From the homework files of sixth form:
Underneath a picture of one girl offering an apple to another:
“What about eating people?”
(this answer appeared in three separate notebooks, so either they did the homework together, or there’s a burgeoning culture of cannibalism in 6-B.)
Advice to give someone who’s feeling overly warm:
“You should be in freshness place.”
“Put off your dress.”
“His keen arting.”
“I is crazy about arting.”
“You is beadwork.”
“I fond slip.” (We decided that this student more than likely meant to say he was fond of sleeping… although who knows…)
“The weather is fishing rod.”
“My father is fish.”
“Is smile big fish.”
Two of their new vocabulary phases for the lesson on fishing were mildly baffling:
to throw the fishing rod (I assume what the author meant was ‘to cast a line’)
to pull the fish on (‘to reel a fish in’ perhaps?)
Now back to the regularly schedule blogging:
Monday, I took an early evening run, rejoicing in the last of the warm sunshine. At first, it was tough going – my body seemed to be on strike, demanding I cease my foolishness ASAP. The only thing to do when that happens is keep running.
Running in my town (any time after 7am) is an experience. Although there are certainly athletes in this country, and a good number of runners in the cities… they remain objects of confusion in the countryside. Particularly if the runner happens to be a woman. Invariably, I am stared at, shouted at, even chased once or twice by overly intrigued young men. At the start, the scrutiny definitely bothered me. Living under a microscope gets old for anyone. After a while, it’s hard to wrap your mind around why they are still fascinated with just about everything you do, say and wear.
On September 19th, 2011, I passed the one-year-in-country mark of my Peace Corps service.
And, on Monday… as I ran the last 500m down the Alley of Heroes and through the center of town, my jams came on.
So of course, I fist pumped the whole way.
That’s just how I do, Ukraine. You’re welcome.
And yeah, it’s okay if you want to stare.
Wednesday was my 26th birthday. Ukraine congratulated me with: a multitude of exuberant Ukrainians belting Happy Birthday at me (more or less accurately), handmade cards from students, honey, flowers…
…oh and a broken toe.
Way to slip that last one in there Ukraine.