Jason Margolis: Thoughts on Ukraine

I stop at a coffee shop in Kiev for breakfast. I’m gazing at the wonderful assortment of puff pastries, the insides of which are a mystery to me. I ask the young man behind the counter if he speaks English. He shakes his head and goes in back to retrieve an English speaker. A woman in an apron emerges, stares at me stone-faced and says, “What?”

In Ukraine, the question asked isn’t a friendly, “May I help you?” Rather, the question best offered is a pleading, “Will you please help me?”

Margolis ponders the pastry that might've been

This is my first trip to the former Soviet Union. I’d been told to expect a different, shall we say, “style” of customer service. But I still wasn’t fully prepared. For 10 days in Ukraine, I get the same blasé attitude everywhere I go. Apathetic waiters, can’t-be-bothered concierge workers, tour guides who are annoyed when I ask questions.

People do their jobs. Period. Nothing more. The pastry chef’s assignment is to bake the pastry, not to sell it.

Some people say it’s a remnant of Soviet mentality. Others blame the Orthodox Church. Some blame Ukraine’s harsh history. Others cite the winters. Whatever the cause, I find the Ukrainians to be unfriendly, impolite, and frankly, a little lazy.

Ukraine was a Soviet republic from 1922-1991

But after a few days in Ukraine, I begin to change my tune. No one is offensive, rude, or pushy. I have not met a single loud or obnoxious Ukrainian, with the exception of a group of teenage boys who were celebrating a soccer win. (And even they were well behaved, by worldwide teenage-boy-celebrating-soccer-win standards.)

After a week, I actually begin to kind of enjoy the bluntness here. Nobody is trying to butter up to me or pretend to be my friend. You know where you stand in Ukraine. Think about it: Why would somebody be glad to help a stranger decide which pastry is best for them? It’s insane.

Downtown Odessa

And Ukraine is beautiful. And clean. I rarely see trash on the street. In 10 days I saw two pieces of graffiti, one of which was a Zoro moustache drawn on an Antonio Banderas advertisement, which I’m not even sure technically counts.

I share my reflections with a Ukrainian professor over a cup of coffee. He offers another theory: It’s possible I’m getting a cold shoulder because “all Ukrainians” think “all Americans” are imbeciles. I’m not surprised to hear this, but I am rather surprised he said it to me. (After all, by definition, if all Americans are imbeciles, he has just informed me that I am an imbecile.) When I ask why he holds 300 million people in such low regard, he answers with another question: Why do Americans always smile for photos? I don’t have a good answer for him.

In Ukraine people don’t smile for photos. Why would they? I have to admit, it is a little bizarre to suddenly burst into a wide grin. And, at the end of the day, Ukrainians would rather complain than smile.

Fish vendor in Odessa

As a reporter, I’m used to people complaining to me – my job is to listen to complaints. But Ukrainians have turned grumbling into high art. Generally when I ask an interviewee a question, they give me an answer. That’s how the game works. In Ukraine, I have appointments with people who have prepared a list of unrelated grievances in advance of our meeting.

I wanted to speak with a scientist about solar panels; I heard a lot about his wife’s pension. I needed to chat about Ukrainian history with another man; he talked at great length about his aching knee. I spoke with one man whose wife actually interrupted our interview and said to my translator, “I NEED to complain.” I didn’t know what to do, so I tilted my microphone in her direction. She was unhappy with her husband.

All this being said, I do not find Ukrainians to be unpleasant people; I rather like them. And I’m starting to get a kick out of the game.

Towards the end of my trip, I stop at a street vendor for some ice cream. The woman selling ice cream is on her cell phone, doing her best to ignore me. My translator shrugs his shoulders and explains it to me this way: She has all the ice cream, she’s in absolute control. How can one argue with this logic?

One final unrelated observation from Ukraine: If there’s ever a worldwide shortage of mayonnaise or sour cream, we know who is to blame.

Typical helping of sour cream