Image: mbfitzmahan. Don Fitzmahan, 1997.
Lutsk, Ukraine. November 1997.
Ukraine Journal by Don.
Today I began the day with a visit to the University Concilliary. This sounds like the role that Robert Duvall played in the Godfather movies (consigliere), however it simply means the administrative secretary. Here, I asked for help in ransoming my two packages from the post office. I explain, in marginal Ukrainian, my situation and then show them a note the post office worker had given me on Saturday. The postal worker had told me to show this to the University staff, that they would understand and comply by giving me the appropriate papers authorizing me to obtain my goods.
It isn't that easy. Some Ukrainians who speak no English seem to enjoy the challenge of the language barrier, but not these ladies at the university. They talk to each other, avoiding to have to talk or even look at me. They don't think I need any such authority, but uncertain of how to explain this to me, they decide to give the papers to me anyway. We walk down the hall where I wait outside a different office while papers are prepared, signatures gathered, stamps stamped, and the fate of Ukraine hangs in the balance. I wonder if they are calling President Kuchma (Ukrainian President 1994-2005). One more trip down the hall and the deed is done. Paper in hand, which I of course cannot read, I exit the University and aim for the post office, confident that I am now an official designee of Volyn State University and the Ukrainian government. I am giddy with power.
Leaving the building, Natashya (Psych Department Natashya) begins to argue with Volodimir (translator/passport agent Volodimir). She is upset about the article about me that appeared in the newspaper this weekend. The editor is a friend of Volodimir's and he, Volodimir, had arranged the interview. Natashya feels that I am due greater respect than this rather frivolous piece, and that my professional status has been undermined. She demands a second article. I explain that it is not important to me, but she is undaunted and leaves in a huff.
Taking the short walk to the post office, I stride in waving my University papers, and my two post office notices. The postal worker takes my two notices and looks at them and then she hands back the neatly completed, boldly stamped, dually signed, nicely-folded official University authorization. "Ne treba," she says. Not needed? How could my neatly completed, boldy-stamped, dually-signed, nicely-folded official University authorization, which took me four trips back and forth to the post office, not be needed? It is a dazed, confused and humbled shadow of a power broker who walks out of the post office with his two packages in hand.