5:37 am, Tuesday July 22nd
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?
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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.
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