Pochtalion (the Postman)

The story goes like this. About four weeks ago, my husband and I ordered plane tickets from Travelocity for a little summer vacay back in the states. For whatever reason, you can't do e-tickets from Ukraine, so the actual physical tickets had to be mailed somewhere to someone. At the thought, my stomach churned; not only was I going to be in and out of site for the next month and a half, but the mail service here...let's just say that although the cheddar cheese my grandma airmailed to me got here in ten days, the vanilla extract and peanut butter my mom and dad sent me for xmas never arrived. Finicky when it comes to food products, how would the Ukrainian postal system handle something special and express?

I'm sorry to say that I lacked confidence, because today I can attest that, while it does not work the same way it works in the U.S.A., the Ukrainian postal system is a miracle machine.

First, I did take measures (not that they accomplished anything). When I was about to leave for Kyiv two weeks ago, I stopped in at my local post office. The ladies - a brunette, the one who sits at the window; a blond, whose job it is to rush around and hand things to other people; and a very large woman, who reminds me of a broody hen somehow, it's probably in how she waddles out and wraps her wing around me whenever she has a chance - all know me well by now. They routinely ask me all kinds of questions, and it's kind of fun to practice my Russian there. Sometimes they want to know if these are my real teeth, or if they're ceramics. Other times they want to know which I know better, Russian or Ukrainian, and why don't I know Ukrainian better yet? Luckily I can make the ready joke: chooyoo (I hear) ee (and) rozumeeyoo (I understand) po-Ukrainskiy (Ukrainian-speak)...they usually laugh at this point. I'm a big hit at the post office.

Anyway, I elbowed my way up to the little window with marching orders for my postal compatriots: something is in the mail, it's coming for me, and I'm not going to be here. It's very, very important. Please don't do anything to it - don't give it to someone you know to give to me, don't send it back when you call around and can't find me, please just keep it for me and when I get home, I'll come get it. I offered to write my schedule down, but that wasn't necessary. The kind ladies understood completely.

Thus I arrived home a week ago from Russian camp to get the semi-frantic phone call from my coordinator, Tatiana: "Sarah! A package came for you, and you weren't here," she accused. "So they sent it back to Zaporizhia!" I gasped, cringed, moaned, and pretty much panicked at this point, imagining my precious tickets mired in the dungeon of the Zaporizhian post office until January, at the earliest. "But don't worry," she said, sensing my distress. Incidentally, Ukrainians seem to love to set you up and then soothe; they always give you the harsh realities of life followed by some light-hearted petting (if you're lucky or sufficiently upset). She continued, "The postman from Zaporizhia will bring it back for you in a week or two."

A week...or two? The vague post-Soviet bureaucratic animal loomed over me, snorting and chuffing, perhaps taking a ten-month nap break. I envisioned desperate weeks spent waiting to no avail, followed by last-minute hours-long phone calls with the airline and began to tremble, but said, calmly, "When? Oh my god, Tatiana, this package is very, very important. Can you call your neighbor-" her neighbor is one of the ladies who works in the post office "-and find out exactly when he will come?" She reluctantly agreed, and I thought, well, this is it. That's all you can do.

Meantime, I decided to mosy down to the P.O. and check my mail. Maybe I could sleuth something else out about my package. When I got there, the ladies all exclamed in a chorus, "Sarah! A very important package..." and told me the whole story again. When I opened my P.O. box, I found the little slip of paper to claim the package. So when the brunette was telling me that the postman was coming next Thursday (which was verified by three other people, including that it was this week, not next week), I had her write my home and mobile phone numbers down. "Call me when he gets here," I pleaded. "I will wait. All day. Just call me and I will run here!"

I have to reflect, at this point, that my survival Russian survives in myriad situations. I'm not entirely unpleased with that.

So today, Thursday, arrived, and I actually had forgotten about this whole arrangement. I got up and went jogging in the early morning swelter (for me, early, anyway; about ten-thirty, I guess), the heat of the sun having already baked off all the clouds in the sky and left a dusty gray haze on the horizon. I staggered home and and was taking a straight-from-the-six-liter-storage-bottle bucket bath, as the water dependably goes out whenever you need it most in my town, when my home phone rang. Hm, I thought. Who's calling me? Then my mobile rang. I still didn't get it. At least they called the cell, I can see who to call back in a minute.

I was just drying my hair when the mobile rang again. This time I answered it, dripping only slightly, and it was the excited voice of the brunette. She was speaking so rapidly all I could do was repeat the most important information in one or two words. "Postman...here...to me?" I stuttered. Just then my home phone rang. I picked it up and tried to talk so whoever it was would know I was there, but would hopefully wait. "He will come...to me?" I stammered into my cell. From the home phone, a woman's voice started yelling faster than the post office lady was talking. "Me...here...wait...postman!" I begged, and I thought the brunette agreed. I gave her my address and finally put the home phone up to my ear. It was Tatiana, who had figured everything out. "Okay, fine, you know about it," she said curtly. "Great. Bye." And hung up.

I stomped back and forth in my apartment for the next ten minutes, hoping I had figured it out and managed to communicate. Would this be the package I had been waiting for? It was, and more.

Staring through the peephole, I opened the door as soon as he made his way up the steps. The pochtalion looked a lot like a giant papa smurf, actually, with wisps of white hair floating around his reddened ears. His all-blue uniform lent alot to that impression, too, but it was his larger-than-normal head and rounded nose that really did it. He grinned and hopped over the threshold cheerily, wafting a late-morning scent of about 300 grams my way in the process. I didn't really register that at the time, since many people seem to drink at all hours here. Normal!

He asked for my passport, which was in the kitchen, and boldly followed me in. Okay, I thought, we can do this here. You're not invading my space or anything. I smiled bravely when he told me he'd left his glasses in the car and couldn't see well enough to write, so I'd have to do it, in Russian, and dotted the x and crossed the i where he told me to. After we were done with our exchange, he eyed the empty beer bottle on my table (I admit, I left it out, I'm a terrible housekeeper). "Got any beer?" he beamed.

"Um, no, not really," I replied.

"No problem. What else do you have?" he said.

"I've got some...vodka in the fridge," I hedged.

"What? Water?" he asked quizzically, probably thinking, crazy American, water's not alcohol! (By the way, "vo-da" is water, and "vod-ka" is, well, I think you know.) Papa smurf seemed hard of hearing as well as blind and drunk.

"No, vod-ka," I said. "Alright!" he shouted. "Davay! Let's go!"

So I got out my tiny coffee cups and poured him a shot. What else could I do? He'd done me a huge favor by making the special delivery, and he was in my kitchen. I sort of figured, par for the course. Luckily, all the vodka I had left was enough for one shot. I pretended to pour some into my cup, and we clinked glasses.

"Sank you wery much, my leetle friend!" he exclaimed, and hopped back out the door, chortling to himself. The pochtalion had scored once more.

And I had fared not too badly in the process, either, I have to admit. My local postal ladies had saved my hide and my tickets were in my possession a full two and a half weeks ahead of time. I felt cared-for and looked after, not to mention relieved. Most importantly, Ukraine had come through for me right when I needed it, kak fsigda (as always)!