Independence day

I left Ukraine on 24 August, Independence Day. My girl stayed behind, and I became independent, without cause for celebration.

Do pobachennia, Ukraine. It’s been a blast. See you again . . .

Kurenivka flea market, Kyiv

I took the #159 marshrutka to the Kurenivka flea market (KFM), a loosely organized and highly popular street bazaar.

Crunch time at Kurenivka flea market

Imagine the contents of a thousand Sally Ann Thrift Stores dumped onto a few square kilometres of pavement along both sides of a very operational tram line. Don’t get too excited upon finding that bronze bust of Lenin; one careless step backwards at the wrong time and you could be shopping for a peg leg.

Kurenivka flea market

Every Saturday morning KFM buzzes with people buying and selling everything including the proverbial kitchen sink. I saw motorcycle parts, nuts n’ bolts (literally), books, clothing, Soviet-era trinkets, cameras, watches, and antique clothes irons. Beyond that, there’s plenty of stuff that defies categorization.

Special thanks to ex-pat R, who introduced me to the madness a week earlier. At that time we were told that the police were gonna shut the flea market down because of a decree from the higher-ups in the Orthodox Church (something to do with holy burial grounds). Fortunately for me, it was business as usual the following Saturday when I attended on my own.

Lavra monastery and microminiature museum, Kyiv

Lavra monastery

Arguably Kyiv’s biggest tourist draw, the Lavra monastery is a riverside walled wonderland of 70 acres featuring Orthodox cathedrals, a bell tower, museums, and accessible caves occupied by mummified monks.

Lavra belltower

In addition to strolling around the Lavra’s smartly landscaped grounds, you can explore the caves. I shuffled through one tight passageway where the faithful carried lit candles to guide the way to the preserved saints at rest in glass coffins. Those prone to claustrophobia might want to reconsider descending into the cramped and somewhat stuffy tunnels.

Admission fees vary depending on the number of museum add-ons you buy. Women must wear a headscarf and a long dress or skirt. For men, shorts are permitted if cut below the knees.

Near the Lavra entrance

Microminiature Museum

Located on the Lavra site, the MM features 20 or so microscopic artworks created by Ukrainian genius Mykola Syadristy including:

• a flea shod with golden horseshoes
• a gold camelcade with pyramids set inside the eye of a sewing needle (apparently it’s not so difficult for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle)
• Lenin, drawn in ink, the lines and shadows shaped from the words of his most famous writings.

Each piece is viewed through a powerful microscope, and you may find yourself hogging the lens for more than a few minutes, depending on the size of the lineup behind you of course.

A safer look at Chornobyl

For those too young to remember, the worst nuclear accident in history happened in 1986 in Chornobyl, a couple hours north of Kyiv.

The small and intense Chornobyl Museum, located in Kyiv’s Podil neighbourhood, pays tribute to the accident victims and survivors.

Plaque at the Chornobyl Museum, Kyiv

Hanging from the walls and ceiling are hundreds of photos of those who perished in the aftermath of the accident. Displayed in glass cases are items belonging to the dead–eyeglasses, ID cards, wrist watches, papers.

Other exhibits include:

• a large diorama of the contamination zone
• full-size radiation suits
• Soviet bureaucratic paperwork (the USSR tried to minimize the disaster)
• a small tribute to Fidel Castro, whose Cuban government was the first to offer free medical care to children suffering from the effects of Chornobyl.

Perhaps the creepiest exhibit of all is the jarred taxidermic body of a small eight-legged creature whose DNA was obviously scrambled from radiation poisoning.

After I’d left the museum and finished weeping, I promptly headed to the pub across the street where I enjoyed a monster bucket of booze and thought of nothing ‘cept rainbows and lollipops.

Pinchuk art gallery, Kyiv

I attended Requiem, British artist Damien Hirst’s exhibition of works at Kyiv’s Pinchuk Art Gallery.

At the door the gruff security guard asked me if my backpack contained any weapons or explosives. When I ignored him, he became more forthright and demanded that I open my pack. Jeepers creepers. Like I make a habit of going to art galleries fully armed. What is it with security guards? Did they fall on their heads as children and never fully recover? And I thought only Canadian security officers were clods.

I really got a kick out of the first piece on display, Thousand Years, from 1990, which features an Insect-O-Cutor, black flies, sugar, blood, and a fake cow’s head. The bisected foam shark out back was also pretty trippy.

As much as I tried focusing on the art, I couldn’t pull my attention away from the roaming security guards, two or three per floor. I thought one was going to follow me into the men’s room.

Speaking of which, the WC was an art project in itself: pleasing to look at, but frustrating to operate and hard to understand. Think Cronenberg’s Scanners meets Kubrick’s 2001. Probably a good indicator of design overkill is when it takes three minutes to figure out how to turn on the fucking hot water. . . .

Overall, Damien Hirst’s work left me with a throbbing, itchy feeling of nihilism, which I doused as quickly as possible with a giant Chernihivske beer upon leaving the gallery.

Admission: free. Photographs, weapons, explosives: not permitted.

Balaklava

If you’ve ever wondered where the winter face mask worn by shivering Canadians gets its name, well . . .

The story goes that during the Crimean War, British soldiers stationed here were turning into Popsicles® under the fierce winter winds and bitter cold. Word got back to England, and sympathetic ladies with a knack for knitting began making the woolly, warm face coverings that eventually donned the mugs of the front line troops.

View of the Black Sea from the Balaklava cliffside

Balaklava the city is very photogenic, apart from the few zones of gaudy new hotel construction. The scenic areas have a Mediterranean vibe and hug a tranquil cove that opens out into the Black Sea. Views from the seaside cliffs are sublime. The crumbling watchtowers make for a challenging summit to reach on a hillside hike. During my visit, a blazing-hot summer day, it was hard to imagine this place as an icebox in the dead of winter.

As for the balaclava masks, not one of the souvenir stands sell ‘em (hello?!), but I plan to set up shop every summer and make a fortune with my new enterprise. In the meanwhile, you’ll have to make do with the Che Guevara and weed t-shirts or colourful Crimea map beach towels.

Balaklava, inner harbour

Eski Kerman

I was told that Eski Kerman translates to “old place” in the Tatar language.

A series of explorable caves and tall rock formations comprise the landscape. Access to the caves is via narrow trails that cut through the trees and continue up along the rocks.

Eski Kerman, Crimea, Ukraine

A sign at the entrance admonishes visitors to not litter. It must be working; not even so much as a gum wrapper was floating around in the dusty air.

As I ascended one particularly steep section of slippery, shiny rocks, I wished that I’d left my Birkenstocks back at the B & B and worn proper footwear. At least both my hands were free; I’d wisely brought my backpack. Hey, it wasn’t on my agenda to be exploring caves in Crimea.

A modest café, catering mostly to Russian tour groups, serves up small meals, ice cream, and beer. Souvenirs are also available.

Eski Kerman, Crimea, Ukraine

Khan’s Palace

Kittens resembling mangy gremlins, baklava hawkers, and package tourists fresh off the buses clog the entrance to Bakhchysaray’s number one attraction.

Khan’s Palace, one of three Muslim palaces in Europe, was built in the 16th century. It was home to the Crimean Khanate, an empire whose rule in the region lasted for almost 350 years.

The amazing interiors of the Palace rooms do not disappoint. Neither do the meticulously landscaped rose gardens. The museum rooms near the end of the walk-through are packed with information and displays on Crimean Tatar culture.

Khan's Palace

Besides the intricate colours, textures, fabrics, and patterns found within most of the rooms, there is the Fountain of Tears, still weeping after all these centuries. It was commissioned by one of the ruling Khans to commemorate his wife’s early death.

Admission fee is 40 UAH.

The Fountain of Tears

Bakhchysaray eats

Le Pushkin Café

The patio is shaded with umbrellas at Le Pushkin Café. Vines, drooping under the weight of swollen green grapes, tangle with apple trees laden with fruit forming a peaceful canopy.

I ordered a pasta dish and a salad made with cabbage, corn, pineapple, and parsley. Superb. And kudos to my waiter who doubled as my translator (no English menus).

Strangely, the only beer on tap was Tuborg. And in bottles, Corona. Note to management: how about offering some of that fine Krim pyvo?

Salachik Restaurant

Traditional Crimean Tatar food, gazebo seating, nice views, and excellent service are the drawing cards at Salachik.

I ordered four dishes: yufakh ash (don’t say it slowly), a tasty soup with tiny raviolis; chicken shashlyk, basically grilled meat-on-a-skewer; manty, round dumplings filled with seasoned minced meat; and cheburek, a thin, crescent-shaped meat pie. Each item arrived hot and was fresh and flavourful.

Noting the absence of alcoholic drinks on the menu, I opted for a pot of herbal tea, which contained locally-sourced herbs and berries. Brilliant.

Orlovka Beach

A twisty road that snaked through scrub hills, farmland, and vineyards led me to enormous Orlovka Beach, about an hour west of Bakhchysaray.

Surfin' UA

The day was warm–about 30 degrees Celsius–but large sections of beach sand were vacant. In the background, half-built hulks of luxury houses competed for best-view bragging rights.

Orlovka Beach

A delicate blue colour, the Black Sea water was refreshingly cool and clean. Shame I can’t say the same about my section of beach.

Cigarette butts and heaps of garbage–albeit nicely organized heaps–daubed the sand. Suntanning just ain’t the same when a candy wrapper from a nearby trash mound gets windblown across one’s face. Evidently, the mantra Pack-in, Pack-out hasn’t caught on here.

On an optimistic note, I suppose a healthy percentage of Ukraine’s jobless could be deployed to clean up this otherwise beautiful place.

Dastardly garbage

Sevastopol

Sevastopol, a city of about 300,000, is a one-hour marshrutka ride from Bakhchisaray. The ride is pleasant enough as you’ll pass through arid scrub hills, vineyards, and the odd stretch of water.

Famous as the home of the Russian naval fleet, Sevastopol was once off limits to all but the military brass. Nowadays, the city welcomes throngs of tourists, mostly from Ukraine and Russia, who flock to the seaside dolphinarium, fine restaurants, and assorted amusement park kitsch.

Although located in Ukraine, Sevastopol is decidedly pro-Russian, which could make for interesting politics when Russia’s naval lease expires permanently in a few years.

In the meantime, do like I did. Sit yourself down at a certain Ukrainian restaurant up from the waterfront promenade and enjoy piping hot borshch and crisp Cossack salad (not made with real Cossacks), served by cute waitresses dressed in traditional Ukrainian garb.

A slice of Sevastopol waterfront

Upensky Monastery

Overlooking Bakhchisaray is Upensky Monastery, its Orthodox church carved into the side of a cliff.

Photography of the icons (devotional artwork of Christian holy figures) is not permitted. Security guards are standing by to chastise anyone caught breaking the rules.

Entrance to the church at Upensky Monastery

On the day I visited, the grounds were crawling with tourists. Not a big deal except for when I was crammed into the tiny church filled with chanting people holding lit candles inches from my body.

Upon safe descent to the entrance I fought my way past guys with long beards and dark robes to get a drink of the monastery’s healing spring water.

Chufut-Kale

“Volga, Volga, Volga.”

Referring by name to his husky Soviet luxury car, my tour guide affectionately patted the dashboard and gripped the steering wheel tighter.

We were ascending a narrow, rutted trail en route to the ancient cave city of Chufut-Kale (Choo-foo-t Kah-lay).

Strategically positioned at the top of a small mountain, Chufut-Kale was home to followers of three major world religions, all coexisting peacefully, according to my guide.

Mausoleum at Chufut Kale dating to 1437

Today, the city’s defensive wall, main street, and remaining buildings (the Kenesa buildings in particular) are remarkably preserved. The man-made caves, roomy enough to not induce claustrophobia, are hollowed out perilously close to the cliff’s edge. From this height and position the views are incredible, with groves of walnut and juniper trees blanketing the valley below.

View from Chufut-Kale caves

Bakhchisaray

Bakhchisaray

Bakhchisaray (Bahk-chee-sah-rai) is a small city located in southwest Crimea in southern Ukraine. The old area of the city rests in a wide valley between steep rock cliffs dotted with juniper trees.

The view from a steep hill in Bakhchisaray

Lenina Street, old Bakhchisaray’s main road, is treated as a racetrack / rally course by the motorbikes and tour buses that zip around its narrow curves and barrel down its straightaways. On foot, I navigated with extreme caution and made sure to always walk facing oncoming traffic.

Lenina Street in Bakhchisaray

Efsane bed and breakfast

Efsane (Ef-sah-nay), which means “legend” in Crimean Tatar, is a welcoming bed and breakfast (B & B) located in old Bakhchisaray.

The B & B is run by a woman named Shevkiye, who besides being a fantastic hostess and cook, offers English language lessons and translation services to the locals. She’s even authored a Crimean Tatar cookbook that features recipes for making some of the tasty breakfast dishes served at her establishment.

Touchdown in Crimea

Screaming babies and a white-knuckle flier yapping on his mobile during takeoff and landing were the highlights of my flight from Lviv to Simferopol (Sim-fare-oh-pohl) in the Crimean peninsula.

My driver was supposed to meet me outside the ARRIVALS door, but due to a communications mixup I had to wait a couple hours. So I watched the taxi touts, impeccably dressed in crisp shirts and pointy white leather loafers, hustle for business including mine. And then I cooled my heels at the airport diner where the beer was good, the soup was bad, and the pork cutlet, acceptable.

Finally my driver showed, all smiles and warm handshakes.

The ride through the streets of rush hour Simferopol revealed a congested, bright-yet-dusty city of 300,000. In the middle of town, my driver’s Japanese subcompact almost T-boned a police cruiser at a busy intersection. The officer gave us a nasty look as he rolled past and said something in Russian that I’m pretty sure wasn’t complimentary. But no ticket.

Our destination was the small city of Bakhchisaray (Bach-chee-sah-rai), a place of great spiritual significance to the Crimean Tatar people. There, I’d booked a room at a bed and breakfast.

With the noise of Simferopol slowly melting in the background, I gazed out the windows at the rock cliffs coming into view. The rolling green hills turned into rolling scrub hills and then back again. The sun was shining. This land was beautiful.

Booze, drugs, and swords: just another day in Lviv

The Weapons Museum

You’ll see impossibly tiny suits of armour, swords, maces, firearms, and other classic killing and maiming tools in Lviv’s Weapons Museum at the Arsenal.

Instruments of pain at Lviv's Weapons Museum

Beautiful and dangerous, the weapons are logically grouped and representative of many continents, which I suppose is testament to the planet’s history of violence.

If your stomach’s growling after eyeballing so much archaic iron and steel, head next door to the Arsenal’ska Café for superb local pork sausage with horseradish.

The Pharmacy Museum

The Pharmacy Museum (Pid Chornym Orlom) is located in a busy drugstore in Lviv’s Market Square.

To gain entrance buy a ticket from the chemist working behind the front counter. You’ll be shown through a door where your self-guided tour begins.

Drugs on display at Lviv's pharmacy museum

Scales, bottles, pill crushers, charts, and diagrams cover the walls and fill the shelves. One small room features stuffed turtles and alligators–secret ingredients to an ancient brew perhaps?

A storage cellar is recreated in the cool basement, where centuries ago vats of liquids and cannisters of herbs were freshly kept.

Kryjivka and Robert Doms

Kryjivka (Kree-yiv-ka) is an eatery where you must speak the magic words to get past the mock armed guard at the front door.

I mumbled something close to slava Ukraini, and it must have done the trick because I was let in and immediately given a shot glass filled with red-coloured alcohol. The jovial guard and I drained the shots, and then I cruised downstairs only to find that every table was taken and the place was completely booked for the rest of the day. Sometimes a little planning helps.

On to Robert Doms.

A leviathan among basement beer halls, this cavernous multi-roomed pub / restaurant is flanked by massive wooden tables and boasts enough elbow room for a thousand people.

One of the rooms inside Robert Doms pub

Everything in Robert Doms is huge including the bowls of soup, the 1.5L mugs of local Lvivs’ke beer, and the goddamned projection-screen TV that kept distracting me from my conversation.

Overall, highly recommended.

If Lviv was a chick I’d marry her

Unapologetically scruffy and free of pretense, this city of 800,000 in western Ukraine is a real beauty.

Market Square in Lviv

The favoured language around these parts is Ukrainian, not Russian, but if you’re like me and order your food in a twisted amalgam of three tongues you’ll still get fed.

Lviv is proudly nationalistic; cartoon Cossacks, the Ukrainian trident insignia, and tributes to the glory days of the UPA (Ukrainian Insurgent Army) dominate the souvenir T-shirt market.

The city’s crumbly and soulful architecture draws you beyond the tourist hotspots of the Market Square (Ploscha Rynok) and down winding streets until your feet and neck ache.

Sure, Lviv’s not without its blemishes, but what’s a ripe apple without a bruise or two?

Sidestreet in Lviv

Kyiv to Lviv by day train

The stretch of land between Kyiv, Ukraine’s capital, and Lviv, way out west, is a picturesque swath of rolling grasslands and cabbage patches, meandering rivers and small villages. At least that’s what I saw whizzing past my compartment window.

Ukrainian countryside somewhere between Kyiv and Lviv

The train was stiflingly hot–shades of my Odesa journey–but I was unconcerned with sleep, this being a 10-hour day trip. Besides, I soon found the air-conditioned caféteria car, mysteriously vacant save for the bored-looking cashier girl twirling her hair.

At Lviv’s central train station my contact was waiting in his beaten-down Lada. We drove over rough cobblestone streets into the city centre where I’d booked an apartment. Daylight was fading but I could make out the sharp lines and fine curves of the women and the buildings that edged the sidewalks.

Guided by the street lamps’ diffused light, I climbed the creaky wooden stairs to my rental and was relieved to find a large, clean space with 15-foot ceilings and, oddly, racks and racks of wall shelves. The kitchen and bath had the usual amenities; the sealed mega-bottle of drinking water was a nice touch.

Speedwalking through Krakow, part 2 of 2

Dragons and magic on Wawel Hill

Located beside the Vistula River is Wawel Hill. The main attractions on top are the castle and cathedral, both many centuries old. To wander the grounds is free; to visit most of the buildings isn’t.

According to folklore, there’s a magical energy vortex within the castle’s courtyard, but I didn’t see any dowsing New Agers; only snap-happy tourists gobbling up postcards and fuzzy dragons from the gift shop.

After a pic with the statue of Pope John Paul II, I exited the grounds via the cramped winding staircase of the Dragon’s Den, a chilly cave at the base of Wawel.

The way to the Dragon's Den

Outside near the riverbank, a gangly iron dragon sculpture breathed a pyrotechnic fire into the sky much to the delight of the kids gathered around its feet.

I bought a couple tickets from a teenage hawker for a 60-minute riverboat cruise, which turned out to be relaxingly fantastic.

Schindler’s Factory

Located in the neighbourhood of Zabłocie (za-bwoh-chee) is Oskar Schindler’s Factory, now a small museum.

Schindler's Factory

Large posterboards with photos and text in Polish, German, and English describe the history of the place and the man behind it. (For those interested in the Hollywood version, watch Steven Spielberg’s excellent 1993 film Schindler’s List.)

Admission charge is minimal, and there are plenty of interesting books and souvenirs for sale at the cashier desk.

Speedwalking through Krakow, part 1 of 2

Introduction

Krakow has been transformed, its rough edges and rusty underbelly sandblasted clean with cold hard EU cash. Forever gone are the days of monster potholes, crumbling infrastructure, and crooked cabbies. This is what my top-secret inside source tells me. I have no point of contrast because this is my first visit to Krakow, to Poland.

But I’ve a working set of eyes and can see that there are very few slick black Mercs in wraparound tint prowling the roads. Bike lanes, emblazoned with freshly-painted white pictographs snake through and alongside major traffic arteries. Overhead, there’s an enormous amount of air traffic, and the blue sky above soon turns a mushy white from the jet exhaust.

Jet exhaust above Krakow

Open alcohol is prohibited on the streets, which are clean and noticeably free of drunks and unauthorized vendors. Here, the cops are quick to respond; dirty beggars spoil the views.

One middle-aged woman, sauced in public on a six pack, was swiftly picked up and moved out of sight of the tourist hordes. Another young man was being ticketed for what seemed to be an invalid business license posted on his pretzel cart. He was cooperative.

Old Town

The Old Town, rung by pretty greenbelt in the city’s centre, is home to narrow streets and beautiful buildings including Europe’s biggest medieval square. Yet something seems a bit strange. Perhaps it’s the Hard Rock Café on the corner, a little ways down from the Quiksilver outlet store. Never mind. Stretch your neck upwards and enjoy the bugle call from the tower at St. Mary’s Catholic Church.

Medieval square in Krakow's Old Town

Kazimierz

A great neighbourhood like Kazimierz doesn’t have to try to be cool. It just is. Kazimierz hugs the north bank of the Vistula River and is a short walk from the Old Town.

There’s a lot of dark WWII history in this ‘hood, but these days you’ll find cozy pubs, outdoor restaurants of all flavours, old churches and synagogues, my fantabulous guesthouse, and Absynt, a friendly café and booze dispensary decked out like your great-grandmother’s living room.

To Poland

Katowice airport

With cynical visions of long lines and paper shuffling bureaucrats at the Ukrainian consulate in Krakow, I accompanied Suze to Poland.

Our budget plane landed at the modern, spotless airport in Katowice (Kah-toh-veet-say). We’d reserved seats on the airline’s shuttle bus destined for Krakow, a 90-minute drive east.

Aside from locating a WC pronto, my only concern, as a Canadian, was moving through Polish customs without provoking a revenge tasering. (In 2007, RCMP in Vancouver, Canada tasered a Polish man at Vancouver International Airport. He died shortly afterwards.)

Once safely ensconced in the shuttle, I marvelled at our driver’s moxie in charging one foreign couple 100 Euros for stand-by tickets. Call it schadenfreude; I think we paid 15 in advance.

In the graduating darkness, on smooth blacktop, the full bus weaved across the rolling, wooded Polish countryside.

Krakow city centre

At the Krakow bus terminal we schlepped our gear through the connected shopping plaza, which could’ve been in Saskatoon or Nottingham or Palm Beach. McDonald’s, cosmetics counters, angst-filled teens. Homogeneity at its finest.

Out front the city’s trams repopulated. An irritating drunk hit us up for spare change, but I told him in English to fuck off. We didn’t have any spare change; we had no change, which caused us a bit of grief with the tram ticket machines. My 50-zwoty bills were of little use until we decided, out of frustration, to hail a taxi.

Krakow guesthouse

At the risk of sounding, well, gay, our cozy little guesthouse was absolutely delightfully fantabulous.

The front desk person was helpful, we had the option of breakfast, and we were within easy walking distance of Krakow’s Old Town.

I’d seen bigger rooms in dioramas, but ours had fresh paint and clean bed sheets despite its microsity. And the toilet came equipped with a START / STOP button, presumably to help along those with shy bladders.

With hunger pangs we dashed out in search of grub. A cheerful delicatessen down the block was the only option, and I was surprised to see the woman behind the counter still slicing meat at midnight. We took beers, cup-a-soups, cookies, and cold cuts back to our room. Better than McDonald’s.

Keeping abreast of Polish cookie trends

Arkadia beach, south

South of Arkadia’s main attractions, and nestled at the feet of nearly-completed high-rise condos, is a rugged piece of scenic waterfront unassailed by the thumping sounds of techno-pop.

Here you’ll find bookish types, old sea salties in captain’s hats, and romantic couples of all ages walrussed on large concrete cubes spritzed by the crashing waves of the Black Sea.

Arkadia Beach, far reaches

Buzzing jet-skis and the odd luxury speedboat cut the plane of the dark water. Despite–or maybe because of–the ferocious wind, sail craft are few in number.

Watch your step. Stubby protrusions of iron re-bar poking through the concrete can mean a jammed toe or an embarrassing nosedive onto a stranger’s blanket.

Arkadia Beach, main

To revel in the warmth of Odesa’s summer sun hop a tram to Arkadia Beach.

Much more than just pebbly sand, private pay beaches, and guys tanning in the vertical position, Arkadia is home to unique restaurants, kebab stalls, even a cool 3-D movie ride cloaked as a Western saloon.

You can channel some of your latent road rage on the bumper cars and then binge on cotton candy and chocolate-covered ice cream. Entrepreneurs are standing by with their portable weigh scales.

When the sun dips, Arkadia Beach morphs into a taurine-fuelled, nitrous oxide-charged locus of excitement, hell-bent on dancing and drinking until every bottle’s drained and no one’s left standing. The myriad of pounding, pulsating discos spinning some of the freshest beats this side of Kazantip ensures the nightly party never stops.

But should you prefer your environs docile and the guys behind you at the kebab stalls sober, a daytime visit will suffice.

Section of Arkadia Beach

Odesa’s tribute to the K.O.P.

R.I.P. Michael

This memorial to Michael Jackson was placed at the top of the famous Potemkin Steps near the guy in the Cossack costume who refused to pose for pictures without first being paid.

Potemkin Steps: no wayward baby trams in sight

Odesa, day 1

Beautiful Odesa. A city of a million hustlers at the edge of the Black Sea. Suze and I step off the train after a night of unsound sleep.

The sky is big, bright, blue. The air, already intensely warm. We stash our bags at the train station luggage counter; our rental apartment is off limits until early afternoon.

Pushkin St.

Armed with a map, I have a plan. First to the clean, free toilets of McDonald’s. And then a walking tour of Pushkin Street to Taras Shevchenko Park, both places named after poets: a Russian, a Ukrainian.

Pushkin Street is a tidy stretch lined with leafy trees, ornate architecture, sleeping dogs, and sweeping babushkas. Our rental apartment, a charming relic, is halfway along. We duck into the building’s courtyard and stare at the balconies camouflaged with dill and tomato plants and wonder which place we’ve rented, sight unseen.

At Shevchenko Park uniformed teenage cadets cheerfully sweep the promenade and steps. They pick out bits of glass from the dry fountains, feathers from the gushing ones. The first joggers I’ve seen in Ukraine trot by in Speedos. Stray dogs bark at a guy on a bike. I recline and drift off on a concrete wall that overlooks shipping container cranes in the port. The sun climbs higher.

The Black Sea

Our apartment costs 60 USD a night. It’s on the main floor. No balcony, no tomato plants, no dill. The kitchen is lit by a horrid fluorescent tube that buzzes, but the recessed ceiling lights in the bedroom make up for it. We have a TV, fridge, gas stove, hot water. We can make snacks.

The cleaning person missed a few specks of mold in the bathroom and a small cluster of cigarette butts under the sink, but otherwise everything’s fine. Elsewhere this place would cost 40, but Odesa is a city of hustlers.

Overnight train to Odesa

A week earlier Suze and I couldn’t buy train tickets.

But here, on the platform at Kyiv’s Central Train Station, we’ve had to refuse an up-sell from a carriage attendant quick to show us a private two-person compartment that “happened to be available”. For an additional 400 hryvnias, that is. Nyet, nyet. Nyet.

We step out and walk the platform toward the locomotive until we find our wagon, #3.

Wagon 3’s stewardess–our provodnitsa–is a largish, likeable woman of indeterminate age. Laughing and talking fast Ukrainian or Russian or both, she escorts us to our compartments. Turns out we have beds in separate rooms, the revenge of the advance ticket office no doubt. We’ll each be bunking with strangers. A disappointment, but really, it’s all part of the journey, and anyway, we’ll be in adjacent top beds divided only by a wall.

It’s an eight-hour ride south to Odesa. Not ready to crash, I’m in Suze’s compartment chatting with her bunkmates: a mother and her young daughter and niece from Kyiv. The mother speaks English, sips on a bottle of Tuborg. She lived in Moscow once, was married twice, hopes her new boyfriend will hang around.

Out come the sandwiches. In no time the compartment smells of garlic sausage and floral handy-wipes. Our provodnitsa stops at the door with her cart of goodies, and I order black tea and a couple bottles of Ukrainian beer to help with sleep.

After an hour I head for my bunk where the two teenage boys and their mother are out cold in a fiercely warm room. The window’s seized shut and there’s no air circulation. I climb up to my bed hoping the A/C will kick in.

It never kicks in. I know because I was awake all night, minus 20 minutes when I dreamed the swaying, lurching train was derailing.

Around 06:00 the scenery outside changes from homesteads and green fields to the industrial outskirts of Odesa. Suze and I pack our things and roll up our mattresses. The train has been punctual, clean, educational, affordable.

I break for the water closet past our provodnitsa’s little office. She’s asleep in her chair, a shot glass on the table. She’ll wake soon to serve morning tea.

Random sights, Kyiv

USSR restaurant

Drab Soviet but nothing compared to the landscaping

Rodyna Mat and Kyivan Rus statues

Arsenal'na metro: one of the deepest subway stations on Earth

FC Dynamo Kyiv Stadium

I swear some of it's auto glass

The main drag Kreschatyk is closed to vehicles on weekends

Kvac (kvahs): a tasty, mildly alcoholic drink made from fermented black bread

Left bank of the Dnipro River

Andriyivsky Uzviz

View from Maidan Nezalezhnosti

Ukrainian government building

Superb Ukrainian beers

Gorgeous view from Mariinsky Park

Great patriotic war museum

The towering statue of the Nation’s Mother–Rodyna Mat–looms over the grounds at Kyiv’s Great Patriotic War Museum.

Carrying sword and shield, the imposing titanium figure can be seen for miles around. Inspired, Suze and I climbed the steep stairs up Pechers’ky Park to the museum’s concourse. Here, high-relief bronze sculptures and scenic photo ops abound: the Dnipro River, its left bank apartment blocks, the dark forest beyond.

It takes an army to pressure wash the thing

If you’re not blown away by the 80s-nuclear-war-movie vibe of Rodyna Mat, you will be by the sheer size of the museum grounds; a fleet of Ilyushins could land in the vast, open space. So much concrete. So tired, legs.

And then there’s the decommissioned battle tanks, repainted in pastel-coloured peace symbols and pretty flowers, courtesy of the local dirty hippies I’m sure.

Inside, three floors of pieces dating from 1941–45, the period of the German fascist invasion, are on display including official government documents, soldiers’ clothing and weapons, military vehicles–even a section of a downed fighter plane. A second-floor room’s entire wall is draped from top to bottom with photographs of dead soldiers. There are many displays in remembrance of the horrors suffered by Ukrainian Jews at the hands of the Nazis.

High-relief bronze sculpture at GPWM

Admission to the museum is a modest 7 UAH, astonishing considering the superb quality and thoughtful layout of the displays. You’re required to pay a little extra for permission to take pictures. Staff is helpful even though little English is spoken or understood.

Related exhibits, including a small lot of Soviet military vehicles and rockets, are a short walk from the main museum.

The vodka aisle

At Kyiv’s Mega Market, a sort of Real Ukrainian Superstore, there’s an aisle 30 metres long by 2 metres tall stocked entirely with vodka–mostly Ukrainian horilka, some Russian.

There’s even a friendly woman on hand to assist with choosing the perfect bottle, although most of the tired-looking guys I saw shopping grab n’ go style hardly appeared to be connoisseurs of distilled spirits. It must be a strange feeling, particularly for the old timers, to go from queueing all-day long for a loaf of bread to being overwhelmed with vodka brands in an American-style hypermarket.

Keeping on the subject of liquids, one warm Friday evening I found myself chugging a Chernihivske beer near three water spouts in a small park near St. Nicholas Church. People kept showing up with armfuls of empty plastic bottles, all sizes, but all three spouts were dry and tied off with orange-and-white safety tape.

“Voda, nyet,” was all I could offer in consolation to the puzzled and dejected locals who’d walked for blocks laden with heretofore receptive receptacles.

Later I learned that spring water flows up through spouts like these at various parks throughout the city, and is available to Kyiv residents free of charge, anytime of day. The only downside to this otherwise brilliant setup is that you have to lug heavy bottles back to your car and then up however many flights of stairs if your apartment’s elevator is busted. And it probably is. Get out the vodka.

Hydropark

Hydropark beach

Amateur gymnasts performing incredible triple swings on drainpipe high bars. Guys with Cossack mullets in muscle shirts pumping iron on gear made from tractor guts. Seniors in Speedos playing chess on riverside concrete blocks. Babushkas selling dried fish. Shawarma stands. Beach soccer. Rusty roller coasters. Karaoke. Drunks.

Just a taste of what you’ll find at Kyiv’s Hydropark (Hee-dro-park), a densely-treed, beach-lined island of fascination in the middle of the mighty Dnipro River.

On hot summer days half the residents of Kyiv jockey for prime beach blanket real estate on both the sand and the less commodious patches of chipped concrete and littered scrub.

Don’t let the brownish-green tint of the Dnipro stop you from going in for a dip; it certainly doesn’t deter the locals, who take to the water like, uh, fish.

He landed the triple-flip