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.