The Kashtan
I was scrolling through my newsfeed, as one usually does first thing in the morning. The first thing I saw was a headline about Chernobyl, stating that 2.1 billion euros have been invested in constructing a dome over reactor 4. Yes, that’s the one that caused a nuclear meltdown 33 years ago. It blew winds into German playgrounds, caused evacuation in entire cities like Minsk, and is still carrying out its slow homicide of plants, animals, organs and everything else that is cellular in its vicinity. No International Court of Justice can see though because radiation shows itself only when the process of death becomes visible. Yet, Chernobyl is increasingly becoming a tourist site as the report confirmed.
For four months, I had successfully averted dedicating my Monday evenings to the Netflix’s mini-series on Chernobyl, much to my friend’s irritation. Yet, here I was intrigued by the timing of these occurrences and by Chernobyl. Perhaps, the headline was there because Siri is particularly attentive to our Monday evening debates. Anyway, after a quick scroll through headlines, I made my way to the toilet. This time pulled up Instagram, like people usually do in the toilet, and saw pictures of tourists flocking to Chernobyl on the home screen. Apart from tourists, the city apparently is still uninhabited, thirty-three years later.
Now, this is where things get interesting and perhaps ironic in a truer sense.
A close friend of mine messaged me later that day. Kate was flying from Dublin to Kiev, her hometown, for two weeks.
“Come visit, the flights are super cheap!” she said.
“You know I’d get on a plane in a heartbeat but I’m broke.” I said and I meant. I had been unemployed for over six months.
The next thing I saw was a screenshot from Kate: a RyanAir flight from London Luton to Kiev. With a return trip, it amounted to under sixty pounds. Separated by 2 continents and unpredictable schedules, my college friend and I averaged two visits a year if were lucky.
“Come on, there are no other costs. Its summer here and we’re both free. When else will we see other?” she wrote back.
“She’s right… plus there’s all this stuff on Chernobyl, cheap flights- albeit from Luton- maybe It’s a sign… it can’t all be aligning for nothing,” I said to myself. Whatever it was, it worked. Next weekend in Kiev, booked. Screenshot sent.
Now, tell me there’s no such thing as coincidence.
The trip started off on a funny note. After some back and forth, I insisted that Kate needn’t go out of her way to come to the airport, but lo and behold, dear Kate had made a surprise visit to the airport. Here’s where it gets funny; somehow I missed her on the way out, even though the airport was one of the smallest I’ve seen. With no wifi and an incapacity for Ukrainian, my journey to Kate’s place was at the mercy of the Uber driver.
I bypassed the main city, spent an hour in traffic, and finally landed up in a suburban town where Kate’s parents have a flat above their design studio. Yet, both the driver and myself were desperately in search of what could not be found; Kievskaya street! Apparently, the street exists in every town around Kiev, but this one was elusive.
After some back and forth in sign language, the driver took my into a local supermarket called Silpo. The place resembled the large outlets of America: wide aisles, polished floors and shelves of products. Sharing in all traits that are icons of capitalism, it was clear that traces of the Soviet Union in Ukraine were scant now. Thank the Motherland for capitalism though, because without it, we may not have had free WiFi in supermarkets. Desperate to reach Kate, I logged in at Silpo and finally got her on WhatsApp. It turned out that my poor friend had been waiting at the arrival zone for three hours, inquiring about a lost friend in the lost baggage area.
“God, I thought the officers had taken you in for questioning!” She laughed nervously but I could tell she wasn’t joking.
“Wait there for me, I’m coming to pick you up. It may take some time because the traffic is always bad here,” she said.
An hour later, I had sampled three different types of berries at the supermarket. Each were a treat. The blackberries were so sweet and bitter that the sides of my mouth tingled with flavour. Upon consideration for a fourth packet, I looked towards the entrance and saw Kate. We embraced.
“Finally, now it really feels like it’s been forever,” I said. Apparently, I had been on Kievskaya street all along! We dropped my bag to the studio, a minute’s drive from the supermarket. Then we made our way to the city. It was only 2 pm, after all.
First stop: food.
Kate and I ended up at One Love Espresso Bar, and my love for espresso it filled. The servers were kind enough to explain the roast of each blend. We had ordered two americanos each by the end of it, but sampled each others too. So, four different blends. Interestingly, the Ukrainians are counter to the Italians when it comes to coffee, each claiming an identity of espresso epicure. We were advised to drink water before the coffee, instead of after as the Italians do. And to stir the coffee for twenty seconds before sipping it. I’m no coffee cognoscenti, so any difference in taste was lost on me.
The cafe felt like a well-lit cafe in some futuristic, Nordic submarine, but with wide windows, chess tables and warm wood. It was packed for a Friday afternoon and lucky for me, the food didn’t take long because I was famished. A herby scrambled egg in a croissant came- fresh and aromatic and then the best bit followed: Syrniki
Syrniki was a sweet blend of cottage cheese, flour, eggs and sugar, coming together with precision and falling apart in a warm melt- in the mouth. The cafe did a twist on traditional Syrniki or sweet pancakes by dousing them in sweet milk, fresh raspberries and blackberries, almonds and lightly shaved pistachios. It reminded me of a much healthier version of Pakistani rasmalai.
Syrniki at One Love Espresso Bar
Full hearts and full stomachs, we made our way across the street and walked around. The city was bathed in sunshine, making it nothing like the old, cold state I had pictured in my mind. This made me think about the effect that Netflix, school history textbooks and Orwellian literature, may have had on my perceptions of culture.
Of course, that’s not to say there were no traces of communist buildings, or burnt and bulleted building edifices around the city after its rich history of conflict. Always on the edge of empires, Ukraine has been pulled into multiple other countries like Poland, Russia, Austria-Hungary and the Ottoman Empire at different times in the last few centuries. Considering that it has also experienced famine, nuclear devastation, and is currently at war with Russia, Kiev did not appear to be a city that has been at war. Instead, Kiev seemed to be a city that had patiently taken in everything and everyone who has sought her, masking none of her wounds. Most of all, Kiev was not at war with herself.
Of course, there were plenty of areas that seemed neglected but many were well still well-preserved, with Baroque buildings that could have been part of some Spanish colony in the Caribbean. The sunshine made everything seem fairytale like with light greens, light blues and pinks standing out in both old Kiev and in the more hip neighbourhoods, like the one around Kashtan coffee shop on Reitarska Street.
The coffeeshop was named Kashtan, after the symbol of Kiev, the chestnut tree. The coffeeshop itself seemed symbolic of what Kiev is burgeoning internally: a steady artistic movement of underground art, music and eclectic life. Another life, perhaps, is the city’s response to leftist politics, or maybe it’s Kiev’s response to the call for hipster renewal, remiss of the world’s 60’s, with parallels in other places like Berlin’s Kreuzberg, New York’s Brooklyn or Barcelona’s El Raval neighbourhoods. I am careful to say more about hipsters (and am partly fearful of self-proclaimed hipsters lest they throw an Urban Outfitters boot at me). Either way, Kashtan seemed fitting for the space, a beautiful symbol of endurance and growth, with trees usually blooming in Spring.
The barista there served me a flat white in a paper cup that has the outline of a chestnut leaf. The roast was full bodied. I asked her about the area which took a bit of navigating to reach since it was hidden away behind a spray-painted steel gate, that was only noticeable because of all the people that seem to be entering and leaving. She told me the building was a Kommunalka, or a shared living space for retired people during Soviet times. Then before she could finish telling us more, the till got busy quickly. We moved out into the backyard to grab a seat.
Opposite us was the exposed side of a run down building. It had a flight of ravens painted in shadowy greys, with a single white bird in the centre. Below, was actually a small area with beautiful ravens. The scene around reminded me of a place for children to play. There were birds, a table tennis space, chess (a Ukrainian favourite it seems) and books. There were also lots of interesting people to look at. A diverse crowd, some with round, small, glasses, some old men with long hair, and some young women with short hair. There were also children playing near the bird cage. As it started getting busier, we made our way back out through the narrow alley and the metal gate. Just then, a line of tourists were headed into what had all the characteristics of a secret little hideaway in Kiev.
Clock tower in Old Kiev
The architecture of Kiev exploded with history. From lofty, bright graffitied buildings to pink, minimal but imposing Communist architecture like Taras Shevchenko National University, the range of architecture is wide and each period seems to have left a mark. This includes the deepest underground metro, reflective of Soviet investment in grand Bolshevik styled interiors with marble floors and chandeliers, the classic Roman Gothic style buildings like the Polytechnic Institute, to golden domed cathedrals and churches built under Baroque Influence.
“Not to discount 950 of the rest… this is a jewel,” Kate said as Saint Andrews Church towered over us. Kiev has seen it all: Mongol wars, Ottoman law, Hungarian strife, Orthodox life, Bolshevik glory, Soviet awry! And that’s just a simplified, naive list of cultural influence that wants to claim a rhythm.
Saint Andrew’s Church
Perhaps the most formidable structure of all was not a building but a woman. She stands 335 feet tall, sword in hand, ready to fight for the city. A real woman of steel. The Motherland Monument has watched over Kiev since World War 2, with a fascinating Museum of National History stands behind her. After observing tanks and waterfalls, we walked under a cool bridge and made our way to the museum. Personally, the museum stood out for me in three parts.
It gave a striking overview- though not in English- of materials and lives lived during the Holocaust. There is information everywhere, from mattresses made of prisoner hair, to barbed wires that caught people trying to escape concentration camps, the rooms have done well to recreate what seemed to me like a disturbing Holocaust hell.
It shed light on a history that is much more recent and much less exposed. A history that is happening now, it seems, in the Crimean Peninsula. The space depicts narratives, shows bulleted vans, ambulances and cars, personal belongings of Ukrainian soldiers who have been shot by Russian soldiers, their gear, their uniforms, their names and their stories (again, not in English).
After a walk to the museum’s top floor, where a dome made of white marbled and glass sits, and then a dizzying climb to the top of the roof, we got clear skies, sun and a bit of laughter because the wind kept blowing my skirt up. We soaked in the panoramic cityscape as evening dawned.
The Motherland Monument.
I also got a clear view of the wide-mouthed Dnieper River, with multiple bridges of different heights, each connecting the old parts to the new. Then something dawned on me too; the difference in architecture was very visible in the windows of Kiev’s structures. Old rectangular and half finished buildings with cramped balconies had been glassed off, their windows dark and reflective. Apparently this type of architecture is called “Kruschevian” style, reflective of the city’s time under Kruschev. They were in stark contrast to new, spacious flats, with wide windows and transparent glass. If you looked long enough, you could see the old French windows of colonial buildings, that were white-paned, tall and narrow. The gold-topped cathedrals like Saint Andrew’s and Saint Micheal’s dome, had colour-stained, glass worked windows, that were wide, long and arched but impossible to see through. As the sun started dipping, Kate and I made our way to our last stop for the day, selected carefully for that time.
Fast forward one hour and we were at the People’s Friendship Arch (ironically built for the Russians and Ukrainians after the Fall of the Soviets). The moon had waned from its wholeness of the day before, but was still bright and full. A little further up was a newly built pedestrian glass bridge connecting the Friendship Arch to Saint Volodymyr Hill. It’s called Parkovy Bridge. High above the city, I looked out to the river again.
The water was tainted by the colour of the sunset reflecting red in places. I thought about how it runs up to the north, to Chernobyl. I recalled the ‘facts’ that I was familiar with. Just 33 years ago and the water, the soil, the animals, all contaminated by human errors that has half lives of thousands of lives now. A few times the magnitude of Hiroshima, they say. I asked Kate if people still drink from the river. She said they were taught to avoid it, so everything at home is filtered now.
I remembered Russia Today’s report on how the dome will prevent more leaks in the future. It’s strange that I saw no clear signs of the Chernobyl disaster in Kiev, yet there was much on the recent revolution and the war with Russia. It’s been less than a decade of that. Like radiation, Chernobyl was hidden but very present in consciousness, in lifestyles. Then I thought to the tourists sitting in front of me in the plane, on the way over. I remember hearing their excited chatter about visiting Chernobyl, while the Ukrainians besides them looked at each other and looked away. I decided to watch the first Netflix episode of Chernobyl upon my return home. Kate commended it for the truthful accuracy in its reportage. Russian media reviews have dismissed it as inaccurate and manipulative.
In that moment on Parkovy Bridge we were lucky enough to catch the sun and the moon fall and rise over the city, at the same time. The sky was an expanse of pink over the city, like a blooming chestnut tree. Beneath, Kiev looked majestic and enduring.
