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.
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| Смачного! |
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.
Sleep comes like a cowering puppy.
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