The Life and Times of the Curious Cockroach

Date: September 19, 2011

After a year of living in Belgium and eight months in France, I thought my French was pretty good. I mean, I could communicate with people. I had all the genders of vegetables and school supplies memorized. Even got some idiomatic expressions up my sleeve.

But this week’s translation class taught me that really, French still eludes me. And probably even hates me a little. But at least I’m not alone. My classmates and I spent a good while arguing over the meaning of the following sentence:

Il a levé le pied avec la caisse.

As homework, we had each looked at the sentence, consulted our dictionaries and/or francophone boyfriends, and came to class convinced that our translations were spot on. Here some are the sentences we proudly produced:

a) He slowed down the car.
b) He vanished with the cash register.
c) He lifted his foot with the crate.

Spot on, all right. After much debate, some of which went on after class, we agreed to disagree. Perhaps one of us was right, or the answer lay somewhere in between. Maybe he lifted his foot with the car, or his foot vanished with the cash register.

I think, really, what each of us were fighting for was a little vindication. That after four years of French classes, we sort of understood something…

Cheerio,
Roachy

‘

Today I wanted to post about my road trip to Forks, Washington (“The Twilight Capitol of the World”), but WordPress refuses to upload my pictures. And what’s a Twilight post without pictures of blood-themed bumper stickers, Team Edward underwear and baby vampire dolls?

WordPress chose the worst time to be uncooperative.

WordPress must be on Team Jacob.

Am not giving up.  Pictures will be posted soon.

Last time on “The Infinite Possibilities of O”: Alyona Andreevna Volkova’s search for a husband through superstitious tricks. The attack of the coffee table, and subsequent reprisal by electric saw. The maiming of every other piece of furniture in sight. Two black cats’ habit of sneaking into apartments and fairy tales at the most inopportune moment. The interpretation of a dream. The search for a bachelor whose name begins with the letter “O”. The encounter at the tea shop.

The gentleman named Oleg traced Alyona’s gaze to his own name tag and blushed. He felt ridiculous, wearing a stiff suit in a shop full loose-leaf tea bins and psychedelic paintings of toads.

“I just got out of a business conference,” he said, almost apologetically.

“Business conference?” asked Alyona and, unable to resist, added, “… right here in Arkash, or in Kiev?”

“Arkash, of course.”

The corners of Alyona’s lips slowly curled into a smile.

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Last time on “The Infinite Possibilities of O”: Alyona Andreevna Volkova attempts to find husband through superstition. Accidentally curses herself with broken mirror. Bedroom walls covered by tiny white spiders. Appearance of squeaky stool and a toad woman named Fortune. The purchase of twenty kilograms of apples as a way of conjuring up future husband’s name in a dream.

“Say what? My electric saw? And just what do you intend to do with an electric saw, young miss?” asked Mr. Kosakov, who stood at his doorway with a mug of steaming tea in his hands.

“Womanly matters, Mr. Kosakov,” said Alyona grimly.

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Last time on “The Infinite Possibilities of O”: Alyona Andreevna Volkova’s nineteenth birthday. Dreadful event in a dreadful city. Examination of hands to assess the effects of ageing. Decision to get married as soon as possible, to avert spinsterhood and future assaults by grandmother’s sand timers. A plan. Two cockroaches scorched by tea kettle.

As Alyona unscrewed the mirror off her bathroom wall, she thought of the day Ukraine’s soon-to-be swimming champion plucked out both eyebrows. His lady fans had been petrified with indignation. They wrote angry letters to the press, calling back the signature brows that had once filled television screens with irresistible, mysterious expression.

“I just needed an edge,” he had told the Kiev Gazette, “or to at least to believe I had one.”

As Alyona slid the mirror underneath her pillow, she felt she truly understood the man. Living in a city where crazed single women were plenty and eligible bachelors were few, Alyona needed an edge just as badly. That’s why she had decided to dabble in superstition, just for a moment or two.

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A story that took shape during a busride with my grandfather, in Kherson, Ukraine.

A large fly rammed itself against the window again and again. The tea kettle emitted long whistles and hoots. Alyona Andreevna Volkova sat at her kitchen table, so busy staring at her own hands that she wasn’t aware of anything else. She flexed her fingers into a fist, then relaxed them slowly, watching her skin stretch then gather between her knuckles. She let out a long sigh.

Older. Starchier. These can’t be the same hands I had the evening before.

Usually, Alyona was cheerful. But that day she turned nineteen.

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Date: Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Location: Kherson, Ukraine

Don’t get me wrong, I love Kherson. It’s pealing and rusty, but it’s one of my favourite cities. There are bits of my childhood are scattered between the red buildings and the gangly poplar trees. But I swear that most of my time here is spent looking at the ground. It’s a question of life and death, you see.

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Location: overnight train from Kiev to Kherson, Ukraine

Civilisation

My uncle and I are standing on the platform No. 8 – I’m about to board the overnight train to southern Ukraine.

“We’re gonna go over this one more time,” my uncle says with a stern look in his eye, “do not attract any attention to yourself. Where people smell foreigners, they smell money. So don’t speak any English on the train. Forget about working in France and living in Canada. You live in Kiev. And keep your eye on your documents at all times. Got it?”

“Got it,” I say. I’m so excited to hop on the train I can hardly contain myself.

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Location: Kiev

The Arrival

I walk off the plane and suddenly it hurts to breathe. The wind is about to tear my hair off my scalp. It’s 10:40pm in Kiev, it’s the end of February. I haven’t seen or felt a Ukrainian winter in fourteen years. (The few times I’ve been back were during spring). It probably isn’t even that cold, but just a few hours ago I was in Southern France. So I imagine there’s about a 20 degree difference.

My uncle and cousin meet me at the arrivals gate. My uncle gives me a giant hug and takes my suitcase; my cousin’s in full-fledged adolescence and mumbles a greeting.

Then it’s the car ride through Kiev – from the aeroport to my uncle’s apartment. It’s the part of the visit I always remember. It’s when my eyes are the freshest and I become (re)acquainted with everything in fast motion. The buildings whirl by us — these infamous soviet lego blocks stuck together with mortar.

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Date written: July 3rd, 2010
Location: Vancouver

This morning I got onto the bus at the ungodly hour of 7:00am, to make it to my new internship on time. My head resting against the window, I drifted in and out of sleep. During this semi-hallucinogenic state, I finally realized what was missing in my life: a clone. Or perhaps four or five of them, and each one would be sitting on a different bus, going to a different internship, while I’d be dozing off in bed. Gold. And what’s more, is that  I would no longer have to fuss over which career path to choose over another, because my loyal clones would be out exploring them all. If one of the clones should fail abysmally or end up dead, no worries —  it would just prove that that wasn’t what I (or any copied version of myself) was meant to do.

So during this lengthy bus ride, I thought of the careers that interest me the most. I conjured up a clone for each of them, and let the clone live out its life (inside my head, of course, because the bus was crowded enough as it was). Now let me introduce you to the happy family…

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