The gentle back and forth sway of the train leaving the station reminds me that I have yet to go to the bathroom. With thirty minutes remaining until the train left, I went in search of a restroom. The English word, "restroom," really can't ever and should never be applied to a Ukrainian public toilet. And actually, now that I think about it, neither should the word, "toilet," because there aren't any. Instead, there are holes in the floor, over which you squat.
I head down the dark, wet staircase, hoping against hope that it's a pay toilet, because at least in those there is a modicum of cleanliness. I get in line and peer around the corner and see a large pile of blankets on the ground. As I ponder this, the pile begins to move and I'm astonished to see that is is an old woman sleeping.
My nose is twitching from the aroma of the dark room and I see five brick stalls without doors and five women squatting over five holes roughly the size of a cantaloupe. The small wastebaskets beside each hole are overflowing with toilet paper and newspaper covered in body waste and swarms of flies and gnats happily buzz in the air. Cold seeps out of the concrete walls and floor and I listen to the women quietly chat around me. The line is long and slow moving and I decide that I can wait the hour or so until the train bathroom is unlocked. This is life in Ukraine.
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