Leaving Ukraine
The journey from Christa's site to the border of Ukraine is a long one and involved a two hour "lay over" in the early a.m. at a small train station that may as well be in the middle of nowhere.
I only had two minutes to find my wagon (00, which I had never even heard of before) and yank up all of my precious belongings, too much for myself to carry, let alone haul into a train in under 2 minutes.
Wanting to be prepared, I inquired at the info window as to which track the train would be on. "Ya ne rozeemeyoo" she said, Ukrainian for "I don't understand." She then asked if I understood Ukrainian because she does not understand Russian, something I find incredibly hard to believe considering she probably watched "Not born beautiful" religiously like everyone else several years ago. I told her that I understood a little Ukrainian and asked again about the "kolee" or "peron" or track number. She said she wouldn't know till closer to the hour. So I waited. And approached her several more times. After deciding she is useless, I took my things, and went outside for the announcement. I understood the track number, but no idea where this "00" wagon would be. I asked some lady also waiting and she kept asking "what wagon number?" making up numbers "is it 6? Is it 11?" I kept repeating "nul nul." She even took my ticket and repeated "11?" "Nyet, nul nul!" Finally she made a correction in my pronuncation and made two zeroes with her hands in the air. "I don't know," she responded. "We will wait and see."
By then the train was pulling in and she grabbed my bag and started running with me towards the wagons whipping by--which was quite a feat considering the inches of ice below our feet. When the train stopped, she asked some man who said it was the restaurant wagon, which fortunately happened to be the next one. I constantly mix up "next" and "last" in Russian and believed that I had a long way to run, but said screw it and hopped on the next (and correct) wagon.
After sleeping as long as I could, our train arrived at Uzhgorod and I promptly stored my bags and went across the street to buy a ticket for the daily 16:20 bus to Kosice.
Well. That daily 16:20 bus to Kosice does not run on Mondays. Facing the prospect of spending another day in Ukraine, I laughed to myself at the irony. And then I went back to the train station. They wrote down the town name "Tchop" and 19:20. I asked if I could buy the ticket now, but the booming oblast center of Zarkarpatska does not have an international ticket window. They gave me the time for the electrichka, but I wanted to get there ASAP and took the next train heading east.
At Tchop, I found the international ticket window (#9) and the woman told me to come back later, it was lunch time. Storing my bags for the second time that day, I decided to treat myself also at a nice cafe with a hot bowl of borsch and a cutletta po-kyievski. I then went back to the ticket window, but she was on a technical break, so I hit up the Internet cafe to check out my birthday greetings.
After an hour, I again went back to the window and she said she would not sell them till 6 o'clock. It was 5:20. Bored out of my mind, I went next door to the nicer "precity" train station and sat in a seat for 10 or 15 minutes. I then bought water, a Snickers bar, and gum for my journey. I made some phone calls. Then, according to my watch it was 6 o'clock.
I went to the woman to now buy my ticket--and she said I was still too early, this time by 5 minutes. I waited the length of time then bought the ticket and we chatted. I told her it was my last day in Ukraine after 2 years. "Like it?" she asked. I answered the affirmative. My life in Ukraine has been good.
I then had to wait another hour for the customs hall. 15 minutes before hand, I went downstairs to collect my bags, but the room was completely locked up. The room, by the way, looks like some sort of cemented decaying bomb shelter and is completely deserted. I now start freaking out.
I ran upstairs to talk to the woman and she says to go to the info window, which was the first one I checked out but the lady had gone. She told me to just go back, that she'd be back. I wait several minutes and some cleaning ladies saw me--the panic on my face. They chatted for a period of a few minutes, deciding who will help me and I ran downstairs. The man then came out of some other underground room and unlocked the door for me and carried my heavy bag up the stairs. I explained to him also it was my last day in Ukraine.
I then wait in customs. An older man asks me important questions. "What's in the bags?" "Ukrainian souvenirs" "Painting?" "uh...yes." "What kind of painting, big, new?" "No, yes." "Is it an oil painting?" At this point I decided to plead ignorance. The last thing I want is for the customs guy to look through my bag and decide what has worth and what doesn't. "It's a present. My friend made it." (This is true.) He keeps asking me about oil and paper. I don't know what he is getting at. I make like I am going to get it out, but he waves me on. Easy.
As my passport was being stamped for the last time out of Ukraine, I started to cry.
In a lot of ways that last leg of my journey could be a theme for my service. Nothing happens as expected, or in the time frame assumed, but it all works out ok in the end anyway and you're happier for it.
Ukraine has made me a better person as a result--more flexible, patient, and able to recognize and appreciate things.
Paka Ukraine, I will miss you and think of you often.
I only had two minutes to find my wagon (00, which I had never even heard of before) and yank up all of my precious belongings, too much for myself to carry, let alone haul into a train in under 2 minutes.
Wanting to be prepared, I inquired at the info window as to which track the train would be on. "Ya ne rozeemeyoo" she said, Ukrainian for "I don't understand." She then asked if I understood Ukrainian because she does not understand Russian, something I find incredibly hard to believe considering she probably watched "Not born beautiful" religiously like everyone else several years ago. I told her that I understood a little Ukrainian and asked again about the "kolee" or "peron" or track number. She said she wouldn't know till closer to the hour. So I waited. And approached her several more times. After deciding she is useless, I took my things, and went outside for the announcement. I understood the track number, but no idea where this "00" wagon would be. I asked some lady also waiting and she kept asking "what wagon number?" making up numbers "is it 6? Is it 11?" I kept repeating "nul nul." She even took my ticket and repeated "11?" "Nyet, nul nul!" Finally she made a correction in my pronuncation and made two zeroes with her hands in the air. "I don't know," she responded. "We will wait and see."
By then the train was pulling in and she grabbed my bag and started running with me towards the wagons whipping by--which was quite a feat considering the inches of ice below our feet. When the train stopped, she asked some man who said it was the restaurant wagon, which fortunately happened to be the next one. I constantly mix up "next" and "last" in Russian and believed that I had a long way to run, but said screw it and hopped on the next (and correct) wagon.
After sleeping as long as I could, our train arrived at Uzhgorod and I promptly stored my bags and went across the street to buy a ticket for the daily 16:20 bus to Kosice.
Well. That daily 16:20 bus to Kosice does not run on Mondays. Facing the prospect of spending another day in Ukraine, I laughed to myself at the irony. And then I went back to the train station. They wrote down the town name "Tchop" and 19:20. I asked if I could buy the ticket now, but the booming oblast center of Zarkarpatska does not have an international ticket window. They gave me the time for the electrichka, but I wanted to get there ASAP and took the next train heading east.
At Tchop, I found the international ticket window (#9) and the woman told me to come back later, it was lunch time. Storing my bags for the second time that day, I decided to treat myself also at a nice cafe with a hot bowl of borsch and a cutletta po-kyievski. I then went back to the ticket window, but she was on a technical break, so I hit up the Internet cafe to check out my birthday greetings.
After an hour, I again went back to the window and she said she would not sell them till 6 o'clock. It was 5:20. Bored out of my mind, I went next door to the nicer "precity" train station and sat in a seat for 10 or 15 minutes. I then bought water, a Snickers bar, and gum for my journey. I made some phone calls. Then, according to my watch it was 6 o'clock.
I went to the woman to now buy my ticket--and she said I was still too early, this time by 5 minutes. I waited the length of time then bought the ticket and we chatted. I told her it was my last day in Ukraine after 2 years. "Like it?" she asked. I answered the affirmative. My life in Ukraine has been good.
I then had to wait another hour for the customs hall. 15 minutes before hand, I went downstairs to collect my bags, but the room was completely locked up. The room, by the way, looks like some sort of cemented decaying bomb shelter and is completely deserted. I now start freaking out.
I ran upstairs to talk to the woman and she says to go to the info window, which was the first one I checked out but the lady had gone. She told me to just go back, that she'd be back. I wait several minutes and some cleaning ladies saw me--the panic on my face. They chatted for a period of a few minutes, deciding who will help me and I ran downstairs. The man then came out of some other underground room and unlocked the door for me and carried my heavy bag up the stairs. I explained to him also it was my last day in Ukraine.
I then wait in customs. An older man asks me important questions. "What's in the bags?" "Ukrainian souvenirs" "Painting?" "uh...yes." "What kind of painting, big, new?" "No, yes." "Is it an oil painting?" At this point I decided to plead ignorance. The last thing I want is for the customs guy to look through my bag and decide what has worth and what doesn't. "It's a present. My friend made it." (This is true.) He keeps asking me about oil and paper. I don't know what he is getting at. I make like I am going to get it out, but he waves me on. Easy.
As my passport was being stamped for the last time out of Ukraine, I started to cry.
In a lot of ways that last leg of my journey could be a theme for my service. Nothing happens as expected, or in the time frame assumed, but it all works out ok in the end anyway and you're happier for it.
Ukraine has made me a better person as a result--more flexible, patient, and able to recognize and appreciate things.
Paka Ukraine, I will miss you and think of you often.
posted by Molly | 11:15 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home