It seems that the farther east I travel, the more my life becomes a comedy of errors. Last Monday I found my 6-months-pregnant self sprinting (or speed-waddling) through the Vienna airport, through passport control and a second baggage check, all in the hopes of making the flight to the frozen east of Ukraine. Most of the way I was wondering why the heck I wasn’t running in the opposite direction. Surprisingly, I made the flight and was even upgraded to Business Class which, on our turbo-prop plane, simply refers to the seats in the front. I did notice a significant improvement in smells, however, from the back to the front. In the back – where I was thankfully seated for less than 5 minutes – I was whisked down Olfactory Lane to an overcrowded bus in Russia bursting with a nostril-burning mixture of body odor, stale cigarette smoke and a collective vodka bender. Fresh air is a rare commodity in such a small enclosed space but, psychologically, it is most satisfying to sit upwind of the unwashed masses. On the weed-infested tarmac of the Kharkiv International Airport we were met by a cast of characters who looked like the Village People.
After a hair-raising taxi ride (driven mostly in the oncoming lane) to downtown Kharkiv, I checked into the hotel- the only one in town which boasts a “Beaty Salon”. When I asked the receptionists if I could have a non-smoking room they looked at me as if to say, “Where do you think you are, capitalist scum?” One of them pertly remarked that, if I didn’t smoke, the room was naturally non-smoking. You can’t argue with that logic!
In the short time I had in town, I managed to fit in a little sightseeing. I walked through Freedom Square, which my crazy taxi driver, Ivan, had told me was the largest square in Europe (I found out later it’s the third largest), complete with a huge Lenin statue – “To remind us that we were once under Communist rule,” Ivan said. As if the destructive signs of Communism aren’t readily visible in everything from the crumbling streets to the faulty bathroom fixtures.
I popped into a couple Orthodox churches, but couldn’t stay long as the thick smell of incense and wax candles made me dizzy.
I found this wonderful propaganda poster at the Historical Museum.
The Central Market is the epicenter of useless junk and, if you have the courage to enter the Hall of Meat and Fat, a scene of sickening carnage. Here are some cheerful folks selling salo, or pork fat, traditional Ukrainian fare.
I wanted to take a picture of the beautifully stacked pickled vegetables but the pickled vegetable lady wagged her finger at me and said, “You could have your camera confiscated for taking pictures in here!” Huh? Top secret pickled vegetables!
I rounded out my trip with another, less successful, race through the Vienna Airport. I’ve got to stop doing that.
