My original itinerary looked quite different when I began crafting it 3 years ago. It’s shrunk, expanded, shifted, and is still being altered by the day. But there were some alterations that were hard to let go of.
In all the original iterations of the trip, Ukraine was always part of the plan. When I was young, my gymnastics coaches were Ukrainian. As a kid, I knew that Ukraine had been part of the Soviet Union and that my coaches had left for America shortly after the Soviet Union collapsed, but I didn’t have a good understanding of what that meant. I learned later than when their gymnast won the all-around gold at the 1992 Olympics, it was the first time in an Olympic game when the Ukrainian anthem was played and their flag was flown. When I imagined Ukraine, I pictured an impossibly faraway land full of circuses, poetry, magic, and mystery. And truthfully, part of me still imagines Ukraine that way. Our gymnastics team warm-ups were Ukrainian colors, so for years, I competed under a Ukrainian flag. I knew I had to go there one day.
Everyone I know who has visited Ukraine has loved it, and I was so excited to go. I had Airbnbs favorited in Lviv and Kyiv—the cities I’d be visiting. I had lists of the best hostels picked out. I considered going to Odessa where my coaches were from. And I studied maps to determine which areas were in the “safe” zones and which were closer to Crimea than was wise to be.
During my research, I gained a very basic understanding of the political situation in Ukraine, what happened with Russia back in 2014, and the regions where there was still a lot of tension. I started paying attention to the related news in a different way. I knew it was my responsibility to know fully what I was getting into wherever I decided to travel. And gradually, the tensions rose more and more. It was probably sometime last fall when I first said quietly to Michael, “I’m worried about Russia. I’m worried I won’t get to go to Ukraine.” But even then, I had no idea what would end up happening in February when the whole world woke up to the news that Russia had attacked.
For a couple of weeks, I barely slept. It was Mardi Gras time, and I had a hard time even half-heartedly participating. I couldn’t make sense of the city-wide party happening around me when it felt like the rest of the world was devastated. I was glued to the news, horrified to see what was happening. I’d stay awake at night checking President Zelensky’s Instagram for updates. It felt impossible that he had the courage to stay in the city, to emerge in daylight and make public videos to prove he wasn’t going anywhere when he knew he was being hunted. Every day, I checked the news with dread, worried it would be the day he was caught. The way it would end seemed inevitable. And, of course, I knew I wasn’t going to Ukraine anymore. (Would there be a Ukraine to go to?)
For a while, I sat the trip aside, recognizing that this could go in a direction where I would need to cancel the trip entirely. It was painful to consider—the possibility that I’d waited too late and that my travel dream would no longer be able to exist in the same way. But my investment in the outcome in Ukraine wasn’t about my trip. It was more that the preparations for the trip and the childhood connection made it feel personal to me. These were no longer anonymous strangers half the world away. These were workers in the hostels I planned to book and the owners of the Airbnbs I’d spent hours searching through. These were places I’d studied photos of and could draw on a map. And maybe wars and global tragedies SHOULD feel personal. Maybe the reason western media covered Ukraine so much when the war started but has historically neglected to cover tragedies happening in the Middle East or Africa is less to do with racism (though of course that’s a huge part of it) and more to do with the fact that many of us can’t imagine ourselves in those places less familiar to us. Those places don’t feel personal to most people in western society because typically… they aren’t. But perhaps if people started researching and planning vacations to 15 countries they haven’t heard of before, the world would be a far more empathetic and kinder place, even if those vacations they planned never ended up happening.
Once enough weeks had passed that I started sleeping at night like a normal person again (and long after I realized that President Zelensky is the bravest hero I ever knew), I let myself think about my trip. I mapped out a few different options depending on how things with Russia were looking. (Worst case scenario—things got bad enough that I needed to cancel the whole thing. Next would be eliminating all countries bordering Russia and Ukraine from the itinerary, plus Serbia because they are an ally of Russia, plus Bosnia and Kosovo because they have conflicts with Serbia. Next would be eliminating any country not part of NATO. Next would be eliminating only former Soviet countries… there were LOTS of lists happening.) Mapping all of this out felt like a preliminary form of mourning. At the same time, I felt guilty and selfish for feeling sad about something so comparably insignificant.
I ended up with the best-case scenario. I cut Ukraine, of course, and obviously Russia (which was on the list at one point, too). I decided that Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, and Finland wouldn’t fit in this trip, so they were an easy cut to make. But I also cut Georgia, which I was as sad to cut as I was about Ukraine. Since Georgia was the only country I’d planned to visit that required flying to get there, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be in a non-NATO, non-EU, former Soviet country without lots of easy ways out if things took a bad turn.
In Poland, I met a man from Texas who was on a weekend break from volunteering in Ukraine, and he tried to convince me to still go to there. “Lviv is perfectly fine!” he insisted. “I mean, sometimes the air raid sirens go off, but everybody ignores those. There’s nothing going on there.” He was very casual about it. “Are there actually tourists there right now, you mean??” I asked. “Well, mostly just disaster tourists,” he said. It seemed he didn’t recognize tourists coming to gawk at war as a problem. War-tourist is really not a thing I EVER desire to be.
There were a few other question marks on the trip that I was keeping an eye on—places where there’s general and perpetual tension, but the kind of near-dormant tension that has no impact on daily life or travelers. The biggest question mark was Kosovo. I don’t fully understand the whole situation with Kosovo because it’s very complicated. Basically, it’s only very recently gained independence, but some countries still don’t recognize it as an independent country (like Serbia and Russia) while other countries do (like the US). For the most part, this only affects tourists because of weird border laws. Since Serbia still recognizes Kosovo as part of their country, they won’t let anyone enter from across the Kosovo border because they have a Kosovo passport stamp which Serbia won’t accept. I’d researched this thoroughly and knew the ins and outs of the border situation. The best thing to do is avoid the Kosovo-Serbia border altogether because it can be a sketchy place. It’s best to travel first to Serbia, then a different country before entering Kosovo from a different country’s border.
Michael and I would be traveling by bus to Kosovo from Macedonia and back. We were going to Prizren, a small city that looks gorgeous (really, Google it), and which is far from the unease at the border. I felt very confident about it. We had our hostel booked and our bus tickets purchased when I saw the news headlines. Tensions mounting in Kosovo. Riots and violence at the border and the concern of it spreading toward the capital. Well, we won’t be going to those places, I reasoned (even though the whole country is like the size of Delaware). Michael and I talked about whether or not to go. I really wanted to. The US hadn’t announced a travel advisory for the city we were visiting. Everyone who had visited recently that I’d talked to felt quite safe. Plus, I was visiting every other country in southeast Europe. As much as I didn’t want to admit that that played a role, I did feel devastated by the idea of leaving just one out. So we were going. And then, the night before we planned to leave, Michael got sick with food poisoning.
There was no way we could travel the following day, and the only way to go to Kosovo a day or two later would be to postpone our arrival in Turkey. It would have been possible, but it would have been difficult, and in a way, his getting sick felt like some subtle divine intervention, like, here’s your answer—I’ve made it easy. So we cut it. Michael felt better a day later, and we carried on, skipping Kosovo. And I was sad because I wanted to go, but also because I didn’t want to feel like I’d chickened out of a challenge. But of course, there is no score to be kept here, and traveling isn’t a game to win. I never want to be a person who goes places just to say I did or so I can check a box. And I think our decision was the right one.
I wouldn’t have been able to anticipate how these types of itinerary changes would make me feel. I couldn’t have guessed how sad I would be as I left Poland to go to Hungary and realized that was the date I was originally supposed to travel to Ukraine. I think ultimately, everywhere I’ve wanted to go and ended up not going has felt like the right decision in retrospect. And it leaves me so much to come back and see again in the future. But it’s also a reminder about how quickly things can change and the pros of traveling while you can instead of waiting “until.” Until you save more money. Until the kids leave home. Until you meet someone to go with you. Don’t necessarily assume you can go somewhere later. So many places I’m visiting right now are in the process of joining the EU or the Schengen zone, which will put a hard limit on how long you can visit with a US passport. The exact trip I’m doing right now will likely not be possible in 2 or 3 years—I’d be overstaying the visa rules. There are so many ways circumstances can change unexpectedly, and what a reminder to make the most of the opportunities we are lucky enough to have right now.
