In five hours, I am scheduled to wake up, throw my two, 50 pound suitcases, one carry-on and a backpack into my father's Toyota Corrolla and head to the airport.
What does this mean to you? It means I am thatmuch closer to actually doing this whole Peace Corps thing. AND you will be able to stop asking when I am actually leaving -- because it's finally happening!!
Here's the most important information -- how to contact me while I'm in training. It turns out that PC is really touchy about getting packages during training, so if you feel the urge to reach out (and please do), then pick up a pen and paper and write me a letter. I know, soooo 1950s, right? (Editor's note: Mail will take about 3-4 weeks to get to Ukraine)
Letter-writing romanticism aside, here's how to do just that:
Peace Corps/Ukraine
PCV Andrea Zimmermann
P.O. Box 204
Kyiv, Ukraine
01032
If your mailing service requires a street address, use this:
Peace Corps/Ukraine
PCV Andrea Zimmermann
111A Saksahankoho Street
Kyiv, Ukraine
01032
This address will only be valid through Dec. 17. I will make sure to update my mailing address once I reach the site.
Once I arrive in Ukraine (which should be Saturday or Sunday. I'm a little fuzzy on the timeline because we are going to leap-frogging a lot of time zones) you should know that access to communication devices such as the telephone and internet will be unreliable until Decemeber when I reach my permanent site.
In fact, I would expect pretty much total radio silence for the next three months while I attempt to learn Ukrainian and/or Russian and figure how to survive. That way, if I am able to email or post a blog entry, you will get that same feeling as when you find $20 in your jeans.
Yes, Mom, I should be packing those last-minute doodads rather than writing this blog post... With that in mind, I'm off to do just that ... oh and to get some sleep!
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Coming to a yard sale near you
Hi, my name is Andrea, and I am a hoarder.
OK, OK, maybe my problem isn’t so severe that I need to attend a conference, but something tells me that I should probably add "yet" to that statement.
I’ve finally finished my move from Springfield back to my hometown, Alton. During the two-hour drive home, I couldn’t help but think about the heavy, overstuffed boxes that my four closest friends and I had just hauled out of my second-floor apartment. It wasn’t until I started going through my belongings that I realized some of those boxes hadn’t been opened since I left Carbondale two years ago.
I’m only 24 years old. How have I accumulated so much?
I know I’m not alone here. How much “stuff” do we keep in our apartments and cars that we never use? It sounds cliché, but when I peek into my grandmother’s garage, where I just unloaded all of my boxes and crates, I can’t help but wonder who might be able better use for those items.
If I were into psychology and such, I could easily trace this back pretty far. This practice of keeping everything “just in case,” is definitely a learned behavior and one that has been well-honed in my family for years.
I’ve heard of this being a hold over from the Great Depression, when people had to be creative with the money they had and the few items they owned. My maternal great-grandparents worked in an Illinois factory that produced 15 billion rounds of ammunition during World War II. Later, my great-grandfather delivered furniture and picked up construction jobs when he could. My grandfather worked as a schoolteacher. In my own family, my father’s blue-collar job was our only source of income growing up -- something that rarely happens these days.
These humble roots demanded our family’s long history of hoarding, and it has served us well. I remember watching my mother quite literally save pennies to help us to go on vacations, which yielded great memories that we were able to share together.
But in my own life, I think something has gotten lost in translation. I seem to live on two extremes -- hoarding and wasting.
On the one hand, I have been known to wear clothes until they are nearly thread-bare and am an unabashed fan of Saturday morning yard sales. (Unless the yard sale is run by a one-armed man on the north side of Springfield who tries to sell me his kids as a bonus for the knick knacks I’m perusing…. But that’s an entirely different story.)
Yet I also discovered that I have four packs of partially used AA batteries, two boxes of untouched Christmas lights, seven bottles of shampoo and a dozen cans of assorted vegetables and fruits. I know… Somewhere things got a little off track.
Over the next four days, I am going to sift through each box to determine what will stay in my grandmother’s basement for the next two years and what will end up on the yard sale table. I’d like to think that the people who snatch up all of these goodies will need them, but I’m worried they are going to end up in the home of another hoarder.
From everything I’ve read, the country I’m heading to is frugal -- a stark difference compared to the U.S. even during a recession. In one of my pre-training documents, one volunteer wrote about a playground scuffle among boys that came to an abrupt halt when one of the fighters got dirt on his pants. Also, the Peace Corps has cautions us future volunteers about bringing too many shoes because many people there have one, maybe two, pairs. I just brought home two boxes of shoes.
U.S. materialism is nothing new and I’m not going to stand on my soapbox about it now, but it will be refreshing to be in a country that hoards with purpose, rather than the aimless pursuit of amassing vast quantities of unnecessary … stuff.
OK, OK, maybe my problem isn’t so severe that I need to attend a conference, but something tells me that I should probably add "yet" to that statement.
I’ve finally finished my move from Springfield back to my hometown, Alton. During the two-hour drive home, I couldn’t help but think about the heavy, overstuffed boxes that my four closest friends and I had just hauled out of my second-floor apartment. It wasn’t until I started going through my belongings that I realized some of those boxes hadn’t been opened since I left Carbondale two years ago.
I’m only 24 years old. How have I accumulated so much?
I know I’m not alone here. How much “stuff” do we keep in our apartments and cars that we never use? It sounds cliché, but when I peek into my grandmother’s garage, where I just unloaded all of my boxes and crates, I can’t help but wonder who might be able better use for those items. If I were into psychology and such, I could easily trace this back pretty far. This practice of keeping everything “just in case,” is definitely a learned behavior and one that has been well-honed in my family for years.
I’ve heard of this being a hold over from the Great Depression, when people had to be creative with the money they had and the few items they owned. My maternal great-grandparents worked in an Illinois factory that produced 15 billion rounds of ammunition during World War II. Later, my great-grandfather delivered furniture and picked up construction jobs when he could. My grandfather worked as a schoolteacher. In my own family, my father’s blue-collar job was our only source of income growing up -- something that rarely happens these days.
These humble roots demanded our family’s long history of hoarding, and it has served us well. I remember watching my mother quite literally save pennies to help us to go on vacations, which yielded great memories that we were able to share together.
But in my own life, I think something has gotten lost in translation. I seem to live on two extremes -- hoarding and wasting.
On the one hand, I have been known to wear clothes until they are nearly thread-bare and am an unabashed fan of Saturday morning yard sales. (Unless the yard sale is run by a one-armed man on the north side of Springfield who tries to sell me his kids as a bonus for the knick knacks I’m perusing…. But that’s an entirely different story.)
Yet I also discovered that I have four packs of partially used AA batteries, two boxes of untouched Christmas lights, seven bottles of shampoo and a dozen cans of assorted vegetables and fruits. I know… Somewhere things got a little off track.
Over the next four days, I am going to sift through each box to determine what will stay in my grandmother’s basement for the next two years and what will end up on the yard sale table. I’d like to think that the people who snatch up all of these goodies will need them, but I’m worried they are going to end up in the home of another hoarder.
From everything I’ve read, the country I’m heading to is frugal -- a stark difference compared to the U.S. even during a recession. In one of my pre-training documents, one volunteer wrote about a playground scuffle among boys that came to an abrupt halt when one of the fighters got dirt on his pants. Also, the Peace Corps has cautions us future volunteers about bringing too many shoes because many people there have one, maybe two, pairs. I just brought home two boxes of shoes.
U.S. materialism is nothing new and I’m not going to stand on my soapbox about it now, but it will be refreshing to be in a country that hoards with purpose, rather than the aimless pursuit of amassing vast quantities of unnecessary … stuff.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
"Does the sun shine there?"
The above headline was one of the best questions I've fielded since telling people that I will be in Ukraine with the Peace Corps for two years. I welcome your questions, because I hope that this blog will serve as a cross-cultural exchange of sorts for anyone reading this.
For those of you who know me well, it won't come as a surprise that the question "Does the sun shine there?" came from my beloved sister, Amy. And since I will be teaching in Ukraine, it is probably fitting that I summon my best schoolteacher tone and remind you that there is no such thing as a stupid question. So ask away!
Please feel free to submit your questions through Facebook (if we are already friends) or through the handy "Comments" portion of this post. I'll do my best to add your questions and my answers to this entry.
Thanks! Andrea
For those of you who know me well, it won't come as a surprise that the question "Does the sun shine there?" came from my beloved sister, Amy. And since I will be teaching in Ukraine, it is probably fitting that I summon my best schoolteacher tone and remind you that there is no such thing as a stupid question. So ask away!
Please feel free to submit your questions through Facebook (if we are already friends) or through the handy "Comments" portion of this post. I'll do my best to add your questions and my answers to this entry.
Thanks! Andrea
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Beets are...
I don’t like beets.
I realize this could become a problem since that I am about three weeks from jetting off to Ukraine, where this fuchsia-colored super food is a prime ingredient in the popular soup known as borscht.
Imagine my excitement when the Peace Corps called with an invitation to serve in Ukraine as an English teacher. I remember hopping onto the computer to research the place I would call home for the next two years. Now, imagine my utter despair when I learned that beets are a beloved food in this faraway land.
Those who know me well – or at least have been around when I am trying to rationalize a semi-foolish choice – have heard my self-serving motto, “Try everything once.” I must confess that I hadn’t lived up to that mantra over the past five months. In fact, I have hidden and cowered in fear … of a beet.
The root of this repulsion – one that sends waves of nausea crashing over me when I pass a container full over them at a salad bar – stems from my childhood. It’s really not my fault. In fact, like any good daughter, I blame my mother.
My mom loves to tell people about the time that she served beets to her three children. I was no more than 9 or 10 when she set my dinner plate down in front of me, and I sat staring at the dark red beets and the oddly colored juice oozing out of it. I have no idea what else was on the plate – probably some sort of casserole – but it was too late to consider my dinner’s finer qualities. I was thoroughly disgusted.
Mom's strict clean-plate rule made for a long night at the dinner table until us kids decided to get creative. Once our plates appeared clean, we dashed from the room before she could discover what really happened to those mushy beets. As she tells the story, it wasn’t until later that she found them stuffed beneath a plate, rolled in a cloth napkin, shoved into an air vent and splattered on the floor.
Flash forward to August 2009. As the 30-day mark of my departure loomed, I knew I couldn’t avoid the beet issue anymore.
I knew I couldn’t do this alone, so I called my good friend, T, and enlisted her help. She and I have been working to hone our culinary skills over the past year, and we figured this would be a nice way to wrap up our rather successful venture.
I researched the Internet and found that there are hundreds of ways to prepare this traditional Eastern European soup. I chose a recipe, gathered the ingredients and steeled my stomach for what I was about to do.
After three hours of cooking and carefully sticking to the recipe, T – the girl who thinks sugar is too spicy – asks if we should add more salt and pepper to the borscht. No, I tell her that we should make the borscht as the recipe states and only alter if necessary.
Then it was time for a taste test. I leaned in hesitantly, winced and then went for it. Here’s how I would describe the first taste of our borscht: watery red beef broth with the slight hint of vegetables. Translation? Disgusting.
Since we’ve found adding salt has always fixed any questionable dishes, T and I race to grab the shaker first. Liberal salting ensued.
“Oh no, now it’s like licking a salt cube!”
That was my direct quote (and I can verify that because T made me write it down immediately). So after another 20 minutes of improvisation, we finally made the soup edible again.
In the end, the borscht we made was pretty good. Second-day borscht is even better. Like any good Midwestern girl, I sprinkled a little bit of cheese on top and it tasted THAT much better. I'll confess that beets aren’t as bad and scary as I remember. The good news is that Ukrainians have spent years, not hours, perfecting their borscht recipes. I'll sample a few and report back on how good borscht should taste.
In a way, these beets represent what I hope will be a slew of exciting and sometimes uncomfortable situations that I will experience in the coming months. If nothing else, I will have some fascinating stories to tell. And as many of you know, there’s nothing I love more than a good story!
One last thing, this is for you, T -- Beet it!
Imagine my excitement when the Peace Corps called with an invitation to serve in Ukraine as an English teacher. I remember hopping onto the computer to research the place I would call home for the next two years. Now, imagine my utter despair when I learned that beets are a beloved food in this faraway land.
Those who know me well – or at least have been around when I am trying to rationalize a semi-foolish choice – have heard my self-serving motto, “Try everything once.” I must confess that I hadn’t lived up to that mantra over the past five months. In fact, I have hidden and cowered in fear … of a beet.
The root of this repulsion – one that sends waves of nausea crashing over me when I pass a container full over them at a salad bar – stems from my childhood. It’s really not my fault. In fact, like any good daughter, I blame my mother. My mom loves to tell people about the time that she served beets to her three children. I was no more than 9 or 10 when she set my dinner plate down in front of me, and I sat staring at the dark red beets and the oddly colored juice oozing out of it. I have no idea what else was on the plate – probably some sort of casserole – but it was too late to consider my dinner’s finer qualities. I was thoroughly disgusted.
Mom's strict clean-plate rule made for a long night at the dinner table until us kids decided to get creative. Once our plates appeared clean, we dashed from the room before she could discover what really happened to those mushy beets. As she tells the story, it wasn’t until later that she found them stuffed beneath a plate, rolled in a cloth napkin, shoved into an air vent and splattered on the floor.
Flash forward to August 2009. As the 30-day mark of my departure loomed, I knew I couldn’t avoid the beet issue anymore.
I knew I couldn’t do this alone, so I called my good friend, T, and enlisted her help. She and I have been working to hone our culinary skills over the past year, and we figured this would be a nice way to wrap up our rather successful venture.
I researched the Internet and found that there are hundreds of ways to prepare this traditional Eastern European soup. I chose a recipe, gathered the ingredients and steeled my stomach for what I was about to do.
Then it was time for a taste test. I leaned in hesitantly, winced and then went for it. Here’s how I would describe the first taste of our borscht: watery red beef broth with the slight hint of vegetables. Translation? Disgusting.
Since we’ve found adding salt has always fixed any questionable dishes, T and I race to grab the shaker first. Liberal salting ensued.
“Oh no, now it’s like licking a salt cube!”
That was my direct quote (and I can verify that because T made me write it down immediately). So after another 20 minutes of improvisation, we finally made the soup edible again.
In the end, the borscht we made was pretty good. Second-day borscht is even better. Like any good Midwestern girl, I sprinkled a little bit of cheese on top and it tasted THAT much better. I'll confess that beets aren’t as bad and scary as I remember. The good news is that Ukrainians have spent years, not hours, perfecting their borscht recipes. I'll sample a few and report back on how good borscht should taste.
In a way, these beets represent what I hope will be a slew of exciting and sometimes uncomfortable situations that I will experience in the coming months. If nothing else, I will have some fascinating stories to tell. And as many of you know, there’s nothing I love more than a good story!
One last thing, this is for you, T -- Beet it!
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