Barneyisfat

I'm stopped on busy sidewalks at least once a week by a stranger. In hushed, always garbled, words he, always he, asks a question. This same cruel one-act performed in theatre after theatre in Russia. For the longest time I had no idea what the question was. My proper response was that I did not speak Russian, and I used that response long after it ceased to be true. Apparently I have a certain look about me. It seems that my look says, "I am a smoker and I have extra cigarettes/a light to lend."

Without fail I'm stopped by this question. I generally don't even listen to strangers - I just respond that I don't smoke. Perhaps the man asking for help with his income taxes is a little confused over my insistence that I simply do not smoke.

I've always felt that I look wildly out of place in this country. Certainly not in the same way as when I lived in Korea. Here in Ukraine very few men orbit their families to intercept any attack I might have planned - as was semi-common in Korea. But, people notice my presence.

At restaurants they apologetically slip me an English menu. At sporting events I clearly don't know either team. In elevator (I only use one elevator in this country) I must say "8th, please" and while I don't hear the mistake - there's apparently a doozy - everyone wheels around to stare at me. And on buses, they always finger me for a foreigner on the buses.

On buses I give exact change; still the driver wants to engage in conversation and ensure that I only want one ticket. In stores, after I fumble my way through a shopping list and stutter twice trying to remember how to say cherry before settling for peach which I can say quite fluently; the teller always expects exact change. She is often willing to fight me over this. "Oh, do you have 70 kopecks? Or one bill?"

Now - I'm the kind of person who picks his battles. If I were the teller, I certainly wouldn't fight a non-native speaker over a few coins. I don't fight for most things, really. Having to do everything in a foreign language really takes the bark out of me. When buses decide that my stop isn't good enough, I just ride to the next stop and get off there. When I don't get the meal I ordered, I just thank God that it's not squid anymore - as was always the case in Korea - and eat my meal.

Perhaps my clothes make me look less like a foreigner and more like a homeless man. Perhaps my jeans and sneaker combination doesn't say "American Pie" any more than it says "Dumpster Diver." My coat and scarf apparently announce that I am an odd breed of Ukrainian: I am the type that smokes and has enough money to carry several extra packs with him at all times.

"Brother, can you spare a cig?"