A Traveller’s World

I was flying from Norway to Malta via Pisa, Italy, with just a backpack and a safari vest to give myself the mobility and freedom I needed to finally start appreciating the process of travelling. With four hours on my hands between the planes, I figured I would have at least two hours to spend in Pisa and even pre-booked the five-minute train ride from Trenitalia’s website, to spare the time needed to figure out the ticketing machines. Pisa is small, and thus better explored by foot. I hoped to get to see the Falling Tower instead of sitting at the airport doing nothing.

The reality proved to be even better than the expectations. The plane wasn’t late, despite a 20-minute delay on departure, it must have taken me a quarter of an hour to get to the train and within a few minutes there I was – walking the streets of Galileo’s hometown.

Just following the signs, I walked and I walked, expecting noisy screaming Italy with disorderly traffic and cramped streets with battered pavement seemingly dating back to Roman times. Pisa met me with a lazy mid-day softness and the smell of ozone. Nobody screamed and the only people rushing were the tourists. The cars waited for you to pass, the people were quiet and polite and the regular refugees were selling fakes along the street leading up from the station.

The Duomo and the Falling Tower seem strangely non-photogenic when I reach them. It is the angle of the tower than is disconcerting. Either I get the tower straight and everything else is bending to the left – or I get the tower straight and everything else is bending to the right. The few shots where the alignment of the Duomo and the tourists is correct do not do justice to the tower, because I can’t find the right angle to shoot from, and its top gets cut off.

I rush back after a while because I still have to grab a bite before leaving for the airport. As usual, I pass by the better cafes to find an even better one only to realise there are none. I end up almost near the station too tired to go back to find those really good ones again, and decide to turn onto a side street. Two pizza joints seem completely out of the question, while the third one, an empty cafe with plastic tables and chairs and paper table cloths in white and red seems to be just the right thing.

The man behind the counter greets me warmly – me or the obviously well-known customer who walks in with me? I order an omelet with zucchini, the first thing I see really, and try to order water and wine from the lady in charge, but water proves to be complicated enough, as she doesn’t speak any English. Raising her hands, she begs me to stop at once. Her daughter, the polyglot, will deal with me in English, I am told. Sit, sit.

I sit at the wall, facing the TV, somewhat intimidated by the home-stay feel of this cafe. When you don’t belong, privacy becomes a necessity. The customers who came in every five minutes were all greeted with equal warmth reserved for long-time acquaintances. It made the language barrier and my strangeness all the more noticeable.

When I had eaten, the polyglot daughter, a girl of about twenty, came to ask me whether I wanted anything else, fruit or coffee. Yes, coffee – and red wine. Somehow ordering two things didn’t quite work that day, but the wine request got through. Red wine? Italian? Yes, yes, please. She left with my dishes and came back with a huge glass, like the ones made for serving aged wines, on the bottom of which the 125ml of red looked like a tiny mouthful. Chianti, she announced, proudly placing the glass on the table and bowing her head slightly, with the air of an embassy reception hostess. The wine, nearly hot, exuded a warm mellow aroma, reminiscent of the earth and the flowers on a hot sunny day. It had the unmistakable flavour of Chianti, the warmth, the aftertaste…

 As I was leaving, the owner, her husband and the polyglot daughter were all saying good-bye to me, with the warmth reserved for a long-term acquaintance.

On arrival, a semi-civilized crowd rushes to the passport control stands. Unfortunately, when 10 planes arrive at the same time, even the fastest runners have to wait for an hour. I socialize with people around and behind me, and as time goes by, all of us become increasingly anxious about the luggage that is on the belt somewhere over there, somewhere we thankfully can’t see. I start telling horror stories about bottles and cigarettes and jewellery being stolen from checked-in bags. Nobody is really impressed. As my queue approaches, it turns out many never bothered to read the immigration form and didn’t fill in the return journey slip – which results in them being sent to the back of the queue. Another hour… On my way back, by the way, a pack of cigarettes was stolen from a box of 10, that was torn open and put back into my bag. A pack of cigarettes! Taken out of a box! I mean, who has time for this!.. 

I last went to Ukraine in 2005 – and, no, not much has changed since. I could have probably had a different impression had I stayed in Kiev, but, unfortunately, my visits are almost entirely limited to an obscure working-class city of Cherkassy, some 180 kilometres from the Ukrainian capital. Not that I was much impressed by Kiev either. Don’t get me wrong – I appreciate the greenery and the buildings, and I have seen the squat toilets and rude people before, but it’s just a capital city with an effective metro system, ugly Soviet houses and many Orthodox churches.

Ukrainians are very proud of their food. Or at least, this was my impression. Russians don’t have any food of their own, I’ve been told, borsch is Ukrainian, and, moreover, Ukrainian is more like the old Slavonic than Russian is, hence… Exactly, hence, Russian stems from Ukrainian! And Russian food as well. No, this was not a joke. And this was long before tensions started to form between the two countries. Some of the food is good, of course. I suppose in good restaurants in Kiev you can get your heart’s desire. In Cherkassy, it is oversalted and overcooked with too much animal fat. And the bread is tragic, even in the best restaurants. Perhaps they don’t use preservatives?

On the positive side, Cherkassy is small, with parallel streets crossing at right angles throughout the city, making it impossible to get lost. The climate is pleasant and even though there is no sea you can swim in the river pretty much the whole summer.

It seems people started drinking less. On approaching Cherkassy, however, I stopped at the roadside cafe – oh no, not to go to the toilet! you wouldn’t want that! – and saw two rather decent men sitting outside with some insignificant food and discussing business casually over a one-litre bottle of vodka. As I watched in disbelief – mind you, both of them were drinking, which means one of them was driving – a group of three were seated at another table, ordering a similar bottle of vodka… Again, all of them were drinking. I don’t think you get to see this often…

Would a tourist actually want to come to Cherkassy and what would he do? Honestly, I am not sure. Food and drink is cheaper than in Kiev, of course, so if one is not picky this will do. Petty crime is almost non-existent, but there is seldom anyone who speaks English and is able to help. As the city has basically been a village until a chemical factory was built in the Soviet times, there are no monuments or places of interest in the city itself, although some local museums in the neighbouring villages may attract those with a special interest in Ukrainian culture.

On arriving back in Oslo, on a plane filled with some Dagestanian ex-refugees and their unruly children, we were all made to pass through a metal detector and have our bags x-rayed before even being admitted to a passport control stand. It seems I am not the only one who is little impressed by Ukraine…

I went to church to pray yesterday, and as I walked in, four people had just started praying the Rosary out loud in English. This unplanned-for Rosary praying reminded me of Maundy Thursday in Valletta this April.

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