Trolleybus ride, this time we are packed like sardines in the metal box. Passengers pass coins and banknotes to the unreachable conductor, then the hard-won tickets change hands until they reach their proper owners. Solidarity and discipline rule.
We climb up a green hill and approach another gem of a church. A slight problem though – the door is locked. I cannot help but remember not-so-distant breakfast fiasco. Why do they bother to put up the signs with opening hours at all? Shirtless workmen are digging some mysterious ditch around the church – except for the majority of them who are just drinking beer. MacRua tries to save the situation by approaching one of the idlers with a question. Not that I would understand much of the talk, but resigned shrugs need no translation. Another attempt – and the same result. Third guy points his finger to a small house nearby. Cat lolls at the windowsill, but no other signs of life. Finally, a woman appears at the door. At first she seems surprised to see living souls here, then she orders us to wait. So we wait. It’s no waiting for Godot – after several minutes, the woman re-emerges with an enormous key in her hand. Success. And the key is another proof that in Ukraine everything is bigger...
Knackered by the exploration of the endless museum corridors (the orange revolution from the end of last year has already been awarded with a honourable place next to prehistoric archaeologial finds – great), we sit down on the grass near the huge building to have a break. But before we even open our pepsi colas, a guard rushes forth, announcing that this is definitely no-sitting area. Maybe the pic of Shane on MacRua’s T-shirt is unsuitable for decent museum visitors. We move onto a grassy slope steeply slanting down to the hemp valley. Hard to find a place free of cigarette butts and beer lids, but who cares. Sipping pepsi, watching a cat (tomcat, of course) on a hunt.
Refreshed, we head for a second helping of splendour. St. Andrew’s Church soars above stone-paved streets, golden lining of the green domes sparkles in the sun. And the interior doesn’t lag behind.
O’Brien’s proudly displays posters with whistles and bodhrans on the walls, but an absolutely un-Irish pop wafts from the loudspeakers. As MacRua informs me, any attempt to approach the personnel, politely inquiring about the possibility to play Irish CDs, meets with steadfast refusal – forbidden by the manager. Irish music played in an Irish pub might scare away guests... To shatter the illusion of Irishness even further, MacRua orders Ukrainian beer for himself (pointing out that he’s a nationalist) and I ask for international Sprite (having absolutely no excuse for such a shameful support of globalization). Cozy place, striped sofas, advertisements praising the virtues of Guinness on the walls. MacRua pulls out a photo album and I plunge into browsing pics of the splendid city of Lviv. Pink-blossomed tree on one of them captures my attention. I point at it: "See? THIS is sakura." "Nah, this is some kind of an apple tree." "Apple tree? Kidding?" "Special apple tree." "No way. Sakura. Right from Japan." Stubborn shaking of the head. The Pogues are performing in Japan at that very time... Maybe better experts on sakuras? More likely better experts on sake... MacRua ponders the notion for the shortest of moments, then pulls the nearest beermat and scribbles a handful of insightful words on it: "Who looks at sakura when there’s sake". Haiku of the day. And also the end of the day – not counting the usual dark metro corridors and even darker streets.
Already in the morning, the weather is unbearably hot. My host offers two options for the walk to the far-famed Lavra monastery: Either the hackneyed way all the tourists follow or an alternative "insider" path known only to locals. The latter offers a chance to sneak inside without paying – but I’d choose it even without this additional benefit. We make our way through a forest-like park and slink through a shabby gate... only to run into a ticket office. Greedy tentacles of business reach everywhere. [MacRua: There are lower and upper Lavra. Upper territory is not only a monastery but a tourist trap too, with all the museums and exhibitions. And paid entrance. Lower Lavra – functional monastery and caves, it's for believers, pilgrims etc., and it's free. We slipped through the secret passage right into lower Lavra but tried to make our way into the upper territory and... run into a ticket office. They protect their business interest carefully. We can’t blame them as well as you can’t blame me, I promised a free passage and I brought you to a free passage.] Anyway, Lavra is worth it. Huge monastery complex with tons of churches, towers, treasures on display – and caves. Having bought the necessary long thin candles, we delve underground, to the catacombs with mummified bodies of dead monks on display. A cynic remarks that it’s a good opportunity to cool oneself a bit. Only-an-aspiring cynic soaks up the eerie atmosphere of the winding narrow passageways, lit only with faint colourful lamps and with the flickering flames in the hands of the visitors. Bodies wrapped in ornate clothing line the way, sleeping their eternal sleep in niches in the walls, revered by those who come here to pray and meditate. Hidden world of its own.
Our next stop – the monument to the Great Patriotic War. Megalomaniac’s dream. Mass crowds of bronze soldiers raise their arms determinedly to the sky, their faces contorted in brutally unyielding grimaces. Grandiose music booms (okay, whispers but with a booming effect) from the loudspeakers. And above all this, a huge female figure towers, waving a sword in the air. One’s neck hurts from trying to see to the top, one’s eyes sting from the sharp silvery glints of sunlight on her metal body. Below, two tanks painted with merry colourful folk patterns snuggle up to each other in almost a lovers’s embrace. A surprising touch of humanity. [MacRua: There’s a museum complex, both indoor and outdoor - with tanks, cannons, planes and rockets all around. Say thanks I didn’t take you inside. On the other hand, there had to be air-conditioning...]
As we are standing at metro platform, MacRua nudges me. "Look at the girl over there. She looks like Britney Spears." I turn around. The blonde waiting for the train could pass for the pop-princess twin. "So? Did I lie or not?" asks MacRua. Well... shall I believe him now that his boss looks exactly like Spider Stacy, that a Victoria Clarke double smiled at him over the counter in a shop, and that one of the revolution marches was led by another embodiment of Joey Cashman? Why not... everything seems to be possible here.
Back in the heart of the city, sitting in a pub proudly bearing the name The Chest. Menu with English translations (the second one I’ve seen in this part of the world). But when I try to order in English, the poor young waitress pales in horror and quickly pushes the menu back to me, pleading me silently with her eyes to return to good old finger-pointing. Naval decorations and small chests to deliver you the bill in. When one is brought to us, we put a banknote inside and wait. Nothing happens. I try to hypnotize the waitresses floating around. Nothing. We take the banknote out and stuff the chest with the exact value of the meal. And then we just get up and out – the last thing I see is the horrified expression of our black-haired caretaker as she rushes to the abandoned table with the speed of light.
Usual walk in the fresh night air. Approaching the lady in the hotel reception, I announce: "Dobrý večer!" in Czech and go on to add: "Room number odinast odin, prosím." Three languages packed into one sentence... this place works like Babel Tower. Grasps you in its claws and doesn’t let go.
Photos © unknown