T.S., Don't Fail Me Now!

   Not to bore you with the gory details of my belabored, crash course walking tour of central Kyiv, I will summarize:

   Walk, walk, carry-on falls off the rolling suitcase. Stop, readjust. Shit. Strap is tearing even more. Walk, walk, down the steps of the steps of the перехід [clunk clunk clunk], up the steps on the other side of the перехід [thud thud thud], walk some more. For whatever reason, the block I end up on is a concrete island with no discernible exit surrounded by motorists driving at Nascar speeds, aaaand I have to go back the way I came. Down the steps of the перехід...

   This went on for, oh, a good hour and a half. Finally, I stumble upon an information booth. A young boy with an utterly motionless Bieber Belieber haircut asks if he can help.

"Do you speak English?" I blurt out... Now it's my turn to be the desperate tourist.

"Yyyes I duv. Ken I khelp you?" all accents aside, at least it's not Ukrussian. 

"Can you tell me where is the closest hotel?"

"Чекай, так, так... I khev forrr you a mep."

   Богу дякувати! A map! Here's to reliable 20th century means of geographical positioning and orientation. Why didn't I find one sooner?!

   Biebs patiently shows me where we are, directly beside the Київський Палац Спорту, and he shows me two hotels on nearby вулиця Госпітальна. 

"Do you know how to get there from here?," I ask hopefully.

"No."

   Eh, good enough, this is progress. Just find a cab. The driver will know where to go. Onward!

   Wouldn't you know it, that on this particular day, in this specific area of Kyiv, at this precise moment of time in history, with this exact pseudoscientific alignment of mischievously influential celestial bodies, there are no cabs to be had. And, I would later discover, I started on my sub-quest for a cab by walking in the exact opposite direction of вулиця Госпітальна. What I did encounter was quite familiar by now: walk, readjust, clunk, thud, repeat.

   At this point, I'm just wandering aimlessly, even with the aid of my trusty new меп. I'm looking for signs. Not, like, street signs or signs on businesses. Signs. Subtle communications from the essence of the Universe-type signs. I stop walking for a moment to orient myself (ha!), I look at the street marker: вулиця імені Тараса Шевченка.

Every Uke worth their weight in Varenyky has an image like this somewhere in their home. Here's mine...

   The great T.S.! Not of the Elliot variety, but the beloved and celebrated Ukrainian poet and patriot Taras Shevchenko! Flashback to Ukie School, spending Saturdays memorizing, reciting, and singing the words to his compositions. Giving awkward performances to auditoria full of eager parents, proud grandparents and community members (the usual suspects) on his feast day in March.

Me and my bro, prior to one of many face-melting вірш recitations.

...Those haunting lyrics to one of his best-known, eerily self-eulogizing poems, Testament (Заповіт):

When I am dead, bury me

In my beloved Ukraine

My tomb upon a grave mound high

Amid the spreading plain,

So that the fields, the boundless steppes,

The Dnieper's plunging shore

My eyes could see, my ears could hear

The mighty river roar.

(To hear the verses set to music, watch the video above, courtesy of Babylon '13. Full screen highly recommended)

   This is the street that is named after him. Incidentally, this is one of the few streets where one can cross without using a перехід... must be the sign I was looking for. The traffic travels in both directions, and the directional flows flank a tree-lined park with monuments, and benches. Benches! I find a shady one, discard my luggage, and collapse in a sweaty heap. Тарасе, поможи мені!

   The heat must be getting to me--I'm imploring deceased Ukrainian poets for help now. I drift into a daze...

   After a few moments, I feel alert, cooled down. There is a hotel on this вулиця: Premier Palace Hotel. Valets, doormen, crystal chandeliers, marble... Боже. It's a hotel... but this is not why I came to Kyiv. Am I some sort of Western oligarch here to splurge with my superior currency in this struggling, cash-based economy? It's not that I can't afford it--shit, just put it on my MasterCard tab. That's not the point--the point is that the disparity of resources in Україна is one of the major contributors to the government corruption that has fueled (no pun directed at the Oil Rich) the political illegitimacy of much of the leadership in this country. No thanks.

Did I mention that I can be stubborn?

   Hold up... on the back of my меп I notice there is a list of hostels. Ah, a hostel. Modest, inexpensive. Okay. What are the chances of finding one with a private bedroom? Yes, I have given up on the luxury of a private bath--I just can't sleep in a bunk bed in a room full of fragrant, hungover sex tourists. 

   Let's see here... Hostel on the Khreschatik... Khreschatik, that's near Maidan. I can kick it in that area. 

050-331 18 47

Галло? Private room? Yes, but only for one night. A couple has already reserved it for the following two. Файно. Call when you are outside for instructions on how to enter the building.