USSR journal, National Writers’ Union, Cherkassy

11 Jan. We are being taped for a radio show on the importance of cultural dialect and my impressions of the Ukraine. Only two men seem interested in our poetry project, both, Jewish. Oleg complains that the average age when someone joins the Writers’ Union is about 45. Most men are in their 60s. Almost no women, so I’m an odd duck here.

Dr. Shpak introduces us. For some reason he’s adopted me. The only thing is, Oleg  knows more about the project than he does, and I am uninspired. How to handle this so that Oleg interprets without offending anyone. And Dr. Shpak seems to draw considerable respect here. I am drained, feeling off. I didn’t bring my poetry or translations with me.

12 Jan. On Thursday we went to Dr. Shpak‘s for dinner and I threw up the next morning—a combination of alcohol, and the beginnings of a cold but I didn’t know that yet. I thought I was just sore from the chiropractor/surgeon who threw me around the room like a sack of potatoes.

14 Jan. My general low energy has finally declared itself in the form of a cold. La grippe, as they call it. Dr. Shpak came over yesterday with a doctor, armed with a huge Ukrainian care package, pickled watermelon, pears, summer cherries, and raspberry jam for my tea. The local cure.

I ached so much yesterday, there was no relief, and my temperature was way below normal. Turns out Oleg’s cold is bronchitis. The doorbell is always ringing. And I’ve been too tired, too lethargic to record my dreams, but yesterday I woke up to the Andean melody I had heard so much in Cusco, and then I knew I’d come full circle.

When the doctor entered, small pieces of a dream fell into place. And we were talking about the analgesic she had left me and I wanted to know why all these people crowded around the bed, the dream was all coming true, but I was too sick to remember much more. The strange ritual of cupping—glass bubbles are heated with a candle and placed on my back—seems to help ease the congestion. Soviets take illness very seriously here. It’s a matter of life and death.