I have traveled to many places in the world. Many of the cities are seared into my mind
for their vivid culture, stunning architecture, and tasty food. Most recently, South American wonders like
Quito, Lima, Machu Picchu, Isla del Sol, La Paz, and of course, Buenos Aires,
have found places in my mind and heart.
And while Argentina had an above the fold article in the New
York Times this past Friday (As Argentine Economic Crisis Swirls, President Keeps Low Profile), the Ukraine is
facing a far different type of crisis.
In 2009, I had the great pleasure of spending 24 hours in
Kiev. I purposely missed a connecting
flight in Kiev while en-route to Istanbul and had a fabulous 24 hour sprint
through the city. TIME magazine did a
photo essay and brief story in this week’s magazine (Kiev Rocked by Violence)
and it got me thinking about how beautiful a city it was.
So I wanted to share an essay of mine that was published in
Pace University’s Aphros Literary
Magazine back in 2010.
When I talked to my Argentine lover recently about the
stories in the paper regarding the economy in Argentina, he laughed it off and
said, “Yeah, this happened in the 80s, again the 90s, and the
early 2000s. It's nothing new to
us.”
But what’s happening in Kiev is new – certainly by modern
standards. And it has destroyed the
makeup of a stunning city. My essay
comes from a time when the city was more peaceful, and still in one piece.
Kiev in 24
If the New York Times can tell travelers what to do
with a city in 36 hours, I was doing it in 24.
Kiev, Ukraine, here I come.
It was a pleasant flight aboard AeroSvit airline. Considering it’s an utterly carnivorous,
meat-n-potato country, I can’t complain about my vegetarian meals.
The plane lands; we debark.
Initial awkwardness of deplaning after a nine-hour flight ensues. Blacktop against mountains with scattered
smoke stacks makes for a meager skyline.
Numbness settles. The busses
hurry to the terminal.
“Passport control,” customs, baggage claim. Let the real game begin: finding my way into
the city. My phone failed me, so I was
left to my own devices. I’m roaming
around the rush of people, all the huggers and kissers, looking first for the
exchange rate; second for an ATM; third for a way to the city center.
I’d read nothing about a train system and am not a big fan
of busses. It took a move to Harlem,
after four years in NYC, to begin enjoying the liberties of above ground
travel. I knew I couldn’t walk, and
therefore left with some of the biggest swindlers on earth: foreign cab
drivers.
A cabbie approached me; I brushed him off. I wanted nothing to do with his improper
albeit persuasive pitch. He cajoled and
questioned, we bantered, I buckled.
Hell, he was even offering to get me an apartment for the night. When I asked how much, he said “Sixty US
dollars.” “You’re fucking crazy,” I quipped. He laughed.
I said “$25,” “40” he threw, “$35.”
“Done.” I grinned. I’m always happy when I get someone to drop
just above half their offer—China taught me well. Besides, his English was good, he immediately
offered me a cigarette, and got on the phone to get me that apartment.
Driving now. He gave
me a run down of what to do, how to do it, and a short list of sites to
see. He pointed out Soviet-era
architecture: he didn’t need to. It was
overwhelmingly evident as the buildings were heinous and had fallen derelict,
reminding me of “X” marks the projects in NYC.
We crossed over the Dnieper River, onto the pre-war western
bank. It was gorgeous. Suddenly, beacons of eastern European
architecture abounded, meeting the eye with grace and exuberance. I did not study much in the way of eastern
architecture, but it struck me as an amalgamation of styles: Beaux Arts,
Neo-Classical, Gothic, and a touch of Rococo—if only for all the gold. Bustling streets with vendors and shoppers,
peddlers and bums, I was awakened by this now radiant city.
Past the government buildings, riding along the main park,
on through Independence Square, and just to the north, we arrived at my home
for the night.
It was lovely. A
third floor walk-up in a 19th Century building with wide, long
stairs. When I walked inside, my eyes
popped: fifteen-foot ceilings, French doors, a balcony, and a full
kitchen. And of course, all the Russian
gaud to go around: glistening ivy wallpaper, awkward room-size area rugs,
antiquated kitchen gear, and, and
velvet drapes, but no plastic on the furniture.
Off I went, exhausted, into a city I knew next to nothing
about.
City-centre was jammed—it was a Saturday. A festival was taking place at the southern
end and the main street was blocked off to traffic. Classical music blared from speakers on
streetlights. I felt as if I were in a
Busch Gardens theme park. Part of my
mission was to buy a phone card, as my phone didn’t work—quite the annoyance
considering my timeframe for exploration.
I walked and walked, stopping at booths and stores to see if they had
any. No one understood a lick of
English. Finally, a nice, I’m thinking
Dutch, gent asked if I needed help as I was going back and forth with the
gold-grilled woman behind the glass wall.
“Yes! Please.” All the phone cards were for mobiles. Great.
I continued to peruse.
I suddenly became aware of just how far east in Europe I
was. What they lacked in diversity of
skin color they made up for in their myriad meshing of styles. Some of it down right scary. It was a Saturday and I could probably count
on one hand the number of women wearing flats.
Most were in 6-inch stilettos, with platforms adding even more
height—amazing. Leopard with stripes,
lace with leather, spandex with tulle and pretty pink bows. I was mesmerized.
I admired buildings and poked into a few shops. I walked and walked. I realized too that there was no
open-container law. Everyone was drinking:
sitting and drinking, walking and drinking, smoking and drinking, drinking and
drinking.
After much ado about nothing, my stomach began to call. I was nervous about eating. I did not hear or see a bit of English. And I doubted there would be any menus in
English. Moreover, since I was not in
Asia, there wouldn’t be pictures to point at.
I found what seemed to be a cute, off the path place called
“Kitsch.” Good logo, good look, good
name: AKA a go-to place in NYC. I sat
outside in the sunlight because I had tired of being just as white as everyone
else on the street.
The waitress came over to hand me the menu. I laughed, ordering a beer to start. She got that.
I drank it. I said the word
“vegetarian” and her cute pale blonde face kinked. No meat?
Nothing with legs? Things that
don’t need to be cooked—but not fish either!
Fuck. The table next to me was
getting their food and I pointed to french fries. A vegetarian’s traveling staple: when all
else fails, go starch. I had a big beer,
fries, and chocolate ice cream. How
indulgent.
Back I trekked to the apartment for a late afternoon
nap. The bewitching hours were
approaching.
Totally out of character, I napped for two hours, as I’d
been awake for almost 36. Felt like a
hundred. I showered, powered, and was on
my way. To where, I had an idea.
Kiev is laid out as a U shape off the river; picture a
sprawling Amsterdam. Roaming north to
seek out more striking architecture and take in all the gold ornamentals, I
found myself where I had ended that afternoon.
I did find a building I had not earlier though: the Opera
House. Rich and round, its assertive
façade exuded theatrics and luxury. I
admired it for a while, absorbing details and signs of aging. Dusk made this most difficult, but the sky
added a mystical glow, begging my attention.
Walking further, I stumbled onto what seemed to be the Fifth
Ave of Kiev: Chanel and Tiffany were neighbors, I’m sure Louis was not far
away. I quickly caught a cross street as
I did not need their temptation.
Strolling again.
Hungry too.
I rambled through a market: fruits and veggies—mostly greens
and roots—fish and lots of meat. I’d
have cooked in a heartbeat. Just outside
was a large, seemingly traditional restaurant.
It was busy with groups laughing and chatting outside. I walked up the street a bit more to no
avail, returning to the aforementioned establishment.
There
was a sink at the entry. People were
lining up to wash their hands. Wow: this
should be EVERYWHERE, I thought. I felt
so proud to take part in this cleansing, but I kept it all inside and followed
suit. I stepped one room further and
discovered the cafeteria-style eatery. I
had a cheese blintz and three desserts.
As
night fell further, my feet tingled with excitement. I walked on, making my way to Independence
Square where partying had yet to cease.
I bought beers at the underground bodega, used a lighter to pop the
tops. I sat and watched couples fondle
hands, legs, and lips whilst sipping warm ales as tourists posed and glittered
with wonderment. I began to grow
impatient; my body was dying to dance.
I
hailed a cab, told him my destination: Androgin, Kiev’s premier disco. I arrived
shortly after midnight, shocked to find the place empty on Saturday night. My blood began bubbling. I had limited cash and left my wallet at home
for security reasons. I ordered vodka
neat and sipped very, very slowly.
Come
4am, you couldn’t move. The stage lights
came up for one of the best drag shows I’ve seen. Choreographed numbers and real singing, vivid
colors and costumes, not to mention all the beautiful bodies. Dense cigarette smoke loomed as a hazy
curtain; sweat and sex, seduction and lust dripped from the ceiling.
I got
home at 6am. Slept for a few hours and
was off to the airport. I finally
arrived in Istanbul and spoke to my mother. “Jeffrey, did you even find a place
to stay?” she asked.
I
sighed.
If I’d only known Kiev, its cabbies, and that clubs
were perfect for errant transients.
