There are two truly obnoxious words in the phrase “stay up all night:” stay up. Sure, it seems simple enough to do when you’re planning it out on paper — you catch the last flight out of Donetsk, which means you’ll only have ten hours, overnight, to hang out in the Kiev airport before you can check in and be on your way. Heck, I did 18 in Munich… only 10 in Kiev should be a snap. Yeah, well, it’s not.

However I can’t complain all that much. There was no problem with my flight to Kiev (we actually arrived a little early), and while all the goings on in Kiev took me a little longer than I would have liked, I got them done, then hopped a bus to spend a few more hours with my wife. She, her son and I had a late supper, did some window shopping and walked around, then they got a sleeping room at the train station while I grabbed the bus back to the airport. It was another sad parting, but I like to think it will make our reunion that much sweeter.

The trip into Kiev did eat up some of my layover, but I still had a few hours to kill. Fortunately, the airport has a baggage storage service, and I’d put my bags there before I saw my wife. When I got back to the airport, I left them in storage a bit longer, so I was able to wander — and even nap a little — without needing to worry about those two freakin’ suitcases. It cost all of $7, and it was so worth it.

I’m now down to my last wait in Kiev — the boarding area for my flight to Amsterdam. This will probably be my last overseas post, since I really won’t have time for much in Schiphol.

Both my wife and her son were trying (half-heatedly, I’m sure) to convince me to stay in Mariupol, but obviously that wasn’t an option. However, I did say that while there were many good things to keep me in Ukraine, I was looking forward to understanding the conversations around me again. They both found that to be very funny, but I’m sure they knew it was also true. Ah well…

The late afternoon sunshine didn’t reach down to the railway station, so it remained under the gray, cloudy skies that had covered the city for most of the day. The breeze would pause, ever so slightly now and then, and give a brief illusion of warmth before again freezing the noses and hands of those waiting on the platform. Despite their coats and gloves, they shivered, she and he, while waiting for the conductor to call for boarding. When they finally parted, she on the train and he still on the platform, the wind abated just a bit, so as to make the tears in his eyes sting just a little less…

And so it was that I said goodbye to my wife. And tomorrow at the airport, she will say goodbye to me.

(OK, that just a little stylized, but maybe I do actually have that great American novel inside me waiting to get out.)

I would have been totally fine with getting the documents via FedEx, but my wife really, really wants me to have the documents I’ll need for the immigration paperwork now. And I realize that apart from the anxiousness of just getting the process started, there is also a practical aspect to this, in that she has the time off from work now to make this happen. Once her vacation is over, things would get a lot harder. And this is why we’ve been running around like crazy, getting everything stamped and whatnot.

As I’ve mentioned in prior posts, the documents coming from Ukraine need to be apostilled in order to be considered valid by the US government. An apostille, for those who haven’t looked it up or figured it out from context, is the official notarization and/or certification that tells another government that “shur as shootin’, that there is a gen-u-ine document of this here country, yes sir.” (Sorry, I don’t know the actual language used in The Hague signatory agreement for apostilles. But that’s the gist, yes sir.)

So yesterday (was it only yesterday?) we were in Donetsk to get the regional “yes sir” stamp, but the official Ukrainian stamp can only be done at the Ministry of Justice in Kiev. Given all the time frames involved — getting the documents, going to government offices when they were open, my flights, checking out of the apartment, etc. — the only plan that seemed like I it would work is the one happening now.

Last night, my wife (and her son, for company) took the train to Kiev; they should be arriving in Kiev in about three hours. Once there they will head over to the document division of the Justice ministry and submit assorted documents for apostille. I am still in Mariupol, and will be packing up and checking out of the apartment around noon, at which point I have a car arranged to drive me to the airport in Donetsk.

Around the time I will be getting on a flight to take me to Kiev, my wife should be getting back the documents now with the official apostille of Ukraine. Once I land in Kiev, I will put my bags in storage for a few hours, and catch a bus to the train station, where my wife will be waiting for me. We will be able to spend a few more hours together (and, of course, get the apostilled documents to me) before catching a bus back to the airport. There I will collect my bags, check in for my ungodly early flight to Amsterdam, and we say goodbye to each other once again. As I’m winging my way back home, my wife and her son will spend the day in Kiev, and catch the train back to Mariupol that evening.

I know we could have simplified this a bit. I was more than willing to cancel my flight from Donetsk and take the train with my wife. I’m pretty sure we could have checked out of the apartment last night (since I wouldn’t have asked for a refund of unstayed nights, it would have been free money for the company). my wife would still have had a day in Kiev after I left, but we could have reduced the other moving parts of this. But the wheels are in motion now, literally, and we’ll just have to hope that everything works as smoothly as we need it to. If things go awry, I’m not sure what we’ll do, so I’m keeping my fingers crossed.

This trip I packed a lot. Most of the stuff I brought wasn’t really for me, per se. Natch there were clothes and things, but I think the bulk of the weight was from the gifts, mostly the liquid stuff — beer, wine and American whiskey. It’s ok; I wanted to get in good with my wife’s family, most of whom I hadn’t met previously. So my bag coming over was right at the limit. I was probably holding my breath when it was weighed at the airport, but it was just a shade under some outrageous over-weight fees. Given how it was coming over, I was looking forward to going home with a lighter bag.

My plan was going along just fine, until I got married and inherited a family. For some reason they think that a wedding is a time for celebration and gifts. Or maybe they feel that, as a bachelor, I simply never acquired the basics for setting up a home. I’ve read stories in the past about how two older people (I.e., not in their twenties) felt the need to point out that at this stage in their lives they have all the household items they needed, and all they really wanted from their friends and family were their wishes for a happy and successful marriage. That would have been nice here, I think, but that would definitely be going against tradition.

As a result, I now have more stuff coming home than I did coming here. It’s all very nice of them, but I’m guessing that they haven’t really traveled internationally before. My wife would just keep showing up with these bags of things for us, and telling me I can just put it in my baggage. (Warning: the next sentence contains a Doctor Who reference.). Unfortunately, I left my TARDIS-style bag at home, so yesterday I had to buy another piece of luggage. (The previous Doctor Who reference was in honor of the 50 year anniversary of the show. We now return to our regularly scheduled post.) while the bag I brought might actually end up being light, that isn’t much of a victory considering that I picked up a second bag.

The gifts are, of course, all very thoughtful. There are some household items, such as a fry pan and a multipiece set of cookware, some more decorative than functional dinner plates, and two mugs from my wife’s mother’s dinnerware collection. (I think there’s some symbolism there, but I’m not completely sure.) I also have an item from Victoria’s mother to my mother, as well as one other “targeted” gift. My wife also gave me a couple things: a Bible in Russian (kind of neat, even if I can’t read it), and a novelty lightbulb that I think will make for a good Christmas display. The big thing is a new comforter from her son; it was this that really prompted the need for a second bag.

Although my wife was insistent that I take the items with me on the plane (because otherwise they would just be stolen), I did take a quick look at maybe using Fedex or UPS. I had to guess on some info, but given what I thought were some reasonable values, the resulting costs seem pretty outrageous. I had to verify that I was actually looking at the quote in dollars. So even with buying a bag and needing to pay extra baggage fees for three flights, it will still be cheaper to take these items home with me. (Of course, there is always the convenience factor of not needing to schlep around two suitcases. Once I get home, I’ll know for certain if I really came out ahead.)

You might think it would be somewhat comforting to know that government bureaucracies work pretty consistently around the world. Any such comfort disappears, however, when you’re running around a strange city in below 0 temperatures (that’s 0 Celcius, and below with the windchill). Decidedly uncomfortable.

The started a little late because my wife had to first run to her apartment to grab some documents, and to her mother’s to do the same. She was in such a rush, she grabbed more than was needed. But better too much than too little. We then caught a city bus over to the bus station for the trip to Donetsk.

Because of our slightly late start, we actually considered taking a taxi. It’s quite common and generally very easy to hire a taxi to take you between different cities in Ukraine. As in the US, it’s usually quicker to grab a taxi than to rely on mass transit options, and over here it is usually quite a bargain. (It’s also way cheaper than renting a car, but I still would like to try that one of these days.) We didn’t get a taxi, though, but that is only because the guy who usually goes to Donetsk (I guess that in Mariupol at least, they divide up the different destinations) had wandered away, didn’t seem about to return, and, I’m told, was waiting to go until he filled his car (4 people). So we were stuck on the bus. It’s not a horrible way to get around — only about 5 bucks (40 UAH) to get you to a city 100 km away — but is not by any means the fastest or most comfortable way to travel. I survived it pretty well, but my wife felt like she was going to throw up for about half the ride.

Anyway, we got to Donetsk, and boy, are my arms tired. No wait, that’s not how that joke goes… We got to Donetsk, and it was freezing. Mariupol had been sunny and a comparatively balmy 1-2 C; Donetsk had gotten some rain earlier, was still overcast, and with the wind, was easily a couple degrees below freezing. There were some patches of ice here and there on the side streets and walkways.

We had a short walk across a couple streets and caught a city bus to take us to our presumed destination. We were kind of in a rush at this point, because according to whomever my wife had asked, government offices shut down for lunch at 1, and were already looking at 12:30 in the rear view mirror. (Of the bus we were on, of course.) But this is where the info starts to get a little faulty. First, lunch actually started at noon, with most places back to answering the phones by 12:45. As errors go, that wasn’t a bad one and it actually would have been in our favor… if we had been at the right place. We had gotten to where we needed to go, but that wasn’t where we needed to be. Still, it only took a couple phone calls and some information desk answers, and we found the department we actually wanted was back where we came from, nearly by the bus station.

So, back on a city bus, find the new address we need, check at the reception desk, head up to the office they tell us… and it’s the wrong office. But we’re only a floor off, so it’s down a flight of stairs, over to another office… and it’s the wrong office. But we office we actually did want was just a couple doors down. So we head in there, my wife plops down the documents, explains what we need, sweet talks the clerk with a little bribe of some chocolates we’d picked up, and we’re asked to return in a couple hours for the completed documents.

So we walk around a bit, find a cafe and have some lunch, finally. Get back to the office, wait about a half an hour more (we are talking a government business after all), but finally do get our documents. It’s a good thing they were done when they were, because we had just enough time to get back to the bus station and catch the next bus back to Mariupol. My wife did much better on the ride back, but it was too hot for my tastes.

So why’d we go through all this? It’s all for the immigration paperwork, which needs to apostilled so I can submit it to the US government. Ukraine makes it a little hard, because before you can get the apostille stamp in Kiev, the documents have to certified/stamped by the regional office. Mariupol is in the Donetsk region, so I got to spend a few hours on busses today. But we got this piece done.

I don’t know if it’s made it to US news reports, but there’s a bit of civil unrest afoot here in Ukraine. Most of it is centered in Kiev (just a few blocks from where I was last week), but there’s a little grumbling in other cities as well. Just wanted to say that there no reason for concern. Mariupol is pretty far removed from all this; yesterday when there were sizable gatherings elsewhere, only about a dozen people showed up for a similar event here.

In any event, there’s nothing to worry about. I’m nowhere near the newsworthy violence, and I’ll be on my way out in just a couple days anyway.

One of my problems with Russian (and I am sure I have many, many problems) is that there are words that sound very similar to my Western ear. In fact, one of my first frustrations with the Rosetta Stone language software I’d purchased was it’s inability to distinguish my pronunciation of “mushina” (man) and “mashina” (car), even when overemphasing the differences. But it’s not just the pronunciation of the words that is at issue; it’s the fact that they are so similar that I will often get them confused.

Colors is a good example. In English, green, gold and yellow all sound quite different. But in Russian, they are close enough to always screw me up. Green is “zeloni,” gold is “zoloti,” and yellow is “zholti.” It does not seem so bad at the moment, when I’m just sitting here typing things out, but trying to get the right color when I’m also fumbling around for a half dozen other words is a recipe for disaster.

I’ve even got one of these potential mix-ups now that I’m married. As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, my wife’s son is named Zhenya (Женя), and I’ve been hearing and/or saying “Zhenya” for the past couple years. Now that I’m married I have a wife, or in Russian, “gena” (гена). It’s basically the same word, just with the first and last sounds softened in one of them. But given that my mouth has gotten somewhat used to one of them, I always need to think and/or pause a moment before I try whisper some sweet nothing into my wife’s ear.

And it’s one of those sweet nothings that prompts this post. The words for “beautiful” and “red” are pretty close to each other — “krasnaya” versus “krasni.” I’m pretty sure that more than once I’ve been waiting on the corner for the beautiful light to turn green (zholti? zoloti? nyet, zeloni). But this red/beautiful slip of the tongue actually has a funny meaning this week. The apartment owner had obviously just purchased some new bed sheets before we moved in. They are nice sheets in a red, floral design… and apparently not color-fast. They also hadn’t been washed before being set out for our use. As a result after a couple days, we started to notice red on our clothes and hands and elsewhere. It washes off pretty easily, but it’s still a hassle. So for the moment at least, if I accidentally say my wife is red, I’ve got some cover beyond just being a doofus.

It’s official: I am a trophy husband.

OK, I’m being a bit glib, but that’s kind of how it was tonight. The only other woman on my wife’s work brigade/team is named Angela, and naturally they have become friends. In fact, Angela was the only one of the team who knew about me at all. (Apparently the men on the team would frequently tell her she needed to get married, and maybe even suggested possible dates.). So, when my wife returns to work (she’s currently on her official work holiday), it will be something of a shock to everyone that she now has a husband. To everyone, except Angela.

Tonight my wife’s hostess skills were on full power, as she had invited Angela and her husband Victor over for dinner… and to show me off, it would seem. It won’t say it was a bad evening — it was actually rather fun at times — but I was definitely the odd man out when it came to language. Angela knew a little English from her school days, but a few words does not a conversation make. And I probably didn’t help things by understanding about 2% of what was being said. I’m getting pretty good at knowing when to nod or laugh, and that often conveys the sense that I know what’s going on around me.

Of course, I can easily recognize my name in Russian — it’s still “James,” just with some “zh” where the “j” would be — so I knew that I was the subject of conversation. That happened quite a bit this evening, which is why I’m pretty sure that my wife was showing me off a bit. I hope I did OK.

I’ve also discovered the limit of when I will consider myself to be drunk: two glasses of champagne and three shots of vodka. Prior to this trip, I don’t think I’ve ever had vodka before. Maybe once, as a mixed drink, but it certainly didn’t make an impression. My hits of vodka on this trip will definitely be remembered. My first shot was Thursday, during that Ukrainian style Thanksgiving Day dinner, when I was invited to share a shot with my wife’s mother. How could I possibly say no to that? And then there was tonight, when three shots around dinner were part of the dining/celebration experience. This was after we had consumed the bottle of champagne brought by Angela and Victor. After the third hit if vodka, I definitely had a buzz that would have been a problem if we actually gone out to a club, as someone had suggested/threatened. But by then it was a little late, so after our goodbyes, a quick walk around the block with my wife was sufficient to clear most of the head fog. But now I know.

Well, off to bed. Sleep shouldn’t be too much trouble tonight. And tomorrow should be interesting: we’re spending the day in Donetsk in order to get some paperwork stamped. Oh boy!

As I mentioned in my previous post, wedding celebrations in Ukraine can last a few days. I’m honestly not sure what happens over all those days, but maybe that’s just my culture bias showing through. American weddings — all on one incredibly full and usually stressful day; to me, that just makes sense. I guess that in some ways, that’s what we had here too.

After the ceremony — which, all told (including the sales pitch for photos), was about 45 minutes — we all walked down the street to a restaurant and took over one of the back corners. Not that we were a big “all” — it was me and my wife, her son Zhenya, my wife’s mother Svetlana, her sister Inna and Inna’s toddler Rodion. And Svetlana, our translator, of course. (Well, maybe not “of course;” my wife and I can communicate pretty well, but Svetlana was integral to our courtship and wedding, so why not?)

We ordered a bottle of wine, assorted other drinks, a couple salads, some breads and some pork and veal “shish kebab.” Curiously no pastry item, a la, a wedding cake. But it was pretty nice. I got to learn more about the traditional customs we weren’t following, I told them about a “traditional” American wedding (they actually have a hard time understanding that Americans don’t all do the same things the same way, but Ukraine is not a country of immigrants either), and really just had a nice time.

There was a little business as well. Since Svetlana the translator was there not just as a witness to the wedding, but also in her professional capacity, she helped my wife fill out her piece of the immigration paperwork I’ll need to do when I return. If I’d thought that my wife was stressed out about the wedding, that almost paled in comparison to her concern about filling out a simple biographic form. Granted, we are talking wholly different alphabets here, and that was a bit of the problem (for example, that backwards Russian R could be translated as “a,” “ia,” or “ya”), but still, I think she was waaaay more worried about making a mistake than she needed to be. But she got it all filled out, and then we all had a pretty nice time. I think we were there about 4 hours, which seemed about right for that sort of wedding reception. (I told my wife we’d probably have a couple more ceremonies and/or receptions when she gets to the US.)

So that was the wedding. Even with three posts, I’ve probably left out a bit. And of course there are pictures, but it looks like those will again need to wait until I’m back home. (If I’d planned a little better, I could have bought and brought a little attachment that would let me copy the camera photos to my iPad. And sadly I haven’t been able to find one at the Apple or computer stores here. C’est la vie!)

If you do a search for Ukrainian wedding customs and practices, you’ll find a lot of what seem to be fairly archaic practices — and they most definitely are. Bartering for the bride, or having to ransom her back after she’s been stolen, feasts and celebrations lasting two or three days, I even remember reading something about the groom and a wheelbarrow.

As it turns out, many of those things are still done in one way or another. At least they are for many weddings. Fortunately, we weren’t going to the nines on our ceremony (since it was Viktoria’s second and I was a clueless foreigner who didn’t speak the language and was leaving in less than a week), but there were still a couple of those customs that were part of it.

Getting hitched at the registrar’s is rather like being wed at city hall. The Mariupol office (the central office, where we were) is a rather run down building, but they have this area where the ceremonies are done that is in slightly better repair. Still, it was nothing like what you’d find at your local city hall.

The whole family made it down (except for Viktoria’s son’s wife and son), as well as Svetlana, the translator Viktoria and I have used from time to time. We got a couple photos on the steps leading up to the wedding hall, and then it was time to get things started.

A recorded version of Mendelssohn’s wedding march is played (a tad too loudly, if you ask me), and the bride and groom enter the hall together, followed by anyone else who is attending. There is no giving the bride away; entering together is to represent the equal partnership of the marriage. We stood at about the halfway point of the room; Svetlana was behind me to provide real time translation. At the far end of the room, up a couple steps, was a podium for the official, a table for the documents we would be signing, and a keyboard player to provide some incidental music. (Apparently, music and singing are supposed to be big parts of a traditional ceremony; she played pretty much whenever the officiant wasn’t speaking.)

The official made a couple welcoming remarks, including a statement about what we were doing. A piece of cloth, about 2′ by 8′ (provided by Viktoria’s mother) was placed on the floor before us, and the official invited us to step into it. (The cloth, called a rushnik, symbolizes the hope that the couple will never have to live on bare floors, i.e., be poor.) Then it was time for The Question. The official asked (with appropriate pauses for translation) if we were both there of our own free wills, understood the vows were making, and would do our utmost to fulfill them. Of course, at that point the only appropriate answer was “da.”

The exchange of rings was pretty much what it is here too. The rings are presented as a pair, I put her ring on her finger, she my ring on my finger. The only thing that caused a raised eyebrow was that I insisted on wearing my ring on my left hand. Over here, wedding rings go on the right hand; being on the left signifies divorce or other such separation. (Or just casual fashion; basically anything except being married.) I had told Viktoria about using my left hand awhile ago, so she wasn’t surprised, but a couple folks at the office were. But I think they realized it’s a different custom and went along with it.

Next came the legalese, as Viktoria and I went up to the dais to sign the city registration book. Actually, we had to sign in multiple places, not only for the wedding, but also for the extra immigration paperwork we had requested, a total of six or seven places. The Ukrainian signature is a very economical and illegible thing, so Viktoria’s turn at bat was pretty quick; mine was a tad longer, which I think amused the official a little. (Yet another crazy American and his name-based signature…)

After returning to our places on the rushnik, it was time for a little bubbly. We had some special goblets, again from Viktoria’s mother, and as part of the ceremony, we drink of glass champagne. I’m not sure of the significance; I just thought it was interesting as part of a civil ceremony.

We didn’t have to drink the whole thing, at least not at first. After we each had a sip, we had reached the conclusion, and were officially designed as husband and wife according to the laws of Ukraine. Mozel tov! (And then we finished our glasses of champagne — people were suggesting it would be bad luck if we didn’t.)

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There’s a little more to tell, but our internet has been out for the day, so I’ll just post this and get caught up with everything tomorrow.