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Brett waits in the train car as we wait for the Ukrainian customs agents to check our passports and immigration cards.
Leaving the last city in Eastern Poland, we sat on cots in an open compartment waiting for the train to be inspected by customs. Two ukrainians frantically yelled in Russian as they tore the bedding above the lofts apart, pulling out plastic bags and stuffing them into black garbage baggies.
"Drugs?" said Spencer.
As we sipped Zubrowka vodka and ate nutella on bread, we determined it must have been the mail, drugs only go west. Forty-five minutes later, a pleasant looking Ukrainian border guard with a green beret and a scarlet red ponytail marked our passports and immigration cards. Brett, who has been living here a year, said she was the nicest border guard he'd ever met. The Russified inspectors are usually part-time alcoholics waiting for bribes.
The eight hour trip to L'viv(they say Luh-voo here), reached hysteria when we were 5 miles out of the L'viv train station in our seatbeltless taxi and I realized I didn't have my passport. There are approximately 25 million Russian-speaking unfriendly Ukrainians between me and the nearest American Consulate, 300 miles east in Kiev. A few Hail Marys later, I found it in my luggage.
L'viv is cultural and societal mishmash between Poland, Russia and what I imagine Serbia to be like: it's dirty, commy-fied with drab, concrete buildings and sullen people, and 98% of the population is devoutly religious.
Wandering up the dark, stale-smelling stairwell of Brett's apartment building, he tells us the lights are a weekend thing. His apartment is at the top of 7 floors, furthest from the smells and with the best view of the concrete courtyard. Besides the mudroom for coats and the two closets for the toilet and shower, there are three rooms: a kitchen, a 20'x10' family room and a shoebox-sized bedroom with wood panel floors, a plush chair and a mattress.
The first thing Brett does in the apartment is go into the kitchen and press some buttons on a white box above the sink. A few clicks later, the pilot light catches to heat the water. But wait, the water doesn't come on until 6 am and runs till 11 am. Don't leave the faucet on when the water is off, brett already did that and flooded the apartment below him.
After tea and an informative video on L'viv's history, we whisper on the floor of brett's room till we fall asleep.
"you have no idea what I've gotten you into," brett cackles as he turns out the light.
"Drugs?" said Spencer.
As we sipped Zubrowka vodka and ate nutella on bread, we determined it must have been the mail, drugs only go west. Forty-five minutes later, a pleasant looking Ukrainian border guard with a green beret and a scarlet red ponytail marked our passports and immigration cards. Brett, who has been living here a year, said she was the nicest border guard he'd ever met. The Russified inspectors are usually part-time alcoholics waiting for bribes.
The eight hour trip to L'viv(they say Luh-voo here), reached hysteria when we were 5 miles out of the L'viv train station in our seatbeltless taxi and I realized I didn't have my passport. There are approximately 25 million Russian-speaking unfriendly Ukrainians between me and the nearest American Consulate, 300 miles east in Kiev. A few Hail Marys later, I found it in my luggage.
L'viv is cultural and societal mishmash between Poland, Russia and what I imagine Serbia to be like: it's dirty, commy-fied with drab, concrete buildings and sullen people, and 98% of the population is devoutly religious.
Wandering up the dark, stale-smelling stairwell of Brett's apartment building, he tells us the lights are a weekend thing. His apartment is at the top of 7 floors, furthest from the smells and with the best view of the concrete courtyard. Besides the mudroom for coats and the two closets for the toilet and shower, there are three rooms: a kitchen, a 20'x10' family room and a shoebox-sized bedroom with wood panel floors, a plush chair and a mattress.
The first thing Brett does in the apartment is go into the kitchen and press some buttons on a white box above the sink. A few clicks later, the pilot light catches to heat the water. But wait, the water doesn't come on until 6 am and runs till 11 am. Don't leave the faucet on when the water is off, brett already did that and flooded the apartment below him.
After tea and an informative video on L'viv's history, we whisper on the floor of brett's room till we fall asleep.
"you have no idea what I've gotten you into," brett cackles as he turns out the light.
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