Traveler, Writer, Aquarius, Peace Corps Volunteer
The evidence
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Here it was, a big Ukrainian holiday, and I�m stuck on a hot train with little ventilation, no food, and no idea when we�re getting home. The three of us killed time by playing cards and listening to music, when around 2 pm the train made one of its frequent stops and we got out for some fresh air and sun. I called my friend Luke on Rita�s cell phone to find out what everyone was doing for the day. He said they were going to the football game at 4:30, and then a big party that night, since Monday was a holiday. I said I didn�t think we�d be back in time for the football game, but I�d try to catch up with them later that night. At that point, I was under the impression that I�d be in by 8 pm or so.
And still, we were without food. I was tired, hungry, and completely enervated. My system needed fuel. I asked Rita if they were going to give us some snacks or something since we�d been traveling for a day already and wouldn�t exactly be stopping for dinner. She looked at me like I was crazy. Well, how about some kind of perk, I asked. I mean, usually if a flight is really delayed or there are problems with a train or anything like that, you get some kind of discount or freebee. She reminded me that this was Ukraine, not America, and that if I was hungry, I should just suck it up.
Which is what I did until about 6:30, when the train pulled into a larger station that had a number of small markets and kiosks out front. The train gushed passengers like a geyser, spraying them all over the little courtyard beside the tracks. Dima was out in a flash. I was a little slower.
�How long will the train be stopped for?� I asked, wondering if I had enough time to buy some food.
�No idea,� said Rita. Nor did the attendants have any idea. See, the train stops when it�s ready, and starts the same way. Regardless of the fact that everyone on the train needed to buy food and eat, the train could take off at any moment.
So I wearily wandered into the market, where I hit just a wall of people fighting for bread and sausage. Dima was already in line. I was totally intimidated and in over my head, and after offering to go buy bread, I made it halfway there when I just chickened out from fighting with these people. At that point I really wished I spoke Russian better. I then proceeded to wander from food stand to food stand, always at the back of a long line, always staring at the train worried that I was going to be left behind. So in the end, tail between my legs, I ran back to the train when I heard some announcement, totally empty-handed.
As if I didn�t feel bad enough, my plight was exacerbated when Dima came back with a big kielbasa, chunk of ham, packets of milk and yogurt, and some kind of eggplant spread for the sandwiches. �Where�s the bread?� Rita asked, which is when Dima looked at me and I just gave up. �I�m sorry,� I said. But the lines were long and I didn�t know when the train was leaving and every other excuse in the book. But the bottom line was, I only had one thing to get and I didn�t get it. I felt not only like an ass, but that if I were in a situation here where I literally had to fight for food to survive, I might as well find a comfortable corner to curl up in.
That�s when I was exposed, once again, to Ukrainian hospitality. In the berth next to us was a poor family who only had bread. Here we were with all the expensive, quality goods. And rather than each go our own way, Rita and Dima invited this stranger into our kupay and divided his bread with our sausage so that each of us could have a proper meal. I, however, being an American, still had equity issues. Not with the other guy, but with my contribution to the dinner. After two sandwiches, I said I was full and passed on the last two sandwiches that Rita made for me. She and Dima were incredulous, knowing full well that I was hungry. But we argued and I continued to refuse, mostly out of some stubborn misplaced sense of individual responsibility in a country where sharing is cultural and it�s typically the people who have the least to give who put out the most food on the table. I knew the right thing to do was just eat and say thank you, but I just didn�t do it.
So I felt hungry and sorry for myself for a little while, when I learned that the train now wouldn�t be getting in until our originally scheduled time of 6 am, unfortunately twenty-four hours later. From bad to worse. It was now time for a little late tea and biscuits, and having purchased them for our group, I felt a little better about finishing the last two sandwiches that were still waiting for me. And it�s not that Dima and Rita weren�t hungry, because about an hour later Dima returned from another pit stop with two dried fish and a half-liter of beer. Apparently, dried river fish is a delicacy in Ukraine. Not smoked � dried. I couldn�t believe they were getting ready to eat those things in our little kupay, which was now filling with the smell of fish that was sitting in the sun the entire day.
To say they attacked the skin and viscera of those things like snarling wolverines would be an understatement. Now, I know I�m the first to devour a plate of buffalo wings or ribs like a caveman, but somehow fish just seems different. Maybe because it�s the �whole fish.� They were ripping off the skin with their teeth and pulling off the head and ripping out the guts and everything. They offered some to me several times, including the freshest caviar I was likely to come across. I just wasn�t in the mood then and there to eat fish eggs directly out of the fish�s body.
And how did the trip end? Just as I was falling asleep, at about three in the morning, the conductor was coming by to close all of the doors to the berths. Never mind the fact that as I was too big for my bed, my left foot was dangling out. I don�t know if anyone�s ever been woken up out of sleep by having their foot solidly slammed in a door, but I can tell you, it�s not very pleasant. The sound of my screaming expletives filled our room, mixing nicely with the fish smell, when I noticed two things. One, Dima and Rita were still sleeping, so I tried to scream silently to myself. The other was that the door to our birth was closed, which meant that not only had the lady crushed my foot in the door, but she didn�t apologize and continued to close the door after I jerked my foot in, writing in pain.
I�d like to believe that in America that wouldn�t have happened. Or if it did, the woman would have at least apologized. But if not, isn�t it nice to know that I could have sued them for millions of dollars just for the heck of it? Ah, god bless our great land.
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