CAPITAL CITY CONTRASTS

I am not a frequent visitor myself and this probably makes every occasion very special and memorable.

If one were to agree that all roads lead to Kyiv, then more often than not the experience starts at the railroad station. In the usual hustle and bustle of arrivals and departures friends and strangers run into each other, acquaintances are easily made and views exchanged freely, mostly focusing those damned trains that never come or leave on time. On one such occasion, pacing the platform, I ran into my old schoolteacher. Many years ago she taught us geography, discovering for us the remote world of jungle and pampas. She was retired, of course. She had a huge and ugly wheeled shopping bag with her, once popularly known as a kravchuchka (now one hears the word kuchmavoz in honor of the current president’s economic successes — Ed. ). As we talked it transpired that the old woman was into the perilous “business” of buying weenies and selling them in Kyiv. Not by herself, of course; usually three or four women her age team up. This is easier in every respect: you can talk to and rebuff local hoodlums. I wanted to pursue the subject, but my train came, and the woman hurried off to her economy class car.

A provincial arriving in Kyiv is struck first by the rail station. For various reasons and in various senses. Those visiting after several months’ interval are impressed by the McDonald’s that seems to have appeared out of nowhere in the station square; the waiting halls look neat after repair. And one is surely struck by consumer prices in a most unpleasant way. A provincial finds it hard to accept that only several hours’ trip from the capital a cup of coffee costs four times less, even though served in a small provincial station cafe. And the same applies to other merchandise. Thus I waved the idea of coffee aside and hurried to mix with the crowd headed for the hospitable Metro (subway) station. Going down the escalator, a pleasant female voice from the public address system advised against buying products at makeshift street markets and to watch one’s step on the way to and inside the train. Subway life is a real conveyor belt. It is here that one can unmistakable tell a Kyivan from a provincial visitor. The latter tend to stop abruptly at the wrong place at the wrong time, creating momentary jams. They cannot adapt themselves to the general rhythm and the locals’ ability automatically to get their bearings and instantly blend in with the passenger flow moving in the right direction.

The trains are always packed, although here the schedule is meticulously observed. It was early in the morning and I looked over the car: people obviously on the way to work or whatever other business they have to attend to. For some reason women are always numerically prevalent at this time. Most are well-dressed and made-up, a look of concentration in all eyes. In their thoughts they are already at work.

Kyiv women. The most popular song about them has a line I find absolutely disgusting: “Kyiv lady, Kyiv babe, you’re not a whore, thief, or Gypsy.” In fact, my personal observations show that the capital is mostly kept ticking by women. Most offices are staffed mostly by women, and the same is true of the absolute majority of sales assistants, not to mention street kiosks and markets. Men have their own hunting grounds: government agencies.

With enough time, every provincial is sure to get off at the Khreshchatyk station. After several years’ interval a visit to the main thoroughfare is a really breathtaking experience. Everything is shining and one’s heart is filled with pride: here is our Ukrainian Broadway. Yet after walking a hundred yards this impression begins to fade. It is still a Ukrainian street, but all the merchandise is foreign, and the exterior is markedly Westernized. In fact, the word that jumps to your mind is avenue. And the same is true of the entire downtown: meticulously planned and sparkling clean, so glaringly uncharacteristic of the rest of Ukraine. The center of a big thriving state. And the people look like part of it. Well-dressed, energetic, going about their business, now and then producing mobile phones, placing or receiving calls. And the cars! The impression is that all have just been brought from a Western auto show demonstrating models for the year 2000. This is hard to digest by an unaccustomed mind, especially if only recently one visited villages where horse-drawn carts on wheels borrowed from immobilized rusty tractors are the only transport available.

The greatest shock, however, is caused not by all this sparkling grandeur, but again by the prices in stores, cafes, and bars. In fact, even foreigners are unpleasantly surprised. A Polish friend of mine spent a week in Kyiv and refused to believe when I told him that the average salary in Ukraine is slightly over thirty bucks. How come? And all our expensive bars and restaurants, big and small, where he paid for a modest dinner what the average Ukrainian earns a month? He was so agitated I thought he would have a heart attack if I told him that many don’t receive even that little for months on end. So I held my tongue.

Kyiv really is a city of contrasts. You see this once you get off the Metro train several steps from downtown. Here the picture is painfully familiar, same as in any given oblast center. The streets are strewn with garbage, peeling apartment buildings, makeshift street markets, huge stores, even restaurants are now in a state of disrepair. And the people, the common folk living by what they can — or cannot — earn, wearing second-hand clothes and poorly fed. They are also citizens of our free state; they know that to survive they must rely on their own resources, lugging sacks of vegetables from their small dachas, buying food from street vendors which is cheaper because there are no sanitary certificates. Old foreign and Soviet Zhiguli and Zaporozhets cars huddle together by entryways. This is also Kyiv.

I left two days later and again ran into my schoolteacher on the platform. She was full of enthusiasm and told me that selling things in the capital was hard, that one had to spend a sleepless night in the station’s waiting hall, pay countless bribes, and that Kyiv customers are really tough, fighting over every kopiyka. I looked at her and remembered her classes, they way I had listened breathlessly to her stories about distant countries, thinking that the teacher’s profession was the most important in the world. She must have thought the same and of course never imagined that toward the end of her life she would have to make regular trips to the capital to sell things.

Finally the train arrived. Settling down in the compartment, I thought I loved Kyiv anyway. It is a city of beautiful and talented people, among them Taras Shevchenko, Lesia Ukrainka, Mikhail Bulgakov, Amvrosiy Buchma, and so many others that make us feel proud of our land. How lucky you are, Kyiv!