or
There And Back Again
Just a bit more waiting and I will be on board... on board of what? That’s the question. My air ticket claims that the aircraft is Boeing. The website of the Czech Airlines claims that the aircraft is Boeing. The website of Kiev Boryspil airport adamantly insists that the aircraft is Belfast. I have no objections against promoting the glory of Ireland high in the sky. I have no objections against changing planes up in the air in the middle of my journey. But I would like to solve the mystery and brace myself for the inevitable. Well, no shamrocks or IRA bombers for me. When I step into the hall before the gates, the sight of an ordinary Boeing bearing the logo of Ukrainian Aerosvit Airlines greets me. So Ukrainians call Boeing "Belfast". Simple as that. First in a long chain of signs that they are more Irish than the Irish themselves. [MacRua: Maybe we think that Boeings are as dangerous as Belfast? Or any planes? So we call any plane Belfast...]
More waiting. A flight which should have departed before mine is delayed for several hours. I watch the irritation and helpless fury of its passengers and consider the possibility of sleeping on an airport bench. But I’m robbed of the unforgettable experience by a boarding call. So good-bye, Prague, the town I love so well...
After some lovely turbulencies (which delayed the eagerly awaited moment of serving meal), the plane journey settles into a monotonous lull. Sparse blanket of clouds blocks the view and obscures the sight of the crucial step – crossing the border to unknown eastern lands. But there is the plane captain, who rushes to inform us about the glorious moment and in fluent Russian and wobbly English announces that we have just entered the Ukrainian territory. In the next second, our flare of enthusiasm is dampened – the essential info wasn’t given to us as a welcome but in order to inform us about the necessity for everybody without a wine-coloured Ukrainian passport to fill in a suspicious little paper which demands the most secret information about each passenger (such as specification of the dirty purposes of our visit and of exact location where they can come to nick us). Hearty welcome, indeed. But if I had known back then that it was one of the rare glimpses of sweet English language I’d be able to enjoy in the forthcoming week, I’d have been more tender-hearted.
As the plane breaks through clouds, all injustices are forgotten. Magnificent sight of a river as wide as sea comes into view, broken here and there by islands, spliting into countless branches, surrounded by swamps with lakes. The surface of the water glints off the orange sunlight, glistening like a mirror. Rays of light pierce the clouds and stream down like shiny waterfalls. It’s wonderful beyond words.
Landing, passport control (nobody seems to mind that the dark blurred thing in my passport doesn’t resemble a photo of a human being), picking up my bag (I’ve already accepted the fact that I’ll never see it again, so I consider our reunion a very good sign). The door to the main airport hall opens and even before reaching it, I spot my waiting host. Hooray, no desperate lonely wandering through dark streets of Kiev for me tonight. After my host silences my suggestion that I’ll exchange green dollars for local currency at one of the airport exchange offices (muttering something about "thieving bastards"), we leave the safe haven of the airport and I hit the harsh Kiev reality with no hrivnas in my pocket and no Ukrainian or Russian language on my tongue.
Bus ride through forests (first observation: they seem as friendly as the Czech ones), through Kiev suburbs (second observation: they seem as grey and monstrous as the Czech ones). Getting off the bus at the main train station (Advice from MacRua: "Remember this place, that’s where you’ll be getting on the airport bus next Thursday." Soon I’ll regret not paying more attention to these words.) [MacRua: Who pays attention to tour manager's words, yeah?] And then on, to explore the underground world of Kiev metro.
I revel in the sight, then open my backpack and proceed to gifts-giving. With a furtive smile, I take out a bottle of moonshine Moravian plum liquor. Slivovice, our liquid gold. MacRua eyes it with suspicion - well, the bottle looks suspicious, unlabelled and coloured with a blueish tint. My prodding to him to try it meets with lame excuses about soft drinks being needed to wash down strong stuff like this. I promptly pull a plastic bottle of Czech mineral water - lemon flavoured - out of my backpack. No more evasions, my friend. MacRua sets both the bottles on the wooden table, ponders them for a moment, then takes a tentative gulp of the mineral water, immediately followed by a resolute gulp of slivovice. I muse over the fact that it might not be the wisest thing to murder my guide on the very first day of my stay. But one more gulp of mineral water and MacRua doesn’t seem like dying - he even manages some neutral comments, which can mirror either relief that the the dreadful experience is behind him, or the first sign of recognition that this beverage has the right to exist. [MacRua: Liquor? Liquid gold? The latter is closer, it really goes down as liquid metal... It's home-brewn evil venom. And smells like acetone, I gave meself four or five shots of it at home later that evening, so I can say it for sure. Great stuff if consumer doesn't bother to smell it. And it supplies hours of totally black sleep.] We say our farewells, I admire the lights and shades of night Kiev for a while and then surrender to well-deserved sleep. I guess I’ll need it.
I sit on the sofa down in the lobby, and for having the lack of anything better to do, I settle to watch the running TV. A soap opera, obviously. In Ukrainian, obviously. Fortunately, my host appears in the doorway before my mind can suffer a serious harm from the intellectual challenge. I’m greeted with an amicable "What are you doing here? Why on earth haven’t you stayed upstairs?" Nothing like warm human words to start the day with... [MacRua: I greeted the reception girl politely and asked if I could get up to you, "to whom? she is siting right here, behind you!" The girl looked at me as at an idiot...]
We depart to have breakfast. Sitting in the pleasant shade and cool breeze of an outer terrace of a small bistro, I’m given a menu. Eagerly I open it – and a tangled mess of Ukrainian smiles up at me. I can toss a coin to decide what to choose (the problem being I’m coin-less) or stab a finger randomly. My host spews a volley of meal-names at me, and before I have time to catch my breath, he concludes that salad with crab sticks is the most edible one. OK - anything, as long as the crabs don’t stare up at me with reproachful eyes.
Short walk to the trolleybus stop. Well, all-vehicles stop to be exact. I’m promptly assured that all the small privately-looking vans are normal part of the public transportation system. Variety is the spice of life. Variety and relaxed attitude. Timetables? Don’t make me laugh. I don’t even inquire about them as I remember the reply to a timetable-related remark I once dropped in all innocence: "Kidding? There is no schedule for city transport here. No schedule!! You have to go to the stop and wait patiently until it arrives, in a minute or in half an hour..." So let’s wait. For a minute or for a light year. Fortunately, the light year lasts only couple minutes. We find free seats inside our trolleybus, and immediately a heavy-set middle-aged woman heads towards us. The conductor selling tickets. My comment that it’s a bit uneconomical to place a conductor into every bus (shameful waste of human power), meets with a confident reply: "Good way to keep the unemployment rate low." In any case, it provides a very effective exercise – combination of demanding physical activity (pushing through crowds of hostile passengers in the rush hour) and extraordinary memory training (how is she able to remember who paid for the ticket and who didn’t in the constant hustle and bustle?). Perfect training camp for secret agents.
Getting of the vehicle at a busy stop teeming with life. Time to start exploring the city. As we proceed to walk along a tree-lined street, a huge blue billboard hits my eyes: "The country lacks Nobel Prize winners! Love one another!" I blink, only to spot a yellow one: "The country lacks astronauts! Love one another!" Great! In this place they seem to know easy solutions for all pressing troubles of nowadays world. From unemployment to a low birth-rate...
After emerging back to the city reality, it’s straight to more places of interest. After a short stop for refreshments at a bistro (adorned with such pearls of wisdom as "Don’t leave for tomorrow what you can drink today" or "Smoking domestic cigs you die as a patriot, smoking American ones you die as an investor"), it’s time for the main sight of the day, the breath-taking St. Sophia’s Cathedral. I usually enthuse over any fragment of a 12th century fresco. Here they have such a vast expanse of perfect frescoes and mosaics from even older times that it almost seems a careless profligacy. Unmitigated pleasure, and as if it wasn’t enough, the exploration of the nearby St. Michael’s Cathedral gives a delightful coup de grace.
Alas, times they are a-changing. In this case, it was the merciless teeth of city developers what marked the place – causing an unpardonable damage. Where once greenery grew freely, abominable posh houses grow like mushrooms after rain. As we stumble through the construction site, MacRua conjures up images of former wilderness and connoiseur paradise. Noticing my not-yet-so-convinced expression, he claims: "They used to grow everywhere here. I can sense them from the look of the place." He stops, looking around. Then without a trace of hesitation, he makes couple steps away from the path and triumphantly points at a plant. There can be no mistake. With an environment like this, they should charge an extra payment for luxury to the future valley inhabitants.
As the hand of the clock rushes towards midnight, we board a minibus and head back home. After saying our farewells, I ride up to my eleventh floor, to enjoy the hospitality of the bathroom and bed. End of day one – or the beginning of day two as it’s already past midnight when I switch the light off.
Photos shamelessly lifted from the Internet – I offer an unconditional apology to all whose copyrights I’ve trampled.
Special thanks to MacRua for the invaluable source material, comments, complaints, criticisms and, first and foremost, for helping me to make the journey happen.