is a treasure that we will have to save for a bit later on the tour.

Now, you'll turn to your left, where you will see two doors. No, you have not just stepped onto the sound stage of the game with the doors (this would be funnier if I remembered what that game was called, wouldn't it?), you are a firsthand witness to the Ukrainian phenomenon that is the separation of toilet and tub. Much like the separation of church and state, it has long kept these two powerful entitites from unjustly influencing one another. First, you choose the door to the left, where you find...

The sink...and the world's smallest bathroom mirror. Followed by...

The bathtub. Thankfully, my bathtub comes fully eqiupped with both a shower curtain and a handy rod on which to hang said shower curtain. This is the envy of many a Peace Corps Volunteer. Not to mention that my hot water has been quite reliable of late. Someone must like me. And finally...

The agitator. Or at least that's what they tell me it's called. This is where I "do my laundry", which means I lift up this contraption (not the lightest of loads), set it on its stand, which sits atop the bathtub, fill it with water from the shower head and some laundry detergent (my preferred brand is Tide), plug in the agitator, turn the dial to the maximum (which is about six minutes of spin), cross my fingers and walk away, knowing that it is much easier to merely hope that the agitator will not fall into the bathtub than to watch the little plastic stand grown under its girating weight. So far, so good. I usually do two or three spins with detergent, then two or three as a "rinse cycle". More on the drying procedure later.

Now, you move out of the tub room and into the toilet area, which you find is rather small:





"Good thing you don't have to close the door when you live alone," you are thinking to yourself, when you suddenly remember that you might have seen a COUCH in the KITCHEN. You run out of the toilet room, which takes you literally fractions of a second, due to its miniscule size, and turn to the left only to confirm your most absurd suspicions:



I have a couch in my kitchen. It folds out into a bed, thus making this room my kitchen/ dining/guest room. Visitors welcome!

I also have a refrigerator, on top of which you might notice (and compliment, because you're so kind) my fledging origami collection (thanks, Winkates!). Here we have "twin sail boats", which you realize is really only the beginning of what is sure to be a long and illustrious origami career.You'll also notice the stove and oven where I cook. "Excuse me?" you say. That's right, people, I COOK! Last I heard, Chinese and Mexican take-out restaurants in the Washington Heights area of Manhattan were struggling with a sudden and inexplicable drop in sales.
You find this whole "Alison cooks" notion difficult to fathom, let alone stomach, and decide you might need to sit down, and not on the kitchen couch. So, you wander back down the hallway, past the foyer, and into the "big room".






"Not too shabby," you think to yourself, enjoying the sunlight streaming through the balcony windows. I might take this opportunity to assure you of the fact that all of the furniture was supplied with the apartment, so any compliments on well-placed rug chair coverings or tasteful candelabras would have to be passed along to my landlord.


















You look to your left and notice the "shkaf" which is Russian for "a giant contraption where you hold a bunch of stuff"...in this case clothes in one and books in the other. You also note the beginnings of a "picture and card wall" and think "I should send Alison a card...right now!".




After you're done writing, stamping, and mailing your card, you rush back to the apartment and turn around to admire the...



General desk area. Here you can see my lovely PC-supplied map of Ukraine, along with the collection of glass bowls that, let me tell you, REALLY comes in handy.











After you think about all the fantabulous lesson plans and seminar ideas that have eminated from what some have termed "central command", you decide to check out what is usually, the highlight of any Ukrainian apartment...the balcony. After a quick look around, you decide that this balcony isn't actually all that great, and pretty much just serves as a place for Alison to store the extra mattress that used to give her back cramps when it was on her bed. Still, you like the idea of a balcony and take a moment to admire the view.


While admiring this view, you notice some black wires strung outside the window, which, I explain, are where I hang my clothes out to dry. I am glad to have said clothes lines, but will also be glad to use a dryer with a lint trap. Do you understand how amazing the lint trap is? I don't think you do.


While contemplating the glory that is the lint trap, you take a look around my neighborhood and confirm that the communists were pretty serious about making sure everybody got the same, exact thing.

"Gee," you think to yourself. "Alison's apartment is really nice, but still, it's gotta be hard living all by yourself in a country where you only understand 45% of what is said to you at any given moment." And then, you realize that even though you only thought about sending a letter before (we both know you couldn't tear yourself away from this hilarious blog long enough to actually send that letter, now don't we?), you will, in fact, be sending something in the mail to Alison in the very near future. (That's my pretty scary "mail center", by the way. I'm box 50.)

3 Comments:

Blogger Jenn said...

Hi Alison- I love your blog! Great pictures, fun to read. I'm a nominee for TEFL in EE (sept.) and have been reading blogs...yours is one of the better ones. Keep the posts coming. :o) I hope you enjoy your time in Ukraine. -Jenn

11:50 PM

 
Blogger Tristan said...

Hi Alison!

It's 2am and I can't sleep, so I decided to search for you (and all my previous liasons...) You were, by far, the most interesting find.

Thanks for making me laugh. What a void you have left...

BTW -- the best was your description of "the agitator" -- it was the same for me in Japan. What's up with these countries and their laundry????

Keep up the great blogging. Hope you're well and happy!

Tristan

1:44 AM

 
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Great work.

5:44 PM

 

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