Navigating Incongruent Surreality, without a Smartphone

Although my circadian rhythms are spiraling erratically in a counter-clockwise fashion, I am acutely aware of the time when I arrive at Хрещатик: 9:34 am Eastern European time zone--something like 37 hours after leaving the US. Check-in at Nick’s place is at 12:30 pm, and all my body wants is a meal, a shower, and a bed. In that order.

However, the curious encampment before my eyes quickly alters the agenda at hand, as my body tingles with goosebumps. “This is it.” The blood in my veins feels carbonated as I stand there mesmerized, recalling the social media leaks showing people pulling cobblestones up out of the sidewalks with their frozen bear hands to defend themselves against advancing riot police instructed to attack them by the cowardly Kremlin puppet Янукович,

Away with Yanukovych... TS looks on

Berkut hastily removing the limp, decapitated body of a protester.

Of snipers picking off students with surgical precision from rooftops of buildings which are now enshrouded with 9-story banners proclaiming ‘Слава Україні, Героям Слава!’ like some patriotic Potemkin-esque facade.

"Glory to Ukraine, Glory to the Heroes!"

Behind the banner, municipal workers rehab a shelled and burned building. Citizens sheltered in place during the heavy violence on Maidan. Berkut police set fire to the ground floor and then fire bombed the roof to put the squeeze on those inside.

Here's what it looked like a few months ago (thanks, Washington Post).

The overwhelming vision of yearning for freedom ends abruptly when a barefoot, teenage Russian boy approaches me, cradling three dove pigeons in his arms, attempting to place one of them on my shoulder. “Ні, дякую,” I mutter, evading him with some drowsy, slow-mo Matrix-like maneuvers. Not exactly sure how that works, but I’m sure it involves me giving him money.

The check-in mission has been temporarily adjourned--I’ve got a few hours--and I begin rolling my way through the encampment, luggage and all. How’s that for an Obvious Westerner. One should note that I have no idea which direction Bankova is in relation to Хрещатик. So the new plan is to walk in one direction and see if I come across it, and if not, I’ll turn around and go the other way. Genius. In any case, Nick’s directions say the apartment is a five minute walk from the Metro stop, so it can’t be that far...

As I move past the army tents, walls and other public spaces graffitied with patriotic slogans (Воля або смерть, and the ever-popular  Путин Хуйло),

Putin is a dick

the gravelly rumble caused by the wheels of my rolling suitcase slices through the early morning calm. Old, shirtless men sporting вуса and оселедці lounge on sandbags outside of tents, alternately smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and stirring bubbling breakfast cauldrons simmering over urban campfires. Or maybe they’re doing their laundry.

Live your lives, citizens of Kyiv!

It’s striking, the co-existence of the Maidan-diehards still camping out months after Янукович fled, and the Kyivan citizens bustling about their dailies through the encampment, on their way to work or Metro. And still tourists, like myself, who have come to either pay their respects, or to witness the spectacle, or perhaps a bit of both.

Souvenir stands have cropped up among the military tents,

 

tempting tourists with their wares: вишивки (apparently machine-made) and вінки, t-shirts reading ‘I <3 Kyiv’ and ‘Богу Дякувати що я не Москаль,’ refrigerator magnets featuring images of Maidan violence like a lone young man swinging an iron rod at a dozen Berkut with weapons trained on him while fires blaze behind them, toilet paper printed with Vladimir Putin’s countenance on each square. Opportunists are everywhere.

Before long I come to the Maidan stage at the heart of the Майдан Незалежности. This is where Ukrainian artists and musicians like Руслана appeared, performing to raise the spirits of protesters, encouraging them to remain peaceful, and warning them of Berkut maneuvers. Here, at the epicenter of the movement stands a chilling reminder of the bloodshed: the front of the stage has become a photographic memorial to the Небесна Сотня--the citizens and protesters who were murdered on the Maidan.

Old women still bring fresh flowers to memorial sites daily, and passers-by light candles before heading to the office.

"Remember."

Another day, another hryven'.

The stage memorial consists of a photo of each martyr who died for the cause of an independent and united Україна, along with a caption stating his or her name, age, and city/area of origin. The site makes one feel hollow, yet somehow I snap back to reality. “I’ve gotta come back later, sans luggage, and take a closer look.” The bloodshed has made this ground sacred.

"Heroes never die"

Walking a few hundred more feet (don’t ask me how many kilometers!), I arrive at what appears to be the end of Хрещатик. No sign of the so-called ‘Bankova.’ Guess I’ll turn around and go the other way.

I pass through the Maidan again, unable to shake the feeling of incongruent surreality. A few blocks further away, near Teatralna, one would never know that people still reside in a shanty town, the Ukrainian ‘Гайд Парк,’ as one banner proclaims. Indeed, it is around Teatralna that I start to wonder where the hell Bankova street is. Even taking luggage into consideration, I know that I’ve been walking longer than 5 minutes.

Unfortunately, the fab new smartphone that I upgraded to before leaving the States is about as useful as a brick, since the Global Services department of a wireless company that shall remain nameless neglected to inform me that I had to designate myself as an authorized user or some shit like that. The only map that I have is the tiny Google Maps window that printed along with the airbnb itinerary, and there are only, like, twelve street names visible.

Looking at Teatralna on the map, I can tell that Bankova is not very far, and it appears to be back a ways off Khreschatik. This might be a good time to share another fun fact about Kyiv that the gracious guide Iko informed me of. Kyiv is known as ‘The City of Seven Hills.’ Legend has it that Saint Andrew, the apostle of Our Lord Jesus Christ, made it all the way to what is now Kyiv in his missionary travels.

When he arrived, he stood atop a hill overlooking the Dnipro river, outstretched his arms, and prophesied, “One day, a great and mighty city will flourish here, atop these Seven Hills.” I am paraphrasing, of course, but one thing remains absolutely true: Kyiv is full of fucking hills, and my luggage and I were about to become intimately familiar with all of them.

Eastern Entrances

From host Nick’s directions, I know that there is a Metro Station at Vokzal, which I shall take to Avenue Khreschtatik. I move sluggishly through the main station, jet-lagged and bleary. Passing through enormous and heavy brass handled-doors, I enter into a cavernous hall reminiscent of New York’s Grand Central: three-story ceilings, a cascading marble staircase a la Battleship Potemkin (or The Untouchables, if you prefer), urgent commuters… And then I notice numerous burly, steel-faced men in police uniforms and flak jackets, brandishing semi-automatic weapons and pacing menacingly. “Where is the exit?,” I wonder, intimidated. At last, my luggage and I find the door to the outside, and a pedestrian path leading to Metro Station Vokzalna.

The Metro entrance resembles a Chemistry 101 animated demo of the spastic travel path of electrons colliding spontaneously and changing direction with unpredictable frequency. Cost of one fare? Two hryvnia (sixteen cents). Token machine? Great…

Of course the token machine rejects every token I attempt to insert. I do the thing where you smooth the bill by sliding it back and forth against the corner of the machine--no dice. I fish around for a different hryven’, while balancing the load of luggage between the wall beneath the token dispenser and my body, blocking the way for many hasty commuters. This hryven’ doesn’t work either, nor the next bill. To the ticket window!

Like an upstream salmon, I lumber against the flow of humanity and obtain 5 tokens for 10 UAH. Now: to the trains! Through the turnstyle and down the escalator I go.

Keep in mind this is not your average one- or two-story public transit escalator. Noooooo way. You’re riding on this thing for a good three minutes (check out the Ed Wood length escalator ride below... it's comically long!). There’s a reason for that, as my illustrious tour guide Iko later explained to me:

The Kyiv Metro was constructed by the Soviets in 1960, in the midst of the Cold War. The underground tunnels were intended to serve as a makeshift bomb shelter in the event of a nuclear attack. For that reason, the train tunnels are embedded deep, deep inside the earth; this subway system is not for the claustrophobic. My paranoia taunts me again: if there was to be a terrorist attack, this anti-nuclear womb would tragically transform into a gruesome tomb.

The subway platform is more crowded than a motherfucker. God, I’ve got all this cumbersome luggage, I’m moving all slow, I’m in everyone’s way. I am that person. This is penance for every impatient behavior I’ve committed as a seasoned Septa traveler. So it goes.

Metro arrives at Vokzalna: sardines. Welp, time to be pushy and aggressive, which is no trouble at all, considering that I’m a Philadelphian. I force my way onto an earthy-smelling subway car and station myself right beside the door. My eyes water at the pungent odor of humanity. Dirty looks all around. Whatevs, we all have someplace to go. At least it’s only two stops--which feels like an eternity considering the circumstances.

Хрещатик. Слава Богу, заїхала! Back onto Jacob’s escalator… thoughts of interdimensional tunnel vision penetrate my third eye as the stairs steadily move me and my luggage toward the distant glow.

At long last, I step out of the tunnel and into the light. I find myself in a dome-shaped room with an oculus that concentrates a puddle of sunlight onto the middle of the floor. Mosaic glass adorns the walls in a warm-cool, floor-ceiling pattern. My vision is captivated.

Following foot traffic, I exit the metro; shit, I have no idea where i’m going, might as well follow someone who does. Immediately, I am confronted by a mangled riot police transport vehicle forming part of a barricade that cordons off a sea of olive green army tents. Piles of tires, deconstructed pallets, sandbags, barbed wire, and other pilfered materiel compose the rest of the enclosure. I gaze at wispy smoke from campfires drifting over the barricade, and it hits me: I’ve just arrived at the heart of the Майдан Незалежности!

welcome to Kyiv

 

Desperately Seeking SkyBus

Okay. I’m being adventurous (and thrifty) by taking public transit from Kyiv Boryspil International Airport to the city center. Destination: Apartments on the Хрещатик, Bankova 19/11, Kyiv, Ukraine. I have no freakin idea how to interpret that address.

While waiting by the baggage claim, I eavesdrop on journalists who have come to Kyiv to report on the escalating stand-off between the Сепаратисти and the Армія happening some 350 miles away. I can tell who they are by their multi-pocketed vests and expensive camera equipment. They discuss hiring twenty-something female “tour guides” to show them around Kyiv and act as interpreters. The tones in their voices sound skeevy to me… I fondle the Archangel Raphael medal that Eileen sent me in the mail before my trip, pressing the pendant between my thumb and index finger. The feel of the engraving upon my fingertips calms my nerves.

Nick Pogosian, the airbnb host from whom I am renting, gave me the following directions to get from Boryspil to Хрещатик (and I quote):

Hello Nina. The best way to get apartment is taxi, but it's expensive (about 200 grivna). Another way it's take SkyBus at the airport (50 grivna) and go to last station (metro station Vokzalna), next step its use subway (2 grivna) -go to metro station Kreschatik (3 stops) and go a walk about 5 min to apartment.

Cool, straightforward. If I can handle Septa rush hour in July on the El when the air conditioning is broken and trains are delayed indefinitely because Transit Police are confronting a junkie at Somerset, then I can handle this. Cake.

After exiting the airport terminal, I see SkyBus right outside. So far, so good. Walk over, get on. When do I pay? No one seems to want to take my money. As a Westerner, I’m accustomed to the instantaneous POS transaction: here’s your goods/services/entertainment/whathaveyou, and there goes my cash. In Ukraine? Eh, they’ll get around to accepting a payment, eventually.

I’ve just sat down on the bus (four rows back, on the right hand side of the aisle) when I hear someone speaking English, and not the Eastern European accented kind. The speech sounds so foreign to me now, and also somewhat distressed.

“Does anybody here speak English?!,” says the exasperated voice.

“I do,” I reply, feeling relieved to code switch out of my broken Ukrainian.

“Do you know where this bus goes?”

(I should hope so, I happen to be sitting on it.)

“My host in Kyiv gave me directions to city center. You take this to the end of the line, then catch the Metro there. The Metro takes you wherever you like.”

He looks just as relieved as I felt to hear the English language. First impression: squirrely. Who knows what he thinks of me; I don’t bother to ask. He is of average height, with an athletic build, close-cropped sandy brown hair, tan skin, and light eyes. After that initial moment of relief, he makes me feel nervous. But then again, so has everything else on this trip. I feel like he is studying me, and his energy spikes like an erratic EKG.

“Where are you from?,” he asks, settling into the seat across the aisle.

“The United States. How about you?”

“I’m from Israel.”

Geez, it’s like living in a newspaper headline over here.

We exchange small talk about what attracted us to Ukraine at this, um, eventful juncture in history. “I came here for a girl, but it didn’t work out,” he reveals. Is that some kind of code for ‘sex tourism’? I laugh gently, uncomfortably. “It happens,” I reply. “I’m here to visit friends in Kyiv,” I say, not wanting to go into detail about why I actually came to Ukraine--which I haven’t fully figured out yet anyway. Part of the reason for this answer is for simplicity, but it’s mostly because I’m a distrustful-ass motherfucker. I should really try to force myself out of my comfort zone. After all, that’s kinda the point of independent international travel. This guy? Don’t trust him. Maybe it’s me?

“Have you heard the news about protests in the US over the war in Gaza?,” he asks. You leave the US, and it seems that the casual small talk centers around war, instead of, like, the weather, or sports. Does Western media shelter us from the harsh realities experienced by…. everybody else in the world? Something like that. “I haven’t had access to TV or internet for a few days,” I respond, “but I did witness a Palestinian protest in Center City Philadelphia two days before I left the States.”

“That’s what I don’t understand about foreigners living in the US,” he declares. “Once you move to the US, you’re American. What business do you have protesting events that are taking place thousands of miles away?!” For some reason, I feel like he is referring directly to me. “That’s one of the beautiful things about living in the States,” I counter. “Everyone who lives in America came from somewhere else at some point. If you become a citizen, you can still maintain your ethnic identity. And as long as you’re not spouting hate speech, you’re entitled to voice your opinion.”

Holdin' it down in the PHL

For a moment, I consider things from his perspective. What right do I have, really, to stand on the Euro Maidan in Philly on a Sunday afternoon, taking a few hours time out of my comfortable Western existence to show solidarity with the citizens of Україна, and expect any tangible progress based on those ‘efforts’? On the other hand, what of drawing awareness to the crisis, using our social media statuses to influence opinions of decision makers as much as possible? Should I be cynical enough to believe that there is no bottom-up change left in the world? Did the Небесна Сотня, and so many persecuted Ukrainians before them, perish in vain?

My travel companion notices that I hold a very different view than he, and he makes conciliatory comments. I tell him that I acknowledge his point as well. Being face-to-face with political upheaval is utterly different from following it on Twitter. After agreeing to disagree, the conversation trails off… thankfully.

The only thing standing between us and the Terrorists is the Army. Help the Army - protect yourself.

SkyBus departs, and I gaze out the window: at the billboards in Ukie, at these towering сосни--the kind you would see in the pine forests of South Carolina, at nine-story Soviet-era apartment houses, баби in бабушки on every corner selling plastic keg party cups full of raspberries, women young and old parading around in towering stiletto heels--what is it, 8:30 am?! Culture shock…

Suddenly, the conversation begins anew. “I just got a text from that girl,” the traveler says, turning to me. Although we have been riding on SkyBus for a solid ten, somehow we are still the only two passengers. “But I have to tell you a funny story,” he continues. “There were actually two girls I was supposed to meet up with,” here we go, “but I deleted them both from my phone. Now one of them is texting me, and I don’t know which one it is. I asked her to remind me of her Facebook name, so I would know what to call her,” he laughs. Hilarious. I laugh as well. Tensely. At this point, my paranoia wheels start spinnin’ again.

The traveler goes on to tell me that he is Israeli. Yet I notice two fresh tribal tattoos on his right calf, and an older tat on his left forearm. Isn’t it against Jewish custom to get tattoos? Is he not Jewish? The wheels start spinnin’ even faster. He has a small bag on the seat next to him. Wait--he told me that his luggage is being transferred between planes to his final destination--why does he have this bag with him? Israel. Political unrest. Warfare. Hamas. Syria. Terrorism. Separatists. MH 17. My mind frantically connects circumstantial dots and affirms self-cultivated anxiety. Is there a connection? Does someone want to make a statement? Bus bomb? OH NO…

I want to get off this bus. Right now. My palms are swampy, throat constricted. I keep eyeing that lone piece of luggage, the man-purse of malice. But we haven’t arrived at the Вокзал yet… It’s SkyBus > > Metro station > Хрещатик > Bankova 19/11. Still a ways to go. Stick with it, Nin. Oh shit, now I’m talking to myself…

SkyBus proceeds in slow-motion. I’m torn between observing every inch of the familiarly-exotic landscape, and keeping tabs on the shady man to my left, who may or may not be a sex tourist, with the scabbed-over tribal tattoo, apprehensively clutching the handbag at his side. Lord only knows what he is thinking about me, the Obvious Westerner. For now, I just count the stops, each time praying that the next one is the Вокзал.

Finally, SkuBus pulls up to an imposing blok of a building, with a steel facade preceding a mirrored glass atrium. The name above the entrance to this grandiose Sovietski architectural amalgamation: Вокзал.

The traveler hastily exits SkyBus, and in a moment of clarity I realize a) I am a fool for feeling so paranoid and b) a third of my pilgrimage to Bankova 19/11 is complete! Hauling my suitcase, backpack, and carry-on handbag, I step through the stone and into the atrium. A robotic voice announces arrivals and departures of trains: Moscow, Lviv, Odessa, Дніпропетровськ Тернопіль, Чернівці. The faceless shebot repeats announcements in Russian, German, and English. But alas, no Espanol. Now, on to the next one: Vokzalna Metro Station.