Traveler, Writer, Aquarius, Peace Corps Volunteer
The evidence
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I awoke Saturday to the sound of my doorbell. Still in bed, groggy from a late night at the disco, and certainly not expecting any visitors, I did the responsible thing � I ignored it. But there was a particular urgency in the manner of the ring. It wasn�t the machine-gun burst ding-ding-ding-ding-ding kind, but rather the ding-ding�pause�ding-ding, like when you�re standing outside the door tapping your foot and looking at your watch and deciding whether you should stay or go. On the fourth ring, I slowly and reluctantly kicked off the sheets, Indian-rolled out of bed, and staggered to the door, which is actually a series of three doors I have to navigate to get in and out. It�s the Ukrainian home security system. There�s an inner door to the apartment, an outer door right in front of that which is kind of like an extra ply of toilet paper, and then there�s a large steel door with a deadbolt that protects the vestibule I share with the apartment next to me. I looked through the peephole to see who it was. And there, standing casually with long, gangly limbs and page-boy mop-like dirty blond hair, was Sergey Kukuzenko.
Sergey is one of my favorite people in Ukraine and the embodiment of all of the positive attributes of his country. He�s funny, charismatic, smart, and extremely talented. At 22, he�s already a professional music producer and engineer and has mixed songs for some of Ukraine�s biggest groups. He�s also one of the nation�s top three jazz pianists. In fact, I had just seen him perform last Monday at his conservatory�s closing performance, and our subsequent conversation that night directly led to my total misunderstanding of what he was about to ask me and the beginning of my latest adventure.
�Hey, Sergey,� I fumbled. �What�s up?�
�Lewis,� he began. �I�m really sorry to just drop by, but I didn�t have your number. I text-messaged Luke (another PCV) for it, but he never got back to me.�
�No problem,� I replied, cold feet sticking to the colder concrete floor. �Come on in.�
We entered the apartment and I promptly fell back on my bed, reaching down and taking a deep swig of the remnants of a bottle of Bon Aqua water, my lifeline, which presently wasn�t keeping me nearly as hydrated as I needed given my current condition. I noticed a dull pain behind my left eye, which I quickly identified as the nicotine burn a non-smoker gets when they have one or two ill-advised cigarettes the night before, and that doesn�t go away any time soon. �Ach, I�m a mess,� I said. �Late night last night. So what�s goin� on?�
He quickly gave me the rundown. There was a big music competition and he thought that I might want to be on the jury. If so, I needed to meet him in one hour in front of the administration building where we�d have a car waiting for us. I reached up and felt the stale stubble on my face and considered the timing: shower, shave, dress, eat, walk � in one hour.
�Yeah man, that sounds great. Thanks.�
I closed the door behind him and started getting undressed. Okay, so this will be pretty cool, I thought. He wants me to help judge a music competition. I was sure it was because after his concert last Monday we talked shop on jazz and our favorite musicians and he respected my taste and opinions enough to have me actually evaluate professional artists. I also knew he frequently went to different towns on the weekend to judge these sorts of competitions, and surmised maybe this time they were short somebody and he needed a credible fill-in. After rushing through my shower and shave, I tried on my coolest jazz outfit � black tee-shirt and light brown blazer (I would have done all black, but that�s too Ukrainian mafia) and checked my watch: 12:30. Perfect. I had just enough time to grab lunch at McDonalds and walk down Artoma Street to the meeting point.
(Here�s the deal with me and McDonalds. I hate the fact that I eat at McDonalds. It pains me every time I gobble down a Royale or Double Cheeseburger and fries. But it�s the only fast food in town and it�s right around the corner from my house. Oh, if I only had a Ray�s Pizza and could grab a few slices or any cheap Chinese restaurant for steamed dumplings and rib tips. Or dare I dream that they open up a Subway? There are shuarma stands, however, and I try to mix those in when possible. Still, it�s lame to be the stereotypical American in a McDonalds overseas.)
As usual, I was right on time and the first one there. In a few minutes, Sergey came ambling up, and soon a few more people arrived. There were seven of us in all, and besides Sergey I only knew his friends Jenya and Roman. The minibus was waiting for us, and after some casual chitchat and introductions we were on our way. To where, I had no idea. But Sergey said it wasn�t too far, and I trusted him. In Ukraine, that�s usually a mistake, because people tend to tell you what they think you want to hear rather than the truth because they don�t want you to feel bad. Go figure.
But true to his word, we reached our destination, the small town of Adeyevka, in about half an hour. Most of the ride was spent listening to Jenya tell some crazy stories, which I couldn�t understand, and trying to stay awake. The good news was the headache was abating, and though I felt spent, I was ready for the action. Plus, I figured a couple of hours of jazz would be just the thing to bounce into shape for my Saturday night. The minibus pulled into the community center and we piled out.
The first thing I saw when we got inside was a chorus line of teenage girls dressed all in black and wearing this black KISS-type makeup. Um, what the hell is that all about, I wondered, staring through my sunglasses at the gothic hoard. I guessed they had some sort of drama thing going on. Then, as we were getting ushered through to the jury room, I saw another group of girls with weird tubes coming out of their heads and dressed all in silver that appeared to have just wandered off the mother ship. Jesus, they sure picked a strange venue for the jazz competition. It looked like some kind of high school assembly gone wrong, with young punks in wife beaters hanging out with chicks in everything from ball gowns to gold lame. And when we got to the jury room, I felt like I was being sequestered. I was tired, confused, and as usual, just following everyone else and hoping I�d figure things out by the time I needed to.
We were in the auditorium�s cafeteria hanging out minutes before the competition began when they started taking down all the judge�s names and information. That�s when I hit my first snag, because I didn�t know how they should introduce me. �Uh, just tell them I�m a judge from America,� I said.
�He�s an American journalist,� offered Sergey.
�Um, I�m not really a journalist. I mean, I went to school for��
�What magazine does he write for?� asked Jenya.
�Um, I�m not really��
�Playboy?�
�No, I don�t write for Playboy.�
�Just say anything,� Sergey said, which was fine by me, because I was still three sentences behind, and again, I hoped they weren�t messing with me and planning to introduce me as a smut peddler or pederast. So following Sergey and the rest of the group, I entered the auditorium to take our seats. The room was about the size of an average Broadway theater, and it was dark and getting full. Most everyone there looked like a student or parent of a student, and at this point I still really thought that I was judging a jazz competition. That�s when Sergey finally filled me in.
This was the regional finals for Ukraine�s own American Idol or Star Search or Gong Show or whatever you want to call it. So here I am, tired and hung over, and on a panel with local celebrities about to judge a Ukrainian talent show.
�So Sergey,� I asked. �How many people are competing?�
�Oh, I think about fifty-two or something like that.�
Fifty-two? Dear god! My heart sank. I assumed I was in for maybe three hours of jazz. Instead, it was now quite clear that I was about to sit through five hours of young hopefuls singing the Ukrainian versions of �You Light Up My Life� and �My Heart Will Go On.� But even better, they not only had categories for Solo and Pop, but also dancing, break dancing, and Hip Hop. No way! Hip Hop? Visions of Eminem wannabes singing �Loose Yourself� flooded my mental basin. I looked at Sergey, and he sensed I was in my own personal hell.
�It might not be that bad,� he said.
Yeah.
The spotlights came on and the music blared and the crowd was whipped into a frenzy. Young girls screamed like this was an N-Sync concert. I looked at Roman and laughed. Wow. This is crazy. I kept telling myself, this�ll make a great story. This is part of why you�re here. But I still couldn�t shake how completely surreal it was that I was presently in an auditorium in a small town in Ukraine judging a teen talent show.
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