Glowing in Chernobyl

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I’ve got my glow on in Chernobyl, where the Geiger counter is crackling over and I swear my feet are burning a hole right through my shoe. It’s the final leg of Europe, if this can still be called Europe, certainly not according to the European Union, yet. Ukraine, second largest country on the continent, not to be confused with Russia, that other behemoth who likes their borscht. Shit, Moscow used to be a principality of the Rus, who governed out of Kiev, and I wonder if ancient Rus women wore high heels and paint-on jeans too. From the uncanny civil order of Slovenia, we are met at the airport by a chainsmoking shark-eyed guy who speaks zero English. The airport is a picture of chaos, which is nothing compared to the lobby of the Hotel Ukraine. The location is smack dab in the perogie overlooking the main downtown drag of Independence Square, and the building towers with faded Soviet glory. The receptionist grunts, barks in harsh quasi-English commands, as welcoming as a pitball covered in razor nails. Maybe she is related to the driver. There’s a strip bar in the lobby and the key is with the attendant on the 13th floor. I hand her a paper and she points me to room 1305, which has the charming look, smell and decor of a Ukrainian matriarchal prison. A small single cot bed crammed against the wall, 70’s chairs, an empty fridge, a TV set with a broken remote control, and a wide window offering a view fit for kings. Oh, and a rotary phone, which actually hurts the finger to dial out. I’m in the Ukraine for a week, and I’ve got so little time to get dialled in.

I am here to cover two stories: Chernobyl, site of the infamous nuclear disaster, and an ex-Soviet missile base that once housed intercontinental ballistic thermonuclear warheads, well capable of ruining your day. This is some pretty heavy stuff, I admit, but there’s no time to hit the beaches of the Black Sea and tourism is not exactly exploding in the country. My calls to the Tourism Office were met with a deep grunt and indifference. That being said, I hit a week of perfect weather, clear sunny days and warm, fragrant nights. The crowds are out, seemingly consisting of women dressed up for the runways of Milan. “Ukrainian girls, they are the best no?” says Olga Number One, who resembles Cameron Diaz in a ballroom dress. Olga Number Two pulls out her iPhone to prove it, showing me a series of her modelling photos. “Actually, I’m more partial to Brazilian and Argentinean girls, the eyes are softer,” I reply, just to irritate them. Incredible and abundant Ukrainian talent notwithstanding, the people watching in this part of the world is exceptional. Fashions are slammed together like peanuts and gum (together at last), mullets and style, Eurotrash and money. After a disastrous start to its independence from the train wreck of the Soviet Union, the Ukrainian economy is enjoying is 7th straight year of solid growth. Ukrainians bought more new cars than another other country in Europe last year, and you can see them on the streets of Kiev. Preposterously prosperous vibes groove from the Buddha Bar, where a bottle of Heineken costs $12. This part of the world, in nouveau riche clubs like this, they have dress code, and face control. Restaurants offer burnt or bland food at a cost far exceeding its value, the only consolation is in the beer, which is good and cheap the way good cheap eastern European beer should be. Although English is taught in schools, nobody seems to be able to speak it, and there’s not a solitary sign to help out the few tourists wandering about. There are also no postcards to be found anywhere, ruining an unbeaten 20 country run of collecting them. People are too busy making money, or more accurately, looking at the few people who actually are.

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