To the Карпати via Старе Богородчане!

7/29/14, Tuesday

   Clearly this narrative is taking a very liberal view of our linear conception of time. One moment, I am schlepping around Kyiv in search of elusive hostel accommodations with _________________ , and the next I am breathing deep at Bukovel in the Carpathian mountains, with my newly-acquired in-laws by way of my dad, via Марія: Стьопа and Надя.

   It was arranged via Skype (again, via Марія) that her brother, Stepan << Стьопко>> would pick me up from Hotel Lviv on July 28th and drive me to the mountain resort town of Bukovel, щоби побути на природі.

   During our Skype chat, Стьопа joked that, "На Буковелі дівчина старого дідуня цілує," which kind of weirded me out, and I responded, "Ну, я навіть свого чоловіка не цілую... чомуж мені дідуня цілувати?!" All joking aside, I am not sure if Стьопа envisioned the full package that is Big Nin, delivered in-person and gift wrapped in two decades worth of tattoos. The objectifiable Slavic Barbie in stilettos and mini-skirt I am not... I am, however, of the age when one appreciates the benefits of sensible footwear.

   Yet arrive at Hotel Lviv on July 28th he did, Mr. Стьопко, and at 6:45 am rather than the agreed-upon 7 am. He shares the "If you arrive 15 minutes early, you're already late," mentality with my dad... must be a Ukrainian thing, I guess. I, on the other hand, half-Uke that I am, tried to extend my slumber as long as possible. As a result, when Стьопа arrived, I was only half-ready. We still managed to hit the road by 7:05 am--I consider this to be a personal accomplishment.

   Стьопа is very soft-spoken, with a thick head of white hair ("бо я люблю сметану їсти," he explained), and calm eyes that resemble cucumber slices. His face is a roadmap of laugh lines betraying his Ukrainian wit, despite initial shyness. He is fit for his age (55), and a dimpled smile gleams with a few gold teeth thrown in for good measure. Стьопа is OG for real.

   Now, don't get me wrong, Стьопко is a very kind, generous, and friendly man... but I must say that his city drivin' is not the best. He explained that he does not travel to Lviv often, and that he is unfamiliar with the layout of the city. A couple of blown red lights, some wrong-side-of-the-road action, one traffic stop, and a narrowly-missed collision with two elderly pedestrians crossing the street in Івано Франківськ can attest to this.

Ivano-Frankivska Oblast in Western Ukraine, en route to the Carpathian resort town of Bukovel

   It turns out that we are making a pit stop in Старе Богородчане (Bogorodchany), where Стьопа calls home--along with a clan of Марія's relatives. My impression is that we are stopping briefly to pick up Стьопа's wife, Надя, and that we will be on our merry way.

   After hearing my dad's accounts from the 90's about visiting a село where one of our grandparents' relatives live, I should have known better.

   Стьопа stops at a roadside магазин to buy bread. Bread is a staple of the Ukrainian diet, and is generally served at every meal. Ukrainians love them some хліб... maybe that's why I've never been able to fully kick the carbs. This ain't no Stroehmann's though--it's baked fresh and people buy it every day, or every other. Old school.

   We get the bread and we're back on the road. Literally, it's an unpaved gravel road. People wait in clusters alongside it for buses to pick them up... eventually. Баби with their закупи meander at a snail's pace, men in work uniforms pedal their bikes with the urgency of a hanging tree sloth.

   The houses in Старе Богородчане are typically one-story jawns with shingled roofs. The plaster walls are environmentally-economical--interiors stay cool in the summer and warm in the winter. Each and every house has a садочок beside, brimming with colorful flowers. Cats bask in grassy patches of sunlight, dogs trot around, leash-less, fields of sunflowers sway gently, brooms lean against plaster exteriors, a cow lumbers lazily through one-car traffic. It's like driving through every illustration of a stereotypical Ukrainian village that I've ever seen--these places really exist?!

It kinda had this type of vibe... (painting by Ari Roussimoff)

   Стьопко pulls up to a metal gate at the head of a long, grassy driveway. A shirtless man with a toothless grin and twinkling eyes begins to run from a distance, presumably to open the gate, but halts when Стьопко gets out to do it. We start up the drive, a penned up German shepherd announces our arrival. Next door, penned up chickens peck at the ground while a humungous white-feathered turkey struts among them.

   We hang a left at the haystack and pull up between a well with a water pump and a pretty little house. "Заїхали," says Стьопко as he turns off the motor of his VW Golf. Little do I know, I am about to meet the (entire) family...

The welcoming abode of Стьопа and Надя

   Стьопа invites me inside. Despite the pile of shoes by the door, he assures me that I need not remove my Tims. Immediately, I am greeted with a hug by a sturdy woman with brown hair and eyes. "Вітаю тебе!" she exclaims warmly. I simply return the embrace. She gives me the grand tour, and moments later more people arrive (forgive me if I can't remember all of their names!).

   A young woman about my age with a blonde toddler on her hip and two little boys at her feet step into the home. All of them wear вишивки; traditional embroidered shirts are typically worn by Ukrainians on special occasions. I blush to think that they are wearing them on my account...

   Next, a tiny (but also sturdy) woman with a big ol' gold toothed smile exclaims, "AH!" and tightly wraps her arms around me. Later, I deduce that this is Оля, sister of Стьопa, mother of the young woman who is about my age. Оля excitedly tells me about her own son, who is only a few months younger than her daughter's son, and that everyone thinks the two boys are brothers when really the younger boy is the other's uncle. Оля laughs heartily at this... That's some Maury-ass shit!

All in the family!

   The parade of people continues to pour into the house. The shirtless, toothless man (Стьопа's maternal uncle) shows up, now clad in a вишивка as well. He is so short and skinny that he looks like an elderly little boy wearing his father's clothes, which drape loosely from his slight frame. Yet he is strong as an ox--has to be pushing 80--his skin is brown from the sun and he moves about with the agility of a 20-something year old.

   Next, a young man--late teens, early 20's?--stumbles into the house shirtless, barefoot, bloodshot, and still drunk from the night before. "Повернувся з весіллю в 7-мі рано!" laughs Пані Надя at her nephew-in-law. Boys will be boys...

   A woman of about 5'10" with black hair and pale blue eyes arrives pushing a stroller containing a blonde male replica of herself. Also with her, two tween-age girls, I am guessing between the ages of 9 and 12. It is apparent that their innocence remains untainted by rampant Miley Cyrusization and pre-adolescent consumerist I-Podian glut that afflicts the youth back home. They race each other to the handmade swing set, which seemingly provides them with endless entertainment.

He's on to me...

    Another young man arrives. He resembles Оля's toddler to a T. Is this Оля's son as well? We say hello--I notice that he eyes me studiously, analyzing my every move. Am I the first American woman he has seen in person--me in my Timberland boots, skinny corduroys, with men's plaid shirt, purple hair, and piercings? I probably look like a cartoon character to him...

   

Мандри в Києві with ______________________ , Continued

   When ______________________ and I found the Hostel on Teatral'na with relative ease, we experienced a false sense of relief. We arrived at the same time as an old Ukrussian couple was entering the building, and they held the apartment door open for us. However, once inside, there was no sign of anyone who works there: no reception desk, no greeter. Just a long, creepy, wood-paneled hallway lined with doors numbered in Sharpie marker by hand. This panopticon of bureaucratic hierarchy seems to be a theme in the UA.

We made it! Or so we thought...

   Time to bust out my trusty, Dawson's Creek-era Samsung and start shakin' down some hostel hostesses, en Ingles. Now, it has already been established that in Ukraine, the dialect one speaks locates a person within the spectrum of a linguistic social hierarchy, and people treat you accordingly. I have discovered, however, that Eastern Europeans anywhere within the spectrum will defer to the English language. And so, I opted for English when making a point about being pissed off at the Hostel Teatral'na run around.

289 650 989

Добрийдень?

Hello, yes. I have a reservation here at Hostel on Teatral'na. I've been standing here in the hallway for twenty minutes waiting for someone to check me in, and there's nobody here. 

Ah, yess. Vat es yurr naym?

Ніна Білинська.

Ent venn es yurr resirvacion forr?

I made a reservation yesterday for today and tomorrow. Now I am standing here, waiting, and no one is checking me in.

Meanwhile, ______________________ is in the background, getting riled up. "What's going on?! I knew it! They're giving you the run-around!"

I hold up my index finger for ______________________ to hold on so I can find out what the deal is.

Ay em so sorry. Ve het caple, zey sey zey vant to steh van morre day at ze hostel. Dere es no morre ruhm et dees van. Ef you vant, yu camm to City Hostel on Софійська. Yu teyk ruhm dere.

Back to where we came from.

   Who is this mythical couple that wants to stay "one more day"? It's another theme.

   I repeat this information to an agitated ______________________ , who, in turn, gets even more agitated. This amuses me to an extent, despite the shittiness of the situation at hand. You see, to get to Sofii'ska, we have to go back the way we came. It's actually right around the corner from the Hostel on Khreschatyk. The whole scenario smacks of the old bait and switch, if you ask me. So it goes in the former USSR.

East vs. West: Get Over It (Reprise)

   The latter part of Sunday, July 27th had me eating the words I had written just a few short paragraphs prior, and I quote (as un-narcissistically as possible):

  The implication here is 'East vs. West,' and this division is seen again and again in Ukrainian social and cultural consciousness. I wish someone would tell these people that the world is round; if one looks east and one looks west, eventually you come to stare each other in the face. Everything comes full circle...

   Only hours after writing this pronouncement, I experienced an embodiment of the oppression underlying the East/West/More West division that penetrates Ukrainian culture. I paid a visit to the occupier-prison on вулиця Лонцького.

   Built in 1923, for the next 70 some-odd years, four different occupier-regimes used this prison to incarcerate, torture, and execute Ukrainian political prisoners. The KGB finally shuttered the prison in 1996, and after a decade plus of battling it out with the State, historians managed to open the site as a museum and memorial in 2009. The site remains virtually unchanged since its institution by the Poles in the early 20's, and serves as an eerie reminder of the political and cultural oppression endured by Western Ukrainians throughout the tumultuous 20th century.

   The prison is an unassuming structure just off of вулиця імені Степана Бандери, ironically. Without the historical plaque marking the entrance, one might pass by assuming it is just another apartment building. Only a small portion of the building is open to the public, while the rest of the space is occupied by the Lviv Headquarters of the Municipal Police Department.

   One enters through a red door with a huge bolt and a peephole, and steps into a tiny room with a desk at which are seated two police officers all decked out in black fatigues, complete with body armor, combat boots and semi-automatic weapons. Talk about militarization of the police, for real. I don't know whether to feel protected or threatened.

   Being hospitable, the officers invite me to join a tour that had just started, and they even offer me a brochure. They guide me through another large, heavy door with a bolt on it (no peephole this time), and it slams shut behind me. Darkness...

   Man, this trip. Churches and prisons...

   The room I have entered is windowless. The walls are unadorned concrete slabs, the floors unfinished wooden planks. A woman in her mid-to-late 50s in an adjoining room beckons me to join her, as екскурсія зараз починає.

   We gather in a room with plaster walls freckled with peeling (lead?) paint. This room has three large windows, opaque window panes, and iron bars on the outside. A side door opens out onto the prison yard: a gravelly plot of land overgrown with weeds. Mass executions by firing squad took place in this yard. Sometimes the hulking wood and iron gate of the yard was opened out to the street, and the public was allowed to come in, to rifle through the piles of executed corpses, in an attempt to claim the bodies of their loved ones.

A memorial to the victims dedicated at the opening of the museum in 2009.

   The guide, herself a historian, is very knowledgable. She describes how the Poles erected the prison to quarantine and execute Ukrainian citizens who did not comply with Polish cultural assimilation policies. The Poles destroyed Ukrainian schools, outlawed the Ukrainian language, and systematically exterminated anyone who resisted. Indeed, the Polish regime did not allow family members to collect the remains of the executed to provide them with a proper burial. Instead, during their reign, the corpses were piled into the basement of the building to decompose.

The man, the myth, the legend. Celebrated Ukrainian Nationalist (or terrorist, depending on whom you ask) Stepan Bandera.

   By the 1930's, the Poles had receded back to the West, but the Bolsheviks had risen to power. Ukrainian Nationalist movements began to spring up in Western Ukraine; during this time movement leaders like the famous patriot Stepan Bandera were incarcerated at the тюрма. When the Russians came to power, they took over the prison, and by extension they inherited the detainment records compiled by the Polish regime. They used these documents to target the families and friends of people affiliated with nationalist movements like the Організація Українських Націоналистів (ОУН).

   Next came the Nazis. At first, the Germans tolerated Ukrainian nationalists because the latter directed their energy towards undermining Soviet leadership and power. However, when the Nazis invaded Lviv in 1941, they issued a decree calling for all political agitators in the city to be 'made an example of.'

This video is called "Nazi Pogrom in Lemberg," which is the German name for Lviv.

   The Germans executed prisoners en masse in the aforementioned prison yard. The bodies were piled high and left in the yard until film crew arrived. The carnage was recorded, and then released as propaganda news reels to the Ukrainian public. The message: unmistakable. Clips of this footage can be viewed inside one of the prison cells during the tour. Hearts and minds, indeed.

Nazi propaganda footage. Those meticulous Germans documented everything.

   I should mention that, while standing in said cell watching grainy, black and white footage of prison guards lugging corpses carelessly by any available extremity, I happened to lean against the plaster wall. The fingertips of generations pressed into the skin of my back, and for the second time today, tears came. Two баби rummaged through mounds of limbs, looking for a face.

   And again, regime change: the Soviets regain control of the site from the Germans. By this time the KGB had honed its program of imprisonment by psychological trauma. They were fond of not only locking up suspects, but also the suspects' family members who took no part in resistance activities.

   The Soviets corralled Ukrainians and gave them a choice: accept Soviet citizenship and be released, or stand by nationalist beliefs. Those who chose the latter were then forced to execute their compatriots before facing execution themselves.

   The historian-tour guide shared a story about a Greek Catholic priest who was imprisoned here during the 1950's. He was sentenced to 18 months for leading a congregation; the Soviets wanted to prevent Ukrainians from gathering in any way, shape, or form. The priest survived, and he recounted the torture that he endured while imprisoned. He recalled being stripped naked and forced to kneel in a barrel of ice water for days at a time.

   On the walls of his cell, two photographs: one at the beginning of his incarceration, the other after his release. Upon studying the photograph of the young priest, I noticed a facial feature common to many Ukrainians and people of Ukrainian descent: the furrowed brow.

   Well, I don't know if 'furrowed' is the right word. It's more like a really pronounced worry line between the eyes, above the bridge of the nose--an expression one would make after sticking themselves with a pin. Everywhere I go in Lviv people seem to have it. Shoot, I just started noticing mine a few months ago. Seriously, if you have any Ukie in you and you're over the age of 27, go look in the mirror. I guarantee you it's there.

   Having been in Україна only one short week, I am quickly learning first hand how prevalently suffering, turmoil, and to a lesser degree paranoia, frustration, anxiety, and fear are entrenched within the popular psyche. Is this facial trait a manifestation of a psychological reality?

   Long story short, the KGB finally closed the prison in 1996. As mentioned before, historians battled with government entities to preserve the site as a memorial and museum rather than turning it over to developers. Imagine the bad mojo that apartment building would have...

   In fact, the tour guide informed me that back in 2003, developers did indeed try to build on the property, right there in the prison yard. They brought in the heavy machinery and started to dig a foundation, until they began to unearth large quantities of bones. Apparently the developers had not obtained a license to do the work, otherwise, an excavation would have taken place before construction began. In any event, forensics experts came to determine whether the remains were of human or animal origin. The developers abandoned the project.

   The most disturbing part of the tour was seeing the cell where they kept the prisoners who had been condemned to death. While most of the 8x10 foot cells held up to 40 prisoners at a time, a condemned individual was kept for several days in solitary confinement, with no food or drink, and no light whatsoever. Complete sensory deprivation.

   Oppressive regimes didn't gender discriminate, mind you. They housed female inmates at this prison as well. Of course, with mention of women in Ukraine, collective consciousness often points to two things: bread and embroidery.

   Now, the embroidery created by the female inmates is interesting because of how resourceful they were. For a полотна, they used scraps of linen, fish bones served as needles, and they unraveled their own garments for embroidery thread. Moreover, some women took to embroidering images of the Virgin Mary--both an affirmation of faith and defiance in the face of socialist atheism.

   The bread story was familiar, as it was recounted to us as young school kids by the ancient-looking Sister Neonelia during one of her tangential monologues. She told of prisoners in a far-away land that were locked up for believing in God. She recalled how they tore crumbs of the bread that they were served for their meals and squeezed them into tiny pellets, one at a time. Eventually, when they had enough 'beads,' the prisoners strung them together to create a rosary. Lo and behold, preserved at the prison museum before my very eyes, a rye-bread rosary. Who knew--the old lady was telling the truth! Here, I just thought that she was guilting us into praying the rosary. That's right, Catholic guilt goes a long way...

   Overall, the visit to the prison was an informative, if not spiritually upsetting, one. Witnessing the historical remnants of Ukrainian trauma makes my earlier 'East vs. West... get over it' statement seem like Obvious Western over-simplification and ignorance. How does a nation heal from such a tortured past and unite, despite incessant foreign influence and oppression? What is it, exactly, that lies at the core of every Ukrainian, from the right-wing West-Ukraine nationalist, to the Kyivan Ukrussian, to even the ethnic Russians of Eastern Ukraine? Hopefully it is something beyond the pained facial expression that so many of us share in common.

 

The Reluctant Pilgrim

   It was decided yesterday, upon visiting the Cathedral of Saint George the Dragon Slayer, that I would attend a mass in Ukraine at Св. Юра to see if it is the same as in the States.

The towering facade of Св. Юра

Stroll around the grounds until you feel at home.

   Mass starts promptly at 7:30 am at St. George's for non-parishioners. The roughly 1.5 mile uphill walk from the hotel in Lviv city center had me chuckling at the thought of моя мука, the holy suffering Pilgrim that performs certain rituals of discomfort to atone for one's sins. What a pilgrim I have become.

   The streets of Lviv are pleasantly desolate just after 7 am. No cars, one or two buses, and a handful of pedestrians. The solitude is comforting. St. George's is bathed in an early morning glow that is discordant with the late afternoon starkness that sliced the structure with beaming light and crisp shadows one day prior.

   Every place I go in Ukraine seems to be brimming with Churches--there's one every few blocks. I believe that the majority of them are still operational, but until today, I viewed them only as cultural monuments. It strikes me how deeply religious life is entwined with the mundane here in Ukraine. As an American, one assumes the supremacy of separation of Church and State, and relegation of spiritual life to a few hours on a Sunday before the NFL games start. That's if you're ambitious. If you're like me, it's pretty much limited to Christmas, Easter, Christenings, Weddings, Funerals, and панахиди.

Steeples everywhere! View of the Dnipro River in Kyiv.

  In Ukraine, Church is inextricably interwoven with politics. My casual, lay knowledge of the general principles of Ukrainian Catholicism cannot even approach the complexity of religious identity in Ukraine (even with numerous years of Catholic Schoolin' under my belt, courtesy of Saint Josaphat's Ukrainian Catholic School, formerly of Tacony, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania).

Here today, gone tomorrow...

   Based on what was explained to me by my gracious Kyivan tour guide and his wife, who shall remain nameless, there is tremendous tension between the two major Christian entities in this country. Keep in mind, this is an extremely diluted understatement!

   The Ukrainian Orthodox Church, the Православна Церква, is rooted in [Constantinople] and is readily recognized by powerful political entities in Eastern Europe (READ: MOSCOW). In my ignorance, I am not entirely sure about the nature of the Orthodox Church's relationship with Russia, but I know that it exists.

The famous Софійський Собор in Kyiv. It's like, 1000 years old.

What's that on the refurbished facade? Oh, it's a Russian Imperial two-headed Eagle.

They even put their Imperial stamp on the abnormally large pysanky you see around town.

   Come to find out that famous Ukrainian pilgrimage sites and historical treasures in Ukraine, like one of the first churches in Kyiv, the Софіський Собор, and the ancient monastery brimming with centuries-old saintly relics, the Печерська Лавра, have been commandeered by the Orthodox Church and bear political affiliations with Moscow.

Courtyard at the Печерська Лавра monastic complex in Kyiv

   Every Ukie-American is flashing back to the photocopied black ink line drawings of these nationally-significant sites from their Ukie-School Історія class. Now, know that by paying the admission fee to visit these historical treasures, one is strengthening the ideological stronghold of Muscovy in the cities of Ukraine. PS- Guided tours are generally given in Russian... available in Ukrainian by special request.

Classic Ukie School!

   The denomination of Christianity into which I was baptized--what I have always known as 'Ukrainian Catholic'--is referred to as Греко-Католицьке here: the Greek Catholic Church. Indeed, the style of Christianity came to Ukraine by way of Byzantium--evidenced by conventions like gilded icons and liturgical chanting. This got me wondering why it is called 'Ukrainian' in the US and 'Greek' in the UA. Could it be that the United States encourages ethnic self-identification among its immigrant citizenry, and the Ukrainian-American community wanted to differentiate itself from the Greco-Americans? Who knows.

   My understanding of the main difference between the Greek Catholic Church and the Orthodox Church in Ukraine is that the former affiliates itself with Rome (and the West) while the latter looks toward the former Constantinople and/or Moscow. The implication here is East vs. West, and one sees this division again and again in the Ukrainian social and cultural consciousness. Personally, I wish someone would tell these people that the world is round: if one looks east and one looks west, they will eventually come to stare each other in the face. It all comes full circle.

   Anyway, here I am at 7:30 am attending Mass (which I never do, ask my dad), in a foreign land. Why? Maybe it is because I seek comfort. I never expected Lviv to feel like such a hostile place. Once I stepped inside the храм and blessed myself, the protruding scent of incense transports me thousands of miles away and decades back in time to Christ the King Church on Cayuga Street in Logan.

Entering Saint George's church in Lviv.

   Saint George's is standing-room only for 7:30 am mass. Visceral sensations penetrate me with familiarity while the choir chanted, "Свят, свят, свят, Господь саваот..." okay, okay... so I got there a little late. Forgive me! (Or just add it to my tab). C'mon, I had to walk like two miles to get here. Моя мука, remember?!

Here's a version...

   The mass reminds me of my dad, and of how much I miss him. Although the choir director here at Св. Юра sings the ancient liturgical responses in a slightly different key, I can hear the voice of Тато chanting loud and clear. Much to my surprise, I remember almost all of the words without the aid of a hymnal. How's that for religious indoctrination!

   Bless me Father, it's been a good twenty years since my last confession. I rejected the Church because of its rejection of women, and I cannot subscribe to a faith that espouses patriarchy while relegating 51% of humanity to secondary status. What can I say? Я Американка.

   My intellectual incongruity with Church doctrine does not prevent me from experiencing the power of communal ritual, and experience it I did. Breaking Sacramental convention, I took Communion without first confessing my sins and performing penance. Up yours, Jesus! I kid.

   The wine-soaked bread lodged in my throat as I knelt before the Icon of the Virgin and prayed three Hail Mary's. What happened next was completely unexpected, both for me and the faithful that surrounded me: I lost control and disintegrated into tears.

   In that moment, it was not only Church-goers who surrounded me, but I felt the presence of those whom I knew that it was impossible for to be there. My dad, for one, I knew that he was miles away, probably nodding off on a couch while solving a crossword puzzle. Бабця і Дідо, long-since passed. I could hear their voices signing clearly. I felt the hurt of the people around me, the fear and uncertainty wrought by war. I could smell the blood of conflicts past and wounds anew. A whole host of Saints and Sinners crowded around and pressed up against me, all clamoring for some form of salvation. The pressure grew so great in my throat that it pulverized that bit of Communion I had taken into grainy crumbs that coated my esophagus. I could not stifle my cry.

It kinda felt something like this

   This was no trickle, either--more like a muffled sobbing that I quickly suppressed because such displays are not acceptable inside a church, I imagine. Good ol' Ukrainian stoicism.

   When mass ended, I quickly left and headed back to Hotel Lviv for some breakfast. I could not help but recall my dad's post-Church Sunday ritual: making ham and cheese eggs for us, WIP Eagles pre-game show playing on the AM-FM radio in the kitchen while he cooked. Funny, to this day I still eat that dish for breakfast on Sundays... even if I don't go to church.

Clockwork Parallels

   Thirteen well-deserved hours of sleep later, I awaken to the sound of silence. What a slice of heaven... if all hostels are like this, then I've been harboring some false notions and misconceptions about these places. I must have been wrong all along.

   The morning unfolds : wake, yoga, wash, dress, breakfast, baseball. Just kidding, there's no baseball in Eastern Europe. What to do for breakfast? There is a cafe across Khreschatyk with outdoor seating. Why not? This is my first taste of an al fresco European breakfast experience (which has since then become the highlight of every morning).

   Two Asian gentlemen at the table in front of mine converse intently, I think in Japanese. A man of about 47, wearing aviator glasses, sips a beer... breakfast of champions. For me, cafe Americano, half a teaspoon of sugar, no milk. Ham and cheese omelet served with fresh cucumber and tomato. Portion sizes? Just enough. The American eyes-stomach relationship is revised, the appetite sated on much less food than expected. So good.

Смачного!

   Next order of business, meet with my informal Kyivan guide, Ukrainian-American ex-pat, formerly of Logan in North Philly, member of the Орду Хрестоновців and friend of Rohi, _______________

   He respectfully asked that I redact his name from any online publications to avoid potential questioning and interrogation, and possibly incrimination in the eyes of pro-Russian officials. He cited a previous incident where authorities detained and questioned him for a number of hours, presumably due to journalistic activity, although an official explanation was never given. Needless to say, no FB for _______________

   Poor _______________ doesn't know what he is in for when he agrees to help me transport my luggage from the Hostel on Хрещатик to Hostel Teatral'na on вулиця Богдана Хмельницького. Quite frankly, I didn't know what we were in for either.

   When I spoke to _______________ on the phone during breakfast, we confirmed our meeting place at 8 Khreschatyk, right outside the hostel. He described himself as, "Not very tall, wearing black pants," so that I would recognize him. I told _______________ that I would not, in fact describe myself to him because he would be able to spot me from a mile away. Obvious Wes--ter--ner!

   Lo and behold, _______________ bee-lined up to me on Avenue Khreschatyk just as I predicted. We greeted each other with a hug.

   I could tell from our preliminary emails that _______________ has a lot to say, and he also has an encyclopedic mind. This puts me at ease, in a way, because I do not always know the best way to prolong conversation. I'm a much better listener, in my own humble opinion.

   While lugging my travel companions (rolling suitcase, handbag, backpack, camera case) to the Hostel Teatral'na, we have a chance to participate in the obligatory "Whom do you know in the Philly Ukie community," conversation. This usually sounds like, "Do you know so-and-so?" "Maybe, what is their last name? Oh, yes, his younger  sister was in my cousin's Ukie School class. She's married now, has a kid on the way." Turns out he was familiar with my Тета Христя through his older brother, in addition to knowing my dad. He attended Saint Basil's Elementary School with my relative Марта, but he transferred. We know quite a few mutual Ukes. It feels good to converse in English and not feel self-conscious about the quality of my мова.

   _______________ explains things very thoroughly, and I find this quite useful... he must have some teacher in him. For example, he informs me that the courtyard that we are walking through to get to the hostel entrance is called a під'їзд. Often, instead of seeing the word поверх (Ukrainian for story or floor of a building), in Kyiv you see the word етаж, which is the Russian term. Good to know.

   We find our mark and stuff into an elevator which claims to have a capacity of four, or "one fat person" written in permanent marker outside the door. I guess that's the Ukrainian way of indicating that the machinery is up to code...

+

July 27, 2014. Sunday, 10:27 am... Meanwhile in Lviv

   Another restless sleep last night. After the unpleasant conclusion of my attempted outdoor writing session, I adjourned to my hotel room to "relax" (in seclusion).

   My concentration was consumed by deciphering the plot of a Russian movie with Ukrainian subtitles. I enjoyed distinguishing the similarities and differences between the two languages--co-existing as half siblings, distant cousins, brothers from another mother. Some commonalities blend the tongues together while they also fracture and splinter into utterances that are distinctly foreign. A stimulating way to pass the time, if you're into language.

   Shortly after 1 am, a ruckus arose in the street outside of my hotel window. Drunken hooligans again? It's like some Clockwork Orange chepooka up in these streets. The curtains in my room were drawn, but the window was wide open. Multiple pairs of feet scuffle against the gravelly pavement, some sort of urban scrum.

   A woman's high-pitched, panic-stricken goloss implores, "ТА ЛИШИ ЙОГО! Він, він..." The sickly-soft thud of a landed tolchok. I dared not open the curtains.

  "РУКИ... РУКИИИИ!," a veck horned at the top of his goloss. He kept repeating, "РУКИИИИ!," meaning hands or arms. Not even sure what it means in the context of events. "НІ, ЛИШИ!," the woman tearfully pleads for him to be left alone. More sickly thuds and scuffling, the sound of fists pummeling flesh. This continues for a few moments, compounded into millennia by fear.

   "ПЕРЕСТАНЬТЕ!," suddenly hollers the goloss of another veck. "ЙДІЙТЕ, СПОКІЙ... ПЕРЕСТАНЬТЕ," goloss commands. The perpetrators resist initially, but then relent for whatever reason. I lay in bed, muscles stiffened. 

   Sleep comes like a cowering puppy.

On the Anniversary of MH17, Some Lighter Fare

Getting back to the narrative here... take my mind off of things. 

   Ah, yes, Рома the gentle giant <God, who is shooting off fireworks?> quasi-hipster is showing me around the hostel on Khreschatyk, back in Kyiv.

"End heerre es yure rroom"

   Рома opens a heavy wooden door... Large, serene, beautiful (to my jet-lagged eyes): A four-by-six foot window overlooking a courtyard, birds chirping peacefully, a gentle breeze tickling the curtains, hardwood floors decorated with a colorful woven accent rug (reminds me of home), walls are yellow ochre, stenciled with a Serengeti scene in analogous orange. Perfection!

Can I move in... today?

   With the understatement of the year, Рома asks, "Es okay?" You're damn right es okay! Can I lay down now, please?

"Okay. I cleen rroom for yu. It teke me 20 minute. Yu go eat, I shov yu gut plece to eat, yu come beck, rroom ready."

   Twenty more minutes... how long has this day been?! I can make it twenty more minutes... Very painstakingly, Рома instructs me to go to a restaurant called Пузата Хата.
 
"Zey hev gut Ukrainian food zere. Tourist like, ent i like toov. Very gut, not expensif."

   Welp, I haven't eaten an actual meal since housing a slice of La Famiglia Pizza in the International terminal at PHL--lest we remember the Бандерівці Буфет on my first night in Lviv. He's right... I should eat, let Рома do his thang.

   Despite the slightly suggestive name (you Ukie-Americans know what I'm talking about), Пузата Хата is popular with tourists and locals alike. Food is served cafeteria-style, and Ukie favorites (борщ, вареники) are well-made and well-represented. The interior of the restaurant is on the nicer side if one compares it to, say, a Mickey D's in the States: stone fountains, artificial ivy, faux-marble gargoyle accents.

   My fave feature is the public hand washing sink situated right at the entrance. The first thing you do is wash your hands... after the day I've had, I scrub up as if I were about to perform brain surgery. In doing so, in this moment, I believe the experience has cleansed my travel weary soul as well.

   Time for another Obvious Westerner moment. Please keep in mind that the last meal I had was about thirty two hours prior, three plane flights in two days ago:

I'm ready to eat.

   What are my choices? Let's just say that Пузата Хата has a whole section dedicated to different kinds of borscht.

   Окрошка--a cucumber dill summer borscht similar to gazpacho? Yes, please. Challah bread with more dill and some olive oil? Так. Chicken sausage grilled on a skewer? Sure. Grilled, marinated vegetables? Mmmmm. Caprese salad too? Of course, veg is all good with me (must be my non-Ukrainian side). But what meal in Ukraine would be complete without... вареники, вареники, варе- варе- варе- варе- варе- вареники? (зі сметаною) To drink: Bulgarian mineral water.

Too ridic not to love!

   One look at my tray, and you know that I'm from the US of A... It's like OG Old Country Buffet up in here, and my depleted body is loving it! Total: 79 UAH... about $7.20 US.

I'm watching my figure...

   Needless to say, after feasting I knew that the 'itis (as we say in the States) would set in rather quickly. That is, until I see a Maidan ice cream stand, and order up a Морозиво Шоколадний. Now the eating ritual is complete!

   By the time I return to the Hostel on Khreschatyk, Рома has spruced up the already-spiffy (private) room. I take my 'dush,' then attempt to write briefly... but when my pen trails off of the page, I know that it's time to give up the fight (I'm not even sure who won).

   Time to resign to the cool embrace of clean sheets, full belly, evening breeze... Shoot, it's like, 8:30 pm--not even dark yet. No matter, it's... time... to...          

Аркан You Dig It?

Привіт, Я надворі. Скажійте як зайти...

   :Khreschtatyk 8. Through the stone archway into the courtyard. Walk all the way to the back of the courtyard and turn right.

I see the red door, yes.

   :Code on the keypad 6 - 9 - 7, simultaneously.

Got it.

   :Elevator to the 6th floor.

Okay, I think I am outside the apartment door.

+

   Standing in the 6th floor hallway of the apartment building, a door swings open just as I was about to take ahold of the handle. Before me, Рома. Tall and skinny with a soft voice and kind eyes, he looks like a displaced hipster. I would have mistaken him for an ex-pat from the States if it weren't for his accent.

"Yurre here."

"Yes, I made it."

"Ples, rremuv yurre shus."

   When I sit down to unlace my Nikes, exhaustion sets in.

++

   Writing from Lviv: at the moment I am embracing some version of an ex-pat, artsy, writer lifestyle. Solo cafe table at площа Івана Підкови at the foot of the Latin Cathedral, pack of cigarettes, notebook, pen. 

   River of humanity passing before my eyes to keep me entertained and feeling thoughtful. This is where it's at. I do believe that I could do this indefinitely, and I do believe that I've found my spot. I've yet to be accosted by hostile locals...

+++

   Рома is so gentle. Although he towers over me, his energy is unassuming and eager. His eyes betray a mind is aflutter with one million things that he would like to share with me about the check-in process, but his broken English allows him to only reveal one thought at a time. 

"Так, так, I shov yu to yurr rroom. Так, ferst I shov yu vater clozet. Воно es heer. Так, okay, heer is dush."

   He shows me the shower. Shower! It's been so long! Lord knows I'm due...

"I shov yu dorrm rroom. Maybe yu stay heer on ze ader naiyts?"

   He opens a door, out wafts an odor of alcohol and sweat socks. 

"No thanks... I, uh, don't think I would feel comfortable in a room full of men as a female traveling alone." Part diplomacy, part truth.

++++

   Can I just bitch for a moment? Honestly, it sucks being an 'unaccompanied' female in Eastern Europe. It seems to be an open invitation for people of all...

II PAUSE II

Від серце до серце, душа в душі

Хай все кохається в меті,

Цей час умріяні думками.

Любов, це щирість, ніжність, і кохань.

Кохай життя, вартуй думки.

Думка це ром життя,

Життя, поезія моя.

-Влодя

> PLAY >

   As I was saying, it seems to be an open invitation for men on all levels of the creepiness spectrum to just sit down in any empty seat beside you, try to coerce you into drinking with them, hanging out with them, going somewhere else with them, leading to I don't even want to think what.

   So different from the States. I mean, one has to be sensible anywhere as a woman, but in the States a female's boundaries are respected in that she can sit alone at a cafe and do as she pleases without the interruption of some sort of unwanted macho intrusion.

Apparently it's a thing for someone to take the pen out of your hand, and the notebook from in front of you, and begin writing their very own poetry!

   Take "Володимир the Poet" for instance. I *thought* that I had found a chill spot to sit, sip a beer, and write. Well, that lasted all of half of a Львівське 1715 before some drunk dude with a belly-sweat stained t-shirt plopped down at my table without even asking. My response: to immediately say that I am occupied and wish to be left alone. No matter. He just starts prattling on anyway.

"Що ти пишеш?
"Історію."
"На яку тему?"
"Яку небуть я придумаю..."

   I was trying to be as dismissive as possible so he would leave me alone. He wasn't taking the hint. He wants to write in my notebook too (and he does). "My brother was in the Berkut," he tells me. Thanks for sharing--is he trying to intimidate me? "One day he hit me on the back of the head right here," he reveals to me a soft spot on his gourd, roughly in the area of his occipital lobe. That may explain the lazy eye. "It kind of messed me up." I can tell. But I still don't trust what he is telling me, as he is suddenly less drunk than he was acting when he first sat down.

   He declares that I am a poet. I tell him I am not, I am merely writing my thoughts. He lays it on thick, telling me that I am a beautiful, magical person. He must not know that I own a mirror. He asks me іти погуляти з ним. And end up dismembered in a sunflower field on the outskirts of Lviv? No thank you. I ask him if he can suggest a church where I can attend mass tomorrow morning. He sees the light, he just refuses to embrace it.

1715: So refreshing, strangers want to sit down with you and drink it right out of your bottle...

   I finish my 1715, collect my things, rise and say, "Ну я йду. Було приємно," I lie. "Я йду тоже," he replies, and stands up to go with me. How am I gonna shake this guy?! I start walking *kind of* in the direction of my hotel, but not really. The streets are teeming with tourists and pedestrians, but he affixes himself to me in the crowd.

   A hutsul street band performs on the corner of Краківська і Леся Українки. They're playing Western hits like "Ain't No Sunshine" in the style of traditional Ukrainian mountain music. They sound quite good actually--best version of "Rolling in the Deep" that I ever heard. "Я буду слухати музикантів." "Я тоже буду слухати."

   This guy is relentless. I begin scanning the crowd for police officers, ways to escape.

   The musicians are playing a typical hutsul аркан, a folk song that starts off very slowly and builds in tempo and intensity into a raucous crescendo. No one with an ounce of Ukrainian blood can resist at least tapping their foot when аркан gets good. 

   I try to lose myself in the music, but Brother of Berkut keeps trying to take ahold of my elbow. I evade his grasp, all the while no one in the crowd seems to notice that something is not quite right. The musicians play faster. My heart beats with the tempo. The man sidles up to me again, tries to grab my arm more forcefully this time, to say something into my ear. Growing more alarmed, I brazenly and deliberately move away, looking for an opening to disappear into the multiplying crowd. 

   The musicians play faster still. My eyes dart about, he is moving towards me again. All around, people are laughing, children dancing, money is thrown into an open guitar case. He is standing next to me, heart is pounding along with the fiery beat of the аркан. He takes ahold of my elbow... I'm about to throw down, Philly style.

"На тобі дарую, Поетеса."

   What in the hell? He is trying to gift me a pen. What is this, Get Smart?! Get out of here. That's when I make my break for it, through the crowd of on-lookers, I walk somewhat in the direction of my hotel. God dammit, he follows.

   "Я відходю від тебе," I say sternly. "Ну, я також. Я йду по машину." "Ну йди," I want to throw in a 'холера' for good measure, but my better judgment prevails. He finally relents. He goes one way, I turn around and go in the completely opposite direction. Around Проспект Свободи, past the Lviv Opera House, down вулиця Городоцька. Christ, can't a gal drink a beer in peace in this town?!

    At least the scenery is nice...

   I duck into Міні-Бар Магазин to get a couple of road sodas to take back to the telly. Maybe there I will get some peace finally. The man behind the counter nods at my notebook. "Ти письменниця?" Here we go again! No, I'm not a writer... it's a journal of sorts.

"What's going on in Ukraine it terrible," he tells me. "Today, the mayor of Lviv is blanketing the airwaves with a political message."

"About what?"

"You didn't hear that another Ukrainian mayor was shot in the head?"

   No, I hadn't, and I wish I still hadn't. Was this true?! Shit's getting real. It may be time to cut this vacation short. Shit's getting really real--I just received a text from my Kyivan friend and guide: The mayor of Lviv's residence was attacked with grenade launchers.

   As I read the text, fireworks (?) explode outside my hotel room. I am the epitome of fear. Do I remain in Ukraine, stick to the itinerary and visit the Карпати? Maybe I can change my flights from Saturday to Thursday. I have to get home to my baby...