I was promised an adventure on the Tizsa “Express”, and this is precisely what I got. Getting onto the sleeper carriage at Keleti Station felt like going back in time; proud, smartly-dressed Russian and Ukrainian controllers adorned with gold, soviet-style badges were there to welcome travellers on board and show us to our sleeping compartments. Hanging baskets with plastic flowers decorated the narrow corridor that ran the length of the carriage, while the compartment itself had fancy mirrors and was draped in kitsch golden silk curtains, making the place feel more like Cleopatra’s boudoir than a Russian train.
The train gave a stark jolt as it kicked into motion and we were off! My room-mate was a pleasant engineer called Josef. He didn’t speak English, and in spite of my pitiful Russian, we somehow managed to strike up a basic conversation about the imminent Budapest riots, the Orange Revolution and things to do in Lviv.
Lengthy border checks (thankfully a thing of the past in most of Western Europe) is alive and kicking in this part of the world, and given that this was an external EU border, extra-lengthy checks were in store. We pulled up at the border at around 23.30; the train fell silent (apart from the occasional jolt which shook us in our bunks – were extra carriages being added?) First it was the Hungarian border guards, who with assertive knocks on compartment doors and torches shone in faces carried out their checks with cold-hearted efficiency. Then we rolled on for about 2 minutes until we reached the Ukrainian border post and the same ritual was enacted, only this time with men in furry hats.
Safe to say that with all these nocturnal disturbances - passports-out, passports-away and torch-in-your-face rigmarole - I was not my usual dazzling self the following morning. So when an unfriendly woman at the ticket office told me there were no first class beds available for the return journey to Budapest on Saturday night, I wasn’t best pleased. Please do not think me a snob, it’s only I’ve heard that 2nd class is not an experience to be relished. Well I’ll find out soon in any case!
Determined to suppress my morning grouchiness, I walked out of the station into the Ukrainian sunshine (proudly reproduced on their flag) in search of the best mode of transportation into town. Old men bearing their gold teeth approached me, speaking German: “Taxi? Ja! Kommen Sie mit! Gute Preis! Gute Preis!” and, had I not walked with firmer resolution (to where, I hadn’t a clue), my suitcase would have been out of my hands in on its way to one of their car boots.
I confidently declined their offers and walked with resolve towards the tram stop (yeah, like I would’ve known which one to get on anyway!) Reality finally kicked in and I approached the nearest taxi – a clapped-out Volga, whose smoking-coughing owner didn’t seem to be in much better shape. He offered a good price though, so in I popped. I really should have printed out the name and address of the hotel where I was staying, for my pronunciation didn’t register for a good few minutes.
This is all starting to sound dreadfully negative, and I fear I’m beginning to turn this entry into one long whine, which is by no means representative of the time I’ve spent in the city so far. On the contrary, the city is charming and pretty, with a plethora of jewels to be found – from the grandiosity of the Opera House (where I saw a production of Tchaichovsky’s Swan Lake) and the city’s numerous beautifully-adorned churches, to the more modest little courtyards and streets.
However, it’s not the city’s tourist attractions and architectural beauties which will stick in my mind from this trip, but rather a number of quirky elements which have made me both chuckle and ponder numerous times over the past couple of days. I’ve taken the liberty of listing the most important ones below…
“Kitschic” – that stereotypical marriage of kitsch and chic is alive and kicking in Lviv, but not your usual young man or woman dressed to the nines in fake D&G etc. No, Lviv’s kitschic is particular, and it comes in the form of Hugo Boss carrier bags. There are literally hundreds of them milling around the city, and it’s the OAPs that seem to love them, not the young people you’d expect. Safe to say their contents are slightly less hip and glamourous – caught a glimpse of some parsnips and a cabbage in one.
Street chaos – no one who has been to Lviv will ever criticize a Parisian driver again. The city’s streets are constantly blocked with cars all facing each other but wanting to go in different directions. Patience in the Lviv driver runs out quickly and horns, shouting and visual insults are commonplace. In spite of all this hotheadedness, taxi drivers appear to take great offence if you try to put your seat belt on (as if their clapped out cars on these chaotic streets represented safe havens!)
Over-attentive waiters - So OK, I went to the restaurant alone, with no more than my thoughts and a tourist guidebook for company. My waiter on the first night however saw it fit to fill my wine glass every time I took a sip from it, and if I dared to place it down somewhere other than where it supposedly belonged, he’d take his glass-filling task as an opportunity to place it where I didn’t want it to be.
The train gave a stark jolt as it kicked into motion and we were off! My room-mate was a pleasant engineer called Josef. He didn’t speak English, and in spite of my pitiful Russian, we somehow managed to strike up a basic conversation about the imminent Budapest riots, the Orange Revolution and things to do in Lviv.
Lengthy border checks (thankfully a thing of the past in most of Western Europe) is alive and kicking in this part of the world, and given that this was an external EU border, extra-lengthy checks were in store. We pulled up at the border at around 23.30; the train fell silent (apart from the occasional jolt which shook us in our bunks – were extra carriages being added?) First it was the Hungarian border guards, who with assertive knocks on compartment doors and torches shone in faces carried out their checks with cold-hearted efficiency. Then we rolled on for about 2 minutes until we reached the Ukrainian border post and the same ritual was enacted, only this time with men in furry hats.
Safe to say that with all these nocturnal disturbances - passports-out, passports-away and torch-in-your-face rigmarole - I was not my usual dazzling self the following morning. So when an unfriendly woman at the ticket office told me there were no first class beds available for the return journey to Budapest on Saturday night, I wasn’t best pleased. Please do not think me a snob, it’s only I’ve heard that 2nd class is not an experience to be relished. Well I’ll find out soon in any case!
Determined to suppress my morning grouchiness, I walked out of the station into the Ukrainian sunshine (proudly reproduced on their flag) in search of the best mode of transportation into town. Old men bearing their gold teeth approached me, speaking German: “Taxi? Ja! Kommen Sie mit! Gute Preis! Gute Preis!” and, had I not walked with firmer resolution (to where, I hadn’t a clue), my suitcase would have been out of my hands in on its way to one of their car boots.
I confidently declined their offers and walked with resolve towards the tram stop (yeah, like I would’ve known which one to get on anyway!) Reality finally kicked in and I approached the nearest taxi – a clapped-out Volga, whose smoking-coughing owner didn’t seem to be in much better shape. He offered a good price though, so in I popped. I really should have printed out the name and address of the hotel where I was staying, for my pronunciation didn’t register for a good few minutes.
This is all starting to sound dreadfully negative, and I fear I’m beginning to turn this entry into one long whine, which is by no means representative of the time I’ve spent in the city so far. On the contrary, the city is charming and pretty, with a plethora of jewels to be found – from the grandiosity of the Opera House (where I saw a production of Tchaichovsky’s Swan Lake) and the city’s numerous beautifully-adorned churches, to the more modest little courtyards and streets.
However, it’s not the city’s tourist attractions and architectural beauties which will stick in my mind from this trip, but rather a number of quirky elements which have made me both chuckle and ponder numerous times over the past couple of days. I’ve taken the liberty of listing the most important ones below…
“Kitschic” – that stereotypical marriage of kitsch and chic is alive and kicking in Lviv, but not your usual young man or woman dressed to the nines in fake D&G etc. No, Lviv’s kitschic is particular, and it comes in the form of Hugo Boss carrier bags. There are literally hundreds of them milling around the city, and it’s the OAPs that seem to love them, not the young people you’d expect. Safe to say their contents are slightly less hip and glamourous – caught a glimpse of some parsnips and a cabbage in one.
Street chaos – no one who has been to Lviv will ever criticize a Parisian driver again. The city’s streets are constantly blocked with cars all facing each other but wanting to go in different directions. Patience in the Lviv driver runs out quickly and horns, shouting and visual insults are commonplace. In spite of all this hotheadedness, taxi drivers appear to take great offence if you try to put your seat belt on (as if their clapped out cars on these chaotic streets represented safe havens!)
Over-attentive waiters - So OK, I went to the restaurant alone, with no more than my thoughts and a tourist guidebook for company. My waiter on the first night however saw it fit to fill my wine glass every time I took a sip from it, and if I dared to place it down somewhere other than where it supposedly belonged, he’d take his glass-filling task as an opportunity to place it where I didn’t want it to be.
