losers back home

I went to Puzata Xata, the cheap Ukrainian buffet. It was a great place to visit, since the food was almost always tasty, ethnic, cheap and the interiors made it look as though I were eating somewhere fancy. Not to mention, the sheer quantity of beautiful Ukrainian women that lingered around tables, eating sausages and cakes – that certainly was not a negative. On Tuesday nights, an English club meets at the Puzata Xata at Kontraktova Square, attracting a large variety of Ukrainians and native English speakers who want to practice their English. I had gone with Daria one week, who noted that all the American and British men in attendance were mostly LBHs, or Losers Back Home. I couldn't help to agree. I had met a couple of LBHs before – many of them had come to Ukraine, feeling as poor and miserable and unwanted people in the US and enjoyed the popularity they received being English practice tools.

I met one near 50 year old guy who had published his own poetry book and carried it around to show off to young 18 year old Ukrainian girls. “I'm a published poet,” he'd tell them, showing them his book. I was with another Ukrainian guy who was running a hostel then. The younger Ukrainian said, “Oh, I didn't know you were a poet.”

“What do you think I do? I'm a poet. Obviously. I can't believe you didn't know. How could you not know?” the guy said. He was skinny with a mustache and beard and wore a cardigan, but not in a slightly “I'm cool because I do my own thing way” but rather in a “I'm a douchebag” way. It was clear he was a LBH. He kept talking to the girl saying, “Do you like any American authors? Oh, I'm a literature professor. Hemingway is so awful, the way he writes women is miserable. They're just not strong characters, they're so dainty.”

“But man,” I interrupted. “Femininity in the 20s was centered around daintiness, especially in Spain and Italy. And when you couple that with a culture that promotes women's virginity and innocence, that's what you get. I met many Georgian girls who act exactly like the characters in his books. I think critics of Hemingway in this regard often just don't understand the culture that he was writing from.”

“No, you just don't understand a weak writer.”

“You can call him weak all you want, but he at least didn't have to publish his own books.” I didn't know why I was protecting Hemingway, but if someone was going to critique him, it should have been on something more substantial than a bogus textbook feminist argument.

The LBHs were everywhere that teaching English was involved, mainly for that reason. Occasionally you met an English teacher who had a genuine interest in Slavic and Eastern European culture, but it was the exception and not the rule. Most had come to Ukraine to score with girls who would have been far above them on the ladder scale had they stayed back in the United States. That was the same comment that Daria was making. “You seem to be the only normal guy I've met from the States,” she said.

“I'm really not a good standard of normality,” I told her. “Did I mention, I play accordion?”

Also at Puzata Xata, on Monday nights, is Russian language club. Since I need all the practice I can get, I decided to go. Chris wanted in on the practicing action, though truly I know he was going for \ulterior motives. Granted, if I got some hot Ukrainian tail due to my love of Russian language, I wouldn't be against it. But that wasn't the primo uno reason I was going. And, just my luck, it was all Frenchmen at my table who barely had a Russian skill and one Ukrainian girl, who spoke at a level only just above my own.

About thirty minutes into the club, I got a call. “Shawn, can you come to the school?” Tanya, my new boss, asked. “I have a class for you to substitute.”

“I'm a bit far now, in Podil, it will take me some 40 minutes to get there, at least.”

“That's okay, just come as soon as you can.”

I got up from the table and went over to Chris. “Hey man, I got to go,” I told him.

“Where are you going?” he said, looking something like a lost child. It was clear he wanted to come with me.

“To work!” I said, leaving him confused. I raced out of the Puzata Xata towards the metro. When I arrived at the school, Tanya led me to the class. During class, I felt I was back in my natural state. My new students encompassed everything I had liked about teaching English back in Georgia. They were all friendly, playful and excited to learn – thus saving me from all the aspects of teaching in Georgia that I hated. When I finished cleaning the classroom, Tanya came to me. “Listen, you will be the new permanent teacher for this class, okay? It will be 200 grivna a session. You have an envelope from Valya?” Valya was the mother of the two year old I had tried to teach that morning.

“Yes, here it is.” I handed Tanya the envelope.

Tanya tour it open and took some cash out. “Here, this is for you,” she said, handing me 200 grivna. “I'll see you next Monday? And if you want to attend anyone else's classes, you are welcome.”

“Thanks,” I said. I had a new class to prepare for. I left, wanting to celebrate with someone somewhere, but couldn't, since I didn't want to ride 30 minutes on the metro back into town and more importantly, since I didn't want to spend much money. Instead I just went to the store and picked up a beer, so I could drink it watching a movie back at home.