Day 14: Two Weeks of This, Two More and It's a Habit

Part I

Word of the day: incorrigible
in·cor·ri·gi·ble [in-kawr-i-juh-buhl]
–adjective
1. not corrigible; bad beyond correction or reform: incorrigible behavior.
2. impervious to constraints or punishment; willful; unruly; uncontrollable: an incorrigible woman.
3. firmly fixed; not easily changed: an incorrigible idea.
4. not easily swayed or influenced: an incorrigible optimist.
–noun
5. a person who is incorrigible: Sarah.

Part II

Today was a quiet day. Gloomy, gray, windy, chill. But the gray background made the yellow leaves and crimson berries bright. So it was pretty.

When I called Olya to discuss our classes tomorrow, she asked me to let her teach the 8A, since we're starting a topic. She said I could have the Wednesday class. We talked over the 10B class and then she sighed. "I have...depresia," she said. "Why are you depressed?" I wanted to know. She replied, "I'm just, so, tired." Such is life.

This afternoon I went over to Dasha's house to hang out. Her mom ran out and corralled their tiny, fierce dog and shooed me into the house. "My hair is wet! Hurry, hurry!" she said. First, we all made piroshki from potatoes and liver. They are actually quite tasty, and it was fun patting the little dough balls in their kitchen with Dasha, her mom, Oxana, and grandma, Nella. After we ate copious amounts of borscht, piroshki, cabbage, apples, and tea, we played Go Fish and Uno. Then I taught Dasha how to play Heart and Soul on the piano. Good times.

Part III

I forgot to tell you a story that could up my street cred. When I got into Zaporizhia on Wednesday night, I missed the tram at 9:30 by inches. I even pounded on the door as it swung slowly away. I sat on my luggage for an hour and got the next one, so I wasn't to my friends' place until near 11 pm. I walked across the street and up the dark driveway between towering Soviet blocks of flats. There was a clear dividing line from the lighted street to the shadowy place between the flats. I felt a twinge of unease at walking into the dark but no one was around, and the walk was short, maybe a couple of minutes. I walked quickly up the drive into the black space and called my friend to find out exactly which building they lived in. As I hung up, I felt someone plucking at my coat sleeve.

"Give me your phone," he said in Russian. "I need to make a call."

I looked him up and down. This was a young kid, not older than 24 or 25. His long dark hair hung into his eyes and he was wearing a big black felt jacket. His jeans were pretty clean, and his shoes were neat. He was about my height, not much taller, and slim. Like hell you do. My phone is so cheap this is just not worth it. I thought, thinking about all the phone numbers I would lose if he got my phone. He'd discover it was cheap and worthless in a heartbeat anyway, and then he'd just be mad. Out loud, I told him no. No way. I sighted a lighted area about 100 meters ahead and made for it.

"Give me your phone!" he repeated, getting angry, still plucking at my left elbow. I told him to get lost and transferred my phone into my right coat pocket.

"Where do you live?" he demanded. "Do you live here?"

"Of course I do!" I said, shaking him off my elbow. We argued for a minute about this. I kept walking, feeling more irritated than afraid. But then he said, "So, what's in your bag? You got a lot of stuff in there?"

"Quit touching me!" I said, louder this time. I eyed the lighted windows of the block of flats nearby. The darkness enveloped us gently, insistently, like ink running across a table into a sponge, seeping from the trees and broken playground equipment and lopsided benches and garbage bins in the yard between the buildings. "If you keep touching me, I'll scream!"

"I bet you have some nice stuff," he said, grabbing a plastic bag hanging off the back of my luggage. He was really angry now. He gave the bag a sharp tug and the plastic straps gave way, leaving him with a bagful of cheap cowboy hat.

I strode away, looking over my shoulder, angry myself now. "Take it!" I shouted. "It's yours!"

He paused to inspect the bounty he'd been so bold as to take from me. When he saw what little he had plundered, he threw it on the ground and shouted a bunch of stuff I can only suppose were Russian swear words. He evaluated the growing distance between the two of us and turned and stomped away. I walked to the end of the building, where it was light, then paused for a moment to watch him disappear into the shadows. I thought about going back for my hat, but in the end I decided a hat was not worth losing my other stuff or really getting assaulted over.

I quickly found my friend who was meeting me at her entrance. But I still really wanted my hat, so the two of us went back to get it. Afterwards, when I thought about it, I got a little scared. The guy was trying to rob me!

But whatever it was, he failed. Ha! Score one for the incorrigible American.