Favorite Destinations of 2013
My wish for 2013 was to live the year out of a suitcase. When January 1st rolled around, I had zero plans of putting that into motion aside from a weekend jaunt to Memphis and two weeks in New Orleans for work and celebrating Mardi Gras. Then, in mid-February, it all began: I was swept off by a job to the West Coast, where I spent a grueling five months working and living out of a suitcase while doing my best to enjoy the adventure. Afterwards, I had a healthy bank account and weeks of unemployment on the horizon — I seized the opportunity and finally took off on the Motherland Tour. I was lucky enough to explore what became some of my all-time favorite destinations. And some (most) of these I still haven’t shared with you — so, here’s a little recap! 5. Kiev, Ukraine Kiev had three strikes against it: Cold, windy, gray, and in AUGUST! I would normally run to get on the next train out of town, but Kiev still won me over, and almost instantaneously. When I drove into the city and was greeted by the gigantic Motherland Statue and the Lavra — two landmarks that are so unique and unfamiliar to American eyes, it didn’t feel real. I really embraced Kiev for the stark contrast to the United States and the challenges that came along with it. It was also my first introduction to a Soviet city and I loved the wide roads, expansive parks, and dozens of monuments. As a fan of places with history and architecture older than the 1700s, Kiev has a lot to offer, especially regarding the early years of Christianity (legends suggest the apostle Andrew visited Kiev in 55 AD). There are quirks and challenges around every corner; curiosities and interactions with strangers that force you to think. Everything was in a different alphabet, and few people spoke English. It was the first time in my travels where I was in another world from the moment I arrived — and I loved it. 4. Bremen, Germany My roommate and I hosted two Germans back in 2010 — long before I ever planned the Motherland Tour and had done any research or had even looked at a map of Germany. Our surfers were from a place I’d never heard of: Bremen. They offered an open-ended invitation, but assured us it wasn’t worth any special effort to visit. A year later, I began plotting my Motherland Tour route and pouring over maps. I learned that Bremerhaven was the departure point where my grandparents left Europe for a new life in the United States....
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...
A Walk Through the Ukrainian Village of Rozvadiv
Rozvadiv is an unassuming village in West Ukraine, located 45 minutes south of Lviv and home to only 5,000. This could be considered “Quintessential Ukraine”: endless fields, livestock roaming through the neighborhoods — and the only sound is the hum of the river Dniester and rumbling of the occasional train. I enjoyed my weeks in Kiev and Lviv immensely, but I didn’t feel I truly experienced Ukraine until I took a walk through Rozvadiv. When Hitler marched Eastward through West Ukraine, Rozvadiv didn’t remain untouched. Nazi soldiers passed through, kidnapping teenage boys — one of whom was my grandfather. It has been left largely as it was after the USSR collapsed, save a few exceptions: a few more automobiles and satellite dishes; plus a fresh coat of paint on the main cathedral. The cathedral could be described a Rozvadiv’s the main attraction, which is impossible to miss from almost any place in the village. Since the crumbling of communism, finding employment and maintaining survival in these villages has been tricky. Most homes have beautiful, elaborate gardens and some form of livestock. I was surprised to learn that while several have cell phones and electricity, few have indoor plumbing. Rozvadiv has its own school, government office, and a pair of product shops, but no options in the way of eateries or restaurants. (When I went out to lunch with my family, we went to the neighboring town of Mykolaiv, which has three times the population and a larger array of businesses and employment opportunities). Perhaps it was Soviet influence, but Ukraine loves their larger-than-life monuments — and Rozvadiv is no exception. I first saw this dramatic angel statue in my grandfather’s 1992 video of Ukraine, and for one reason or another, he had edited into the Lviv portion of the video. I assumed it was in Lviv, and that it would be one of the main tourist attractions. I asked every local I met, “Where is the giant angel statue?!”, only to be answered with bewilderment. I eventually gave up, figuring the statue had been demolished. When we turned the corner of the main street in Rozvadiv, there it was. I gasped with surprise. It was even larger in person than I’d imagined. The River Dniester The Dniester is one of Ukraine’s main waterways, and it was also a place of joyous childhood memories for my grandfather– happier days that his years of torment under the Nazi regime couldn’t erase. I took the soil in my hands, and imagined my grandfather fishing, swimming, horseplaying here — and how everything he loved was taken from him in a moment. And then I think...
When Life is Better than a Story (Finding My Family in Ukraine)
My grandfather came from a large family. He was one of seven children, and over the years and with additions of new generations, the family count had grown to 50 people (and perhaps more!). I saw a few pictures of my cousins, but it wasn’t until my grandfather went back to Ukraine in 1992 and documented his own adventure that my mother and I could see into the lives of our family, hear their voices and grasp how different Ukraine was from the US. How do you completely lose touch with an entire family in the digital revolution? My grandfather passed away in 2003, and it was the beginning of a very difficult time for my little family in Virginia. I won’t go into specifics, but there were health problems that ensnared us. Thinking, writing, talking in Ukrainian was too much for my mother. Address books got misplaced, phone numbers changed as landlines faded away in favor of cell phones. When I first started making plans to go on the Motherland adventure over two years ago, I consulted the Internet to glean any information about my Ukrainian family. I was able to find very little evidence of the surname of my grandfather, “Hryca”. My mom wasn’t sure, but she was under the impression that in the 20 years since my grandfather had visited Ukraine, Ukrainians had to adapt to life without the USSR. As a result, we suspected, everyone had scattered to larger cities. There was no one I could call or write to explain I was coming. I’d have to do it on my own. Going Anyway Compelled is the only way I can describe it. I had to go to Ukraine. I had no idea what I would find, but whatever it was, it was waiting for me. One of the best tips I’ve been given about travel is to make loose plans, but set no expectations. Not knowing if finding my family would be feasible, the purpose of my trip became “preserve the heritage and legacy”, as that seemed attainable. I wanted to one day be able to tell my kids about Ukraine– and not just from stories that I’d heard, but from my own experiences. I knew my grandfather’s heart was in West Ukraine. I wanted to pick up a few words of the language, walk the streets my grandfather walked, and go to the village where he was raised before he was kidnapped as a teenager. I had an old address, which might be enough to see if I had any relatives left in the village — but nothing else. I realized the level of difficulty of my quest...
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...
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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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