At 23, I almost married a rural Ukrainian mechanic. At the time (1980), I was on a graduate exchange study program to the Soviet Union, and my American roommate, Monique, who was of Ukrainian descent, invited me to visit her relatives. After several long train rides, we gathered at a rustic farmhouse on the outskirts of Kyiv, where a bevy of happy relatives waited to shower my friend with hugs and kisses. Sasha, about a year or two older than me, was among them. Monique explained that he had just completed his mandatory military service, had a job fixing motor vehicles and farm machinery, and was ready to settle down.
The home’s kitchen was no bigger than my walk-in closet, but the family matriarch fed us a hearty lunch of cabbage soup, pork, potatoes, and beets. And while it was early in the day, the vodka flowed. There were toasts to health, a good harvest, and family, including every relative, dead or alive. I tried to pace myself to keep up with the banter, but even without liquor, much of the Ukrainian dialect went over my head. Sasha would periodically look at me and smile while the table erupted in laughter. Clueless as to what transpired, I just smiled back.
At one point, I made a trip to the “bathroom,” which was little more than a sheltered outhouse with curtains for privacy. It shared space in a lean-to shed with two cows, one of whom poked its face through the curtain as I relieved myself. This expedited my business and put a new spin on the phrase “nature’s calling.”
When lunch concluded, the family ushered Sasha and me outside to take a walk. We strolled along a dirt road, nodding but barely exchanging a word. He lit a cigarette and offered me one, but I didn’t smoke. After reaching our destination—a small cemetery—Sasha pointed to several headstones, reading the inscriptions of who lay beneath. I nodded to be polite but thought it an odd place to bring a girl. On the other hand, there wasn’t much else to do or see for miles.
Since no one was in condition to drive after so much drink, blankets were laid on blocks of hay in the barn for us to take naps. Without warning, Sasha showed up in his underwear, ready to consummate our relationship. Had I mistakenly given him the wrong signals? Things were moving way too quickly! I refused his offer but slept with one eye open, fearful that I would awaken with another body next to mine. I was sure that once everyone was sober, it would be a humorous misunderstanding.
But it wasn’t. Sasha’s uncle, who spoke English, wanted to know why I did not want to marry his nephew. What could I say? That despite Sasha’s physical attractiveness and steady job prospects, we had barely uttered two comprehensible sentences to one another, and I did not love him? That I would languish from a lack of stimulation and entertainment in such a rural environment? Or that I planned to see the world and pursue a career before settling down and having babies? In the end, I said none of these things and sheepishly wiggled out of the arrangement with some flimsy excuse about missing home.
Even now, I marvel at how ready Sasha was to make it work. We hadn’t had a proper courtship, and he had no idea of my true nature. His happiness was defined by a few basic things: a loving family, good food and drink, and a proud cultural heritage. Marry a pretty girl, and love will come later. Given my relatively privileged upbringing and romantic notions about love and marriage, I had regarded his living situation with superiority. And I struggled to see how he could be content with the status quo.
In the forty years since then, I’ve traveled to several second and third-world countries and come to realize that some of the happiest societies live relatively simple lives. For instance, Costa Rica’s motto is ‘Pura Vida,” the pure or simple life. It’s a concept that emphasizes community, gratitude, and enjoying the present moment. Even though a family might live in a small cinder block home with a corrugated metal roof, there is less stress and more focus on nature and relationships. Once Maslow’s hierarchy of basic needs are met, including love and a sense of belonging, one doesn’t need a lot of material things to lead a happy and fulfilled life.
Things might be different if Sasha and I had met as young people ten years ago, before the current war in Ukraine but when technology was already ubiquitous. The internet and social media would have made available to most corners of the globe all the possibilities and opportunities that exist outside one’s immediate bubble. In today’s interconnected world, it’s hard not to make comparisons and want something more, even if, in the long run, it won’t improve your overall joy. Who knows? Maybe Sasha would be surrounded by a plethora of material comforts and dating apps, and I’d be just another girl passing through his village.
