Midnight Train to Kiev
Midnight Train to Kiev
As the world learned in 2014, Ukraine’s Crimean Peninsula is an ethnic Russian stronghold, due in large part to the former Soviet Union’s longstanding military and naval presence in the area. Being a lone American backpacker passing through the area nearly a decade ago, I was warned by an expat friend: Don’t expect warm welcoming arms down there. If there’s one thing that unites Ukrainians and Russians, it’s their disdain for Americans.
Sure enough, my time spent in Crimea ranks as the loneliest I’ve ever been while traveling. Which was strange, considering how friendly my entry to the coast had been.
It was sometime in May, and I was on the overnight train from Kiev, keeping to myself on a top bunk in my second-class kupe, a snug compartment of four beds, stacked two apiece. First-class beds, my friend had counseled, were two per room but in less than half the space; third class would buy a bunk in an open car. The ticket set me back about $25, which included a $3 surcharge for a set of reasonably clean sheets.
This 16-hour trip would be one of utility, I thought. Point A to Point B. But no sooner had I settled into my upper bunk with a book, headphones and bottle of warm beer than a towheaded boy of ten tapped on my leg.
“Join us?” he asked, in halting but decent English.
Not one to decline an invitation, I hopped down and followed this skinny little kid, Anton, to the next compartment, where four immense men dressed in track suits were enjoying a lively picnic-style dinner. Their wives, dressed in loose-fitting pajamas, were crammed between them, as were two more kids. Because Ukrainians don’t trust cold moving air, the small window was closed; the room smelled of roast chicken and dumplings, punctuated by scents of booze and feet.
Like most grown men who grew up in the 1980s, I’m genetically terrified of Russians. In our imaginations, the Red Army was amassed just on the other side of Canada, waiting to drop nukes on our playgrounds and occupy our malls. And here I was, standing before four Russian nightmares who made Rocky IV’s Drago look like a poodle.
Evgenii, Anton’s father and the largest of the four, stood up, shook my hand, clapped my shoulder vigorously and held out a metal cup filled with sweet red wine. It was the kind of cup one uses while camping. Sure enough, this group of families was heading to the peninsula for their annual two-week hike through the hills.
With Anton working as our translator, I learned that the men had met in the Army, which did little to calm my innate Red Scare fears. What’s more, Evgenii had been an Olympic boxing hopeful who had trained with the now-world-famous Klitschko brothers. (This makes me three degrees removed from Heroes star Hayden Panettiere, Vladimir Klitschko’s wife and baby mama.)
The wine went down quickly, and I contributed the few beers I had stashed in my backpack to the revelry. Soon enough we were wandering through the train cars, peeking into other compartments, making even more new friends. Just before sundown, the train stopped for an hour in a small town whose livelihood depended on serving dinner and drinks to passers-through like us. We stocked up on more beer and wine, and returned to our kupes.
With the second round of bottles empty — and half the men, women and children retired to their own compartments — it was time to say goodnight. At his father’s prompting, Anton once again asked me, “Join us?” He was referring to the two-week hike, set to begin at a fast-approaching dawn.
The offer was tempting. And in hindsight, I should’ve accepted. It would’ve been more fun than the time I spent alone in rented rooms, avoiding eye contact with angry babushkas who couldn’t understand why, exactly, a lone American backpacker — who spoke neither Russian nor Ukrainian — had bothered to visit their tiny town.
When we pulled into Sebastopol in the morning, Evgenii’s crew was gone. They’d alighted earlier, in Simferopol, and begun their two-week trek to the coast. By the time they’d reach that coast, I’d already be back in New York City.