Chapter 1: Ukrainian Retrospective

-- In which the heroine narrowly escapes death by fireworks and moves to Germany

Let me first say this: I do not pretend, dear reader, to be writing the great novel of the twenty-first century. Indeed, until this tender century reaches its conclusion, assuming of course that by which time such trifling pieces of literature as novels are still entertained and indulged, such a judgment could not be passed with any degree of credibility whatsoever. Nor can it be said truthfully of any other century in the memory of text that such a singular document has ever existed (especially, considering the relatively young memory of the 'novel' itself -- in the history of script it is rather -- dare I say it? -- novel). Never mind to what I may aspire, I admit I have not the imagination of other more practiced scribes in creating for you a world independent of fact, in which I may entertain ideas of such depth and perception as to revolutionize your life's philosophy. My words, and the events which they illustrate are, if not entirely biographical, at least based in truth: in a twist of head or curve of lip, my -- for I may not yet judge her our-- heroine may secretly present to you my own visage. Nevertheless, these afore mentioned events and personages, with which I identify so closely, and which I fully intend to adroitly disguise in the banals of fiction, I have deemed (in my infinite wisdom and experience -- I take, ahem, the piss) worthy of documentation here.
These ruminations aside, and to bring us soundly back to the case in point however, a novel is what I pretend to write -- such as it is. And what would any novel be, without the willing and happy engagement of the writer? You find yourself as much in my (rather diverting) company as in the (slightly less, but give her time to exert herself) presence of my heroine. The lady in question -- or shall we say 'woman' in question; not to question her propriety, but rather to give her the option of proving herself improper if she so choose -- as I said, the woman in question was, at the time of my rude interruption regarding her morality, in the process of consuming copious amounts of caffeine (her nerves needed calming, she thought) and writing a retrospective of the time she had just passed in the Ukraine, from a little cafe on the one-way street which also held her apartment building in Munich, Germany. She had with her her guide book, a little list of German words, Please, Thank you, Excuse me, which she was trying to remember to say instead of their Ukrainian counterparts which she had been used to for the past 2 months.
Having finished her postcard writing, Antonia (yes, I have just named her this instant, does it not become her exceedingly?) opened her bag and extracted her travel journal and placed it on the table. Taking a brief moment to chuckle at the inscription on the cover -- The Globe Jotter, how clever -- she opened to a fresh page and began to write. And thankfully for you, dear reader, I happened to notice, in my omniscience, what it was that she wrote:

November 9th, 2004

The Ukrainian Retrospective
I was always wary, while writing in the Ukraine, of lending my opinions too much to the negative. My own prejudices might tend to shed my experiences in an unflattering light -- much less flattering, anyway, than they rightly deserved. Upon reflection, and my removal to Munich, I realized in trying to make a 10 good/10 bad list, that the bad landed squarely in two categories, all be it that they were large issues for me:
First, but least, the skanky fashions - whether in self expression, post communist uniformity, as I heard one Belarussian explain, or in trying to attract men from the "American Business Centre" (you may assume, rightly, that by business they do not mean wall-street-creased-slacks-leather-brief-case-triple-espresso business, but rather what's-up-baby-let-me-show-you-a-little-bit-of-America-hurry-up-Johnny-and-finish-your business, I'm not joking, google it), they bothered me. And further more they made me feel old because I'm still 21 and was offended by the skeeze. I hate being made to feel old.
Second, and the overwhelming victor of my unease, the Anti-Western Sentiment. Every time I opened my mouth and spoke English, people would look at me as though Dubya himself had just walked into their midst in Stetson and spurs, with I heart U S A, tattooed across the fingers of his right hand. Bloody Hell. I wonder if they still make those t-shirts that say "USA - the right to bear arms, Canada - the right to bare breasts. Where would you rather live?" and if so, would some one hit up Dino the super fan and send me one?

But aside from these two things, which I admit at times were a bit overwhelming for me, it really is such a fascinating country, if you can really get into it, and get people talking about their experiences. So, I've found that the 10 best list rounded out a little better:
I love the churches - and hey, that's a first for me, a warm feeling for church - but they are incredible. Plus, my dog's going to be fine and between that and a few other things that have happened, despite our differences, I'm beginning to owe the uber-being a few favours; I wonder if they do good Samaritan Christmas boxes in Germany?
Speaking of dogs -- the street dogs! Friendliest canines ever, eventhough you REALLY don't want to touch them, you still really want to take them home and love them forever, diseased or no.
The taxi system -- you stick out your arm on the road, and eventually a car drives up -- it may be a taxi, it may not, who knows? but you get in, say very little, pay 5 bucks, and the driver takes you where you want to go.
Saturday afternoon parade -- why can't they block off big main streets in Canada and create some happy public space on the weekends? Why? because we're too freaking fast, and efficiency always wins out over road blockages, unless you're a pride parade of some denomination. Let me have a relaxed pace of life any day, and stroll down the middle line of the street.
St. Andrew's descent -- not only is the stuff you see really cool, but the vendors are awesome as well. They all speak some degree of English and they all learned it right there, on the descent. One vendor learns a new sentence, and they spread it around to everyone else. What a neat system.

At this point, the world outside distracted our fair intrepid traveller, and her list is forgotten momentarily. Her mental list of new things to see begins to grow and packing her things, she heads out the door in the direction of the city centre. Perhaps she'll even be in time to see the Glockenspiel dance. And now, because I need practice for the grande finale, more material for our continued interactions, I will conclude, get out of this dreary apartment, away from this addictive machine, and start a new chapter.