The Borderland Chronicles

Greetings! Or, rather, Nǐ Hǎo.

I can hardly believe it, but I’ve successfully completed my service as a Peace Corps volunteer in Ukraine. As of one week ago today, I am an RPCV, or what those of us who’ve finished service call a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer. (In PC there are a lot of acronyms.) I’m still able to vividly recall my first day, hours in Ukraine as a trainee more than two years ago, after being whisked from Boryspol airport to a quiet sanatorium in the small town of Desna outside Chernigov, like it was yesterday. Now I’m here in Shanghai, China with all that in the past. Wild.

Honestly, I still haven’t processed it all. Two years, while sounding like a long time, in reality passes like a train in the night. I think it’s going to take some time before I’m really able to sit down and figure out what it all meant and means to me, as well as how the whole experience influenced my life. Right now I feel as though I’m merely on vacation. Any day now I’ll be returning to my home in Artemovsk, right?

Fortunately – and unfortunately – no, I won’t be returning there. Yes, leaving Ukraine was bittersweet. I had some great times, but I experienced some extremely trying ones, too. I’d say Ukraine and I had a love-hate relationship. There were certainly times during the past years when I felt lower than ever before, but there were also times when I felt extremely proud, appreciated and as though I was a contributor to the development of the country. It was, at risk of sounding extremely cliche, an incredibly enriching, fulfilling and invaluable experience.

I’ll forever remember my time in Ukraine, especially a select few things. Visiting the Chernobyl exclusion zone was a fascinating look into a post-apocalyptic world. Traveling around the southern coast of Crimea with my girlfriend and swimming in the Black Sea among the many jellyfish and thonged Ukrainians was a wonderful getaway. Celebrating holidays with my Ukrainian friends and colleagues over incountable bottles of vodka and samagon was always an interesting cultural experience. These memories and many others I’ll forever cherish.

Now I’ve begun the next chapter. Let’s call it the China chapter. I’ve been in Shanghai one week now, and I can happily tell you that I’m enjoying it immensely. It’s not only wonderful to finally be living with my girlfriend of three years, but it’s incredibly fascinating to be living and working in the People’s Republic of China. If all goes according to plan, we’ll be living here at least a year, teaching, photographing and writing.

So far, deprived of a vast variety of food during my 27 months in Ukraine, I’ve eaten an array of cultural dishes from all around the world here in Shanghai. I’ve huffed down a delicious Reuban with a pale ale that put Ukrainian beer to shame, I’ve chugged 2-for-1 margaritas and fed my face with fish tacos and I’ve devoured an enormous amount of Chinese street food, including meat-filled dumplings, fried octopus and assorted vegetables and strange fruits. Since arriving I’ve been in a state of pure foodie bliss.

I’ve also seen more smiles in one week on the street than I did in during all of last year. The Chinese are incredibly friendly people. I’ve already made pals with the woman who sells produce down our lane, the guy who works at Toby Good Eats, a quaint food kiosk across the street, and a very talented cobbler who I bought a gorgeous pair of shoes from this afternoon. (The cobbler and I strolled down the street arm in arm in the rain discussing his learning to make shoes as a child in a leather factory operated by his father.)

So I’m off to a good start here in China and I’m looking forward to what’s still to come. But I’ll never forget the good times I had in Ukraine, the friendships made, the vodka shared, the borsch eaten, nor will I forget the many trials and tribulations. It’ll all forever be with me.

Consider this my last blog post here at The Borderland Chronicles. In the not-so-distant future I hope to start a separate blog for my adventures in China, as well as a new personal website highlighting my written and photographed work. If you’ve enjoyed this blog over the past two years, keep your eyes peeled for these news sites soon to come. I’ll post links on Twitter and Facebook once they’re up and running.

Posted in Artemovsk, Chernobyl, Crimea, Culture, Donetsk, Food, History, Journalism, Kiev, Life, Lvov, Odesa, Peace Corps, Public Transportation, Russian, Soviet Union, Trains, Travel, Ukraine |

With the end of my Peace Corps service staring me in the face, I decided to do a bit of traveling in hopes of seeing a few more places in this country that I’ve come to care so deeply about. The fact that other PCVs wanted to do the same, and that the annual humor festival was going on in Odessa – a city I’ve longed to see but have never visited – only added to my yearning to hit the road.

And so I set off, first to Donetsk, a city I’ve spent quite a bit of time in, and then to Odessa – the famed city by the sea. It took an overnight train ride to get there. Luckily I did it with four other friends, making this train ride particularly enjoyable. After settling in we enjoyed some in-transit vodka shots and a couple of beers. Our train was filled with university students on their way back to Odessa, and so we weren’t the only ones imbibing. Sometime late in the evening we got acquainted with the group of young folk in the cabin nearest to us. One of the guys with them had a guitar, which he used to play American hits from the 90s, including Nirvana’s “Rape me”, which we may or may not have sang at the top of our lungs in an open car.

The rain came down in buckets the morning we arrived in Odessa, and it didn’t stop. By the time we’d made it to the hostel we were soaked nearly all the way through. There’s nothing like a good shower and a lie down after a long train ride, which is exactly what we all did. Soon, though, more friends arrived, and the hostel turned into somewhat of an American party.

Some catching up with friends ensued, and then we all went out to some divey basement pub near the city center. It was dark and smokey there, and being Funk Night, the DJ had James Brown on heavy rotation. I sipped a beer near the dance floor with a couple of friends while watching Ukrainians do their best to imitate the great funk legend. After some more drinks and a few games of cards, we called it a night.

Saturday was spent exploring the city. We strolled down Deribasovskaya Street, the city’s famous pedestrian walkway, where cafes, parks, public squares and food kiosks abound. We popped in to see the Passage Hotel’s gorgeous century-old courtyard, popped off to a Greek restaurant for a gyro and then made our way toward the sea.

When you approach the neo-baroque styled opera house, with its archways and metallic dome, you immediately understand its prominence. Supposedly a whisper from its stage can be heard from anywhere in the concert hall.

Walking further, across a small square and through a hilltop parkway, we reached what might be Odessa’s most famous symbol: the Potemkin Stairs.

The Potemkin Stairs were made famous in one my favorite films, Sergei Eisenstein’s 1925 silent film, The Battleship Potemkin. In the film armed soldiers open fire on people on the stairs. While the film is a work on fiction, a similar massacre did occur in 1905.

Supposedly the stairs were designed to create an optical illusion. When viewing the stairs from the top only the landings are visible, while viewing them from the bottom allows one to see only the steps. Testing this on my own, I found this to be nearly true.

Past the stairs is the port area. While the view wasn’t anything to write home about, it was nice just being near the sea. Being landlocked for months at a time in the Ukrainian steppe can take a toll on a person.

We migrated from the port toward the city center, where a few of us broke off to dine in luxury at a swanky steak house, where a waiter visited our table with a large plank of raw meat and asked which we’d like to enjoy. I chose the bacon-wrapped filet mignon. It’d been ages since I’d treated myself to anything of the sort. It cost me nearly four times what I spend on food for one week here, but I enjoyed every bite. Besides, after two years doing perhaps the most challenging job I’ve ever done, I deserved it, damnit.

We went big that night. After all, it was Saturday, and the eve of “Yumorina,” or Odessa’s famous Day of Humor celebration, which happens every April 1. As a group we went to a club called “Shkaf,” which translates to “cupboard” or “wardrobe” or “closet” in English. And the place felt somewhat like a cupboard, all worn-in wood floors and dark brick walls. Despite that, the atmosphere was great. On a back wall a large projector showed a game of Mortal Combat. Shouts of “Aroogun!” echoed throughout the place. After ordering at the bar we found our way to another room, which housed the DJ and dance floor. Electronic music pulsed so loud I could feel the hairs on my head vibrate. The scene was like something out of a movie: everyone dancing as if they hadn’t a care in the world. I barely got halfway through my first drink before my friends dragged me onto the dance floor.

Hot, sweaty, drunk and happy, we danced and laughed and lived it up until early morning. On the way home some people popped over to all-hours food carts to satisfy their hunger. The rest of us sang songs in the street as we hobbled on back to the hostel.

The next day was “Yumorina.” At noon we all went out to find a place along the street to take in the parade. Thousands of people turned out. And while it was interesting to see so many people in such a small city center area, all donning wigs, mustaches, oversized glasses and goofy hats, the parade was a bust. For whatever reason, it was all regional football teams who marched, along with their signs and a few flamboyantly-dressed supporters. Still, it made for an entertaining environment.

The weather was the best part of Sunday. Having not seen much of the sun these past few months, I couldn’t soak up enough of it. Along with some friends, I explored more of the city, wandering down streets at random in hopes of uncovering something fascinating. Together we found some interesting monuments, though none that were particularly remarkable, and a dilapidated building once home to Nikolai Gogol, the famous playwright and novelist.

On Monday we slept in, caught up on sleep and gathered our things before feasting at a legitimate Chinese food restaurant. Having not had much in the way of ethnic for during the past two years, that was a real treat.

We boarded a train that evening, myself and three friends, made our beds and turned in for the night. In the morning we arrived in Ternopil, a larger city in western Ukraine.

Arriving anywhere in Ukraine at 3:30 a.m. means having to wait for a couple of hours until the buses start running to get anywhere. We could have taken a taxi to Terebovlya, our final destination, but it would have cost us three times the price of a bus. Plus, we weren’t sure our host, another PCV, would be awake that early. So we sat at the train station for an hour before making our way to the city’s bus station, where we sat another hour before boarding a bus to Terebovlya.

On the bus we all fell asleep. It wasn’t until another passenger nudged and woke us up that we realized we’d arrived in Terebovlya. Upon exiting the bus, we received some peculiar looks, looks that seemed to say, “What the hell are you doing here?”

Most people haven’t heard of Terebovlya, and most never will. Outside of the fact that it has a thousand-year-old fortress, there really isn’t much there. But the town, which is home to a little less than 10,000 people, has a hell of a lot of charm. Despite the fact that I speak only Russian and this part of Ukraine speaks Ukrainian as their first language, no one minded me speaking the language of the east. Mind you, they responded in Ukrainian, but they were all smiles, very pleased to interact with a foreigner.

The PCV we stayed with there had an incredible four-bedroom village-style house, without a doubt the best living quarters of any PCV I know in Ukraine. After a brief nap we joined our host at his school for three class lessons, during which we interacted with young students, discussing hobbies, family, geography and more. We had to endure dozens of photographs with students and teachers before being released for the day.

That afternoon we went for a walk through the forest. After living in the industrial east, an area known as the Donbass, which is marked with slag heaps and smoke stacks, my lungs were happy to breath in the fresh air of the west. What’s more, at the end of our stroll we were rewarded with remnants of an old monastery and fortress that overlooked fields and village homes as far as the eye could see. It was gorgeous.

That evening we cooked our first shashlik (barbecue) of the year. Two kilos of meat, some onions, tomatoes and more all cooked over an open pit. It was pure bliss. At night we enjoyed some locally brewed beer, talked and played “durak,” the Eastern European card game.

The next day we needed to be on a bus by 1 p.m. So rose early to cook a large egg breakfast before going out to explore the fortress on the hill.

I don’t know much about the history of the fortress, only that it’s around 1,000 years old and has been sacked about 15 times by multiple armies. Most recently it was taken over by the Nazi’s during WWII when they occupied Terebovlya. To mark their territory they inset a large tablet into the side of the fortress, which remains today.

From the top of the fortress I looked out over the entire town and to the hills beyond it. Where I live in the east is mostly flat. Slag heaps are the highest points visible. So this was refreshing.

We split up in Terebovlya. Some of us needed to get back home, back out east. Others went on for a few more days. One of my pals and I headed back to Ternopil, where we spent the remainder of the day strolling around the city before our train at 8 p.m. that evening.

I was pleasantly surprised by Ternopil, a city I knew nothing about before going there. Young people were everywhere, as were cafes, bars, parks and shops. I even managed to find a burrito place. And the burritos tasted like actual burritos.

An endearing moment came when I wandered into a souvenir shop to pick up a magnet for my roommate. Looking around I noticed there were a lot of photos of a large lake. So I asked the woman, was there a lake nearby?

“Oh, yes!” she answered emphatically. “I can show you.”

Reaching into the glass case housing the various magnets she pulled out six of them and proceeded to describe to me the path to the lake using each magnet’s pictured landmark.

“You’ll enjoy it,” she insisted. “Good luck.”

With that, my friend and I set off to find the lake.

The woman was right, I enjoyed it. The sun was out, a slight breeze made ripples atop the water, and further out two windsurfers glided along. We took it all in on a bench.

That evening we began what would be a 20-hour train ride back east. It was definitely among the longest I’ve endured since moving here. But we made it home, exhausted, slightly sore and stinking.

It was a good time, like many of the other trips I’ve taken during my two years here in Ukraine. But something about this one in particular had a certain finality about it. During the ride back to site I couldn’t shake thoughts of finishing my service here in just six weeks, and that during that six weeks I’d be busy with all of my Close of Service tasks required by Peace Corps, packing and saying goodbye to everyone who’s been a part of my life over the past two years. I wouldn’t have time to do much else – this trip would be the last of its kind in Ukraine.

Posted in Culture, Donetsk, History, Odesa, Peace Corps, Public Transportation, Russian, Trains, Travel, Ukraine |

The drunk deaf boy squirmed and moaned in his aisle-side bunk above the devoutly religious woman with the white head wrap, who was sleeping below. His three friends had literally thrown him up there just five minutes earlier, then they went to have a cigarette in the back of the wagon.

Five young female students with two parental chaperones, on their way back from a weekend excursion in Kiev, sat on the two bunks below me, talking about the boy and his friends. The four boys, or perhaps young men – all must have been between 16 and 18 years of age, their pubescent faces marked with zits – and also deaf, had been drinking Obolon beer since the train left Kiev Pas station five hours earlier.

By midnight all of the boys were drunk, slurring their signs and disturbing passengers trying to sleep. I imagine that it wasn’t their intention to be rude and to be loud. Given the fact that they were all deaf, they probably had no idea how obnoxious the slamming of glass beer bottles on the table could be. And given how drunk they all were, they most likely weren’t aware that their ricocheting off the ends of the beds as they stumbled down the aisle awoke people from their slumber.

I like to give people the benefit of the doubt, but these boys were, in fact, acting disrespectfully and pissing off everyone in the wagon, and it showed on the passengers’ faces. So when the police came by on a routine walk-through, cited the boys for smoking and drinking – both of which are illegal aboard Ukraine’s trains – and made them each pay 100 hryvnia (about $12.50), passengers erupted in a small round of applause.

The celebration, though, was interrupted by gurgling and moaning coming from the passed out boy on the top bunk. I knew what this sound meant, and I’m sure others did, too. I sat up to face the boy just as he vomited over the side of the bunk. The chunky, brownish-orange goop splashed onto the aisle floor, with some landing mere inches from the religious woman’s face. Passengers let out a collective, “Oooopa!” One of the girls sitting below me reached over and shook the leg of the religious woman to wake her up. Once the woman saw what had happened, she went for the police.

Two officers returned with the woman, with the boy’s friends in tow. Frantic signing ensued. The cops, unable to sign, simply shouted at the boys, “See what you’ve done! Look at this! Don’t you understand?” It took a minute for the officers to realize their messages weren’t getting through. So on a piece of paper one officer wrote something down.

The boys left after that, with the wagon attendent, and returned with a bucket of hot, soapy water. Then, with the help of one officer, they pulled the boy who’d vomited down from the bunk and told him to scrub the floor clean. When he finished, the boy was taken by another officer, and he didn’t return.

The train, meanwhile, had stopped at a station somewhere five hours east of Kiev, and it wouldn’t continue on its way to Donetsk until this problem was resolved. The police officers wanted the remaining three boys to come with them voluntarily. I couldn’t see what one officer had written down and shown the boys, but when the boys saw it they began frantically signing to one another and shaking their heads in a panicked sort of way. After about three minutes of back-and-forth between the officers and the boys, the officers grabbed the boys’ things and their arms and escorted them off the train.

At that point, I sort of felt bad for the boys. Yes, they’d screwed up, pissed everyone off and broke the law, but their punishment would probably end up being more severe than it ought to be. I turned to look out the window at them as they were dragged out into the darkness, toward a small shack illuminated only slightly by a small light positioned above the door. I was thinking about what fate awaited them in that dark shack, when the train lurched forward.

Despite the effort to clean up the mess on the floor, the wagon smelled like vomit the rest of the night. It was a sort of acidic and sour scent mixed with ammonia, from the cleaning products. Because of that, and because of the discussions passengers were having below me, I didn’t get much sleep.

A friend of mine who I spoke with about this said every train ride is like a dice roll. And this is true. While I’ve had poor experiences, such as this one, some of my fondest memories of my time in Ukraine will certainly be of conversations and interactions with people aboard the trains. But this last one is a ride I’m hoping to forget.

Posted in Artemovsk, Culture, Kiev, Public Transportation, Trains, Ukraine |

In Ukraine, sometimes arriving to your flat in one piece is the ultimate survival.

I’ve dabbled in off-roading, tried my hand at cliff jumping and grew up attempting an array of precarious tricks behind a speed boat on multiple apparatuses. But none of these things have raised my anxiety level and forced me to clench my teeth like riding in a Ukrainian taxi during winter has. Why I still opt to do it, I have no idea. I guess they still get me from point A to point B quicker than a bus, and I value my time more than my safety.

Winter in Ukraine means tremendous amounts of ice and snow, much more than this Pacific Northwesterner is used to experiencing. But it’s still not enough to halt traffic. Back in Portland, with any amount of snow on the ground, cars cease to move, sometimes right in the middle of the road. People opt to stay home, working remotely, or they call in sick. The media labels a storm that brings two inches Snowpocalypse.  School is cancelled and the fun begins. Here, though, life continues on as normal. Children go to school, people commute to work and taxis rage on the pockmarked streets, despite the facts that the roads aren’t visible and that they’re covered in ice and snow.

After spending a weekend away, tired, hungry and with a large pack strapped to my back, I chose not to wait an hour and a half to cram into a small bus that would take another hour and a half to get me home, and instead asked a taxi driver if he’d mind giving me a lift. “Of course,” he said. “No problem. This is my job.”

My first indication that this might have been a bad idea came just moments after we pulled out of the bus station parking lot, when slowing for a red light our breaks locked up and we nearly slid into the gas truck in front of us. As the light turned green I took a deep breath and wrapped my hand tightly around what a friend of mine likes to call the “oh shit” bar, or that handle just about the window of the front passenger seat.

We turned onto the highway, slightly fish-tailing, and the Lada began to make a chugging sound. Had this been my first cab ride in a Lada, I would have asked, “Is this normal?” But I knew that it was. A series of hills, dips and turns followed, each one more frightening than the last. At one point the snow was coming down so hard I couldn’t make out anything more than a few meters in front of us. I wondered how my driver could see where he was going. Was it simply reflex? Had he ridden these roads so many times he could navigate them in his sleep – in this? I hoped so.

The wind didn’t help. It blew like it would be the last time it would blow, with ferocity. My passenger side window kept getting smacked with drifts of snow and every so often the car would swerve, not because of the ice – though it did that, too – but because of the gusts.

I ran possible scenarios in my mind. We spin out, lose control and smack into a tree. I’d be OK, because I opted to wear my seatbelt. The driver, however, would go straight through the windshield. In another, I imagined an oncoming car losing control and crashing head on into the Lada, sending us flipping and rolling into an embankment. No one would have lived.

As we came over the last hill there was a small break in the storm, enough to make out the lights of a small village, which I recognized as Krasne. I knew that if we could make it to Krasne we’d make it home, to Artemovsk. We were just about there when another Lada pulled out in front of us.

There wasn’t much the driver could have done. If he’d have hit the brakes, we’d spin out and lose control, like in the first scenario. There would also have been a good chance of smashing into the rear of the other Lada. So what he did do was probably the best decision, though it scared me so much my entire body stiffened, and in that moment I think my heart may have skipped a beat. Instead of the brakes, he used the gas, accelerating and riding the shoulder of a road so densely covered in snow that I was uncertain where the road ended and the field began. Nonetheless, it worked, and we zoomed on by with no problem, except for a minor fish-tail the moment he hit the gas.

With my apartment in sight, I breathed a sigh of relief. When asked how much the ride cost, he answered more than what he’d originally said. “Because of the snow,” he explained. I felt like I should have gotten a discount. But there was no talking him down.

Sometimes the ultimate survival can be making it off a sinking ship, or living to tell about a harrowing adventure to the peak of a mountain. And sometimes it can simply be a cab ride home.

Posted in Culture, It's Cold!, Konstantinovka, Public Transportation, Ukraine |

My uncle on a train from Kiev to Donetsk after our excursion of the Chernobyl exclusion zone in June 2011.

Besides being an affordable and comfortable alternative to buses and planes, trains are a great way to travel in Ukraine. Routes traverse the country in all directions – and often. The landscapes passing outside the windows, too – rolling steppes, seemingly endless fields of sunflowers – aren’t bad.

What’s tricky is purchasing tickets as a non-Russian or non-Ukrainian speaker.

Hiring a translator is a possibility (www.kiev-interpreter.net, www.handy.com.ua). Most have daily fixed rates, but some will offer hourly rates, which typically run about $25 per hour. They’ll help you purchase tickets, show you around the city, and pretty much help with whatever arrangements that you might otherwise have difficulty making.

A cheaper alternative is purchasing train tickets online (www.e-kvytok.com.ua). The site requires you to register (it’s free), but after that it’s fairly easy to navigate. It also has an English language option.

When you are ready to plan that train trip, there are some other things to consider.

Tips:

Three days before I was expected by a group of friends to be in Crimea, I marched into the ticket office and asked politely for round-trip tickets to Dzhankoi. The woman working behind the counter insinuated that I must be crazy. “You leave in just three days – in August – and you think there will be tickets?”

Perhaps because I was an American who didn’t know better, having only been in Ukraine for a few months then, she humored me by showing screen after screen of full trains. At about the fourth screen, a late-night train she said would certainly be booked, though it could have something available, she found an empty seat.

“You won’t want this one,” she said. “It’s very bad. A top bunk, and next to the toilet.” Desperate to meet my friends at the Black Sea, I told her it would be fine, and booked it.

Three day’s later I wished I’d taken her advice. Stuck on a cramped top bunk in 100-degree heat, mere feet away from the toilet, I thought about what could be worse and came up with nothing.

I did make it to Crimea, though it was by far the most uncomfortable train ride I’ve had here.

1. Purchase tickets well in advance. You can do this online or at any train station in Ukraine. Tickets aren’t so difficult to come by in winter, except on weekends. But come May, everything through till October books up quickly. Also, it’s widely known here that the mafia buys up tickets to destinations like Lvov, Odessa, Kiev and everywhere in Crimea to later resell on the black market at higher prices. So keep this in mind when planning your summer trips.

*

As I mentioned before, I once got stuck with a seat near the toilet. Throughout the night the slamming of the door and the stench of stale piss constantly awakened me. Toilets are awful everywhere, true. But the train toilets here are made of steel, which in winter makes them cold as ice and in summer hot as hell. What’s more is that instead of sitting down on them they’re meant to be squatted over, as if you were using a proper squat toilet. Except these aren’t squat toilets, but normal looking bowls.

On a trip from Kiev to Donetsk, after eating a doner kebab that didn’t agree with my stomach, I spent 12 grueling hours hovering above one of these. With the train bouncing to and fro, many people miss their mark while doing their business, resulting in a festering mess around the bowl and on the floor. This is what you smell if your seat is too near. I wish I could tell you that my aim, unlike many others, is true. But that wouldn’t be the truth.

2. When purchasing train tickets you can choose your seat, so purchase tickets away from the toilets.  Lower numbered seats are toward the front of the car. I suggest seats between one and 24 to ensure a better smelling experience.

*

After a daylong excursion through the Chernobyl exclusion zone all I wanted to do was board my train, make my bed and pass out. Unfortunately, I’d stayed in the zone longer than expected and had to rush back to Kiev in order to make my train, sprinting all the way to the wagon. When I made it to my seat I was greeted by a family who’d arrived first and taken the liberty to spread their dinner out on the table. More than that, they’d filled the lower compartments meant for my luggage with theirs and occupied part of my seat, preventing me from making up my bed. They spent almost two hours eating and playing cards before resigning to their respective bunks. Only then was I able to catch some shut-eye.

3. Arrive early to your train. If you’re cathing a train from its originating city wagon attendants will often allow you to board 30 minutes or more in advance. This will allow you time to settle in and stow away your belongings before everyone else boards.

*

Only once did I board a train without anything to entertain me. I was leaving Donetsk for Kiev, a 13-hour ride, and I didn’t realize my mistake until it was too later. Luckily, I had some talkative bunkmates. An older woman and her daughter were traveling together to Kiev to see some relatives and, after hearing me speak to the conductor about a cup of tea, asked me where I was from.

“You’re not ours, are you?” the older woman asked.

“No,” I said. “American.”

“Opa!” she exclaimed. And for the three hours before lights out, as well as the three hours after waking the next morning, we spoke about life, culture, traveling and more. She even offered up a relative’s time to show me around. I politely thanked her and her daughter for their company when the train arrived. This time around, I thought, I got lucky.

4. Bring something to help pass the time. Crossword puzzles, an iPod loaded with podcasts (my favorites include Radiolab, This American Life, The Moth, Slate’s Culture Gabfest, NPR’s Fresh Air and Foreign Dispatch Podcast, Real Time with Bill Mahr and the BBC World Service Documentary Archive) or a book.

*

Ukraine’s trains are mostly old and dirty. On top of that, they’re poorly cleaned. On a trip to Kharkov from Artemovsk I was removing my shoes before getting in bed. After doing so, I slid them beneath my bunk, like usual. But I’d forgotten a pillow, which was situated atop an empty bunk across the aisle. Without putting my shoes back on, I walked over to fetch it. That’s when a babushka reprimanded me.

“Young man,” she said. “This floor is dirty, and you could catch disease walking around like that.”

I told her I’d be fine, that I wouldn’t do it again. She responded to that by waving her finger at me and telling me I needed some slippers. “Like these,” she said, gesturing to hers.

5. Bring slippers or flip-flops, footwear easy to slide on and off. That’s what Ukrainians do. Best to fit in. Also, hand sanitizer. Pack it.

*

On a train from Kiev to Konstantinovka I watched as two women unpacked a plastic sack filled with sausages, cheese, bread, tomatoes, cucumbers, apples, varenyky and fried chicken onto the kupe table. They dined together for over an hour, washing everything down with a bottle of vodka and some juice. Staring at my Snickers bar and bottle of water, I wished I’d done the same.

6. Bring something to eat. Trains don’t offer much in the way of food. Wagon attendents do pass by, but not with much more than overpriced chips and nuts. You’re expected to bring your own.

*

On a train from Konstantinovka to Kiev I shared a kupe with a man who told me about his time in prison. Arrested for hooliganism, he spent nearly three years incarcerated in an eastern Ukrainian jail. Our conversation included a fascinating lesson on prison tattoos, culminating in a sort of show and tell. Before turning in we shared some bread and vodka. He even wished me goodnight.

7. Don’t be afraid to converse with fellow passengers. Some of the most fascinating conversations and lessons on Ukrainian culture I’ve had occurred while riding the rails. Plus, Ukrainians are great conversationalists.

*

A friend visiting from New York was on the train with me for the first time in Ukraine. We had no intention of drinking alcohol while aboard, having spent most of the previous night out doing just that. But three English-speaking Ukrainian men had other plans for us. They pulled bottles of beer from their packs to share with us, and we chatted well past lights out about cultural traditions, keeping one eye on the wagon door in case the police passed by.

8. Drinking aboard the train is great fun and an essential part of the experience. The secret is not to make it too obivous. Ukrainians often times hide vodka in flasks or juice bottles. You could also keep your beer at your side rather than on the table in plain view. Technically, it’s illegal to drink aboard the trains. But many people do it, and almost everyone tolerates it. Just don’t be an obnoxious tourist and all will be well.

*

In August of 2010, I had some friends over for the weekend at my apartment in Artemovsk. Over dinner and drinks, my pal Walter told me a funny story about a train he’d taken from Djankoi to Lugansk.

“It’s hot, right, because it’s summer and the trains are crammed full of people,” he said. “So I take off my pants, fold them and set them on top of my shoes next to the bed. Then I go to sleep. When I wake up in the morning, they’re gone. No idea where they ran off. I made it to Lugansk, but without any shoes and pants.”

9. Keep your bags tucked away and your valuables on your person. Having a bottom berth is best, since you can stow your luggage directly beneath you. Riding the trains in Ukraine isn’t particularly dangerous, nor is there a great risk of having your posessions stolen while you’re sleeping. But these things do happen from time to time. When it comes down to it, just use common sense.

Posted in Artemovsk, Culture, Donetsk, Public Transportation, Russian, Trains, Travel, Ukraine |

We’d heard about the beauty in western Ukraine, but had never seen it for ourselves. A place more reminiscent of European cities like Krakow and Prague than of Kiev and Kharkov. It wasn’t only foreigners, but Ukrainians, too, who crooned its praises, proud to call it a part of their country. So over Christmas, my girlfriend and I sprung for kupe (second class) tickets on the fast train (8 hours) west to Lviv to have a look around for ourselves.

What we found was a charming place, with architecture representing all European styles lining narrow, cobbled roads, mansions of former royals, castle ruins atop a hill with a panoramic view of the city – even an ice rink. Church bells rang out as we roamed the city center early Christmas morning in search of our rented apartment. That night, we stumbled upon an illuminated Christmas tree, which stood at the foot of the Opera House. Around us festive kiosks sold mulled wine, sweets and handicrafts, while carolers sang songs.

Lviv, or Lvov, or Lwow – maybe you’ve heard it called Lemberg – sits just north of the Carpathian Mountain range in western Ukraine, a few hours east of the Polish border. Over its 755 years, it’s been a part of Austria, Poland the Soviet Union and Ukraine, it’s been invaded and occupied by the Tatars, the Germans, the Soviets and others. It’s had a tumultuous history, but one that’s yielded quite a bit of character.

After checking into our apartment, my girlfriend and I went out in search of a market where we could gather what we needed for a modest Christmas meal. Selection was slightly limited, but we ended up with a whole chicken, a few kilos of potatoes, onions and garlic, and some broccoli to add some green to the mix. We also managed to find cinnamon so that we could prepare some mulled wine of our own. Back at the apartment that evening, wearing our Santa hats, we cooked it all up and enjoyed a relaxing evening away from the stresses of work and home.

We hit the streets early the next morning to see what the city had to offer. We strolled back through the market on our way to Castle Hill, observing an array of skinned animals ready to be cooked, fresh eggs and milk, as well as an assortment of pickled vegetables. After a 30 minute hike up the hill, we were rewarded with a view overlooking the entire city. Overhead the Ukrainian flag flapped in the wind. In the distance a train’s horn whistled. For a moment I felt completely at ease. I also felt extremely small, as one usually does looking out from such a vantage point.

The Market Square was bustling with life. Streetcars rang their bells at slow crossers, people haggled with vendors over the price of books, children howled as they glided across the ice rink. More holiday kiosks lined the streets, selling nutty treats, caramel apples and an array of hot drinks. We stumbled into the Lviv Historical Museum at Rynok #6, which houses both the Royal Mansion Museum and the Italian Courtyard, two stunning design achievements. Afterward we climbed the many hundreds of steps up the city hall bell tower to take in a view of Old Town. Before the sun set, we stumbled into a few churches. Photographs of their interiors couldn’t do them justice. We watched as people lit candles, crossed themselves and said prayers.

The next day was more of the same. While exploring Old Town, we stumbled upon Masoch Cafe, as in Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, whose named spawned the term we all know today as masochism. The author of Venus In Furs was born in Lviv – then Lemberg – in 1836. We stopped in for a drink and a quick bite and observed a waitress dressed in a maidens outfit of old whipping three young men with a leather whip as they left.

In the evenings we cooked and drank, watched films and read. In all, it was a very relaxing holiday. Until the last day.

We had to be out of the apartment by noon, even though our train back to Kiev didn’t leave until 9 that night. So I awoke early to clean and pack. But halfway through my cup of coffee, something began feeling wrong. Not something, actually, but my stomach. I tried eating some oats, drinking some water. That only made it worse. I lied back down in bed for a while longer. Still, no improvement. It got worse as we walked from our apartment to the train station, where we’d planned on stowing our bags while we spent the afternoon and evening in the city before our train that night. But when we arrived at the station, I found myself in a light sweat, chilled to the bone and curled in the fetal position on a waiting hall bench. Clearly, I was ill.

From what, I’m still not sure. But the next nine hours in that train station were among the worst of my life. I’ll spare you the gory details, but let me just say that running to a paid squat toilet every 10 to 15 minutes for nine hours is extremely uncomfortable. Worse yet, this same behavior continued for the duration of our overnight train ride back to Kiev. Suffice it to say I didn’t get any sleep.

Sickness aside, the trip was a fantastic holiday away, and one that reminded me how beautiful and interesting this country can be. If Odessa is the Pearl of the Black Sea, then Lviv must be the diamond in the rough that is Ukraine, or something like that.

Posted in Culture, Food, Holidays, It's Cold!, Lvov, Public Transportation, Russian, Tweets, Ukraine |

“Salute” Restaurant and hotel in Kiev’s Pechersk neighborhood.

Skaters ride at the foot of a monument of revolutionary hero Slava in a city park.

Flowers sit at the base of a religious icon at a church building near Kiev Pechersk Lavra.

A man practices a form of spiritual relaxation in a Kiev park.

Inside Kiev’s Zoloti Vorota (Golden Gate) Metro Station. Online travel mag BootsnAll recently named it one of the most beautiful subway station in the world.

Kiev’s main drag is Kreschatik Street. On weekend nights the road is illuminated and open only to foot traffic.

Despite a national ban on public drinking in 2010, many people continue to consume alcohol on the streets. “It’s just our culture,” a Ukrainian friend of mine explained.

Posted in Culture, Environment, It's Cold!, Kiev, Life, Public Transportation, Travel, Ukraine |

The view of Kiev's St. Sofia's Church from the bell tower. This year marks the church's 1,000th anniversary.

The reflection of Andrew in a puddle on a street in Kiev. Andrew recently visited me. We know each other from Portland, but he now lives in New York City.

Descending the Kiev metro. The city's underground transit system is one of the deepest in the world.

Supporters of former Ukrainian Prime Minister Yulia Tymoshenko protest her recent imprisonment. She was arrested in August on charges of contempt of court during a trial that she's described as being politically motivated.

Posted in Culture, History, Kiev, Politics, Public Transportation, Travel, Ukraine |

The elektrichka bumps along the tracks, passing endless fields of sunflowers and small villages, and my girlfriend asks, “Do you know where we get off?”

“No,” I say, “I don’t know where we get off.” I ask the wagon attendants, but they’re too busy looking at passengers’ faces, trying to recall if they’d already checked them for tickets. When one does respond to me, I don’t understand his mumbled Russian, but I feign understanding so as not to make myself out to be some sort of idiot.

“What did he say?” My girlfriend asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. So I ask a woman sitting near us if we’re on the right elektrichka. In Russian I ask, does she know if this elektrichka is going to Yasinovata?

“It will go to Donetsk,” She says.

This is good, I think. Yasinovata is just north of Donetsk, where we’re heading. And supposedly it’s a large station, which is odd, because Yasinovata is nothing, barely a town. I heard it was turned into a large station so as to keep some of the traffic out of Donetsk. Good idea, I suppose. But because I’ve never been there, and because it seems no one on our elektrichka is getting off there, I don’t know when we’ll be stopped there. So every time the train begins to slow, the metal on metal screeching us slowly to a stop, I get up from my seat and walk to an open window to peak out. I don’t know what I’m looking for, just a station that’s larger than the previous stops, I guess.

And then the wagon attendants come by again. I lean from my seat toward the aisle, and before I can finish what I’m saying one of the men says to me, “Two more, then the third.” And that’s all. I think he’s just told me when our stop in Yasinovata is. I’m surprised he remembered me. I suppose I was just annoying enough not to forget. A few minutes later the lights of Yasinovata shine through the elektrichka windows.

***

We’re aboard our train now, the No. 224 to Simferopol, leaving from Yasinovata at 2:18 a.m., arriving nearly 10 hours later at 11:35 a.m. The wait at Yasinovata was five hours long. With not much else to do, we played cards at a small table in a waiting area outside of a much nicer and pricey waiting area called The Hall Of Expectations Of The Raised Comfort. I love direct translations. A peak inside the doors showed oversized leather sofas, a bar, television sets, paintings hung on the walls and large candlesticks sitting atop antique-looking desks and side tables. There’s no doubt in my mind we could have caught a bit of shut-eye in there. But where we were, the wooden chairs with the arms on either side of the seats, making it impossible to lie down, people stirring all around, feral cats strolling up and down the aisles, meowing for food scraps, sleep was out of the question.

But we’re tucked in our top-bunk beds now, aboard the No. 224. And it’s not so bad. We’ll drift off to sleep soon, waking up every so often throughout the night when the train lurches to a stop. But that won’t be so bad. And in the morning we’ll awake in Crimea, on our way to Simferopol and then Sevastopol and the Black Sea.

***

The taxi leaves us in front of a Soviet-bloc style apartment building. The number on it says 48, but we’re at the wrong entrance. I know this because we’re looking for apartment No. 26, and in front of me are mailboxes that range from 1 to 10. So I call Anna, the young woman my girlfriend and I have asked to stay with for the next five days. We found her on CouchSurfing.org. Her current mission, it says on her profile, is to ”Swim in all four oceans, visit every continent and find the meaning of life”. Her profile also said we’d have our own room. So Anna answers her phone and says she’ll meet us downstairs in a minute, that the front door is locked, anyway.

Anna’s apartment is quaint, cute. In typical Ukrainian fashion, rugs are found not only on the floors but overtop the sofas, too. Photographs cut out of fashion magazines and others she’s taken of friends are displayed on shelves. In the corner of our room is a small aquarium with small bluish fish. The fish are also transparent, and with the sun shining in from the open balcony door I can see their diminutive insides. My girlfriend and I are settling in, unpacking some things from our bags – changes of clothes and whatnot – when Anna speaks up from the other room.

“Would you like to eat lunch?” she says. “I can make lunch and we can eat here, and then I can show you where the market is.”

What she prepares is fried potatoes, thinly cut, a salad of heirloom tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers and basil. Everything, she says, came from her parents’ garden.

I offer to wash dishes, tell her I’d be happy to clean up, but she insists, “No, it’s OK.”

A few minutes later we’re at the market. Kiosks of produce and other products all around us. My girlfriend and I pick up some things to snack on later and then make for the beach. Anna said it would be just a ten minute walk, and it is.

At Omega beach, it turns out, my good friend Igor and his girlfriend Ira are relaxing. They’ve also come down to the sea from Artemovsk. Together we make for the westward-facing cliffs. It’s sometime in the early evening. The waves of the Black Sea are crashing on the rocks in front of us. There’s a cool wind blowing, but that doesn’t stop me from getting in the water. I’ve been waiting a long time for this.

This first evening in Sevastopol, we drink beer and watch the sun sink below the horizon. Then we go back to Anna’s apartment and turn in early, exhausted from the journey down here. Tomorrow we’ll do some exploring.

***

There’s no need to rush, but we wake up before 8 a.m., anyway. After a breakfast of coffee, fruit and yogurt we make our way to the bus stop around the corner. Our mission this morning is to take the local No. 109 bus to a stop called “Tsum” and ask around until someone can point us in the direction of Khersones. This is the gist on Khersones, it’s a nearly 2,500-year-old Greek settlement on the shore of the Black Sea, it was once a democracy, the architecture is mixed with Greek, Roman and Byzantine influences, and Volodymyr the Great was baptized into Christianity there, paving the way for what later would become the Russian Orthodox Church. Today it’s all fascinating stone ruins. With limestone columns perched just meters from the shoreline, it’s an opportune place to snap a few photographs. So we do just that, and then we spend an hour or so relaxing on its rocky beach and jumping into the breaking waves.

I think it’s also the No. 109 bus that takes us to the Sevastopol city center, where we eat lunch before finding our way to the bay and the ferry boat. The boat takes us to the north side of the city, where we spend some time soaking up the sun and napping on the sandy beach, away from the hordes of Russian tourists. But we don’t stay too long, we want to stroll about the city. It’s our one full day to do it. So we see the main drag, Bolshaya Morskaya Blvd., and we take that up to the park and the Painted Panarama, we spend some time around Lazareva Square, too, and then we make our way back to the beach, where I drink a beer and the girlfriend drinks a gin and tonic and we watch the sun paint the sky all sorts of pastel hues as it sinks below the horizon.

We grab a bite at a seaside cafe. Ukrainian shashlik and Georgian-style plov. We wash that down with another drink each, and then walk the 10 or 15 minutes back to Anna’s. We’re in bed before midnight. I wonder if this is a sign we’re getting older.

***

I’m always up first. So I start the coffee, prepare the breakfast. We don’t fiddle around the apartment too long before we’re out the door and on our way to Balaklava.

I suppose now’s a good time to tell you this, that Sevastopol and Balaklava, before the fall of the Soviet Union, were closed off to the general public. The reasons being that the Sevastopol bays were home to the the country’s Black Sea Fleet, while Balaklava housed and repaired its nuclear submarines in hidden mountainside tunnels. Only military personnel and immediate family members were allowed access. Nowadays, however, the cities are two of Crimea’s major attractions, and it’s easy to see why.

The Black Sea isn’t really black; it’s a beautiful shade of blue. And it’s clear. Surrounding the bay of Balaklava are the Crimean Mountains, and perched atop them sits the ruins of an ancient Genoese fortress. Docks jut out from the shore, mooring wealthy Russians’ yachts and locals’ charming wooden motor boats. The water in the bay is calm and the morning sun is a warm 80 degrees, or so.

I’ve always had a thing for boats. So my curiosity gets the best of me and I set off down the dock. Inside one boat is an old man with his hat over his face and his feet kicked up on a seat. Two young men sit in another, Russian hip-hop playing loudly on the radio. A man leans toward me out of a boat on my right and asks if I’d like to buy any sea products. And at the last boat is a smiling man who asks if we’d like to go for a ride.

We agree on a price before we set off. The man will take us around the bay and out to sea for a little longer than a half hour and it’ll cost us just $15. Cruising through the bay, he points to a row of large houses with large yachts parked out in front. He tells us they’re Ukrainian President Viktor Yanukovich’s. We wind our way through the bay and then out to sea, where the landscape is even more striking. Jagged cliffsides as far left and right as I can see. The skipper turns the boat off and pulls out a fishing rod.

“You like to fish?” he says. “Watch this. You don’t even need bait. Drop the line in and pull it up. A fish every time.”

He drops the line in. On it is a single weight and a barbed hook. He gives the rod a few jigs to let the line out.

“Now you watch,” he says.

And I watch.

A few minutes go by, the boat rocking with the swells, before he reels in the line to reveal a small fish. “They’re not always big,” he says. “But you get one every time.”

My girlfriend is enjoying just being out at sea. She’s taking photographs and shooting video. She watches as the skipper pulls me behind the wheel and hands me his binoculars, encouraging me to act out a scene in which I’m driving the boat, using the binoculars to discern what’s up ahead. Then he hands me the radio, and in a nasally voice I say into the thing that the Footloose is on the run, being chased by pirates or something, not sure if we can outrun ‘em, it’s gonna be close.

I’m stepping away from wheel when the skipper points and shouts, “Opa! Dolphins!” And sure enough, about 20 meters starboard, two dolphins are swimming in sync, fins breaking the surface, backs glistening in the sunlight. We watch them for a minute, and then my girlfriend tells me she could almost cry.

Reentering the bay I can see that more people have begun to show up in Balaklava. It turns out today is the birthday of the local winery, which means tasting booths will pop up all around the bayside streets and Ukraine’s most popular band, Okean Elzy, will play a free show in the evening. But before all that, we want to stroll about town, hike up to the ruins of the Genoese fortress, find a place to eat some seafood.

With our bellies full – we ordered a large, assorted plate of fish, all served with the heads and tails still attached – we set off for the wine kiosks. For less than a $1 we’re poured a glass of sparkling wine. First we try the white brut, later we’ll try the red brut. And then we spend some time people watching. Also, there’s the final of the Miss Crimea Pageant happening on stage. We turn our attention there, where a young blond girl in a white dress is singing a rendition of Marilyn Monroe’s “I Wanna Be Loved By You” at the end of the stage. I can tell she doesn’t know all the words. Luckily, for her sake, the volume is turned up enough to drowned her voice out. But I don’t know if the Russian-speaking crowd would have noticed, anyway.

Tired from a long day in the sun, and with a belly full of wine, we make our way back by marshrutka to Anna’s apartment in Sevastopol. Again we turn in a bit early. Tomorrow will be another long day.

***

After Sevastopol, my pal Igor had moved on to stay with some friends in the nearby town of Alupka. On the phone the night before he’d told me Alupka was a beautiful place, that we should see it. So, eager to see more of the Crimean coast, my girlfriend and I set out to meet him.

The bus ride along Crimea’s southern coast is perhaps the most beautiful in the country. The beauty of the mountains, cliffs and shoreline visible from our seats on the bus are only matched in exuberance by the precariousness that is riding public transportation in Ukraine. An hour into our ride we passed two smashed-up cars that had collided head-on. On the ground laid a bleeding man covered in bandages, past him was another being tended to under the shade of some trees, and inside one of the cars was a deceased woman sitting alone, eyes open and mouth agape, a stern reminder of the fragility of life.

Sure enough, Alupka is gorgeous. My girlfriend described it as a giant treehouse, and in a way it is. A myriad of trees abound, enveloping the town. We stroll around for a while, down cobbled alleyways, past hidden cafes and quaint homes, eventually arriving at the Vorontsov Palace. The palace sits in the middle of a large garden of plants, fountains and lion statues. It was built between 1830 and 1848 for Prince Mikhail Semyonovich Vorontsov. Some years later, during the 1945 Yalta Conference, it was the short term residence of Winston Churchill.

After visiting the palace grounds we meet Igor and his friend Dima for lunch. We drank some beer, eat some shashlik and chat for a while. Afterward, worried we wouldn’t be able to get a ticket back to Sevastopol in the evening, we go to the bus station. As it turns out, buses from Alupka to Sevastopol are few and far between, but a number of buses from Yalta leave for Sevastopol every hour. And so we decide to move on to Yalta.

There must be 50 people on this marshrutka. We’re crammed in like canned sardines. A sign above the driving says the maximum number of passengers is not to exceed 26. If we crash, we’re all dead, I think. I’m pressed up against the front door, peering out at a 500-foot drop to the sea as the marshrutka lurches up the hillside and onward to Yalta.

Turns out we don’t have much time to spend in Yalta. The only tickets we can get to Sevastopol are for a bus an hour and 15 minutes later. Our visit to Yalta will be a whirlwind tour. We take a trolley to the center, where we walk past a theater, a square and a monument of Lenin, eventually finding our way to the seaside. We have only a few minutes to take in the view. The sea this evening is a calm, dark blue. Behind us are the Crimean Mountains, looking like edges of a serrated blade. We have just enough time to consume an ice cream before we make our way back to the station and board the return bus to Sevastopol.

***

We take it easy our last day in Sevastopol. We were going to try and visit Bakhchisaray before leaving Crimea, but we’re exhausted. So we spend the late morning and early afternoon on the beach, relaxing, eating some plov and shwarma purchased from a beachside vendor.

In the evening a bus takes us two hours north to Simferopol, where we wait seven hours for our 1 a.m. train to Donetsk. We pass the time by eating, drinking, playing cards and people watching. Where are they all going, I wonder.

Inside the station, people waiting for trains contort their bodies in the wooden seats, trying to catch a few winks. I’m watching four men to my left, all in different, awkward positions, sleep when over the loudspeaker the arrival of our train is announced.

My girlfriend and I board the No. 278 from Simferopol to Donetsk, make up our beds and turn in. In the morning we’ll be back in the small, eastern Ukrainian city of Artemovsk, where the closest bodies of water are ponds created out of old mining pits and reservoirs used for irrigating crops.

Posted in Artemovsk, Balaklava, Bazaar, Crimea, Culture, Donetsk, Encounters, Food, History, Public Transportation, Russian, Sevastopol, Soviet Union, Travel, Ukraine, Uncategorized |

Just hours after my uncle left, my girlfriend and good friend arrived in Kiev. I had made a deal with the same taxi driver that had driven my uncle and me to the airport earlier that morning to come pick me up and take me to meet the two flying in that afternoon. His name was Igor, and he was a great guy to talk to. He had a good sense of humor, unafraid to joke about the turbulent political situation here. And his slight lisp was disarming, making him easy to talk with, though slightly more difficult than usual to understand. Igor helped load the luggage into his car, then drove us back to the apartment in the city center before going on his way. It was raining like hell and we were tired, so that first evening we cooked and relaxed at the apartment, chatting, drinking, playing cards and resting up for what would be quite a bit of walking and sightseeing over the course of the week.

The next morning we were up and at it early, making our way to Khreschatik Street – Kiev’s main drag – then Independence Square and the Upper Hill neighborhood. I’ll spare you the details here, because I took my girlfriend (who’d seen most of the city on her first visit last fall) and my friend on the same route as I’d taken my uncle – past the churches, down Andrew’s Descent and back up the hill by way of the funicular. That night, I also took them to the fountain restaurant I’d been to a week prior (Yes, it’s that good! Order the wheat beer).

Unfortunately, the rain continued throughout the week. The second full day back in Kiev we attempted Hydrapark, a small island on the Dnieper with street food, cafes, amusement park rides and sand beaches. But the rain had kept everyone away, and none of the cafes were serving food. Back in the city, we holed up in a great pub called Art Club 44. It’s just off Khreschatik, down a darkened alleyway you’d miss unless you were really looking for it.

The next couple of days were more of the same – rain. And lots of it. We splashed our way around the city, eating at cafes and drinking inside darkened basement pubs. It was nice, actually, to chill out and not feel like we had to be someplace every hour of the day. We enjoyed our time together, the three of us, just talking and drinking.

At some point, though, we did make our way to the Pinchuk Art Center. The contemporary art exhibits there have always been fascinating, with artists from all over the world represented. On my first visit a year ago I saw the Sexuality and Transcendence group exhibit, which included a sculpture by the late Louise Bourgeois. This time around it was a solo show by the artist Olafur Eliasson called Your Emotional Future. On the first floor of the exhibit we entered a sealed room filled with fog so dense that my own hand disappeared when I held it out in front of me. Colored lights filled the room, giving off a real sense of confinement. For the first time in my life I experienced claustrophobia. With no idea where to go, I began walking forward through the room. As I did so, the lights changed colors, red to blue to green to yellow – perhaps there were more – before I returned to the red-lit area, which I recognized as the entrance/exit. It was a trip.

The next day was Constitution Day, and the weather was warm and sunny. So cameras in hand, we set off on a walking tour of the city. Beginning at Independence Square, we made our way to the Lypky neighborhood, where we saw the Presidential Administration building, the House of Chimeras, the Weeping Widow House and the Verkhovna Rada (Parliament building). We eventually made our way back to Khreschatik, where a celebration had begun. The street was closed to traffic and filled with people. At one end was a large stage with multiple bands playing music well into the night. Filling the street were food and trinket kiosks, sport exhibitions, a street ball tournament and more. Sometime during the night fireworks went off, exploding high in the sky, topping off the day’s celebration.

The rain returned for our last day all together in Kiev, but it didn’t dampen our spirits. The highlight, really, was a terrific dinner at Cafe Champagne, a quaint French bistro I’d tried on a whim a week earlier while with my uncle. The aesthetic is simple but chic, and the menu isn’t too hard on the wallet either. My girlfriend had a great caesar salad with salmon while my friend enjoyed the duck confit. I opted for the burger, having not eaten a proper one since leaving Portland.

Back at the apartment we talked over glasses of beer and wine about the week we’d spent in Kiev and the days we’d been in Prague together before nodding off to sleep. The next morning I put my friend in Igor’s taxi and sent him off to the airport. My girlfriend and I stayed the rest of the day, taking a train the next morning east to Artemovsk, where we are now.

Posted in Kiev, Public Transportation, Travel, Ukraine |