A Meek Layover in Mikolaev

After waking up and showering in some sort of adjoining shed with cold water and a door that didn't lock which opened into the common room of the neighbour's house (I have no idea where the women who rented to me slept) I decided that the time to leave Crimea was upon me.  I had been there for close to a week and I needed to move on with my life.  The perfect way to get over Crimea was to go to Mikolaev.  It makes perfect sense to, because from what I had read it was a shipbuilding centre in the Soviet Union and was rumoured to have a very industrial landscape.  The only train left in the evening and the ticket was somewhere around $7 in third class.  Everyone had a great time making fun of me for patching my jeans with needle and thread and for being foreign in general.  The conductress was a formidable, no-nonsense old girl who ran a tight ship but could also show kindness and good cheer when deemed appropriate.  When the train docked at Mikolaev at 3am and I sleepily dragged my carcass off the train and into the train station to see what my options were, I was unpleasantly surprised.

I actually wasn't surprised at all.  Who has even heard of Mikolaev?  Why did I think it was a good idea to go here?  There was nowhere to sleep, it was 3am, and the only train out was at 3:300--the train I had just arrived on.  In the half hour gap that the train was stopped, I had to make some serious life decisions.  As I reboarded the train after purchasing a ticket from Mikolaev to Odessa, and handing it to the same conductress who bellowed with laughter, I matter-of-factly explained to her that as soon as I arrived, I realised this is not where I want to be.  Not in Mikolaev.  Not at 24.  Not at 3am.  Just not now.  Maybe some other time, but this was about me, my happiness.  I wanted to be in Odessa.  She shrugged and showed me to the same bed I had used before, laughing the whole way.  In the end, I got a fresh pair of sheets in the middle of the night, a dishtowel that I was able to keep, and I got to experience the joy and laughter of a stern Ukrainian conductress.  In all, a complete victory for me.

Harking on Kharkov

Look at these attractive,
young Ukrainians!

While Kiev may be the political heart of Ukraine, and the west the cultural heart, there were still vast tracts of land left to cover before I could justifiably claim that I had “done” the Ukraine. Of course, I’m talking about the industrial heartland east of the great ribbon of commerce/toxicity the Dniepr River. The secret to any Russian Imperial, Soviet, and subsequent Ukrainian success has always lain in the rich coal seams of the Donbass and the enterprising, hardy spirit of the Steppes-peoples. Mammoth planned communities of equally gargantuan industrial capacity were thickly spread before me with such tantalizing and alluring names like Dnipropetrovs’k, Donetsk and Zaporizhe and Kryvyi Rih—well-known to any aspiring steel magnate. But before I was able to eagerly pounce, I had my heart and sights first set on the nerve centre of this industrial magnate, Kharkov.

Actually, it was just as much a surprise to me as it no doubt is to you that it is no longer called Kharkov, but Kharkiv. This is a name change I refuse to ratify for various reasons. First of all, why are cities changing their names? I have never accepted the legitimacy of Mumbai over Bombay, Istanbul over Constantinople and I am certainly not about to make concessions for Jakarta over the much more illustrious Batavia. While I’ve been known to be torn over whether or not to refer to the capital of the Slovak Republic as Pressburg, Pozsony, or Istropolis, I cannot in good conscious worry about minor changes such as an ‘o’ to an ‘i.’ The second reason for objection, of course, is the most important and Civ II enthusiasts the world over will bellow a chorus of assent: when you play as the Russians, the name is Kharkov. Until Sid Meier retroactively releases an updated version of Civilization II with a special note alerting us to these apparently sensitive and politically-motivated name changes, I will continue to use the 1996 edition as my benchmark gold standard in history, geography and diplomacy.

Fun facts about Kharkov that you’re free to share with your friends at dinner parties: 

1. It’s the second largest city in the Ukraine.
2. It has the largest 6th largest public square in the world Europe.
3. It was almost entirely rebuilt after the Second World War because whatever the Germans didn’t destroy on their push through, the Soviets surely did on their push back, hoping to make a nice, blank slate for centrally-planned urban space.
4. It’s really, really close to Russia. I could see Russia if I squinted.

I know, right—wow!  When I first saw this picture (in Wikipedia, obviously, which has been magnanimous in its supply of pictures) I thought “omfg I have to go there!"  But when you’re in the middle of this 119,000m² mass of concrete in late March and the winds are blowing in from the Urals, it’s actually quite cold and disappointing. 

I was greeted in Karkov by Maksim, a young entrepreneur who was my couchsurfing host. He lived in a flat with his girlfriend Nastia, a journalist, with another couple, Igor and his girlfriend. Igor was a graphic designer specialising in Adobe Photoshop. I told him I played around with a bit of graphic design too. He showed me his work, which was amazing and clearly required what I think people mean by “skill” when they list it on their CVs. I was a bit bashful when he asked me to produce an example of my work, which can be seen here. 



You had better believe this was in a square named after Taras Shevchenko.

I was charged with the tall task of preparing dinner for everyone. For every guest they have, they ask them to cook a meal that no one there has ever eaten. I naturally thought of sushi, but evidently it’s the Ukraine’s most popular dish these days. They had never eaten Mexican and while as a Canadian I am no authority on Mexican cuisine and how to properly make it, lest we forget that Ukrainians have no idea about a Canadian’s capacity to accurately prepare Mexican food, and thus my secret was safe.

We went to the supermarket for supplies, and fasten a Mexican meal out of Ukrainian victuals. Highlights included:

• Talking to an old man who asked why I was in Ukraine. I explained to him I liked the people, the history, and then a word which, to me, was “food” in Russian but ended up being a very unsavoury curse word in Ukrainian. Of course, with my bellowing and obvious Anglo-Saxon accent, the whole store heard me holler in their native tongue, “I LOVE UKRAINIAN _____” which sent them all—especially the old man—into convulsive peals of laughter and Nastia into a bright red orb of embarrassment.
• Discovering that you can’t buy bags of ice in the Ukraine. For a people who I was under the impression invented ice, it seemed to be in short supply. After I stared at Maksym in disbelief he shook my shoulders and said, “I KNOW! We can’t buy ice! How do we live in Ukraine!?” We settled on the fish department and to assuage the concerns of the fishmonger Maksym explained, “It’s for an American”—the universal catch-all to account for strange behaviour.
• Using shwarma wraps to make my own tortilla chips, and winning.

The old gang, back together again.

The surprise of the evening was that I wasn’t simply going to be cooking for the four of them, but in fact for a whole Cossack hoard—11 in total. Two were business colleagues from Russia, and other friends and relatives had showed up for the spicy fiesta. I enlisted the help of the younger brother and sister of Nastia by issuing imperatives such as “перемешайте!” (mix) and “сокращение!” (cut) after holding up different items to the obedient and extremely polite young sous-chefs. It was a fantastic success in every sense of the word. We had chicken fajitas, margaritas, tortillas and salsa and then we played mafia, which any former residence advisor is very familiar with. In all, a landslide success in Ostpolitik.