New Year's in Kiev

They greeted us at the hostel with salo, pelmeni, and syrniki. It was a narrow room, featuring a cracked old, black fake-leather couch across from the receptionist’s counter. It was New Year’s Eve—not the Orthodox, Julian New Year, but the Gregorian—and they were preparing for a celebration. I took the meat and cheese and shoved it greedily into my gullet. I was hungry, and I loved trying new foods. I had never been to Ukraine before. Everyone in Moscow had told me that the culture was similar, but no one in Moscow greeted you at the door with snacks.

“Take this,” said the man who had driven us from the airport to the hostel, who was presumably one of the owners of the place, “You will like it, I promise you that.”

I took one; it was a shot of their homemade vodka. It sat atop a tray on the counter. It looked discolored, murky and golden.

“Why’s it colored like that?” I said.

“It’s homemade!” said the cab driver, whose name I later learned was Nikolai, “It has tasty flavor—try it!”

I begrudgingly agreed.

“Good,” he said. “Now, before we drink, let me say something. A small speech! I am so glad you traveled to Kiev. Thank you for trusting us and choosing to stay at our hostel. It’s not big, I know! It’s not in the center of the city, but you chose to stay here anyway. Thank you for that. To your health!”

We then clinked a cheers to everyone’s health and downed the vodka. It was delicious. There was the expected chemical bite, though not so much as usual, and there was some sweet heat to it, as if a salty, spicy cinnamon. I chased it, as is customary, with a pimply pickle.

We did another, after which I became a little woozy. The flight and subsequent car ride from the airport had exhausted me, and the vodka didn’t help. I looked to the receptionist, who introduced herself as Oksana, as if gesturing to pay for my room. I knew the price; I gave her 4,000 hryvnia, good for the four nights.

“Could you pay in American dollar, if you have it?” she asked politely.

I did have it. I had changed many of my collected rubles in Moscow into USD because I knew they would convert better once I’d arrived in Kiev. I gave her a $100 bill, Ben Franklin’s judgmental, pretentious face glaring at her as she placed it into the register. Don’t get me wrong, I respect Ben, but it’s not his best look, the one on the bill.

“I will show you to your room,” she said, rising from her chair behind the counter.

She led us out of the lobby into a narrow hallway. We walked to its end, stopping at the door furthest left.

“Izvinite!” yelled a small kid, pushing to get past the three of us, our combined bulk filling the majority of the claustrophobic hallway. I moved aside. “Spasibo!” He yelled, sprinting down the hall.

I noticed he was speaking Russian to me, which I found confusing. I knew the two countries had a shared culture dating back to the ancient world—all the way back to Kievan Rus, established in 882—but they were currently at war. Donetsk and Luhansk, both in the east, were under siege, infiltrated by Putin-armed rebels. I hadn’t imagined I would hear much Russian in the capital, Kiev.

We entered our room, which featured a full-sized bed on one side, bunk beds on the other, and about two feet of space in between. A grated metal window provided a grounds-eye-view of the outside snowy alleyway.

“Thanks,” Tim said, stepping inside confidently. He then gave me a 24oz. bottle of beer, Andriivskiy Ale, which I twisted open and glugged.

“Where did you get this?” I said.

“Picked it up in the little produkty around the corner after we arrived, while you were eating snacks with the locals.”

“Good call!” I said, taking another drink. We had a big night on the town in mind. We were going to go down to Maidan Square, get drunk, and see the sights. I wanted to see the square itself, to see Saint Sophia Cathedral and Saint Michael’s Golden Domed Monastery. I wanted to drink glint-wine and listen to traditional music. I was excited.

We drank the rest of our beers, played a quick game of Durak, which we had been learning since we’d moved to Moscow months previous, and stepped out into the frigid Ukrainian night. The bus stop was just at the bottom of the hill. We were in a bit of a rundown part of the city called Petrivka.

Just outside the hostel, we heard a collection of large men, and Oksana, talking with hands in their pockets to protect from the buffeting winter wind.

“You come back later?” said Oksana, wavering and shivering, “We have New Years performance, you need see it.”

“Yeah?” said Tim, “Maybe we’ll come back and catch it.”

“You come back,” said one of the two men, both of whom were leaning against the chalky stone tile of the building. He puffed his cigarette—an L&M Red—and spat the smoke in rhythmic exhalation into the frigid air.

“They soldiers,” said Oksana. “Come from Luhansk. Come to celebrate New Year before go back war.”

The men grunted, one of them kicking around at the piling snow, wrenching free a pint of vodka from its powdery encasement on the ground and twisting open the bottle to take a healthy swig. He grimaced, his dark eyes bloodshot. They both looked at us, not in an aggressive way, but their gaze was hard. It was their normal look, as far as I could tell.

“We’ll come back!” said Tim

“We see you then,” said the receptionist.

We walked down the hilly street toward the bus stop, sliding involuntarily in the slippery snow; our drunkenness furthering our instability. I once slid around like a jester, nearly eating shit. Tim laughed at me, pointing.

“Let’s go!” he said, “Our marshrutka is pulling up!”

We dove into the van—one of the private taxis common in former Soviet cities—and slid the door shut. It sped off back into traffic, its backside fishtailing in the slush and snow. Tim and I sat in the back on crusty cushioned seats.

“Ukraine!” said Tim, “We made it!”

“Hell yeah!” I said.

We were happy. We had wanted to take a New Year’s vacation—we got several weeks off at the end of the year, as is customary in Russia—but we didn’t have enough money to travel to a warmer European destination. No Rome, no Athens, no Paris. We could only afford Kiev. That was fine with us, though. We had each wanted to visit Ukraine since we had arrived in Moscow. Kiev was the elder city—the capital of both Russian and Ukrainian culture, one of the elite Slavic cities—so shrouded in mythology, folklore, and intense history. St. Petersburg is similar—with its incredible literary prestige—but Kiev is so old; certifiably ancient.

The marshrutka dropped us at the nearest subway station, named Petrivka. We hopped off and scrambled down the stairway into the underbelly of the platform. Subway stations in most former Soviet cities—especially in culturally irreplaceable cities like Moscow, St. Petersburg, and Kiev—dive deep into the ground, featuring escalators escorting passengers into the caverns of the earth. This was to protect from the American bomb threat. When World War II finished, two superpowers were left standing. One of those powers had already used their fancy new nuclear bombs—in part to scare the other power—on the Japanese enemy, twice. The Soviet government understood the message. They constructed their subways deep into the earth.

I grasped the moving handle of the escalator, looking at local advertisements as the escalator descended. I saw an ad for a Master and Margarita theatric performance. After waiting around on the platform for about thirty seconds, a train arrived, right on time. In Kiev, as in most former-Soviet cities, metro trains run in two-minute intervals—incredibly efficient. We stepped inside, the pre-recorded voice announcing in both Ukrainian and Russian that the doors were closing, after which they slammed shut with force. The train sped off in the direction of the city center, shaking and whirring along its pitch-black path. We were on our way to Maidan Square.

Ascending the stairwell leading outward from the interior of the subway into the frigid evening, I noticed towering above me the Independence Monument, the golden arms of its winged angel spread openly skyward. The monument had replaced a huge statue of Lenin, which previously stood in the center of the square. It was torn down in 1991, after the fall, and replaced with the Independence Monument. Lenin doesn’t inspire within me much hatred, like he does so many other, more capitalistically minded individuals. I think he had positive intentions, he just wasn’t always the best at enacting his plans or realizing his ideas. I also think he was impersonal, ruthless, and lacking empathy—not uncommon among world leaders; likely their shared personality flaw; the root of so many downfalls. But regardless—the Independence Monument is stunning, much more memorable than a statue of Lenin, which already exists in nearly every former-Soviet town or city.

Surrounding the monument were numerous large posters of brave individuals who sacrificed their bodies during the Euromaidan demonstrations. Images drawn by local cartoonists were also on display, one of which featured Vladimir Putin—wearing a red bandana, a nefarious glare in his eye—as an obvious bandit, a lying thief to be distrusted. Another featured Barrack Obama hanging Putin by the neck from an oil pipeline as he twisted the valve closed.

A white-bearded, elderly man stood silently praying in front of the monument. He was wearing thick black woolen gloves, a leather jacket, and a black cap. He was holding two images of the Virgin Mary in each hand. He looked pious, though sorrowful. Dejected and uncertain.

“Let’s go find some food,” I said, looking at Tim, “I’m fucking hungry.”

We walked across Maidan Square toward the old buildings housing hotels and restaurants on the other side.

“Look!” said Tim, “A shawarma stand! I need to see if the shawarma in Kiev is as good as it is in Moscow.”

“Dude,” I said, “I eat shawarma every day at work. I don’t want to come here and eat more shawarma. Let’s go to the restaurant over there; it looks like they have American-style food. I want a burger and some fries.”

“All right, fine,” said Tim.

It was indeed an American-style restaurant—a wrap-around bar surrounding three TVs, all of which were playing American college basketball. The Kansas Jayhawks were playing the Kentucky Wildcats in a top-five matchup on CBS. At the bar sat a lonely man watching on in excitement, dipping slaty pieces of grenki in a thick sauce and chewing in grinding anticipation. As it happens, I was wearing a Kentucky sweatshirt under my now unzipped coat, Kentucky being my home state.

“Hey!” said the man, “You like basketball?”

“Yeah,” I said, “I’m from Kentucky.”

“I’m cheering for Kansas,” said the man. “They have a Ukrainian player—Sviatoslav Mykhailiuk! He’s the best.”

“Kentucky is pretty good this year,” I said. “I don’t think the Jayhawks will be able to beat us.”

“Let’s wait and see!” responded the man, who introduced himself as Vova.

Tim and I watched the rest of the game sitting at the bar with Vova. We ordered our burgers and fries, several rounds of beer, and had some of Vova’s overly garlicy grenki, which he insisted we try.

Kentucky beat Kansas in what turned out to be quite an ass whipping. Vova wasn’t angry though, being that Sviatoslav had a solid game, scoring fourteen points and grabbing seven rebounds.

“Let’s finish these beers and go out,” he said, “I’ll show you around the festival in Sophia Square. We can get some glint-wine and sing songs.”

“Fine be my,” said Tim.

The three of us chugged our pint-mugs of cold beer, paid our tab, and stepped out into the windy, snowy night.

Kiev is a hilly city. Maidan Square isn’t at all far from Sophia square—they’re nearly adjacent—however, the walk is at a bit of an incline, which in the beating wind and snow makes for a strenuous trudge. The streets were lively, everyone was drinking. Music played around every corner, fireworks shot sporadically into the air, splitting the black crispness of the Ukrainian night sky. St. Sophia Cathedral was beautifully alit, its green and gold spires pointed skyward as if in regal celebration. On the other side of the square, and across revelers innumerable, stood St. Michaels Golden Domed Monastery, its blue-painted walls shining, the warrior-angels depicted on its street-level murals standing as if happily amongst the crowd of noisy celebrators.

“Glint-wine over here,” said Vova, pointing to a stand set up near the Bohdan Khmelnytsky Monument. Following Vova, I looked up at the huge statue, which depicted the Cossack Hetman rearing his horse proudly, his feathered papakha tilted as if fluttering in the wind. It always pained me to look upon such beautiful artistic depictions of historical figures. It made me feel small, knowing I would only ever be able to summon perhaps a tiny speck of the spine and leadership displayed by individuals such as this man.

“Damn,” I said to myself, gazing up at the statue.

“What?” said the salesclerk from behind the counter.

I blinked, momentarily forgetting where I was.

“Odin glintvine, pozhalyista,” I said, hoping to successfully make use of my broken Russian.

“Speak in English,” said the smiling gentleman. I repeated my order, after which he slid a over small paper cup filled with steamy, fruity goodness.

We subsequently walked around the crowded square, taking in the festivities of the evening. Eventually, we stumbled back toward the middle, fighting for a good spot to watch a concert which was set to soon begin.

“What kind of music is going to play?” I asked Vova.

“Good fucking shit,” he responded. “Rock and roll.”

High-strung Christmas lights spread out in a ceiling of luminescent waves from the top of the stage across the crowd. They flashed golden and bright-white colors back and forth, as if flickering stars falling to earth.

The band soon came on, plugging in their amps as that thumping sound of a chord connecting to electricity beat across the scrunched crowd. I’ve never been much for crowds, but it wasn’t too bad in this situation—being packed in like this made it noticeably warmer. The band played mostly Ukrainian and Russian hits. I didn’t recognize most of them, other than Vyxoda Net (No Exit), a hit song by the hugely popular Russian rock band Splean. During that song, the crowd lifted their phones and waved them emotionally amongst the crowd, like the eyes of a robot horde. The band also played some western favorites—several by Nirvana, The Beatles, and Metallica.

Tim glanced at his watch: “Shit, dude,” he said, “We need to get back to the hostel if we’re going to participate in their New Years Celebration, or whatever it is.”

“Really?” I said, “I figured we would skip that.”

“I mean… We can,” responded Tim, “I thought it seemed interesting, though. Plus, we can drink some more of their homemade vodka.”

“True,” I concluded, “Let’s hit the road.”

We waved poka to Vova and began shifting through the crowd. It took a while to make it out of the throng—we had to walk several blocks further—after which we made it to a nearby metro station at Leo Tolstoy Square. After waiting thirty seconds for our train in the warmth of the underground, we took the metro northward, back past Maidan Square, arriving finally at Petrivka Station, from where we could catch a marshrutka back to our hostel.

We stood for what seemed an eternity at the bus stop in the cutting wind. My feet were numb, my hands were needle-pricked, the feeling was so gone from my face that I had begun involuntarily slobbering on myself like some sort of asshole.

“Is this fucking thing ever going to come?” I said.

“It’s supposed to,” said Tim, “But I obviously don’t have any experience in Kiev.”

“Fuck,” I complained childishly, “The marshrutki in Moscow are so much faster.”

It finally came. The door slid open, and we stepped inside, setting some hryvnia in the towel-cushioned center console as fare-payment. The van slid off into the slush, again fishtailing and sliding as if at any moment to lose control. The bus was packed. An elderly man stood—his face only centimeters from mine—breathing directly into my face. It smelled like stale coffee and cigarettes mixed with something sour. I looked to the ground to protect myself from his musky gusts, but it was no use.

As soon as I exited the marshrutka, I slipped in the ice, falling hard on my ass. I was already so numb that I could barely feel anything, but my pride had certainly been damaged, even in my drunken state.

“You dumbass,” said Tim, before also sliding unstably in the same ice patch. He didn’t fall though—only I did that.

We could hear loud, jovial conversation and music coming from our hostel before we had even turned onto its block. I heard traditional instruments, which I had read up on in years past while studying with fantastic interest Russian and Ukrainian cultures. I could make out a kobza, a torban—traditional Cossack Ukrainian instruments, and the more typically Russian balalaika. I wondered whether they were being played live or if it was a recording; being that I had never heard them played live before, it was hard for me to tell.

“Sounds like they’re jamming!” said Tim.

“You make it back!” said Oksana. She was clothed in a festive dress and holding a colorfully painted wooden puppet. Outside the hostel, in the small space that served as a front porch, there was constructed a makeshift stage.

“You watch end of play,” said Oksana, walking back behind the stage.

The music continued. Oksana, along with several other actors and puppeteers, worked from behind the stage—finishing the play, which seemed to be a comedic performance based around a band of Zaporozhian Cossacks performing unintentionally humorous acts. I couldn’t understand most of the language, obviously, but I thought that I got the gist of it.

After the play had finished, Tim and I, together with our new friends at the hostel, rang in the New Year. We clinked numerous celebratory cheers to everyone’s healthy and drained shot after shot of that good vodka. Before long—after several more hours had passed—Tim looked at me:

“Time for me to go to bed,” he slurred, stumbling clumsily into the hostel. Oksana and the rest of the ladies left not long after him, shivering from the frigid wind as they stepped inside the hostel, the warmth of which I could feel from several yards away. I looked away from that light and heat, back out into the darkness of the night.

I was left outside with a group of three men, all of whom were wearing military gear. I knew they were only in Kiev momentarily—they would soon be traveling back to the war, near Luhansk. We couldn’t communicate with one another much at all. I could speak a little Russian, though no Ukrainian, and they were capable of little English. Our conversations consisted of broken sentences in a combination of Russian and English, followed by laughing uncomfortably and drinking more vodka. After a time, I noticed—however non linguistically—that they were poking fun at my inability to speak to them. I felt bad. I think, by me being there, they felt that they needed to communicate with me—to engage me, and they didn’t know how to do it. I didn’t know how to engage them, either. Because of that, they became uncomfortable and started making fun of me. I said doe svidanya and stumbled back inside.

Tim was already sleeping on the full-sized bed. I crawled into the bottom bunk and settled in. I felt like such an idiot. Those guys were on a break from a warzone; they just wanted to enjoy their New Year, and I had spent hours standing around like some dumbass. I was an immature child—I knew that. I grabbed a warm, 24oz. beer from the plastic bag on the floor, twisting open the top and taking a swig. Looking over to the table, I saw scattered across its sticky wooden top remnants of a previous game of Durak. Sitting up, I grabbed the cards and reorganized them into a game of Solitaire. It was nearly four in the morning, but I wasn’t quite ready to go to bed yet—I had a lot on my mind.

End