The Road Less Traveled

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Arriving and settling in

 

            My flight left rainy Frankfurt a little late, but we arrived in Kyiv on time.  My first reaction was surprise at walking onto a jetway instead of having to walk down stairs and take a bus 400 feet.  The jetway may have been there last time and I just didn’t remember it.  The immigration line moved very quickly. The passport control employees (and they alone) were wearing surgical masks, most likely to prevent catching swine flu.  It’s always nice as a tourist upon arrival to be greeted with the feeling that you might be disease-ridden.

I got my luggage (apparently intact) and walked out the only of three doors that was open into the Kyiv sunshine.  I looked around for the cashier’s desk or other signs of the airport bus that runs to the Kyiv train station.  Across the parking lot I was able to spot buses marked “Polit”.  I couldn’t remember if that was the name of the company, but “Polit” sounded like Ukrainian for “to fly”.  I walked over and found out my interpretation was correct.

I took the bus (25 hryvnias, about $3) for the 45 min. ride to the Kyiv train station, then caught a taxi (50 hryvnias) for the 5-10 minute ride to the apartment I would be staying in. Hotels in Kyiv are either extremely expensive or extremely depressing. Last time I was in Kyiv my friend Lilia arranged an apartment stay for me. It is $70 a night and has been completely renovated.  Plus there’s a full kitchen, huge tub, and even a washing machine.  So I was looking forward to staying there again.

On the road to downtown Kyiv, I made a note to myself to tell my mother I think I have a lead foot (like to drive fast) because I’m 3/8 Ukrainian.  I also made a note to myself to tell Christie and Suzi that I passed an Avon office building with the U.S., Ukrainian, and Avon flags flying.   I saw ads for modern luxuries such as a Ukrainian golf school and club and a Nokia touch phone, a store that sold “vse vid 8 hryven” (a Ukrainian dollar store), a wooden church, lots of apartment buildings old and new, and messages from the Ukrainian president and other leaders in honor of May 9, Victory Day.  And of course I had my first sighting of the word “remont” (renovation).

            I called Olena, the apartment owner, when I was on the bus and again when I arrived at the apartment building because I didn’t know the house number. (My phone works in Kyiv, and although it’s very expensive to make a call with a U.S. number, I didn’t send text messages because wasn’t sure if she could read Russian written in a Latin script.).  She came downstairs and helped me get my bag upstairs to the apartment.

Olena showed me the rooms, the towels, the tea and coffee and refrigerator.  She checked the stock of toilet paper and found that the apartment is almost out. “You can use tissues (Kleenex)”, she said.  The irony is I almost packed a roll of toilet paper for myself, but then thought I was being ridiculous in assuming there wouldn’t be any, and the purse-size packet of Kleenex seemed more convenient. Maybe I have gone native after all!

I took a much-needed two hour nap, shower, and turned on the TV and flipped the channels. I was looking for evidence of Ukrainianization policies.  What I noticed were Russian-language soap operas with Ukrainian subtitles, a news show (likely in Ukrainian) with an English language news bar, and foreign shows dubbed in Ukrainian.

 

Khreshchatyk—Kyiv’s Promenade

A little after 7 pm, I finally got myself out of the apartment on onto Ulitsa Artema.  I had no idea at that point which way to go (train station to get my tickets for Dnipropetrovsk and Odessa or to Khreshchatyk to see the sights).  I didn’t even know which buses ran in which direction.  Running on instinct, I crossed the street and got on the first marshrutka [minivan which runs a fixed bus route] that said “Maidan Nezaleznoshti” (Independence Square).  I found the sign with the price (2.50 hyrvnias), and remembered to pass it forward. I also understood when I got a 2-hryvnia note back that it was being rejected because it was slightly torn (giving new meaning to the expression, “you’re money’s no good here”).  I got out a fresh note and passed that one forward.  When a woman sat next to me, tried to close the window above our head, said she couldn’t get it (shut), and pointed at the open window on the opposite side (an indicator of crosswinds which Ukrainians are convinced will make them deathly ill), I understood all that too.

The marshrutka ended up going down Volodomirskaya, past two beautiful cathedrals.  I made a mental note to head that way again. We turned the corner and soon enough we were where I wanted to be.  The square had never seemed so grand, so larger than life to me before.  Across the street from the independence statue was a large park area and another memorial/victory-type arch I didn’t remember.   I walked around the Globus shopping center near the independence statue, amazed at the number of high-end shops and stores.  I was even more amazed at how happy people seemed as they walked on the street, at the sight of signs that said, “Love Ukraine!”

I walked along and saw the McDonalds next to the metro. It now has a real breakfast menu with Egg McMuffins (here just called “MacMafin”) and blini (Ukrainian pancakes, not American ones).  I loved the sign above McDonalds for Ernst and Young—not only because it means there’s a big accounting firm in Kyiv, but because the sign below it in Ukrainian didn’t translate the word “and” as и or even і; it said єнд (end).

What I didn’t love were the prices, which my friend Tina had warned me about, though as Lonely Planet said there are bargains to be found. There was new café opened by the beer company Slavytych which looked lovely, but I wasn’t about to spend over $10 for a basic dinner there. I walked up the Passazh to find the Italian restaurant I used to go to with my friend Kitty, but it seemed to be gone. What I found on that street instead was a very nice Ukrainian cafeteria called Puzata Khata (and no, that doesn’t translate as “Pizza Hut”, though it sounds pretty close). For 40 gryvnias ($5) I got a bowl of Borscht (Smetana/sour cream pre-loaded in the cup) with pampushki (garlic rolls–yum!), “spring salad” (shredded lettuce, sliced cucumber and radish with oil), a fried pork cutlet with mushrooms, hrechka (buckwheat), and Bordjomi (mineral water from the republic of Georgia).

After dinner I continued walking and suddenly remembered that instead of taking the Metro, I could walk to the train station by turning right on Boulevard Taras Shevchenko, and then left when I saw the Vokzal  (train station). It took about an hour, but I needed to work off that hrechka anyway.

I love the Kyiv train station, the hustle and bustle and the beauty of the building. I love Union Station in D.C. for similar reasons.  But I was reminded I was in Ukraine when I went to buy the ticket. I stood in line patiently for one man to finish at the kassi (cashier’s desk) that was open round the clock.  When it was my turn I started to say what I wanted, but the clerk said, “This is not a kassi.  Go to the other side [protiv].” Although I half suspected something like that could happen, especially since there were words above the opening times that I didn’t understand, it seemed only in Ukraine could someone walk up to a window under big signs that say “kassi” and be told that this is not a kassi.  At least my listening skills have improved enough that I could understand what she was saying and what she meant.

The other side was a more pleasant surprise.  When I went to the kassa that was a kassa, and I slid my passport through the window, and the clerk said (in Ukrainian), “Is that your passport? It’s not necessary.” That’s a HUGE change from 2001, when in Kharkiv I had to have my original passport (they wouldn’t accept a photocopy) passport to buy a ticket.

From there I walked to the good supermarket (Fourchette), but it was already closed.  The tram stop next to it looked deserted and scary, so I walked back to the train station. I thought I would have to take another expensive taxi, but I found the marshrutka stops, found one that went to Artema, got off as soon as I saw a landmark I recognized (Soho New York Steak House), and found my way back to the apartment.  I trudged up pitch black stairs until I realized I had used the wrong entrance, walked back down into the blackness, and went to the next entrance which was locked up. I had to call poor Olena again at 11:30 at night to ask what the code was to open the door. Good thing I’m not a party animal.

A Footnote about Codemixing

 

            Being a sociolinguist, it seems necessary to analyze my own use of language today, especially compared with how I use them in the U.S.   I usually think of myself as Russian dominant and not able to speak Ukrainian.  In Russian class I didn’t use Ukrainian unless 1) I couldn’t remember the Russian word for it, or 2) it was very fresh at the top of my mind. At the Ukrainian school I tried very hard to use only Ukrainian (unless I thought something was close to Russian and then I tried to pass it off as Ukrainian).

Here in Kyiv, despite knowing the politics of Ukrainian and Russian and the stigma associated with code mixing (surzhyk), it seems there’s a race from my brain to my mouth, and which ever language gets there first wins.  And that race is run for every word in a sentence.  I think I sense that this is an environment where Russian and Ukrainian are understood equally, and so which ever variety I use I will be able to communicate my idea.  Sometimes it’s not a problem and even results in cute discoveries, like last night when I bought water. I said, “pol liter bon akva, budlaska (half a liter of Bon Aqua, please). I am not sure if “pol liter” is Russian, Ukrainian or both, but when the lady replied, “haz, bez haz?” I knew she was answering me in Ukrainian because “haz” is the Ukrainian pronunciation for “gas” whereas in Russian it is “gaz”.  I had never heard “haz” before, and it just sounded cute.  (That is the non-sociolinguist talking for sure!) Anyway, she probably accepted my sentence as Ukrainian, unless she was just speaking Ukrainian no matter what, which people have been known to do here.

On the other hand, when I was taking a taxi from the train station to the apartment, I said, “skolko stoyt poekhat do Bekhterevska 13?” (How much does it cost to go to Bekhterevska Street Number 13?) The driver replied, “Bekhterveskaya Pereulok?” (Bekhterevskaya Lane?)   I realized that he was saying the street name in Russian and I was saying it in Ukrainian because “ska” is the Ukrainian adjective ending, “skaya” is the Russian adjective ending. Plus, “pereulok” is Russian; “provulok” is Ukrainian. I had said the street name in Ukrainian and my question in Russian (in Ukrainian, “How much is it?” would be “Shkilki koshtuye”.) So he might have been correcting me for codemixing, or, he might be someone who continues to use the Russian street names for everything the way I still call the airport in D.C. “National Airport” and not “Reagan National.” Or both.

After I left The Bookstore at the Grove, I walked down Grand Avenue to Bayshore Drive and turned left. I started walking up Bayshore Drive towards downtown. I stopped at a park, where I had a good and sunny view of Biscayne Bay. I sat for several minutes at a bench overlooking the bay, savoring the moment of being bayside in Miami.

Around 3:00, I continued walking towards Villa Viscaya, listed in my “1000 Places in the U.S. and Canada you Must See Before you Die” book (thanks Christie) as well as my AAA guide to Miami. Along the way I went down some side streets to see some homes that judging from their size and design were built for some very wealthy people. One house that looked like an Italian Villa I had to take a picture of.

From the AAA map Villa Viscaya didn’t look that far from downtown Coconut Grove. But it was getting close to 4:00 and I still hadn’t made it. I was beginning to think about taking the bus when I saw a sign that said “Viscaya 100 feet”. Finally!

I entered the gates and walked down a garden path with occasional statues along the way to the entrance. It wasn’t cheap–$11 with a $1 discount from AAA–but when I saw the house in the distance, I knew I had to go in.

If I had the trip to do over again, I would start at Villa Viscaya and end up in downtown Coconut Grove. As I said earlier, CocoWalk and its commercial neighbors weren’t quite awake at 11 a.m. In contrast, Villa Viscaya seems to be enjoyed best earlier in the day. I had already missed the last tour of the day (included in the price). I had enough time to enjoy seeing the house and gardens, but some of the exits were closed off as visiting hours neared the end.  I also would not walk, especially in new sandals. 

That said, Villa Viscaya, in my opinion, was worth every penny and blister and deserves its place in the guidebooks. The house is a 3-story, 22-room mansion with a huge stone courtyard in the middle. Most rooms have elaborate coverings of European-style tapestries or paintings (except the more modest decorations of the owner, James Deering’s, study and bedroom and the “Asian themed” rooms). Deering had a marble bath and sink. He had a dining room and a breakfast room, and two pantries. One side of the house has an opening right onto Biscayne Bay. The gardens have buildings that looked like they had been made from materials right in the ocean. My words are truly not doing it justice. Sadly, no photos are allowed inside the house, but I have many photos of the exterior on my Photobucket site:

http://s193.photobucket.com/albums/z72/reisefrau/Miami–Spring%20Break%202008/ 

I left Viscaya around 5:30. Despite the hours I’d spent walking, I felt refreshed. That said, I wasn’t eager to try to walk all the way back to Halle’s. Fortunately, there was a security guard in the parking lot who directed me to get on the nearest bus and take it to Viscaya Metrorail station where I could change buses and head down Coral Way to the intersection near where Halle lives.The bus ride was much easier than walking, and only cost $2. I was “home” at last–for a while.

When Halle got back from work, we put on our party clothes and called a cab. Our destination: Versailles Cafe. Not a French restaurant, but a famous Cuban restaurant in the heart of Little Havana.

It may seem strange to you that I say this (it didn’t seem strange to Halle), but when I walked into Versailles Cafe, I felt like I was in Jewish deli. There was a case of sweets right at the front door, many tables, mirrored walls like Brent’s at home, and a communal energy mixed with the promise of food for soul.

While someone could take the argument further and point out that both the American Jewish and Cuban communities are diasporas that dream of one day being reunited with their homeland, the sentiment is felt much more strongly at Versailles Cafe. Halle told me that people still picket Versailles Cafe with signs protesting the revolution, to which people respond cruelly, “Viva Castro!”. There is also a rock outside the restaurant with a plaque dedicating the rock to the Cuban exiles who are Cuban patriots and dream of returning to a free Cuba.

The food was also not Jewish (pork abounds) but it was darn good. I got the special– meatloaf, red beans and rice and fried plaintains for only $6.50. Halle got paella, which surprisingly had meat in it. We also got a side order of fried yucca with green dipping sauce (yum!), and Halle ordered a pitcher of sangria. Both the sangria and the food were very filling–Halle had her food wrapped up, but I had to scarf mine down because I knew I wouldn’t have a chance to eat leftovers.  We didn’t even have room for dessert.

We thought about walking around Calle Ocho afterwards, but, as Halle’s landlady/roommate Miriam had warned us, nobody walks around Calle Ocho at night. Not because it’s dangerous, but because it’s not a part of the city where people walk.  Halle spotted a cab and we took it back to the house. She slept while I drafted this blog.

Today was the day I tried Ablouey, which is a kind of pot that is baked. It’s a little sweeter and breadier than pot, so it’s my favorite Togolese dish after fou-fou. I had it with grilled goat cheese ... [Continue reading this entry]