PART 3, 2006 TRIP TO RUSSIA/UKRAINE: CHERNIGOV AND KIEV
June 23: Our train from Moscow to Ukraine is older and grimier than what we’ve known so far. We board at 9 pm--a half hour before departure--and settle in, but the cabin is stifling. Bill, Owen, and John return to the platform while I stand in front of the open window adjacent to our cabin, waiting for the occasional breeze.
Instead of a young hostess, as on other trains, we have a small, thin, gray-haired steward. He’s quick and efficient: checks passports, gives us immigration forms, and then linens, for which we lack correct change. He and Bill sort it out and Bill tells him to keep some money for a tip. Soon he brings tea, at no charge, and later comes again to offer refills.
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| John (14) and Owen (15), summer of 2006 |
“You guys have been troopers on this trip, and Mom and I are very proud of you,” Bill told them. They’ve pounded the pavement and lugged bags on and off trains, up and down escalators in extreme heat, pressed by crowds. Owen has been ill some of the time (Bill’s virus passed along) and John has low tolerance for heat and sweat, but they’ve complained very little and seem energized for each new adventure. We’ve encouraged them to go out on their own in safe areas. We don’t know it yet, but in about 10 hours, we’ll be separating from them for several days.
June 24: Having just exited the train in Chernigov (or Chernihiv), about 80 miles north of Kiev, we’re greeted by a sturdy, middle-aged woman and a lovely, teen-aged girl with dark hair and porcelain skin.
“We are your hosts,” says the woman, with a warm smile. “I’m Ryuslana and this is Inna; the others are looking for you on the other train cars.”
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| Sherrie Howey and husband Hamp brief Bill (L) on his duties in Ukraine just prior to our trip |
“Thank you! We need just a little time to organize our things for separate dwellings, and we'll need to do some laundry,” I explain.
“No problem. We all have washing machines,” says Ryuslana.
Our greeters give us privacy to sort and repack on the train platform, and then the boys go off happily with soon-to-be new friends.
“Your sons will join a group from the school,” says Ryuslana. “They will enjoy an outing to the river, some games and competitions, and then a concert in the evening. You will be hosted by a school family for an adult picnic at a lake.”
Our hosts Mikhail and Galina live in a comfortable, moderate-sized suburban home with a shaded yard and garden. Handsome, brown-haired Mikhail shows us the multi-leveled structure he built 20 years ago...2 sunrooms, 4 bedrooms, 2 baths, and a small kitchen and dining area with a table for four. They are parents of two teens. We never meet the older son. Their daughter Dasha, 15, will be out with our sons and other students during most of our stay. Her parents keep close tabs on her whereabouts as girls in Ukraine have been kidnapped by sex traffickers.
Galina--blond, full-figured, and motherly--offers showers and then invites us to breakfast: chicken soup, creamy rice with corn, salad of fresh tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots and dill, plate of cheese and sausage, sour cream/nut/raisin blinis, small fruit pastries, and to drink: coffee, tea, juices, chilled vodka, and wine. Feeling immediately “at home,” and with Bill translating, we jump right into Ukrainian history and politics. They have questions about the US, and fear either Russia or the US will “take over” Ukraine (independent since the 1991 dissolution of the USSR). Their thoughts on current leaders: “Yushchenko is weak; Putin is strong; we don’t like Bush.”
A couple hours later we’re on our way to the (man-made) lakes, driving through pine and birch forests and a village that was a collective settlement during Soviet times. Old people sit on benches in the shade or dig in their gardens. Government pensions: $80/month; professional salaries, as in Russia: $100-$200. 
The tree-rimmed lakes are peaceful on this sunny day--with families swimming, boating, and cooking food over open fires. We swim, rest, eat ham sandwiches and strawberries, and chat like old friends. Galina promises that if we come again next year, she will learn English. We invite them to Colorado, but “It’s so expensive to travel,” they say.
At dinner, back home, Mikhail demonstrates proper toasting. “The third toast is always to the women!” he exclaims...all of whom are then kissed by all the men, etc. A friend who’d traveled in Russia, knowing of my low tolerance for alcohol (more than two glasses of wine, and I’m silly or ready to doze), warned me about toasting customs and advised small sips of wine instead of vodka. So while Bill and Mikhail take vodka shots in traditional fashion, I sip my wine.
“You must drink if you want to have a fun evening!” says Mikhail...now “Misha.”
“Galina is not drinking,” I reply.
“She will drive us to the town center this evening...unless you would rather rest?”
“Oh no, we'd like to see the town!”
We enjoy a lovely park where old people dance to accordion music, young people stroll, children climb on ancient canons, and cathedral domes gleam in the setting sun. This city is one of the oldest in Europe, founded in the 8th or 9th century. Only a very small percentage of its 300,000 citizens occupies the town center this evening....such a pleasant change from the crowds in Moscow and St Petersburg!
In a cozy cafe, Misha orders small bowls of chicken and mushroom salad, vodka for the men, and wine for me. Bill wants to treat; I demur on the wine.
“Nyet,” Misha says firmly to Bill, and to me: “Have a small glass of wine and then I am going to dance with you.”
A party's progressing in another room, and people are taking the mike to sing local songs. Galina orders ice cream, but when it arrives, Misha says it's time to dance and leads me next door.
A party's progressing in another room, and people are taking the mike to sing local songs. Galina orders ice cream, but when it arrives, Misha says it's time to dance and leads me next door.
I’m not much of a dancer, but Misha is, and thanks to him we move somewhat gracefully around the floor along with two younger couples. Back at the table, he declares me his best American dancing partner ever. Bill and Galina smile indulgently. I suspect I’m his only American partner, but whatever...this charming man makes up for the lack of interesting men in Russia!
June 25: The Dnieper River runs through the ancient city of Kiev, serving as a natural divide between east and west Ukraine. The river crossing--on a metro train--offers a broad view of the city with its skyline of high rises and beautiful, old churches, several of which we’re soon to see.
Our guide Natasha--a good friend of FIPE--has a PhD from New York University and speaks fluent English, Russian, Ukrainian, German, some French, and “a little Spanish.” Directer of international programs at an agency here in Kiev, she’s full of pride in the country in which she gained citizenship through “lots of paperwork over two years.”
“This corner of the Soviet Union was once unified,” she says, “but now it’s three separate countries: Ukraine, Belarus, and Russia. We should have been granted dual citizenship when the USSR dissolved (she lived in Belarus at the time). The new nationalism negates common history. Students used to spend 2 weeks studying Pushkin (revered father of Russian poetry, Bill reminds me); now they get 2 hours because Pushkin falls under ‘foreign’ poets.”
Walking along a wide, tree-lined boulevard, we stop at a war memorial. Here, as is other cities, memorials are awash in flowers in remembrance of the 65th anniversary of the Nazi invasion of Russia. Over the past 10 days we’ve repeatedly heard this phrase from tour guides: “...destroyed and reconstructed after the Great Patriotic War,” and I’ve pondered the will and energy required for rebuilding cities and lives after war.
Being Sunday, we mingle with church-goers--babushkas in shabby garb and stylish young women with lovely scarves tied over their heads, round their necks, flowing softly down their backs. We visit a 10th century monastery, where monks lived in catacombs for up to 30 years. The tour guide recounts a “miracle”: 100 bodies, among the thousands buried here, were found fully intact. The 100 monks were later designated as saints.
It’s “Youth Day,” and on the packed town square--Maidan Nezalezhnosti--rock bands play on temporary stages under blue skies. Just 18 months ago hundreds of thousands gathered here to protest the outcome of a rigged election. The peaceful event led to the reversal of election results, and Yushchenko (who’d been famously poisoned with disfiguring dioxin in an assassination attempt) came to power.
“How do you feel about his leadership?” we ask Natasha.
“He’s not been able to deliver what was promised and there is so much secrecy. Officials are concerned more about their own interests than the needs of the country.”
We’re a group of 7 today...including Owen, John, Natasha’s 16-year-old son Valera--a friendly, worldly-wise young man who’s traveled widely with his mother, and Inna--the 14-year-old daughter of Owen’s host family. Inna has seen to everyone’s comfort and ensured that no one has been without a walking partner or lagged too far behind as we’ve traversed the city. Her English is as perfect as she herself seems to be, in both character and physical beauty.
After our visit to the Maidan, we debate a further walk or a return to Chernigov. Weary of the crowds and the heat, I vote for calling it a day, and the others agree. The boys go off with their friends for a Youth Day concert. Grateful they're in good hands, Bill and I enjoy another adults only evening with our now beloved hosts. Galina prepares Chicken Kiev in honor of today's outing.
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