A true story from the life of a provincial abroad
Several authors on TurPravda delight me with their humorous stories. My story is rather sad, but it really happened to me on my first trip abroad in the distant 2004. Moreover, even though “a chicken is not a bird, and Poland is not a foreign country”, it is in Poland. The trip was business, in the company of another 20 fellow countrymen, and absolutely free.
Our final destination was Warsaw. And it was there that something happened that I still remember with a mixed feeling of shame and amusement.
Back then, there were no stores like there are now. Those. in our provinces there were no supermarkets like Selpo or Billa, which are now familiar to everyone. And Fozzy-Ashany-Caravans have just started to appear in big cities.
In the provinces, in order to make oneself a new thing, one had to go to all sorts of Vinnitsa, Odessa and Khmelnitsky bazaars in the hope of buying at least something produced in Europe, and not by the hands of Turkish or Chinese crazy people.
Of course, at that time I had already visited the Kiev Billa, i. e. With a store in the format of an ordinary current supermarket, I was no longer surprised. But the fact that there are huge mega-centers located in the suburbs of megacities, in which there are supermarkets, and many shops, and cinemas, and fast foods, etc. - I learned only in this, the very first trip abroad.
An excursion to such a huge shopping center was organized for us by the head of the group from the Polish side at the numerous requests of both the female and male parts of our group. Of course, we all wanted both bread and circuses (I must say that since I live in a small town, at that time a free trip even to Poland was equivalent to visiting the States in modern conditions. Both obtaining a passport and applying for visas at the Kiev consulate were a separate difficult milestone of this journey, but not about that right now).
So, when we were taken by the bus assigned to our group to this shopping center (I don’t remember its name for a long time) and we saw its scale, admiring “OOOOO! ” swept through the ranks of compatriots.
The ladies (and not only) in the eyes immediately shone not just lights, but xenon high beam headlights, and the people, without delay, rushed to loot. The organizer of the trip, Pan Tomas, barely had time to shout into our rapidly retreating backs that he would be waiting for us tutai exactly for gojin, and those who were late, no, would not receive political asylum in this mega-mall, but would be subjected to severe condemnation by the host. But all these words only accelerated the pace of movement of our bodies along the perimeter of the shopping center.
As a provincial young lady and, alas, then and now not the wife or daughter of some oil magnate, I went on my first trip abroad with 100 dollars in my pocket. It should be noted that at the exchange rate of that time, although it was not God knows what money, it was not quite a trifle either. Since even before the trip it was known that full board was waiting for us in Poland, I think I wasn’t the only one who cherished the hope of spending my money with a sense of good arrangement and returning home with something sort of, completely magical, well, not Cardin, of course, but for sure, with something like that, from which all the girlfriends will lose sleep for a long time, and the men will pester with various indecent proposals.
Alas, all these sweet dreams were not destined to come true. Already the first 2-3 boutiques showed that with such money as I have, there is absolutely nothing for me to do in these stores with their prices. Of course, the provincial woman in outfits from the famous Ukrainian fashion designers "Odessa 7 km" and "Khmelnitsky Bazaar" was known by ear to all sorts of Chanels, Erme, Gabbana and Prada. But no one understood that branded items cannot be cheap. Of course, this shopping center did not consist entirely of boutiques of well-known bourgeois firms. No, there were also regular shops. But even in them, both the prices did not please Ukrainian provincials much, and the very appearance of things was somewhat unusual, and therefore somehow did not grow together with purchases. As my traveling companions rushed from one store to another with the same wounded squirrels, inevitably colliding with them and contemplating their upset faces, I realized that although they probably and certainly had much more sums than me, but also the price aspect and the assortment did not suit anyone, and Pan Tomasz's fears that we would not meet the allotted time were completely unfounded.
After about half an hour of unsuccessful wanderings, the people came to the conclusion that there were already enough spectacles, and it was time to think about bread, and in the literal sense. The delegation gradually migrated to a grocery supermarket located right there. We clicked our tongues admiringly at the sight of a milled trout lying in the ice, like a Titanic rubbed with icebergs; twirling an avocado in their hands, not understanding what it is; opening their mouths, they contemplated how a special machine deftly cuts ham into absolutely identical translucent slices. No, of course, there were connoisseurs among us, who immediately went for boxes of mozzarella or bottles of whiskey. It was they who finally finished off everyone with the news that alcohol is sold in a completely separate department with a separate cash desk. The prices for liquor again depressing. Some fellow citizens decided to buy Polish vodka exclusively for gifts, and only beer for themselves.
Having consoled himself with the fact that in Polish zlotys “Soviet champagne” (by this day of the trip, even the most ignorant of the Polish language people in our group realized that if you emphasize the penultimate syllable in Russian or Ukrainian words, as is customary in Polish, then you can flatter yourself with the thought that you can easily and freely express yourself in Polish), and so consoled by the fact that in Polish zloty “Soviet champagne” costs about one and a half times more expensive than in Ukraine in terms of hryvnia, compatriots who quickly lined up at the box office, and “ dummies like me, who didn't change the currency, realized that they would have to come back here again.
Since, succumbing to the herd instinct, although I wandered around the grocery supermarket, it was more like a museum hall (I had to decide not only to spend the currency, but also to exchange it. To do this, I had to find an exchanger-cantor in this mega-mall on my own and how to clearly inform the money changer that I do not want to exchange the entire amount, but, for example, 20 dollars - to buy gifts home), and the time allotted for us for a pleasure walk was inexorably ending, it was necessary to decide on something , and I rushed to look for this very exchanger. But, of course, like a normal woman, along the way, going into all the shops I meet on my way in a vain hope, well, at least something, at least socks, at least a scarf, to buy myself a keepsake. From the outside, it looked something like this: a forced march to the center of the store, lightning-fast snatching of 1-2-3-5 things with a glance, inspection of price tags, painful mathematical calculations, a grimace of despair, a retreat.
Another store. The next two pretty Polish saleswomen smile, say hello, ask if they can help in any way. I make a vague gesture, say, thank you myself. I skip the rack with summer things, with knitwear, with something else. The calculator in my head spins non-stop, like a taxi meter, I understand with horror that somehow I’m completely unprepared to buy a summer blouse for half of all my money. I was already quite ready to leave, but... It was akin to a revelation. When I saw HER, it became clear that the whole previous life had not been lived in vain, but the future life, already with HER, would be even more careless.
She is a leather jacket, made of the most delicate skin of a warm chocolate shade, with patch pockets, unlined. And the dressing of the skin allows you to wear it on the other side too. With a trembling hand, I reach for the tag - wow, 600 zlotys, i. e. all my money together. The young lady-saleswoman hurries to me, invites me to try on, is touched when I try something there belcotites in Polish.
I take off my coat, the girl gives me a jacket, I put it on, I look at myself in the mirror... I think that Cinderella before the ball in a dress and glass shoes did not admire herself so admiringly. Polechka also clasps her hands enthusiastically, oh-oh, like pani penkne viglionda and how these clothes suit her. It becomes clear that well, I can’t live without HER, well, I just can’t, and that’s it.
Still, I decide to take a time out and calmly think about everything. With gestures, Ukrainian and self-invented gibberish Polish words, as best I can, I explain to the girls that right now I’ll just change the money to the zbegan and return, even if they don’t give IT to anyone else.
I'm leaving. I breathe out. There is one thought in my head: if SHE is everything, there is no money for gifts. There is no more money AT ALL. But another, more persistent and intrusive thought sharpens the brain, lullingly whispers that, after all, this is a kind of investment, controls the legs, drives the eyes, takes out the treasured bill from the wallet, holds it out the window, accepts in return about a dozen bills of various denominations and brings back.
The ladies smile happily at the sight of me. Let's try again. All three parties (and SHE too) are very pleased with the results of the fitting. We go to the checkout. Further events take place simultaneously. One of the young ladies is looking for a large package to pack. The other at this time carefully swaddles HER and picks up, well, such a thing, which reads the barcode. I, completely stunned with happiness, begin to spread my zlotovki on the counter. Since the papers are unfamiliar both in color and in appearance, this does not happen quickly, plus I count out loud how much money has already been invested. But at some point, when there are only two pieces of paper for 10 zlotys left in my hand, I begin to understand from the face of the saleswoman with a barcode-reading thing in her hand that something is wrong. Although I changed the money 5 minutes ago in a completely legal bank exchanger, the first thought is that I have some kind of wrong money, I guess. But then the girl exhales: “No, then lady... ” well, she misunderstood something about it, and for greater persuasiveness she shoves a tag from HER under my nose, which I have already seen today. I look at that tag again, the numbers blur before my eyes, but terribly, inexorably, catastrophically, deafeningly add up to a number.
Even 6000.00!!!
Red as a tomato, I only think about one thing: how to get out of here as soon as possible without bursting into tears. The young ladies smile sympathetically and say something reassuring and comforting to me. I can not hear. I say goodbye and leave.
I try my best not to cry. It's so embarrassing that even if I fell through the ground at once, the exhaust from my scarlet cheeks, like napalm, would burn to the ground the whole shopping center with its microscopic numbers on the price tags, and at the same time me with my blind eyes.
10 minutes of sitting on a bench. So, I exhaled, took myself in hand. Went. To a grocery supermarket. Where I bought chocolates in boxes with all the money.
Almost the entire group, with a few exceptions, was already on the bus. Someone sipped beer, someone audited the contents of the purchased boxes and boxes. The ladies were animatedly discussing the clothes they had seen. The nearest neighbors, chuckling, scanned the contents of my package and came to the conclusion that I must be so obsessed with chocolate.
None of them ever found out what really happened.
