Kyiv, the Quietest City I’ve Ever Been To

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By Steve Richards

How many times have I stayed in Kyiv over the past few years? At least five or six—probably close to a month in total since April 2022.

Tonight, I couldn’t sleep. Maybe it’s the jet lag, since I arrived just before lunch after a three-day trek. I took the Kyiv Express from Warsaw, which left at 6 PM on Wednesday. The ride lived up to its name, though I’m pretty sure the sleeping car attendant was eager to get home early. The compartment was beautiful—I even got a private one. Paneled walls, a private sink (don’t drink the water)—I was living in style! One tip for next time: make sure I have everything I need for the 18-hour journey, if I plan on ordering tea or coffee that is. The attendant only accepted Ukrainian hryvnia—no Polish zloty, despite the train originating in Poland. Dollars weren’t welcome either, although I did manage to convince him that a $20 was worth a cup of tea.
 
Honestly, though, I think the reason I couldn’t sleep was the quiet. After flipping through the limited English channels (CNN and BBC, for me at least), I turned off the TV and noticed just how eerily silent it was outside my 10th-floor room, overlooking Maidan Square. I had the windows open—it was a beautiful evening, with weather that reminded me of Boston in the fall, around the 50s. Every other time I’ve been here, it’s been winter or early spring—basically, freezing cold, like Boston.

But tonight, with the windows open, the silence was almost unsettling. In all my travels, I’ve never experienced anything like it. Even in the quietest places, there’s usually a distant car, a siren, or some background noise. But here, in this big European city, there was nothing. Not a sound.

It’s in moments like these when the Spirit seems to nudge me, filling my mind with thoughts and ideas, keeping me awake. So, I got up and decided to capture some footage outside the window, a little after midnight. Then I figured I’d explore the hotel, see if anyone was awake. I threw on some clothes and headed down the elevator.

Nope. Just me and the guard in camo. The front desk was closed, the bar was closed—nothing but silence, aside from the guard, who, like the train attendant, seemed ready to call it a night.

I’ve always had a soft spot for the Ukraine Hotel. It’s a relic of the Soviet era, and I can easily imagine party officials having a grand time here back when it was called the Moscow Hotel. These days, its basements serve as bomb shelters, a labyrinth of thick walls and submarine-style steel doors. Rumor has it there’s a tunnel leading to the Presidential Palace. I believe it—the hotel feels like the safest place in Kyiv, especially with reports that a Patriot missile battery protects the nearby government buildings.

But the real reason this silence feels so strange? It won’t last. Whether it’s in a day, a week, or an hour, the sirens will wail, and the explosions will follow.

Oddly, there’s something comforting about the curfew that causes this quiet. No ambulances racing to the ER, no late-night shootings. I think about how many people are shot, or how many car accidents happen in these hours in places like Miami or Boston. In some ways, it feels safer here. But then again, the threat of a terrorist’s missile brings a different kind of anxiety than a mass shooter or armed robber back home.

​I guess I’ll get used to it—just like everyone else.