"Of Ukraine." It's a typical occurrence to hear someone describe a city, holiday, or custom as "the ________ of Ukraine." The intention, of course, is to convey that there are places worthy of fame here, that this country is just as high-quality as Western Europe. You should totally see the fountain in Vinnitsa! It's the Bellagio of Ukraine! Over time, however, this particular tagline more lowers expectations than raises them. Instead of picturing the Paris of Ukraine, you can't conjure up more than the Ukrainian Shadow of Paris.
This past week, I had the opportunity to return to the Boston of Ukraine, to a city with historical roots and a lot of universities, to Kharkov. I was last there during the 2012 Euro Cup, and the city was fine. The people are prettier, or at least not as beaten down by the world as the locals in my area of the country (the Rust Belt of Ukraine). The buildings aren't the same drab bloc apartments and factories as in Lugansk. Overall though, Kharkov didn't leave a deep and lasting impression, and I doubted I would return. When our regional safety and security meeting was relocated there, however, I found myself back on Freedom Square.
As for the safety meeting, we got to meet the chief of transportation police, try on his Soviet hat collection, poke his tarantula, visit his jail cells, and tour the yard where people used to be executed by firing squad (the Lethal Injection of Ukraine). We later went to a meeting with the actual chief of police and several of the higher ups. It was a very formal and serious affair. We were being escorted by the PC director of safety and security Sergei Pashynsky, but while he was parking the car around the corner we got sucked into the meeting.
The seminal difference between this trip and the prior one was the decision to couchsurf. The decision was partly economical, but most important was the chance for a deeper understanding of the city. Zhenya Dudenko accepted my friend Andrew and I for a weekend of touring, history, home-made wine, and great stories. Zhenya showed us a series of ancient cable buckets, built as a way for factory workers to commute across the marsh (the Amtrak of Ukraine). He knew the names and stories of all the monuments, and the locations of the best pints. He took us to parks off the beaten path and knew the best places to get shish kebab or hummus-stuffed rolls. Thanks to Zhenya, we saw a remarkable version of the city that was unmemorable the first time around. Some of the highlights included the statue with a beating heart, the eerily abandoned megalith bazaar, the miniature water park where locals fill up on potable water and the obese bathe in Speedos, and the architectural style known as constructivism, exclusive to Kharkov.
As soon as we started climbing the stairs, fellow volunteer Dawn and I were already being photographed and videotaped. We reached the conference room on the 4th floor, where everyone was already seated and waiting impatiently. The aide continuously spoke to me in Russian about who else was coming, where we should sit, and how I would be translating. It was only after seeing the name tag on my chair that I realized he thought I was Sergei, the 50-some year old ex-SBU (the KGB of Ukraine) bruiser with the cop lingo of De Niro and the penetrating stare of Rip Torn. Needless to say, I did not want to fill those shoes. While we were waiting for him to park the car, we followed the lead of the people across the table by talking under our breath and making emphatic hand gestures.
In the end, it all turned out fine. I didn't have to translate between Dawn and the police. I didn't even have to translate between Zhenya and Andrew, who studied Ukrainian and should by rights have drowned amongst all the Russian. The food was good but not unaffordable, the trip was relaxing but not without a sense of adventure, and the company was tolerable even sober. I doubt a third trip to the Boston of Ukraine is in the cards for me, but a year is a long time and I know better than to say I'll never return somewhere.
In the end, it all turned out fine. I didn't have to translate between Dawn and the police. I didn't even have to translate between Zhenya and Andrew, who studied Ukrainian and should by rights have drowned amongst all the Russian. The food was good but not unaffordable, the trip was relaxing but not without a sense of adventure, and the company was tolerable even sober. I doubt a third trip to the Boston of Ukraine is in the cards for me, but a year is a long time and I know better than to say I'll never return somewhere.
No comments:
Post a Comment