I met Tasha at the metro station. As
soon as I came up the escalators, she called out to me from across
the barriers. “Shawn!” she said, jumping excitedly and waving me
over. “I was expecting you sooner. The guy that was on the phone
with me, your friend, he didn't seem to know Kharkiv very well. He
kept saying that you're an American and you'll get lost. But you
know Russian, you've been traveling, I knew you could figure it out.”
She spoke in nearly fluent English without an accent. Her eyes and
face and demeanor were bright and glowing and energetic. The way she
moved seemed to capture life, though she spoke at near lightning
speed. As we talked on our way to her apartment, she spoke almost
too fast for me – the native English speaker – to keep up.
When I had sent out host requests for Kharkiv, two girls had almost immediately replied. Dasha and Tasha. I was in luck, since this was the first time my top two picks had replied to me and quickly. Dasha I had chosen because her situation sounded fun and interesting. She described her cafe / guest apartment structure as a “squat” with people gathering nearly every night. She loved alternative music and alternative lifestyles like my own. Tasha I chose because she managed bookstores and was well read. And she had red hair. And in our conversations, she wrote how much she loved accordions. My close friends all know my childhood obsession with red headed girls. Both hosts ended up being stellar choices.
Tasha's flat was a practice in interior design. She had mastered making old furniture look new and modern, mostly by way of using some sort of paper-machete technique to cover the furniture in different types of papers. She stuck mostly with bright colored paper, to liven up the place, though on the refrigerator and her bathroom door she used some sort of comic paper. She was well read and had opinions on everything, and that first night we emptied her bottle of rum and talked through the hours, even though she had to wake up early for work. “I hate these things like Pirate Bay, because you shouldn't be allowed to freely distribute anything,” she said. “But you know, books are so expensive and I truly believe that they should be cheaper and more available to everyone to read. If the publishing houses and printing houses would just lower the prices, then these illegal printing houses wouldn't have to pop up and sell the books for less. And we stock those books. But we shouldn't have to.”
“But the presence of the print shops, and the sales of them, undermines the free market, so the larger publishing houses will never feel the need to target the books,” I countered.
“That's not true, because the larger firms can take on the illegal ones as it is.”
“I guess you're right. But still, why not sell them if the larger firms aren't? I think you're doing a good. And I think, for those who can't afford it, Pirate Bay is doing a good. I want people to listen to my music. Whether they are paying for it or not isn't all that important. Though it'd be nice to get paid for all my work, that's not why I do the work. When I download music now, I do it knowing I'll pay for the album later, when I have money.”
“Come on, that's just living in an ideal world,” she replied.
“But that's my world. I'm an idealist. I live the world according to how I think it should be.”
“Not everyone is like that. And therefore, you'd never get paid for any of your work.”
“That may be true, but at least I'm living true.”
“Look, listen,” she said, “I've got to get to bed. You can sleep in as much as you want, and I'll leave you the key.”
“Awesome.”
The next day, I slept in and walked around Kharkiv. Time was pressing though, and soon I would have to be back in Kiev to move into my new apartment. That meant I had to get the train tickets for the next night. I decided I'd get the tickets, then return to Tasha's, then I'd go on to a coffee shop to write. I thought those would be simple enough tasks.
The Kharkiv station, in appearance, looks quite orderly and convenient, as all the other stations I'd witnessed in Ukraine (that is, the Kiev station) were. The floors were shining and freshly swept and mopped, the doors sparkling, the brass glistening like gold. The bathrooms were all immaculate and guarded by old fat ladies with brooms that doubled as clubs, to make sure there was no funny business going on like Senators putting their hands under door stalls – none of that nonsense that happens in decadent Western states could happen at the Kharkiv station. The ticketing system was a greater piece of nonsense than past famous American Senators though. There were about four windows, each with lines stretched across the hall. Each sign was about the same, I couldn't really figure out the difference between them, though this was largely to my not knowing Ukrainian – like most of the old people in the room trying to buy tickets.
“Is this the line to buy tickets?” I asked one old lady.
“I guess,” she replied. I stood in line.
Thirty minutes passed until I could get to the front. When I was at last at the front, I addressed the lady asking her about buying tickets for the next day.
“This is the wrong counter. Go to the blue sign.”
I stepped back and saw that this sign was indeed a white one. I still couldn't figure out the difference in the services listed, though this one obviously didn't include buying tickets. I waited in the next line. After thirty minutes, I was only halfway through when the clerk went on break. Her window snapped shut at the next person in line. I went to another window. A girl had come in and tried to sneak in front of me, but I let her since she was more attractive than the old hunched man that was otherwise in front of me. She spent more than three minutes with the clerk, which meant the clerk slapped closed the blinds in front of me. “Please!” I shouted. “This is already my third window!”
I waited at another window. I finally succeeded in getting to the clerk. “We don't sell next day tickets here. You have to go to a ticket agent outside for that.”
I was on the verge of giving up as I stormed out of the ticketing hall. But then I passed the information desk and decided to ask the clerk there. “Is there any way I can buy a ticket for tomorrow? I just want to get back to Kiev.”
“Just across the hall there, there is the international desk. It is for foreigners. You can buy your ticket there.” I walked across the hall and entered the office of the international desk. There was only one person in line. After that person left, the clerk waited to hear me out, then collected my money and printed a ticket. I walked back to the information desk, “A huge thanks! You are awesome! I was waiting hours in that other hall and couldn't get anything done.”
In the evening, I came home a bit late, though with full intention to fix dinner for Tasha. I wanted to find out where a grocery store was so I could buy some curry or some other herbs and mix something special for her. But I came to find that Tasha had beat me back and had already started cooking supper. And what a talented cook she was! She had fixed some tasty mix of pumpkin, chicken and rice. A friend of hers had come over, though he was fairly quiet and was mostly on the computer in the other room. We later watched a movie about some girl who pretended to be deaf because her parents died, then she moved in with some girl that was having sex with her own father. The movie didn't make much sense, but I guess usually the most quality movies never do.
When I had sent out host requests for Kharkiv, two girls had almost immediately replied. Dasha and Tasha. I was in luck, since this was the first time my top two picks had replied to me and quickly. Dasha I had chosen because her situation sounded fun and interesting. She described her cafe / guest apartment structure as a “squat” with people gathering nearly every night. She loved alternative music and alternative lifestyles like my own. Tasha I chose because she managed bookstores and was well read. And she had red hair. And in our conversations, she wrote how much she loved accordions. My close friends all know my childhood obsession with red headed girls. Both hosts ended up being stellar choices.
Tasha's flat was a practice in interior design. She had mastered making old furniture look new and modern, mostly by way of using some sort of paper-machete technique to cover the furniture in different types of papers. She stuck mostly with bright colored paper, to liven up the place, though on the refrigerator and her bathroom door she used some sort of comic paper. She was well read and had opinions on everything, and that first night we emptied her bottle of rum and talked through the hours, even though she had to wake up early for work. “I hate these things like Pirate Bay, because you shouldn't be allowed to freely distribute anything,” she said. “But you know, books are so expensive and I truly believe that they should be cheaper and more available to everyone to read. If the publishing houses and printing houses would just lower the prices, then these illegal printing houses wouldn't have to pop up and sell the books for less. And we stock those books. But we shouldn't have to.”
“But the presence of the print shops, and the sales of them, undermines the free market, so the larger publishing houses will never feel the need to target the books,” I countered.
“That's not true, because the larger firms can take on the illegal ones as it is.”
“I guess you're right. But still, why not sell them if the larger firms aren't? I think you're doing a good. And I think, for those who can't afford it, Pirate Bay is doing a good. I want people to listen to my music. Whether they are paying for it or not isn't all that important. Though it'd be nice to get paid for all my work, that's not why I do the work. When I download music now, I do it knowing I'll pay for the album later, when I have money.”
“Come on, that's just living in an ideal world,” she replied.
“But that's my world. I'm an idealist. I live the world according to how I think it should be.”
“Not everyone is like that. And therefore, you'd never get paid for any of your work.”
“That may be true, but at least I'm living true.”
“Look, listen,” she said, “I've got to get to bed. You can sleep in as much as you want, and I'll leave you the key.”
“Awesome.”
The next day, I slept in and walked around Kharkiv. Time was pressing though, and soon I would have to be back in Kiev to move into my new apartment. That meant I had to get the train tickets for the next night. I decided I'd get the tickets, then return to Tasha's, then I'd go on to a coffee shop to write. I thought those would be simple enough tasks.
The Kharkiv station, in appearance, looks quite orderly and convenient, as all the other stations I'd witnessed in Ukraine (that is, the Kiev station) were. The floors were shining and freshly swept and mopped, the doors sparkling, the brass glistening like gold. The bathrooms were all immaculate and guarded by old fat ladies with brooms that doubled as clubs, to make sure there was no funny business going on like Senators putting their hands under door stalls – none of that nonsense that happens in decadent Western states could happen at the Kharkiv station. The ticketing system was a greater piece of nonsense than past famous American Senators though. There were about four windows, each with lines stretched across the hall. Each sign was about the same, I couldn't really figure out the difference between them, though this was largely to my not knowing Ukrainian – like most of the old people in the room trying to buy tickets.
“Is this the line to buy tickets?” I asked one old lady.
“I guess,” she replied. I stood in line.
Thirty minutes passed until I could get to the front. When I was at last at the front, I addressed the lady asking her about buying tickets for the next day.
“This is the wrong counter. Go to the blue sign.”
I stepped back and saw that this sign was indeed a white one. I still couldn't figure out the difference in the services listed, though this one obviously didn't include buying tickets. I waited in the next line. After thirty minutes, I was only halfway through when the clerk went on break. Her window snapped shut at the next person in line. I went to another window. A girl had come in and tried to sneak in front of me, but I let her since she was more attractive than the old hunched man that was otherwise in front of me. She spent more than three minutes with the clerk, which meant the clerk slapped closed the blinds in front of me. “Please!” I shouted. “This is already my third window!”
I waited at another window. I finally succeeded in getting to the clerk. “We don't sell next day tickets here. You have to go to a ticket agent outside for that.”
I was on the verge of giving up as I stormed out of the ticketing hall. But then I passed the information desk and decided to ask the clerk there. “Is there any way I can buy a ticket for tomorrow? I just want to get back to Kiev.”
“Just across the hall there, there is the international desk. It is for foreigners. You can buy your ticket there.” I walked across the hall and entered the office of the international desk. There was only one person in line. After that person left, the clerk waited to hear me out, then collected my money and printed a ticket. I walked back to the information desk, “A huge thanks! You are awesome! I was waiting hours in that other hall and couldn't get anything done.”
In the evening, I came home a bit late, though with full intention to fix dinner for Tasha. I wanted to find out where a grocery store was so I could buy some curry or some other herbs and mix something special for her. But I came to find that Tasha had beat me back and had already started cooking supper. And what a talented cook she was! She had fixed some tasty mix of pumpkin, chicken and rice. A friend of hers had come over, though he was fairly quiet and was mostly on the computer in the other room. We later watched a movie about some girl who pretended to be deaf because her parents died, then she moved in with some girl that was having sex with her own father. The movie didn't make much sense, but I guess usually the most quality movies never do.
0 comments:
Post a Comment