I’m not a Ukrainian wife

A passing remark on enid’s blog made me realise there is something wrong with the psyche of the average Kyivian (besides the obvious).

To prove said point….

When Mr Moi and I go a-dining in the wonderful town of Kyiv, we inevitably run into the same problem, over and over again.

The waiters can’t understand why I canna talka tha lingo.

Mr Moi doesn’t have this problem. With his sharp good looks and unique style of dressing, locals can tell from a mile away that he’s a Westerner (at least, a Turkmen refugee. Either way, not from here).

But it seems to be the unspoken rule that, in this town, where there’s a foreign man, there is expected to be a Ukrainian dyevushka girlie, uh, translator, on his arm.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not at all sad for being mistaken for a glamour girl who’s hot enough to woo a Westerner (ah if that were the truth). Most of the Ukrainian luvvies might dress 80s, but they look a million bucks (and I think some of them have had that much work done).

But one does get a little tired of hearing your husband trying to talk Russki, only to have the waiter sigh with impatience and splurt out a sentence in your direction.

By the time I’ve made the waiter understand that he’s not going to get any better conversation from me, we’ve either made an enemy of the waiter (for wasting his time), or he’s walked off and left us stranded in the foyer because his attention span simply doesn’t accommodate foreigners.

I’m not being mean. But I don’t like being mistaken for a local.

Ukrainian women are either really retro-bad dressers, or old fat babushkas. If I’m mistaken for a local, I wonder which of these categories I fall into? After all the sour cream-smetana I could eat for the past three months, I’m afraid I must fall into the latter.

I think it’s time for a diet.


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