Losing--and Finding--My Key

This afternoon I had one of the most frightening--and then enlightening--experiences of my life. After taking a two hour nap and then doing some writing, I decided to walk up to the Litera bookstore, and then to try to find the site of the little Mormon meetinghouse on Rustevelli, where I hoped to attend on Sunday with a Russian speaking congregation. I left the apartment at about 4:30. It was already dark outside and raining heavily. This time I took an umbrella from the apartment and did quite well in the rain. On the way to the bookstore I stopped at a boot shop where they advertised for currency exchanges. I exchanged another hundred dollars into griven, getting 505.10 in the exchange. I then went to the bookstore and browsed for an hour or so, but did not buy anything. When I left the bookstore, it was raining harder than ever, with rivers of water running down the sidewalk, the sidewalks full of people, and the vehicle traffic very heavy. I walked down past the Mormon meetinghouse location, although I had forgotten the exact directions and address, but just walked in the general area. I then presently found myself lost again, this time in the rain and in the dark. One of the frustrating things about navigating the city is the lack of clearly marked street signs. The best approximation I have found is to read the signs above doorways, which often have the street name, although this is not always foolproof, because the names have changed over the years. I have seen three different names, for example, of the street on which my apartment sits. But in any event, I wandered in a circle, always turning left and never crossing a street, and presently found my way back home, this time winding up on the side of the street where the McDonalds sits. Being hungry and deciding against trying to find another restaurant in the dark and rain, I walked up to the express window, kind of a pedestrian version of the drive-through, and ordered my dinner to take home with me.

Here is the remarkable part of my story. I entered the apartment building, walked up the four flights of stairs to my door--and couldn't find my house key. I had put it in my front right pocket, next to my little velcro wallet in which I put my Ukrainian currency. It just wasn't there. I put down my umbrella, took off my coat and searched every pocket I have about four times--my coat pockets, all four of my pants pockets, including the little coin pocket on the right, my velcro wallet, and my hidden passport and money pouch. My key just wasn't there. It was then that the gravity of my situation presented itself. I realized that I had not taken the cell phone with me which has all of the numbers programmed into it, including Olga's number. It occurred to me that while Olga has a spare key to the apartment, I had no idea how to contact her and I didn't know where she lived. Also, I remembered that she was out of town today at her country Dacha. The only phone number I had was on a business card which the driver, Yuri, had left me, but I had no idea where he was or whether he could even help me get a key. I also realized that all of the phone booths I had seen took not coins but calling cards, and I had no idea how to buy one, let alone who to call if I could, and how to communicate the intricacy of my situation with Russian or Ukrainian speaking strangers.

It suddenly dawned on me that I was in deep trouble. I don't know how religious the readers of this entry are, or what shape their innermost beliefs may take, but for me, in this circumstance, I said a private and sincere prayer for help in finding my key. I then decided that as crazy as it seemed, I would go back outside and try to retrace my steps--over sidewalks streaming in rain water--to the currency exchange booth in the boot shop, to all four floors of Litera, the bookstore, past the Mormon Church, through the neighborhood where I had become lost, and finally to McDonald's and its express window. I collected my coat and umbrella, walked down the four flights of stairs and onto the bottom level to go out into the rain to search.

As I rounded the corridor corner and was about to step outside of the iron door and into the street I heard a little metalic clink. I looked down as my key fell and bounced on the floor at my feet. I have no idea where it had been. Perhaps lodged in my scarf, in my glove, in the folds of my coat. Perhaps I kicked it as I rounded the corner. Or perhaps it was just placed there for me in answer to my prayer. In any event I was profoundly grateful, and moved almost to tears.

This experience affected me on various levels. The reader will forgive me if I draw an analogy between my little experience and what I am trying to accomplish here in Ukraine. The Ukrainian people are in many ways now a people wandering in the dark, out in the world, trying to find the entrance to a future of freedom and stability in the face of host of dangers. And without the key to that freedom, they are in a frighteningly lost state. One key for them, of course, which swings the door wide open to a free society, is the jury trial. To paraphrase Thomas Jefferson:

I consider trial by jury as the only key ever yet imagined by man,

by which a government can be held to the principles of its constitution.

My hope is that I and others can help the Ukrainian people to find and possess that key forever.