Rules Are Rules

Most would consider me an extremely rule-oriented person. I generally wait for the green walking person to appear before crossing the street. I pay my exorbitant Chicago Parking tickets when I forget about street cleaning. I never cheat while playing Barbie Uno. But I've been thinking a lot about rules lately-who gets to make them and who gets to break them.
A few weeks ago, on a 20 hour train ride in the Ukraine during which the train compartment was heated to at least 95 degrees, we tried to beat the heat and forget about the fact that we were on a 20 hour train ride in the Ukraine by imbibing a few cold ones. About one hour into the 20,we were sternly informed by the train police that, as of February, drinking was strictly prohibited on Ukrainian trains. So imagine our confusion when not ten minutes later, the train stewardess herself came along to sell us beer. It turns out that the rules are only enforced if you BYOB; as long as the train workers are making money, we were free to drink up.
On a rickety old bus in Romania, the seventy-something-year-old driver sat puffing away on his cigarette directly under a large no smoking sign.
In Moldova, we visited Transdniester, an entire section of the country that decided to separate, set up its own government, and issue its own currency. Despite the fact that no one besides Abkhazia and South Ossetia (both unrecognized countries themselves) recognize Transdniester's existence as a nation, upon crossing the "border," we became subject to their rules, including, rumor has it, having to wear pants in public.(we had planned on doing so anyway)
The taxi ride across the Ukraine/Slovak border was so quick and hassle-free that I wasn't surprised when the driver, after we had crossed, admitted to us that he pays off the guards to make his trips fast and easy.
Now, I'm not so naive as to not realize that money affords a certain privilege that helps others turn a blind eye to the enforcement of rules. But the question for me remains: If I am conscious of what is going on, should I choose to participate? And how often is that privilege afforded me without me even realizing it, as a traveler, because I look like I have money to spend and at home because I look or speak or dress a certain way?
The disturbing news of Arizona's new immigration law has arrived from across the ocean, and I have tried to keep abreast of the developments there. Given the population with whom I work in Chicago, I am very interested in how these new rules will affect the immigrants across the country. The timing of the Arizona news strangely coincides with my own personal immigration woes here in Slovakia. At this point, I need to decide whether to follow the rules and leave Slovakia or stay illegally. Like most undocumented immigrants in the US, I don't have any intention of committing any crimes, cheating the system, or bothering anyone. In fact, I feel grateful to be here and have the opportunity to learn. I can only imagine the fear that would come with thinking that at any moment someone could disrupt your life with causeless deportation. Or worse yet, the anger and embarrassment that a citizen would feel when accused based on the way she looks or speaks.
I believe in following the rules, but I also believe in questioning them.

Transylvania

Once bitten, twice shy

The Big 3-0

With the sound of the Moldovan stamp being inked into my passport, I celebrated 30 today. Unlike my 30th birthday, which I dreaded and denied, I welcomed this occasion, my entrance into the thirtieth country of my lifetime of travels. There exists an organization called The Travelers'Century Club that offers membership to those who have traveled to one hundred or more countries. At this rate, I'll be submitting my application when I'm 103 years old. Romania, number 31, here I come.

Don't Drink the Ukrainian Water!

Just Another Day at the Beach

Nothing screams Spring Break like tanks, secret Russian submarine factories, and Lenin!

Fluent

The one word in Cyrillic I can identify anywhere: Ice Cream

Self Defense or Hippity Hoppity, Easter's on its Way

I'm fascinated by learning about and participating in cultural traditions from around the world. I make an altar for the Day of the Dead, leave my shoes out for St. Nicholas, and wear a Bulgarian martenista to welcome Spring. So imagine my conundrum when I found out about the Slovak Easter Monday tradition of hitting women family members and friends with a korbac, a switch made of tree branches, and dousing them with water. And to literally add insult to injury, the women are expected to give gifts of money to the boys and men that hit and wet them. In this case, the feminist in me had to win out. I marched to the Easter market and bought my own korbac. Just try it, boys. I dare you.

Stay tuned: 30 Again

Service with a Snarl

Up until yesterday, the worst service I had ever received in a restaurant was maybe an uninspired teen at IHOP who only refilled my coffee two rather than four times. Ukrainian customer service, however, makes aforementioned teen look like a contender for waitress of the year. If I can manage to see through the smoke to find my way to a table, the real challenge is to get a waiter to pay enough attention to take my order and eventually bring food to the table. Never mind if it's not what was ordered (not that I actually know what I order anyway since the menu is in Cyrillic, the waiters speak in a mix of Ukrainian and Russian, and I communicate in an awkward mix of English, rudimentary Slovak, and sign language).
My only comfort is knowing that this surly service isn't reserved only for tourists-it seems to be the status quo. So, while I wait for my check to come, maybe I'll practice my Ukrainian glare: What do you think?