So, you see, my restless sleep was warranted. The early-morning yowls of disaffected youth in their nationalistic fervor, punctuated by smashing glass, contributed to my tossing and turning all night. At times, it sounded as if the posse was right outside my window… as if they knew where I was hiding. The night went kind of like this:
Startled by a noise, I open my eyes: 1:27 am.
Try to be still… 1:52
2:12
2:17
3:03
Слава Богу, the alarm is set for 4:30 am. I fiiiiinally drift off to sleep, and, of course, АЛЯРМ. Time to spring into action--I got a plane to catch!
Being the efficient half-Uke that I am, with a little Deutsch mixed into my mutt-ness for good measure, I had set my clothes out before bed and packed everything except essential toiletries. In spite of my perceived preparedness, I am still brushing my teeth when Пані Господиня softly raps on the door of my квартира. “Таксівка чекає.” What!?--It’s only 4:45! The taxi was supposed to be here at 5... No matter, hussle up. I roll out of the cat piss suite at 5 am on the dot, exhausted as ever. On the way out the door, I hand my payment to
Пані Господиня, with an extra 20 hryvnia from the day before. I'm so nice.
The taxi driver has a soft voice and kind face, big blue eyes framed by laugh lines. He reminds me of my godfather, вуйко Олег. Funny, that although I am utterly foreign to Ukraine, I feel like I am surrounded close family and distant relatives: people's faces look a lot like mine. For a moment, I pretend that I am riding alongside my uncle, and conjure comfort in feigned familiarity.
During my short time here, I have come to understand that Ukrainian drivers operate their vehicles as if on the autobahn. Seriously! Even the timing of the stoplights resembles an auto race: red counts down as a warning to pedestrians, which gives way to yellow as a signal for drivers to get ready, then green. And they’re off! However, вуйко drives slow and steady, a welcome relief.
The sleeping streets of Львів are eerily calm, even as the hooliganistic howls of just a few hours earlier still ring in my ears. The night time sky reluctantly gives way to dawn, bathing the city in a supernatural slate and complementary creamsicle hue. Quiet instrumental techno plays on the taxi radio: momentary peace.
Before too long, we drive up tree-lined road approaching Львів International. It’s a small airport, with a grandiose pseudo-classical facade that looks like it was built in the Soviet 50s, though it may be a vestige from Euro 2012 for all I know. Triumphant columns support a triangular pediment, with bloc-ey cyrillic letters declaring: “АЕРОПОРТ.” Вуйко pulls up to the entrance of the domestic terminal, where I absorb my luggage and prepare to check in.
Snap! I'm late for my dirigible!
While waiting in line, I notice a man clad in Ukrainian Army fatigues patrolling the terminal with a highly visible semi-automatic weapon strapped to his chest. There’s only one ticket counter open in the entire airport, and there only seems to be one flight departing at this time of morning. The entire place is desolate, save for airport personnel, security, Пан Солдат, and the handful of folks who can afford to fly to Kyiv instead of taking the train.
Muted terminal televisions show a constant stream of footage from the frontlines, interspersed with briefings by Armed Forces leaders. Video shows military machines digging trenches in sunflower fields, and interviews with young men in uniform dangling cigarettes from their lips as if trying to look older than they actually are. The scene is utterly surreal. And lonely. Momentary peace has evaporated in the morning sunlight, and anxiety starts to whisper to me once again.
Пані Господиня gave me walking directions to a nearby bank, which was conveniently closed. Found a hole-in-the-wall currency exchange booth, got strapped with some Ukie cash, then I wandered around a bit. Found a KyivStar store, copped a Samsung silly-ass late 90s cell phone, like, the ones that were out before the flip phone--for 325 hryvnia. That’s, like, $30 US, yo. Супер!
It was about 8 pm by then, and I knew that I should turn in soon so I could get to the airport by 5 am. My plans were interrupted by a rumbling gastrointestinal growl: time to eat. In true American fashion, I wanted something low-key, fast, and easy, but not fast food perse. Como se dice ‘quick casual’? Did I actually wish for a Ukrainian version of Boston Market in the deep nether regions of my travel-weary mind? Sorry, 18-25 year old me.
Walked by a lounge playing Ukrainian pop-techno, with outdoor seating on a quaint tree-lined square, overlooking a sculptural fountain. Nice, but a bit dressy--I’ve been wearing the same clothes since Sunday morning, and haven’t showered in two days. Next.
I spy a place called ‘Родинна Кобаска.’ Family Hot Dog? Travel tip: don’t ask to know what it’s made out of. Next.
Street cart selling bagel-sized, room temperature pizzas. For the record, room temperature is my least favorite way to eat pizza. Call me a pizzaficionado if you must. Next!
An old woman wearing a бабушка and a фартушок, with a weathered face, sitting on an overturned crate next to a box of rotting apples. Well, I do need some fruit and veg in my life, but, um, I’ll pass this time around. Next!
I keep walking and I come across a small cafe in a tiny, ivy-covered bungalow. There’s a patio with cute wooden tables and chairs, a good number of patrons, but not packed. I zero in on a table for one > which is apparently quite Western, to eat alone < Heck yeah, let’s eat!
There did not appear to be a hostess to seat you, nor a server to take your order. I stepped inside the bungalow, where one immediately encounters a small wooden bar on the right, the kind one might find in a wood-paneled 70s basement. A plump, blonde woman of about 50 was serving up mugs of room temperature Чернігівське to a group of middle-aged men who were quite drunk and quite sweaty. (There is no AC in Ukraine. Anywhere.) A group of sullen young men in their late teens, wearing uniforms, sulked at a table in the corner. The barmaid prodded her patrons with ribald jokes as they awaited their brews. Then, she turned to me, sizing me up before she spoke.
She handed me a menu. It was getting a bit crowded up at the bar, what with the perspiring, middle-aged entourage that seemed to be hovering like moths around the Чернігівське tap. I took the menu and had a seat at the aforementioned table for one.
Starters: борщ, борщ з грибами, борщ з сметаною, oh hell yes! Straight up Ukie food! I’ll have the борщ з сметаною. Sounds good to me! Second course: деруни з грибовим сосом. Got it. Drinks: Чернігівське? Sure, why not, I’m on vacation, right? Ready…garçon?
I sat at the table for, oh, five to eight minutes before deciding that probably nobody was coming to take my order. So I approach the barmaid.
Clearly this is a very busy woman, and I was wasting her time. I gave her my order, she gave me my beer and said someone would bring the food out to me. 37 hryvnia. Ok, I got this--that’s about $3.00 US. Shit--can’t even get a deal that good at the Ukie Bar (sorry, Пані Лесю!).
II Landing in Kyiv II
I take my beer and sit down at the afore-aforementioned table for one, but I notice that someone has added an additional chair. Sorry fellas, don’t get the wrong idea, but this trophy is off the market. Did someone bus the tables? Whatever, didn’t think much of it.
Looks like there’s another classic mix-up about to go down: The moment I get up to order food, the drunk guy assumes I left and grabs the table for himself and his wife.
“Ну, може ти пересядеш сюда,” he says, gesturing towards a nearby table stacked high with used dishes. Wait wait wait wait wait wait wait a doggone minute--did this guy just tell me to move?! Is this some vulgar display of territoriality, or is he just that rude? I repeated to him that I had already been sitting there before he came along, but that I had gotten up to order food. Only this time, I said it with extra irritation in my voice, for added effect. But, in true kill ‘em with kindness fashion, I said that I would move so he and his wife could sit together.
I walk over to the table piled with someone else’s dirty dishes, and I begin to clear them away so I have a place to put my beer. As I began bussing the table, the drunk guy came over and insisted on bussing it for me. Is this guy trying to initiate a competition in passive-aggression? A dangerous wager, my friend--I’m a Bilynsky! But he upped the ante when he grabbed a bar mop and started wiping the table down, all rude-like. “Really, it’s okay… don’t,” I kept saying to him. Apparently this particular cafe is the epicenter of passive aggressive behavior. He just kept right on a-wipin’, rather dramatically. Then, when he finished, he asked if it was to my liking. I retorted with, “You don’t expect a tip, do you?”
After that ordeal, I finally sat down and took a sip of my beer. Drunky sat down at what was originally my table, along with his wife, who was also drunk. A moment later, a баба from the kitchen brings out my borscht. Нарешті, I eat!
I take one delicious spoonful of ruby red borscht, then I hear, “Hey, why don’t you join us over here?” It was the drunk couple, gesturing for me to come join them. What a mindfuck. I felt like I was on that show where they torture your patience in really over-the-top ways, and if you endure it without freaking out, you win, like, $100. Hopefully in USD and not Hryvnia. Silly me with my capitalist mindset; they give their aggravation for free here in Eastern Europe.
Now the dilemma: do I join the drunk couple who was aggressively rude to me only a moment ago? Or do I eat my borscht alone, individually house six potato pancakes with mushroom gravy, wash it all down with this liter of Чернігівське and just call it a night? Well, I am on vacation…
Княгиня Ольга, I think to myself. She seems less drunk than her husband. She also seems to be the Княгиня of this кафе, that’s for sure. Every dive has one. Meanwhile, every patron seems to know her, and they all vie for her attention. Right now, it is focused on me: come look at the random Obvious Westerner. I’m quite the novelty around here, it seems.
Ольга speaks loudly, interrupts frequently, and cusses like a sailor, only in Ukie. My kinda people. She tells me she was born in 1985. “You’re still in your 20s, cheers to that!,” I joke about aging, which happens more and more frequently these days. She insists, almost precociously, that she is 30. “В Листопаді,” her husband clarifies. His name is Віталі, and he has smoldering light brown eyes. I’ve never known brown eyes to be piercing, penetrating.
His wife, Ольга, is about 5’5’’ and probably weighs as much as a pound of feathers. She has dyed black hair and big false eyelashes, which are starting to peel away at the outer corners of her eyes. She wears a denim vest-dress with silver studs around the shoulders, which she claims is Louis Vuitton. I happen to be wearing Thrift Store swag this particular evening.
Wow. She just came right out with it, asking me what Americans think of their war. Religion and Politics, eh? Suddenly, I am a spokesperson for the entire United States of America.
“Першe все,” I begin, “у нас на новинах не кличуть ‘війну', а кажуть ‘конфликт.’” Now, Ольга is taken aback, when I say that the Western media had been referring to the events in Ukraine as a ‘conflict’ and not a ‘war,’ at this point in time at least. Do I go into my limited knowledge of the intricacies of American foreign policy, maintenance of the balance of power that at the same time is linked to Middle Eastern countries like Syria, with ripples extend well beyond the airliner that plummeted on the border of Ukraine and Russia? I am, after all, speaking for an entire nation here.
Ольга does little to disguise her outrage. “ТА ДЕ!,” she shouts loudly, drawing looks from the more sober cafe patrons who also happen to be dining on the patio. “Конфликт?! Та наші хлопці вмерають! Вони вибухають!! Що дня я бачу їхні роздерті тіла…” Ольга is a medic at an army hospital in Львів. Every day, she tells me, young men are airlifted from the front lines to the hospital where she works. Their bodies are broken, limbs are stumps of hamburger, minds scrambled by PTSD. On the daily, soldiers arrive to her ward with limbs so studded with shrapnel that their only choices are amputation or death. While there is a possibility that the young men survive their injuries, she tells me, they are disfigured for life.
“НІНО,” interjects Віталі, “Зрозумій…” His eyes blaze like embers and he stares squarely, uncomfortably, into my face. “Армія наша НЕ охороняє людей--Вони не дбають про солдатах! Du yoo unterstend vat I meen?!,” he code switches to English (to aid my comprehension?), “Ze armiya doz not, how you sey… safety, em,” he struggles for the English word. “Protect?,” I offer. “Yes. Ze armiya doz not protect ze soldyers.” I knew what he meant--that all-too-familiar post-war fate of those who serve. Apparently the US is not the only country that struggles to provide veterans with adequate care.
Віталі is comically-intense. His obtuse drunkenness seems to come in boozy waves. Well, less gracefully than waves; let’s say unpredictable spurts. His limbs flop around with drunken flaccidity, but when he is making a point, his countenance hardens with alertness.
“My brader,” he begins, “ze wan who make ze kobasa,” we pause to drink a shot of vodka and chase it with the aforementioned homemade sausage (which is quite tasty, btw)... “My brader vonts to go ent fight. У него дев'ятнадцать літ… Khe vonts to go to ze frant lains tomorrov,” Віталі lowers his eyes. “Khe has son, one years olt. But khe has not forgotten vat it means, Сибір. Vat zey did to our femilies…” Another penetrating theme, even Ukrainians in the diaspora contend with: the fact of brutal oppression by occupiers, and its reverberations through subsequent generations. Seeds of mistrust and hatred.
“People are very passionate when they are young…” I respond, “They think with their hearts. After awhile, you earn some wisdom from experience. How old are you, anyway?,” I ask Віталі. “30,” he responds in Ukrainian. “3-0,” he repeats, first holding up three fingers, then forming his thumb and index finger into the shape of a circle. “Ну, я вмію рахувати, до холєри!,” uh oh, now I’m starting to cuss a little. My flash of irritation dissipates, and next thing I know, Віталі and I are comparing tattoos.
Ольга pours another round of shots--didn’t we just do one? “To our friend from АМЕРИКААА!,” she exclaims as the toast. I hesitate, blushing (or is that the vodka?), and put my shot down on the table. “Не можна поставити!,” shouts Ольга, scolding my drinking etiquette. Now everyone on the patio is eyeing us. Where did all of these drinking rules come from, anyway? “Vonce you pick et ap, you khev to drink et!” Hmmm.. my flight leaves at 7am tomorrow, which means be at Lviv International by 5, which means up by 4. Ой Боже. But I give in and oblige them: За ваше здоровля!
A little tipsy, a little intrigued, I venture a question to my companions, “Who do you think the Separatists are? Do you think they are Ukrainian citizens, who are ethnic Russians, Russian military?” Husband and wife look at one another, then at me, as if I were a child asking where babies come from. “Zey don’t tell you dees things en Америка, no?,” laughs Ольга. She is yelling all of her sentences by this time. “Ets all about ze MAHNEY…”
“The money? I don’t follow…”
“Ніно, listen,” Віталі gets ready to break it down for me. “Zees people на сході, zey don’t care about Україна, or Rassia, zey heve no country. All zey care about ees mahney. Zey get pait to make prablems, you anterstend?!”
“Like mercenaries?,” damn, that’s intense. Who is funding these guys?
“Аннко,” begins Ольга. “Моє ім'я Ніна,” I correct her. “Добре, добре. Нінку, слухай. GO TELL OBAMA…” Not only am I the US ambassador to Ukraine, but by this point I also have a personal relationship with the President of the United States. Like he’s my bro or something; I’ll just facetime him when I get back to my room.
“GO TELL OBAMA,” at this point everyone hears this discussion, whether they want to or not. “Tell him khe needs to khelp us! Ve are DYING khere, ent no von es doing enysing. How long vill zis kheppen? 3, 4, 5… 10 years?! Do you knov sach a sing es Афганистан?!”
“То правда,” I agree with her, “і тоже конфликт в Сирії. It’s been what, four years?, since the Syrian conflict bega…”
“КОНФЛИКТ?!,” scoffs Ольга, interrupting me. Clearly my companions were not to be consoled by talk of harsh sanctions, diplomatic efforts, geo-political balances of power and the complexities of global economic relations. They don’t care for news that has been softened by the lens of Western media ‘objectivity.’ They experience a reality of urgent, impending, and visceral events over which they feel powerless, breeding desperation. Their lives--including the length of their lives--are directly impacted by this military engagement. Okay, by this war. On a daily basis.
“Аннка,” again Ольга calls me by a different name. Just go with it. “You must go beck to Америка ent tell zem vhat es kkhappening khere! Tell zem vhat es going on. Tell zem senctions are not enough. Ґо тел Обама the Vorld must STOP PUTIN!”
Today I received an email from Тато. I have not had access to TV or internet for a few days, but he informed me that the Ukrainian Army is mobilizing the reserves for the draft. Unlike the voluntary US military, service is compulsory for all men from ages 18 to 55 in Ukraine. Just this morning, I sat at a cafe in downtown Kyiv, sipping кафе Американо, and I noticed a large percentage of men walking around in their army fatigues. Young boys not yet past their teens, older guys with hardened faces who look to be way beyond their chronologicals. The life expectancy of men in Ukraine is 69-70, Iko Labunka later informed me.
“ГЕРОЯМ СЛАВА!,” all the patrons seem to respond, including me.
“Ніно,” at least Віталі remembers my name, “Ти знаєш що таке Правий Сектор?” Can’t say that I’ve heard of it. He goes on to describe an underground nationalist movement gaining momentum in Western Ukraine, spreading as far east as Kyiv. “Ми збираємо зброю--готові вбивати Москалів!” Hmmm. The members of this movement is arming themselves and wants to kill Russians? I recognize that patriotic rhetoric and vengeful passion, rooted in decades of Soviet oppression, not to mention Polish, German, and Austrian occupations to name a few. Should I be concerned that I am sitting here getting hammered with these folks, or are they posturing?
Віталі goes on with mounting intensity: “Я знаю що таке Москаль!! Мама знає, Бабця знає! Тато тоже знав…” again, he trails off, implying that his father met a tragic demise at the hands of occupiers. His eyes dim with sadness.
“Чому ти думаєш що в Львові нема Москалів?!,” Ольга waxes rhetorically. “Вони бояться сюда прийти! Вони знають які ми тут люди--МИ БАНДЕРІВЦІIIII!!!” Her shouts grow louder and louder with each subsequent shot; a crescendo of nationalistic fervor.
A couple of older men with crew cuts and козацькі вуса cheer with excitement. They want us to join them… for more vodka. >PLANE FLIGHT< my mind flashes, and I see exactly where this night is headed. “Ну, дякую вам, але на жаль я мушу рано...”
“ТА ДЕ!,” exclaims the Княгиня, “Вип'єш сто грам і тоді підеш,” she decrees. I think I feel my liver quiver. OK, I guess I can do one more. After all, it’s still light out. And it’s the last shot in the bottle--yep, bottle. That’s how they roll in Ukraine. Then: a clean getaway.
“Зараз будемо співати Бандерівські пісні!,” announces one of the oldheads, while the other plays a patriotic midi ringtone on his Samsung TracFone QWERTY. A young girl brings another bottle of vodka to the table. Hey, wait a minute--doesn’t she work here?! We drink the shots in our glasses, and the girl immediately refills the glasses, including one for herself.
Oh god.
Anxiety penetrates my buzz: I’m jet-lagged, I’m traveling alone, I’m female, I don’t know these people. Can I trust them? Wait, they keep saying ‘как’ rather than ‘так.’ Why do they use Russian words if they hate Moscow so much? What if they’re some sort of Putin-ist spies? Are they suspicious of me? What if they see me as some sort of threat from the West? What if they follow me? I have to get out of here…
I’ll admit, writing it now makes me sound paranoid, silly, and drunk. Yet at the time, it all felt very real. It’s not like the States… there's an unmistakable and unsettling tension in the air.
“Ну де ти їдеш так рано?” the older Бандерівець asks me. “Я їду до Києва. Мушу бути в Литовище в 5 ті рано…,” I begin explaining. The group smirks at the word литовище, and they exchange amused glances. “Чи ти їдеш чи ти летиш на самольотку?” asks the oldhead. I can tell they are making fun of my speech. That last word--самольотка--totally unfamiliar to me.
“Що таке самольотка,” I ask for clarification. In a condescending tone, the oldead describes an airplane. “Ооо- літак! Та, я їду літаком.” The girl and Ольга giggle when I say ‘літак.’ “Нінка, ти певна ти не є Полька?” Ольга says sarcastically. No, I’m not Polish. “Чи ти їдеш, чи ти літаеш?” Ok, ok. I know my Ukie’s not perfect, but I’m not a fucking moron. Now I know how every immigrant feels when they come to the US and hear ‘ You're in America now, speak English.’
It was time.
I stand up. “Ще не випила сто грам!,” they shot-block me. As in, prevent me from leaving. “Okay, okay. На коня! Ви це тут кажете, чи тільке в Польщі?,” despite my compromised state, my capacity for sarcasm still works just fine. “На коня, на коня. Бери!” In one motion, I down the shot, stand up, begin thanking them for their hospitality and company, and slowly back away.
“Не можеш іти--щойно відкрили пляшку!” I’m determined, and pride-hurt. It’s getting dark. I keep apologizing and saying I was not trying to offend them, and thanks but no thanks to more vodka, and reiterating the airport time, and, in an act of desperation I even told them I would come back on the weekend.
I start backing away towards the exit. The girl grabs my wrist and tries to pull. I’m like an anchor--she’s size nothing--I don’t budge. She puts her arms around my waist and tries to lift me up. What the fuck is going on?! “Здорова баба,” she says, giving up. Did she just call me fat?!
Backing away, I thank them all again, though at this point I am not sure what I’m thanking them for. They still protest, but > I’M OUT < I leave the cafe, but not walking tooo quickly because I can feel their eyes watching me. I steady my gait. WHEW. Vodka’s kicking in. I correct my posture and I walk in the opposite direction of my квартира, my evasive maneuver. I disappear around the block--don’t need any operatives following me home tonight.
Sleep would not come last night. Since the plane incident near Donetsk, I’ve managed about three hours a night. Time for some more calculations: that would clock me at around 18 hours of sleep in the past, oh, I dunno, 96? You might have to check the math on that though, I’m pretty darn sleepy.
In other news, my квартира on Театральна would have been stunning… in the 1890s. There were 20 foot ceilings, huge windows that overlooked a ринок where базарні баби sold their wares. There were Fin de sicle style trinkets throughout, possibly even dating from the end of the 19th century. A Viennese baroque feel pervaded the space.
But (and I know the eternal ‘never start a sentence with a conjunction’ rule, but anyway)--the whole place reeked of cat piss. For real. The sheets felt musty; I woke up stuffy and sneezing. Guess that’s what you get in former Soviet Union for $18 a night.
I slept soundly from about 10:30 pm to 1am, until I was awakened by what I can only describe as Clockwork Orange-esque hooliganism erupting outside the bedroom window. There was yelling, woo-ing, patriotic slogan shouting, glass breaking. The whole episode sounded extremely drunk. I know, I know, I sound like a crotchety old fart writing a really poor tripadvisor review. Is there a way to award negative stars?
It’s magical, really, what the sleep-deprived mind can do. When I awoke to that ruckus, I could have sworn that the people outside the window were calling my name. In my drowsy state, I heard, “НІНАААААААА!” followed by animalistic grunting and woos. The voices sounded simultaneously jovial and angry, if such a thing is possible. Not just miffed, mind you, but passionately, desperately angry in the basest type of way.
Here’s why the woos sounded contradictory to me: they were produced by a female voice, a very high pitched and feminine sounding голос at that.. Was she celebrating the male aggression? Conjuring and encouraging it? Did she think herself too feminine to sound straight-up guttural, like her companions?
Get ready for the next stop on this twisted train of thought. It crossed my mind, and I really started to believe, the vicious and celebratory гуки were the battle cries of the self-proclaimed Бандерівці I encountered at that кафе on Monday eve. I totally thought that they had, like, figured out where I was staying by tailing me to the квартира, and that now they were congregating outside my window at 1am to punctuate the political discussion we engaged in over борщ, деруни з грибовим сосом, домашна Італійська кобаса що брат Віталія робив, Чернігівське пиво, and several bottles of водка (they were small bottles, I assure you).
Let me tell you how it all started… After finally getting to the квартира, the власниця informed me that my booking was not yet paid. Гривні only, she told me, no cards and no USD. Oh, and 20 extra гривні to pay her back for the cab that eventually brought me to вулиця Театральна 23, the place that reeked of cat piss.
Ok, so maybe context is required for that afterall. Booking.com, listen up. I booked this квартира, Austrian Lviv Apartment, for the one night I was spending in Lviv prior to departing for Kyiv at 5 am the following day. This is why, once again, I find myself at an airport, tempting fate the fate of my nine air travel lives at this risky moment in geo-political time.
All I really needed was a place to lay my head, and I was willing to spring the extra $10 US for a private WC, cat dander not included. I don’t know why, but the thought of sharing a bathroom with, like, a couple dozen complete strangers with their own unique grooming habits just weirds me out.
Anyway, the place looked alright online: simple, inexpensive, in the center of town. Great! Booked a room at Koniskogo 7 for the 21st of July for one night. That was the final correspondence I received from the host before leaving the states, and that was the confirmation I printed (yes, I’m old fashioned, I print things out still), and that was the address where my initial taxi driver dropped me off before peeling off in his late 20th century hatchback like a crazy, stick shift drivin’, chain-smoking fool.
There I was, an Obvious Westerner with my purple hair and my pile of luggage, pounding on the imposing wooden fortress-like doors of Koniskogo 7, but getting no answer. I could hear footsteps just inside the door, big heavy footsteps that dragged across what sounded like a dusty floor. I knocked again and again, still no answer. My mind felt scrambled. My ‘smart’ phone was catatonic, although Verizon Global Services assured me, “Oh, you’ll be fine. All you need is a wifi connection. They’re everywhere over there.” Well, apparently not at Koniskogo 7. I was stuck. FUCK.
I found a side entrance to the apartment building where I encountered an older man who appeared to be a maintenance worker.
He told me he doesn’t know the owner of the building, nor had he seen anyone at the apartment. Nevermind the cavernously-echoing footsteps. Whatev. He asked to see my confirmation, and was kind enough to let me borrow his mid 90s cell phone to call the apartment host. When I got ahold of her, she sounded surprised that I was not at Театральна 23, where she was waiting for me.
Whaaaaaaaaaaa?
Apparently there was some sort of ‘mix up,’ and whomever was handling the booking--Олена?--was supposed to contact me and let me know that they had to change my accommodation to a different apartment at the last minute. First, keep in mind I’ve spent the majority of my time in the air for the past 24 hours with no access to the interwebs. Second, why the fuck would anyone do this?! Third, “Олена” never told me shit!!! Finally, having personally experienced the pleasure of working in a customer service capacity, I am intimately familiar with the “blame an absent third party for the fuck up to divert the negative reaction away from you” technique. This is infuriating.
Anyway, the woman tells me that a blue Audi will be there in ten minutes to pick me up and bring me to Театральна.
Whaaaaaaaaaaa?
Sounds official, right? Like a real live taxi company. I was expecting it to be her husband or cousin or something.
Well, this particular taxi driver had a GPSka, so I guess by Eastern European standards that makes one legit. Між іншем, he was a very friendly driver, this пан Роман. He was rather pleasant and he shared with me some fun facts about Lviv which may or may not be true. For instance, did you know that the Opera House in Lviv still stands on its original wooden foundation? Fasci-naaaaaa-ting! I took his contact info--he can cart my ass around Lviv any day :)
Менше з тим, але the point here is that the woman wanted me to pay for the blue Audi taxi ride. My knee-jerk, American, customer-service norm response to this situation is, “It wasn’t my screw up! I shouldn’t have to pay for shhhhh!!” Calm down, Nin. You came here to grow and transform and immerse in the culture of heritage… In any case, I didn’t have any Гривні on me, only fat stacks of USD, so she ended up paying the good man after all. For now.
“We’ll just add that amount to the fee for your room.”
wtf?!
Fuck it. That’s like, hmmmm… Eleven divided into twenty, drop the nine, divide by eight. The cab ride cost about $1.81 US. I’ve spent more than that on a morning coffee. I know for a fact that Jason Ristics’ head is spinning right now for not fighting it. He would argue for that $1.81 until, well, she agreed to pay for that taxi. I get it, too--it’s not the monetary amount, it’s the principle. I could have done that, I suppose, but I forced myself to consider the economic context of the situation. What is two dollars to me, really?
II Pause. This flight from Lviv to Kyiv is going to be a shitty one. The lean-back Turk has his seat so far down that I can’t move my knees. Prior to takeoff, might I add!!! Moreover, the roundtrip from Lviv to Kyiv has been agonizing me with anxiety. Flights over Ukraine. MH 17. Impending ground war--or has it already started? The Separatists wouldn’t--so soon after--would they? Grosse Gott, the stomach pit has returned. Flight attendants are demonstrating the safety features right now… location of emergency exits. And they do it old-school, with hand gestures. It looks like they’re doing the Macarena. PS, the dude next to me is totally rocking a fanny pack and not in an ironic, hipstery type of way. Play >
Back to the mix up on Театральна. I arrived at two conclusions. A) I had to get some гривні in my pocket and B) I needed my own 90s throw back KyivStar phone, in case another such comedy of errors arises. So… I do what any red-blooded Amerikanka would do in a foreign country at nightfall: I take to the streets.
