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.
“Ну, замовляйте,” she commanded.
“Маєте меню?”
“Маю”
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.
“Тут замовляти?,” I asked cautiously.
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.
A moment later, a reasonably drunk young man of about 30 tells me, “Ми тут зараз сиділи, Я і моя жінка.” Funny, the whole time I’ve been here, it appeared that no one was sitting here, which is why I sat there in the first place. “О--,” I responded, “Я тут сиділа хвильку тому, але я підійшла до бари щоб замовити їду.”
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…
When in Львів…
“Як тебе звати?,” wifey asks me.
“Ніна. А що твоє ім’я?,” I say, after introducing myself.
“Ольга.”
 |
| Rubbin' elbows with royalty |
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.
“Скажи мені Нінку,” Ольга went right for the diminutive of my name, “що там у вас, там в Америці, думають про нашу ту війну?”
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?!”
“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.
Next thing I know, more shots are poured. Does this bottle ever end?! I have to bow out gracefully soon, or I’m done for. “Я не хочу вас образити…,” I start to say, as I feel my face getting ever more booze-warm. “Але я мушу дуууужє рано прокинутися. Завтра їду до Києва…”
“Не переживай,” giggles Ольга, “Ану п’ємо, і тоді закуси собі маслиною,” she gestures to a plate of olives and cured meat. I tear a lomtyk of black bread and dip it in the remnants of my borscht. “Ану п’ємо,” I concede. “ЗА НАШІ БАНДЕРІВЦІ! СЛАВА УКРАЇНІ!,” Ольга shouts.
“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.
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