Chapter 9 – Pain in Ukraine

by waxnwings

It pains me to be so vulgar as to suggest that all “AerosVit Airline” stewardesses and helpdesk clerks were sodomoistically abused, despite the depressing, callous stare from their dead, coal eyes. However one look at the local men in the airport of Ukraine’s capital city and the abhorrent abundance of offensive rat-mullets draped over sideburns shaved high above the ear complete with a hard-cut, fascist fringe which would have them your number-one selection from a line-up of accused serial-rapists – if the bad semen excreting from their every orifice didn’t out them in the first place – one can quite readily imagine how such an individual could contribute toward the demeanour of destroyed souls in our airline hosts. It’s not racist; it’s simply elevating three small experiences of an entire nation – airline, airport, and hotel – to the state of caricature in an attempt to forever disassociate such first impressions of a country from an irrevocable negative stereotype. All sugar-coating aside, the staff and people let us down, let AerosVit Airline down, let Kiev Airport down, let Kiev City down; let Ukraine down. It’s simple Dominos.

Despite its first-hand experiential content I have doubts that the following extract will find its way into the pages of any one of those popular guides for popular people on popular travels in popular countries. My ambitions for its audience and its intentions are much more humble: to simply express the excruciatingly stressful, at best morbidly banal, experience of that stopover which Luke and I endured together during an icy evening in Eastern Europe; a darkening dismal day during the waning ends of November.

Please enjoy you in-flight food, the pasta whose taste suggests it may well have been cooked in the gaping asshole of a cheap prostitute and the chicken which sports the texture of coagulated human semen; find relief in a post-flight piss in the arrivals lounge and observe the illiteracy of a Ukrainian ‘gentleman’ apparently ignorant to the “No Smoking” sign in the airport lavatory and the flicking of his butt – still aflame – into the toilet bin which for some unbeknown reason sports fingerprinted smears of human shit on the lid as well as on the walls, we also failed to mention that your bags will not meet you at your overnight stopover in Kiev so don’t waste the time in requesting assistance at the “Help” Desk in regards to an impending lack of basic toiletries let alone directions to your “hotel”, especially as the porcelain-faced clerk with her blood-red lips is so sternly engrossed in painting her claws that her square jaw juts with impatience, just wait “ten minutes” (a Ukrainian half-hour) for a robotic driver who locks you into the back of a van with no windows at -3 degrees Celsius for another “ten minutes” whilst he rounds up the rest of the cattle until finally you arrive at a hotel which refuses to accept a printed email stating ‘Your card has been charged, you do not need to re-confirm your booking’ as a legitimate reservation so have to pay another £60 for a room which delivers one last sucker punch to Luke with the absence of a kettle as all the man wants is his God-given right as an Englishman to a cup of bloody tea, so you check out the next afternoon with no breakfast, only the saving grace of the last indestructible flapjack as satiation to a pining belly, order a Chicken Caesar salad back at the airport to eradicate the remaining Ukrainian currency you were forced to withdraw and along with it the entire distasteful experience only to receive soggy croutons – stale, soggy God-damned croutons – so when the same felched-out meal arrives glaring out of its tin tray on the ten-hour flight to Bangkok you actually swallow like a submissive sex slave minus the incentive of a porn-star payout and when every passenger offers up sarcastic claps you can’t tell whether it’s joy at the end of an ordeal of ten hours with no in-flight entertainment – the televisions are broken and there are no power sockets to charge a laptop and watch the second-half of Green Lantern – or the genuine thrill of a  near crash-landing which was ironically the single most enjoyable moment of the past thirty-one hours; a win-win situation which offered up the relief of a moments fun or certain death.

All that can be said to redeem the unflattering stereotype I have unashamedly constructed of their kith and kin which has ingrained itself through the power of experience into a worn and weathered mind are three, long awaited words of arrival: Welcome to Bangkok.

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