Quintessential Ukraine: Tales from the Overnight Train
When I took my first overnight train from Kiev to Lviv, I was naive–maybe even stupid. No one in my cabin spoke English; I definitely spoke no Ukrainian. I didn’t understand why the bathroom door was locked when the train was stopped. In the morning, I was confused why the train attendant popped into our cabin four times within an hour and chirped at us before we finally rolled in to the Lviv train station at 6am. The cabin was sweltering hot, and I never got the tea that I had paid for. It had been an experience, but nothing I was keen on reliving. I promised I’d take the day train for the return journey. That had been a month ago. I was still riding high off the thrill of finding family in the most epic way imaginable. I’d spent the last week meeting/visiting several cousins all across Western Ukraine. The Motherland Tour had been a much larger success than I’d dreamed. I didn’t want to leave Lviv, but my roommate was meeting me in Germany that week, and she likely would’ve been irritated if I bailed in a brief Facebook message, “Sorry, I’m staying in Ukraine…but have fun alone in Germany!” (and rightfully so). I stalled as long as possible to visit with my delightful cousins (26 years is a lot of time to make up!), until I had no choice but to take the overnight train. I had to get back to Kiev. The Ukrainian Train Adventure I entered the cabin of my train in Lviv, where an older gentleman was curled up on one of the upper cots. He immediately sat up, and began chattering away in Ukrainian. At this point, I’d had a whopping three weeks of Ukrainian language study under my belt. Definitely not enough for conversation, but I could catch one or two words per sentence. I’d also become quite good at reading hand gestures and facial expressions. (If you ever need a teammate for a game of charades with Ukrainians, I’m your girl!) Through a combination of my limited Ukrainian and body language-reading abilities, I learned the gentleman was a professor from the city of Ivano-Frankivsk; and for about half an hour, he sat and spoke to me in slow, clear Ukrainian. Through a combination of charades, my bad Ukrainian, and Google Translate, I told him that I worked in television production and was here visiting family. He was delighted, and explained his daughter had a similar career. He eagerly asked me the English word for a few things — which I was surprised to be able to translate. I wondered if I was the first American he’d...
Buying Train Tickets in Ukraine – Is There a Name for That?
“Laryssa” is a very odd name for someone growing up in a small southern town in the mountains of Virginia. I remember being in kindergarten and having my sweet teacher, in her thick southern drawl, asking me to explain my name — which is a complicated question for a little kid. My mom fielded these questions with the blanket statement, “It’s Ukrainian. Her grandfather is from Ukraine.” My last name is even worse, but there’s no cool explanation behind it. It might be German, it might be Italian. Let’s just say it starts with an E and is pronounced like Amy. Adventures at the Train Station Taking a train is the most efficient way to get from Kyiv to Lviv. At only 197 UAH ($25 USD), it’s also cheap. The catch? Surviving the train-ticket-purchasing process. I’d been warned that buying train tickets in Ukraine is… an experience. It’s guaranteed to be a nightmare, regardless of how much you try to prepare yourself. I’d heard story after story of the ticketing agents being rude to foreigners, and that no one speaks English. I tried to be clever and get around the process by buying the ticket online, but of course when it came time to process payment, the website kept crashing (ah Ukraine, at least you’re trying). I mustered up some courage, wrote out what I wanted in Russian with my ideal departure time and the date, and marched to the Central Station in Kyiv. There’s no main ticket counter at the Kyiv train station. There’s about 30 ticket windows, all selling specific tickets, each labeled in Russian — and thanks to last year’s EuroCup, the windows are also labeled in very vague English. After trying to puzzle together the weird English into something that could possibly mean “Local Trains”, I finally gave up and picked a random window. It was the wrong one, naturally. But they did direct me to windows 8 and 9. It would happen that windows 8 and 9 were labeled as “international trains”, which made even less sense to me as Lviv is definitely in Ukraine, but whatever. The woman at window 8 looked to be mid-40s, but had a very stern and distracted look. She didn’t want to be bothered. Even still, I went up to the window, and in my best Russian, squeaked, “Proshu, Kyiv Lviv?” and handed over my little piece of paper with my details. “When? What class?” the lady barked at me in English, stone-faced. Irritated English is better than no English at all! “Tomorrow. Night train. Second class.” She typed in some numbers on her antiquated computer. “Full. No...
Dealings with a Second Hand Clothing Pimp in Kiev
My grandfather, for the sweet man that he was, had an extremely thrifty side: he loved to haggle. It was a part of his upbringing in Ukraine. Get something at cost or lower, if at all possible. So, when I was invited to visit one of Kiev’s largest second-hand flea markets to find a jacket, I was overjoyed to give my bartering chops a go and make my grandfather proud. What gems would we unearth in the second hand wonders of Kiev? I envisioned myself strutting around Nashville in a large fur coat and ushanka that I’d score for $5. We stepped off the subway and into second-hand heaven: an endless sea of countless shirts, jeans, jackets, belts, shoes, bathing suits, and even wet suits spilling out. The options were unlimited. We finally picked our store, in search of a jacket that had both personality and practicality to suit Alex’s needs for his upcoming trip to Finland. (It took us longer than it should’ve to talk ourselves out of going through the long rows of 90’s-style leather jackets.) We finally found the winner that possessed functionality and a little bit of color. As Alex put it on, a pretty young girl sporting a fanny pack approached us. I’d seen similar young girls manning the other stores and found it to be strange. They were essentially attractive shepherds, watching over the used merchandise. “Can’t I just hold onto this and look around?” Alex muttered. The girl was now hovering right next to us. It was time to haggle. We asked how much in broken Russian. She whipped out her cell phone, opened the calculator app, and handed the phone to me. She wanted us to give the starting price. “10 hryvnia?” I suggested. My cheapness knows no bounds, even when dealing with a currency that is worth about 1/8th of my own. “I don’t want to insult her,” said Alex sensibly. We settled at 50 griven. I handed the phone back to the girl. The girl laughed and shook her head. “Ni, ni!” She typed in 100. Now this is real bartering, even if done through a sad cell phone calculator, I thought to myself. We were about to counter-offer at 70 when a slick looking man with dark features and well-fitted jeans approached us. He gave us the once-over and muttered some things to the girl in Russian while giving us disapproving glances. The girl answered with submission and skirted away. He was the Boss, I realized; the Clothing Pimp in charge of all these young girls. When you start asking too many questions and disrupt the process and...
Adventures in Uruguay
With 6 full days in Buenos Aires, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to dart across the Riviere de la Plata and spend a day exploring Colonia del Sacramento, Uruguay. Uruguay is, in all honestly, a country I knew nothing about, nor did I ever imagine I’d visit. After wandering around the town for a few hours and with only an hour before our ferry was scheduled to depart, we decided we wanted to venture to an area just outside of town, to see the Plaza de Torros, a now abandoned bullring built in the early 1900’s. We could’ve flagged a taxi, or rented a scooter, as so many other daytrippers had done and were buzzing all over town. But I’m always bent on the cheapest way of doing things, as is Trista. And so, with only an hour left in Uruguay, we opted to wait for the public bus, which we didn’t expect should take very long. After ten minutes with no bus, I started looking agitatedly at my watch – our minutes left in Uruguay were ticking by. I never ride public transportation in Nashville- ever– so in my mind, buses should magically appear every 5 minutes. When that didn’t happen, my anxiety grew. As a lover of foreign architecture, I really wanted to see the Plaza de Torros – but I didn’t want to get stuck in Uruguay with nothing but my passport. I saw a bus appear over the horizon. I lept from the bench excitedly, completely ignoring the bus number. I wanted to get on it simply because at least it was going somewhere, but the old Uruguayan woman also waiting at our stop wagged her finger at me. I took a deep breath and sat back down. Finally, the old public bus bearing the correct number came bumbling up the hill, creaking to a slow stop in front of us. We ambled to the back of the bus, where we were met by stares from locals. Tourists must use the scooters, evidently. As the bus sputtered down the road, taking us further and further out of town, I looked at the neighborhoods, dingy with Latin American spirit from years of dirt kicking up off the dusty road. Traffic lights were nonexistent, street signs were rusty from years of rain and wind, making it impossible for us to follow along on our map. It was the real Uruguay, not polished for tourist eyes. After a good 15 minute ride, the bus stopped at the Plaza del Torros, and we took in the bizarre sight of a Coliseum set in the middle of a quiet neighborhood. Much to our dismay,...
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I'm Laryssa, and when I'm not working in film or television, I'm attempting to travel -- or I'm here, providing resources for working in film or travel. Read more Elsewhere on the internets
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