: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...
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
> 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...
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