 Crossing the Street in Kyiv , if you can By John MARONE |
So you're walking down some avenue in the capital of Ukraine and feeling pretty good. A foreigner distinct in an exotic land - look at that golden cupola or the hunchbacked granny with the twig broom.
Or maybe you blend in like a seasoned spy, stopping casually to light a cigarette in front a huge stone monument to the days of state glory - STATE INFORMATION AGENCY, PEOPLE'S CULTURE or simply MILK. Whatever - but now you have to cross the street.
Standing on the edge of the curb, you start to get an idea of the task at hand. For one thing, that beefy babushka crouched up behind you knows what she's doing. As soon as the light turns green (more than likely a few seconds before), she's gonna knock you off your perch into a puddle of sloppy slush to cover her own passage across. If some self-appointed prince in a Mercedes enjoying the anonymity of tinted windows and the privilege of special license plates happens to be in a hurry, you're gonna provide a soft and cushy welcome mat for old Lidya Ivanovna.
And don't think the middle-aged guy to you're left in the dark raincoat and horn-rimmed glasses - who just seconds before reminded you that you had smudged your overcoat and even took the liberty of brushing off some of the dirt while gently admonishing you - is going to save you. At best, you might catch a glance of his concerned socialist face among the crowd of onlookers as the boys from Boris's Ambulance Service scrape you off the pavement. "Good Lord!" - he would seem to saying.
This is of course all very frustrating: why are they standing so close to me? Interestingly, your momentary indignation doesn't apply to the six-foot icy blond to your left who also doesn't seem to be concerned about personal distance. She's dressed rather saucy (not a drop of slush on those high leather boots!) and apparently doesn't harbor any fears of being felt up in a crowd.
All this aside, you consider taking the underpass. Yes, you remember clearly the discomfort and unpleasantness of passing through the shadowy gauntlet of table-top merchants selling everything from bruised boxes of laundry detergent to cheesy passport covers and pirate CDs, the lumps of clothes on the stairs kowtowing for a Kopeck or the scrub headed kid with his hand out. One time you even stopped to buy a battery, but the weather-faced women who accepted your 20 hryvnias left you standing there like an idiot while she solicited change from the other members of the underground village. You wanted to cry out: "stop, I have almost the right amount, and you can even keep the rest". However, it was noisy, she'd already ducked into a crowd of colleagues and (let's face it) you couldn't remember how to say it in Russian anyway.
But wait just a minute here. You're not some tourist from Wisconsin. You've navigated the London Underground without ever asking for assistance from one of those south Asian guys in blue blazers. And how about the time you weaseled your way up and out of that Turkish leather shop, impervious to the clutches made at your clothing from a wide assortment of fast-talking family members with big hungry eyes. No Siree, the hell with all this. Get your ass across that street like a real man. Traffic lights and underpasses are for sissies. You're not being paid that fat expat salary to bow before the inconveniences one encounters in start-up economies.
So you slip out of the crowd with confidence and disdain. The cars parked length and breadth along the sidewalk no longer bother you. And why not shove aside that middle-aged witch with the handcart? She wouldn't even simper in surprise if you opened the door for her at the entrance to the state department store. When in Rome, do as the Romans.
But what's this? Suddenly you feel the presence of something heavy and smooth nudging at your plump, cotton-clad rear-end. It's another expensive automobile, only this time on the pavement. And you're in its way. The driver's face is visible, but he's not looking at you. And no, he won't run you down, just knock you out of the way. Thus, you get none of the sympathy usually afforded to victims of reckless drivers, while being forced to give up what you thought was a guaranteed civil right. Don't look around for Mr. horn-rimmed glasses. He accepts this as a one of life's regrettable realities.
What about that militiaman in the fold-up furry hat? He's well-armed and eager to put another traffic fine in his pocket, What about him? As strange as it may seem to our cotton-clad hero, the jerks who use their personal vehicles as human snowplows don't fit the profile of a potential source of income for Kyiv traffic cops. Besides, he's busy shaking down some turnip farmer in a beat up Zhiguli, who for some reason decided to pull a U-turn in obstruction of oncoming traffic. The militiamen even seem to be enjoying the whole negotiation process (at the expense of those caught in the traffic jam - some of whom have also taken to the sidewalk as a result). As a sign of respect to the Ukrainian tax payer (sic), he starts things off with a salute.
But what about our cotton clad visitor to the land of ancient Rus? Enough is enough! In a moment of despair, he has dashed down into a different underpass, only to find himself in an underground shopping mall. The unexpected delight of finding refuge in the familiar world of consumer comfort soon wears off after the first 10 minutes of trying to find the exit. The worst thing is the quality of goods doesn't differ that much from the other underpass - although they are smartly packaged and a thus lot more expensive.
A half hour later, he's standing at a crosswalk near Kyiv's beautiful opera house (let's give credit where credit's due). On the other side of the street is a traffic light that shows how many seconds the pedestrian has to wait before he can cross the street. Never mind the fact that the turnip farmer and the dark self-appointed prince are still wheeling about somewhere nearby. What charm, precision, concern for the man on foot! Our hero doesn't even notice that he's standing in slop and that another babushka has again crouched up behind him.
On another street, not so far from the center, stands a different man, much older and dressed in wool. He's probably known better times, but he's taken care to clean his shoes and press his pants before going out in public. He's not on the curb but in the middle of the road, with cars whizzing by on both sides. Taking into account the kind of drivers described above, one might ask why he would take such a risk at that age. The answer is simple, unlike our cotton-clad hero, he doesn't have much to lose.
Editor's Note
John Marone is a journalist and a native of Detroit Michigan. He has lived in the Moscow and has traveled extensively in the FSU. For the past 6 year he has resided in Kyiv.
|
More in the section:
Sunflower Seeds and Circuses!
Read also previous issue' articles:
THE EAR: Time to Stop Traffic Terror
The USSR: What was it?
Socialist Realism From One Collector's Viewpoint
Weak Laws Make Ukraine Europe's Dumping Ground
Social Entrepreneurship Expands in Ukraine
Lenin and Ukraine
|
| |
CONTACT US |
|
|
|
