Ukrained at the Train Station

Following the whirlwind of gluttony and indulgence which was my brother’s visit, I immediately boarded a train for Vinnytsia (the closest city to me).  I met up with my tried and true travel companion, picked up supplies (I’ve learned my lesson about not being prepared with food), and prepared for another eleven.  Being a planner, and wanting seats together I had bought tickets for this train at the very beginning of the month.  The date of departure was April 28^th.  It seemed as if everything was good to go.

When we got the train station, with substantial time to spare, we were Ukrained in a serious way.[1]  Our first cause for concern was the fact that our train was not showing up on the timetable.  Generally trains are listed on these timetables about an hour before they are scheduled to depart.  Slightly apprehensive, we went to the Information desk and were told that the train would be on the 3^rd Platform.  We went to the platform and found a train going our way.  It was even going through our destination.  Slightly hopeful, we were immediately disappointed when they looked at our tickets and told us to keep moving on.  I felt like Forrest Gump getting on that bus:  “seat’s taaaeken.”  Again we went inside to regroup.  Upon reading some notices near the ticket windows we were informed (recall, from a flyer, not the INFORMATION! desk) that our train no longer existed.  Back at the information desk we told the woman our train did not exist.  We passed her one ticket, and then the other.  Following a brief search she handed one ticket back with a new seat.  The other ticket, apparently, had disappeared.

Now those that know me may be aware that at certain times, and during certain situations my cheeks flush as red as China, with rage and I have difficulty keeping my mouth shut.  This was one of those times . . . after biting my bottom lip to keep quiet, and with a furious mien I started yelling, telling the woman that she needed to fix this and give me my ticket.  I also gently reminded her that this was not our mistake.  The attendant at the desk did not look for the ticket at all.  In fact, she simply started crossing herself and saying: “I didn’t steal the ticket.”  Of course I was not in any way accusing our denizen of customer service of theft, that would be rude.  I simply wanted my ticket back.

Luckily, I do not know the proper grammatical constructions to swear at people in Ukrainian, so I didn’t say anything too bad.  Picture a three year-old yelling, and that’s probably what it sounded like.  (I should probably be thankful, nobody patted my head and said “awww, the wittle guy is angwy.”)  Also, it is fortunate that my tried and true travel companion is much more even headed than her friend.  She was able to talk some sense into me.  We got out of line, and she walked over to the entrance to the booth, the door marked “forbidden” and tried to speak reasonably.  I poked my head in, and right next to where our opponent was sitting, on the floor there stood a ticket.  I pointed it out and, sure enough, if was my ticket!  Now, to give credit where credit is due, though the lady at the information did not so much as turn around in her seat to look, she did apologize, and with that I’ll call us even.

With both tickets, and an existing train situated we went to a train station café and had a beer.  Slowly, and steadily I decompressed and got ready for some successful half-marathoning.  Another hour and a half or so, and we got on a train and reached our destination.  My blood pressure was no worse for the wear.

That’s all I know for now.  Hope all is well.

Be good,

Pete

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[1] Ukraine can be used as a verb.  Conscientious readers may remember this from a post from last year.  Those that prefer not to delve into the past will have to try to learn from context clues the meaning of the verb.  If you’re unsuccessful, or I am not clear enough with my narrative, feel free to ask for the dictionary definition.

Where Were You When You Heard bin Laden Had Been Killed?

             Certain news has quite understandably dominated the past couple of days.  Perhaps, as with September 11, 2001, I will always remember where I was when I heard the news.  Maybe this is like the Kennedy (either, but mostly John) or King assassinations were to my parents’ generation.  The similarities, of course, end with the remarkableness of the event, and its importance to the current state of affairs.

            Being that I have a facebook account, and I have a blog, I’m probably part of the problem, not the solution.  It wouldn’t be the first time that was true.  I generally make passing references to politics here, or sometimes tongue in cheek references.  But, I have a forum, and if you’re here and wish to read, I plan on using it.

            I’ve been reading comments, and articles, listening to news stories, and seeing videos of reactions to the news.  I wish to weigh in myself.  For the record, when I heard I was on a train back to Zhmerynka.  I checked my email on my Kindle.  My dear friend Paula, with an uncharacteristic show of brevity sent the following: “The US killed Bin Laden. 9 years, 7 months, & 20 days after we set out to find him. Wow.”  I read this while the train was pulling up to my town, so I put the Kindle away and made my way back home.  It didn’t seem all that real.  But, as soon as I got home I turned on my computer and facebook was bombarded with comments, as was ESPN.com and my trusted news source NPR.org.

            About as soon as I saw the news corroborated by all the different sites I started seeing different updates on facebook, and articles either celebrating the death, or denouncing the celebrations of bin Laden’s death.  I understand the discomfort celebrating the death of another human being.  I had a history professor at Providence College who used to preface each death statistic saying “now remember, every human life is sacred” (he could do that, it’s a Catholic school).  I’m not sure I agree with him.  Mark Twain’s "I've never wished a man dead, but I have read some obituaries with great pleasure," has also been bandied about with abandon these past not quite forty-eight hours.  I’d say I’m a bit closer to his statement.

            Are the celebrations out of line?  Do these celebrations make us “no better than them?”  I don’t know if that’s true.  These celebrations are emotional reactions.  Some of our co-nationals are truly celebrating the death of person.  Others are celebrating the blind hand of justice finally reaching this person.  Some are celebrating a milestone, an important aspect in a mission in our war in Afghanistan.  I’m celebrating the elimination of a threat to American security, and the world at large.  I’m celebrating the elimination of a source of evil; the architect of the single most significant event that has happened in my life, at least on American soil.  I’m celebrating the fact that someone responsible for so much evil, so much death, and so much destruction, and so much desecration is no longer around.  The person that was killed early Monday morning (my time) did not deserve our tears, and does not deserve our sympathy.  Does celebration of his death mean that we have been desensitized to violence and death?  I don’t think that’s true.  It means that we are celebrating justice.  We are celebrating a world that may soon be safer than before.  If I were at home right now, you could bet your ass I’d be leading a “USA” chant.  Good riddance, God Bless America and the brave men and women who serve her.  And that’s all I have to say about that.

The Day I Almost Summited the Highest Mountain in Ukraine

Dear friends, family and fearless readers:

When I was given the offer of a trip to Mt. Hoverla, the highest mountain in Ukraine, I responded with an emphatic “eh, sure, why not?”  I’ve always been such an ardent adventurer!  The trip was planned for the Saturday and Sunday following our spring break.  A large group was going; over a hundred American Peace Corps Volunteers, some 400 or so Ukrainians, and a number of Germans (there are a number of young Germans working in Ukraine in a similar manner to Peace Corps Volunteers).

            

To get to Mt. Hoverla our group needed to meet in Lviv.  Around 10:00 PM a train reserved entirely for our group would push off for a town called Vorokhta – about a seven or eight hour journey on the train (the train was rolling along quite slowly).  From the train station we squeezed into some buses and made rolled along to the mountain, about twenty minutes away.  This was where we would begin our glorious ascent.

            

Being that our trip took us through Lviv, it was only natural to spend a little time in the “City of Lions”.  I’ve said before, and it bears repeating, that Lemberg, Lwow, Lvov, or Lviv[1], I don’t care how you say it; it’s my favorite city in Ukraine.  Our contingent consisted of me, my sitemate[2], and three of our friends from town.  We did a lot of the usual tourisy thing on Friday.  We climbed the town in the middle of Market Square.  We went to little back-alley cafes.  We walked around near the opera house, and through the craft bazaar, and along Shevchenko Prospect.  The general idea was to wander around and enjoy the city.  It was a nice way to spend a Friday waiting for a train.  As much as I enjoyed the city, its cafes and its delicious restaurants, it was a difficult place to spend a Friday in the middle of Lent.  I don’t need to eat meat everyday, but it’s tough to not be able to with good restaurants all around.  The effects of this failure to satisfy my carnivorous desires were dire.  The effects were not felt until the next morning though, when I failed to live up to my Boy Scout past.  This is to say that I failed to be prepared for the journey up the mountain.  I had a bag of gummy bears for a snack, but no food or water.

On top of the tower in Market Square, Lviv

A back-alley cafe in Lviv

Rocking out on Market Square in Lviv

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[1] Different names given to Lviv over the years (German, Polish, Russian and Ukrainian); the names are indicative of what country/empire was governing the city.

[2] Sitemate is Peace Corps jargon for another Peace Corps Volunteer living in the same town/village/city.

When we loaded onto the train I made my bed and was out ready for sleep within the hour.  I am embarrassed to say it, but I couldn’t even finish my beer before I was called into my slumber.  By the time I woke up I thought I had entered that inferno Dante wrote about.  It took a minute to realize it was just a Ukrainian train car with the heat turned way up.  I caught my breath, put on my big-boy jeans, a windbreaker and a fleece, put a hat in my pocket and was ready to go.

            

We squeezed onto buses, and after a twenty minute drive were at the gate to the national park in which Mt. Hoverla stands.  After getting to the gate of the park the buses stopped.  We got off the buses, and wandered a bit.  There was a small market by the gate, which naturally attracted us.  Me, and a new friend Phillip went up to the shop only to be disappointed.  It was closed.  Adventurers that we are, we walked around the shop, saw a little valley, and we could hear a river flowing.  We decided the only logical next step was to go down and check out the river.  After poking around, jumping across ice, and letting our inner frontiersmen out we headed back up to the gate of the park.  The buses were all gone when we got back, but that did not seem strange.  There was good news:  the store had opened up during our little side trip.  In the shop we purchased some victuals; we got a loaf of bread, a hunk of sausage and some cheese.  We also got a bottle of water, and some celebratory Ukrainian champagne for the summit.  If you’re going to climb, you should climb in style.

Packed up with our nourishing supplies we walked past the gate ready to start our journey in earnest.  As soon as we passed the gate a park ranger came out of the guard booth.  “Who are you?  What are you doing here?  Why aren’t you on the buses?  Your cell phones won’t work in there!  You cannot go in.  You must wait for the next group!”  Shamefaced we went back to the shop, sat around and waited.  The shop did have some tasty coffee, so that was a plus.

My new friend Phillip and I at the beginning of the hike up Hoverla

Now it should be said, as an aside, that I am no stranger to getting lost.  In fact, those of you that were at my “good riddance, get lost” party before I left may remember.  My father asked people at the party to say something about me; a pleasant memory or anything of the kind.  Other than my roommate Pat’s reply, “I have a lot of memories, but I don’t think any are appropriate to share right now,” the best answer came from my grandmother.  “He was . . . ,” and then there was a short pause, “always getting lost.”  This was by no means an inaccurate statement.  Getting lost has been one of my fortes since the early days.  When I was six and my family went to Disney World my parents had to keep me on a leash.  When I explore new cities I frequently start walking with no idea where I’m going.  Hell, it even happened in Egypt causing quite a commotion among the resort staff.

            

About an hour after we had gotten off the original buses the next group of buses came.  One of the drivers was kind enough to stop and let us in, and we were given a number of confused looks by the driver and passengers alike.  Quickly the road turned around a corner and we saw a sign that said Hoverla – 12 km.  We were immediately thankful the park ranger had caught us.  That would have been a long hike just to get to the beginning of the trail.

            

A benefit of making this trip far after the group was that we got to go completely at our own pace.  We could stop when we wanted, and go when we wanted.  We could also talk about anything with much greater candor than a huge group would allow for.  In fact, other than a few times when we weren’t exactly sure if we were on the right trail, I’d probably say I am happy we took the lonely road after the group.  Another benefit of going after the group was that only one person was witness to the ridiculous contortions I made at different points along to the trail in an effort not to fall.  I only ended up falling once along the trail.  Big trees fall hard, remember that.

            

Going up the mountain was interesting.  We had different weather conditions along the way, as well.  At the beginning there was a light rain.  After about a half hour we reached a milestone and the light rain turned into hail.  A bit further up, in the middle of a forested section of the trail there was no precipitation.  And finally, on the last part of the climb there was some of the hardest snow I’ve been in for quite a while.  The snow and ice made the trail and the climb a lot more difficult than I expected.  For most of the days prior to the trip I had been making jokes about the mountain.  It’s Ukraine’s highest peak, but it’s only about 6,200 feet high.  When I was actually on it, it had its revenge.

            

One of the issues of going behind the group is that we were not able to hit the summit.  People labeled “alpinists” were allowed to summit.  This involved having special boots, and special poles to help along in the climb.  We did not have either.  I didn’t even have a heavy jacket.  There is only one volunteer I know of that was able to get to the summit.  He did this by going way in front of the leader.  Missing the buses we did not have that option.  Even if we hadn’t missed the buses I’m not sure I’m in good enough shape to have had that option.

Channeling my inner mountaineer 

Germans and Americans on top of the mountain

This is the highest point I got to.  I look like I could be doing an album cover for Creed.

By the time we caught up to the group the stragglers were making their ascent up the final stretch we were allowed to climb to, and the non-stragglers were on their way back down.  This final stretch was particularly harried.  We were fish against the stream.  And this stream was practically an avalanche.  People were sliding down the snow on their asses, and there were more than a few injuries, and out of control people.  People tumbling past, and in pain is not the most reassuring sight.  But, after a number of slips, a few falls, getting my leg stuck in snow drifts we finally made it to the false summit.  We celebrated for a bit up there.  We shared champagne among friends.  Classy as we are, it was straight from the bottle.  We had some sandwiches with our sausage and cheese, and made a communal meal of the gummy bears.  The view from the top was gorgeous, snow capped mountains and pine forests.  It was cold and snowy at the top, as well.

A long, rainy walk to the bottom 

There were two portions of the walk down.  The first was the beginning of the descent.  This was above the tree line, and the snow was deep.  While walking and trying valiantly to keep my balance I decided the most expedient way to get through this portion was a controlled slide.  Using my hard parts (elbows and knees) for speed control I did some serious sliding.  It was terrific fun, other than the snow getting down my pants.  The slide was a bit dangerous.  A drunk man made the slide.  He had no interest in speed control and almost took off my head.  I screamed a string of profanities at him in English and Ukrainian before gaining my composure.  I was half hoping he went spread eagle into a tree.  No such luck.  Following this slide was the remainder of the walk.  The walk down was not nearly as long as the walk up.  This isn’t saying much, though, because it seemed to take forever.  There was a hotel about halfway down.  This hotel had some advertisements around it.  These were fresh ads for Pringles and for Red Bull.  Tired and hungry I was excited to see if they had either.  Unfortunately there was a snowboarding competition on some other part of the mountain and these were just sponsor ads.  There were no Pringles or Red Bull to be found.  This wouldn’t be disappointing if the ads were not all over the place.  I have theorized that this is partially to blame for the walk back down being so miserable.  Other aspects are the fall I took straight onto my tailbone, and the fact that I was absolutely soaked by a combination of various forms of precipitations and perspiration.  This combination caused the walk down to seemingly last and eternity.  It was miserable, and cold, and we all wanted hot food (or Pringles and Red Bull).

I'm not sure my face adequately expresses my discomfort.  The guy in the back right corner was really drunk, and almost knocked my head of sliding down completely out of control.  I called him some bad names I'd prefer not to repeat in public.

A group of volunteers refueling and rehydration after an arduous journey

When we got down to the base we had to wait for a bus to come back and pick us up.  The bus that finally got us was not very warm, and absolutely stunk of exhaust.  Then again, what is a little bit of carbon monoxide between friends, right?  The bus did its job and got us back to the train.  After quickly changing into some warm dry clothes we hit a restaurant close by the train station.  After a bowl of borscht, chicken and some potatoes I got to work rehydrating (read draining my wallet).  I think I must have done a pretty good job, because my wallet was much lighter by the end of the night.  Back on the train we spent some more time unwinding and the like before getting to bed.  I woke up in Lviv ready to sleep another million hours.  I caught a train home, and slept the entire time.  Back in Zhmerynka I can’t recall what I did, but I imagine it was a bit of horizontal meditation.

So, the moral of the story:  buy food beforehand.  Don’t leave the group.  And, dress in warm dry clothes if you’re going up a mountain.

That’s all I know for now.

Be good,

Pete

I Hate Running

Dear Friends, Family and Fearless Readers:

I went for a run today.  It was my first run while in Ukraine.  Well, I’ve run here, but never with the explicit purpose of running.  I’ve run for trains, I’ve run during soccer games, and I’ve run to catch buses.  With all that running experience I decided it would be a good idea to sign up for a half marathon.  Before we go too far, I should admit that I hate running, and I think I always will hate running.  It is such a useless activity.

For a while I had been planning on buying some new running shoes.  I walk everywhere I go, but I hardly get any exercise outside of that.  This has become more difficult lately.  Throughout the winter I have had difficulty sleeping at night, and been generally tired all the time.  As a physiologist (and a doctor) I decided that the best way to solve this is to start exercising regularly.  Beach season is coming up, anyway.

I am actually excited for the half marathon.  I am hardly going to do actual training for it, but I’m hoping the fact that I bought running shoes that were far too expensive will motivate me to start running regularly.  I even got an overpriced ironic t-shirt that says “Running Sucks,” it’d be poor form to wear that randomly, so yet another incentive to run.

So, while I was running, I was reminded why I don’t run.  Those of us that are out of shape probably know that the three states of shape are awesome:  being in shape, being out of shape, and getting out of shape.  Getting in shape, on the other hand, is awful.  I ran two and a half miles and was far more tired than I’m comfortable admitting afterwards.  That’s embarrassing.  If I resigned myself to being out of shape, I wouldn’t have to face that fact.

But, running is a good thing.  It’s good for health, and it’s good for my vanity.  The entire time I was running I was a center of attention.  Not only from the neighborhood dogs barking their encouragements, but also from babushkas wondering why I wasn’t wearing a hat, and children wondering why that weird guy is running.

While I was out for the run, though, I learned an added benefit of running.  I ran down streets I have never been down before, and saw some things I hadn’t seen before in my town.  Maybe I can use running as a means of discovery.  I was planning on buying a bike for that; before I remembered that I am too cheap to spend money on a bike . . . they’re expensive.  Then again, I spent far too much on the running shoes, so my story is full of holes.

Luckily the half marathon is not until April 30.  I have some time to prepare myself.  The other benefit:  the half marathon is part of a wine festival.  So, if things are going too poorly by the end, I’ll be able to fortify my legs and make it through.  Let’s just hope my legs make it that far. 

Maybe by the end of summer I’ll be able to tell you about how excellent running is and how much fun I have doing it.  But I can’t do that now, and I don’t foresee ever being able to do that.  Let’s just hope that exercise will do its job; help promote healthy sleeping patterns, and get me (more) svelte (than I already am).

That’s all I know for now.

Be good,

Pete

A Bazaar and a Castle; or A Bizarre Castle

Dear Friends:

Months ago, now, I wrote that some time soon I’d write about a bazaar and a castle I had (at the time) recently gone to.  Of course the word soon is relative, and I guess this is soon enough.  To make up for my lack of punctuality – 5 months have passed since I went to the bazaar and the castle – I will even post pictures.  You’re welcome.

Back in October, before the great white winter hit, when the sun still shone, Babushka Lito (Grandmother Summer) still made frequent visits, tomatoes were still affordable, and nobody had started their winter hibernation (though the canning season had begun in earnest), I took a trip to the Khmelnytsky Bazaar and the Medzhybizh Castle.  I even deemed the trip worth of such a momentous honor as a blog post.  Here’s hoping to accurate memory.

The trip started early in the morning.  Too early for my taste; it was still dark when we left.  Armed with a thermos of coffee and a sweatshirt as my pillow I settled into the backseat of the car and was immediately unconscious.  I stayed in a semi-coherent state until the sun began its daily pilgrimage over the eastern part of continental Europe. I’m not sure why I find it necessary to say, here, but why would God, in His infinite wisdom, make something as beautiful as a sunrise so damn inaccessible?  I’ll have to ask Him if I ever get there . . . put in a good word for me, please; I can use all the help I can get.

The sun coming up over central Ukraine

We started with the bazaar in Khmelnytsky.  I recently reread my first impression of bazaars when I had just arrived in Ukraine.  All bright-eyed and full of wonder, the small town boy in the big city, or the Rhode Island Yankee in Cottage Capitalism’s Court, my verdict was favorable . . . but, “Oh, how the great have fallen!”  By now, seventeen months in, I’d go so far as to say I hate bazaars.  The smells, the noise, the shouting, the pushing, the shoving, the incidental contact – being pressed up like sardines in a can, and groped by tens of any number of anonymous (unsmiling) faces.  Buy a guy a drink first, you know?  I suppose there is some excitement in the bazaar.  I even know a good number of American volunteers who enjoy their time in these bastions of cottage commerce.  Alas, I am not one.  Maybe as days, months, years pass I’ll look back on them fondly.  Maybe I’ll even make a point to visit bazaars on any return trips I may make to Ukraine.  Maybe the bazaar is like that grain of sand, and time will work away any imperfections, transforming it into a pearl, at least in my memory.  But, that time is not now.  Now, I’ll suffice it to say, I much prefer a store; a store with a cash register, fixed and visible prices, and a receipt for my purchases.

Stairs at the Bazaar

The men bide their time

The bazaar was as bazaars usually are.[1]  I’ve always been wonderfully descriptive, haven’t I?  But, it should be apparent, that which I mean to say in that first sentence.  It was lively, it was loud.  My person was continuously jostled.  I was yelled at.  I watched people yelling at each other.  I missed out on the plov (Central Asia rice pilaf), which was an absolute disappointment.  I did, however, have a wonderful hotdog:  Not the best, but pretty good – though my father wouldn’t approve of the generous dollop of ketchup that was added.  Hell, I even made a purchase at the bazaar; it was an embroidered towel that is traditional for weddings.  (It was a wedding present, but don’t worry, it wasn’t my wedding.  Mom and Dad can’t sell me off that easily.)

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[1] This sentence is so useless I couldn’t imagine deleting.  I’m amazed by how unnecessary, and ambiguous it is.

The Hot Dog Man - one of my favorite things at the bazaar

As I’m not a big fan of bazaars I was ready to go after about two hours.  It was, of course, not to be.  We still had over three or four hours remaining.  I spend the time wandering around.  I stopped for a few watery coffees, but nothing quite struck my fancy.  There were a few funny t-shirts with rude slogans, both in English and Ukrainian/Russian but I elected against the purchase of anything questionable.  But, following the passage of a good chunk of time and an impressive number of purchases by my companions we made our way through this bastion of involuntary touching, loud yelling and cottage commerce to the exit – and not a minute too soon.

While we were driving home an important decision was made.  We decided to make the most of the light, especially given the impending winter, and find something else to do.  Kamyanets-Podilsky was too far; we’d only have an hour or so there of any sort of light.  The conciliation, then, was a different castle.  We went to the fortress at Medzhybizh.  This was a bit more convenient, also, because it was not out of the way.  The Medzhybizh Castle is about an hour from where we live.  I can’t remember the entrance fee, but I remember it being higher than I expected.  I was impressed, though.  Walking in we were met by a large, grassy castle courtyard with a small, but tall Catholic chapel (we can tell by the cross above the chapel, and the design inside) in the middle.

Blue skies and the church; inside the castle walls

The castle is a testament to the history of the area and region.  It was built as the seat of a noble Polish family, and built to its current size and grandeur to protect the surrounding expanse from marauding Turks.  In fact, the castle survived, but was commandeered by the Turks at the end of the 17^th century.  The Turks were allied with the Ukrainian Cossacks and put the castle under siege during the Cossack uprising of 1648.[1]  During Soviet times it was open as a museum (with the exception of the church), and now it has reopened as a museum, but the church works.  Included in the castle complex is a museum honoring and remembering the victims of the Holodomor, which was the forced famine of 1932-33 during which Stalin starved Ukrainians (among other constituent republics) into submission.

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[1] Cossack means “free man,” by definition.  I’d compare the Cossacks to American colonists to a certain extent.  The Cossack uprising was an attempt to create a free state in Ukraine.  The fight was against the Polish noble families that ruled over the countryside.  This was when Poland was part of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth.

Trying not to look depressed leaving the Holodomor museum

The final thing we did at the castle was climb to the highest tower we were allowed to.  We were provided a beautiful view of the confluence of the Southern Buh, and Buzhok rivers.  It was also an interesting juxtaposition seeing the castle grounds on the one hand and looking past the walls at the typical Soviet infrastructure of a small town.  (If you’ve been to or studied pictures of this part of the world you’ll know what that means.)  I’d like to go back to the castle, to get some time to poke around all the nooks and crannies, and see what is there.  It is not too far, so I may do that sometime in the near future.  I also found, while looking up some facts on the castle that Medzhybizh, the town the castle anchors, is actually the birthplace of the Hasidic sect of Judaism.  It sometimes seems that studying, or reading about this part of the world is like peeling an onion.  I’m impressed by the number of different layers.  

The chapel in the foreground framed by the castle walls.  I'm not sure which river is in the background

Looking out from the tower and into the town.  Don't miss the port-o-john to the left

But, that’s all I know for now.  I’m focused on cleaning my bedroom today.  Wish me luck on this arduous task.

Be good,

Pete

A Bazaar and a Castle; or A Bizarre Castle

The Bad News

Dear Readers (it’s been too long):

As the title of this suggests I have some bad news.  I feel I should start with a disclaimer created by that bard of alt-country, Ryan Adams (Ryan, not Bryan), sang a few years ago:

Now I'm not saying only bad news comes
For the people who want it
But you gotta play that music for who's listening

I was going to write to tell you the bad news:  Things are different . . . I’m going to have to change a lot of things.  I’m going to have to change the route I take to school.  I’m going to have to wash my shoes daily (but probably will only wash them twice a week).  And, the worst thing:  I’m going to have to start ironing the shirts I wear to school!

I was going to write about these things; and I still will, in fact.  But, to honor my New England roots Ukraine’s sprung a deceptively warm spring.  This past week, including the trip to Odessa, we’ve had temperatures from the mid 40s – to upper 50s.  We’re slated (this is where the New England thing comes in) for a few more days with slightly colder temperatures.  But, were I to complain about today’s temperature I would lose all credibility when I complain about the actual cold.  The colder turn has the temperature back to the mid 30s.  The day was slightly gray, but with a good dose of sun.

I mentioned the bad news; so, let me explain:  It is an extraordinarily poor show to be seen with dirty shoes here.  So much so, in fact, that one is given dirty looks on the street if one’s shoes are dirty, muddy, have salt stains, scuffs, et cetera ad nauseam.  In the winter [an American] can get away with boots that cannot be polished without much worry.  But, the time for regular dress shoes is back, and with it the time in which I must keep the shoes passably clean.  I haven’t yet resorted to the native custom of keeping a small sponge on my person, but I’ll reserve that right.  I can never be too careful when it comes to keeping these shoes clean.

On a note related to shoe hygiene and art of being presentable, we come to the next fact.  I must change my route to school.  My current route to school is pretty easy, and definitely the most direct.  Among volunteers, I’m in the lucky minority:  I only have a 10 – 15 minute walk to school.  The catch is that half of this route is dirt road, and yes, there are some chickens (but not too many).  As this thaw has come my shoes have started sinking precariously deep into the mud.  This causes the usual dirtiness, but even worse, the potential for a slip, a fall, and the resulting Abominable Meegan Mudman, and nobody wants that.  By keeping to dry land, or at least sold (albeit pothole filled) asphalt I’ll be able to avoid, hopefully, any major mishaps.  On the other hand I’ll now have to avoid areas where dirty puddles and moving cars meet.  I’ll do my damndest.

Finally, we have perhaps the worst development.  It is time to start ironing my shirts once again.  While I hate cold and winter, the one benefit they bestowed upon me was a reprieve from ironing my shirts.  I don’t have to iron the shirts because they’re hidden under the dazzling array of three threadbare sweaters that have not been attacked by the moths yet.  So, the unfortunate fact that I am a poor ironer (I didn’t pay attention when my dad was teaching me), will now be brought to the fore.  It is fair to say I’ll be pressing, sprinkling water and hoping – the type of hoping that could make me an Obama campaign worker.  If anyone has heard of a dry cleaner in the Zhmerynka area I’d love their number.  I could use a nice starched collar, anyway.

If it isn’t already obvious, this is, in fact, not a miserere.[1]  This is a celebration!  A celebration of spring’s arrival!  The ground is thawing.  The snow is well on its way out (and according to the forecast for the next ten days it isn’t likely to return).  Spring has been welcome for a while, and I’m glad it finally honored our invitation.  I should probably thank it for the opportunity to put away my long underwear, and walk around in just a windbreaker with a bare head.  Though, I will admit that, as a precaution against yelling, concerned babushkas I keep a hat in my bag; I’ll put it on if it must be used to assuage their fears that I’ll catch a draft and die.  I do appreciate the concern, OI don’t want to die yet.  I’ve got what the scientists call “shit to do” (sorry for swearing, Mom).  I’ll keep you updated but the happiness index is forecasted to rise in concert with the temperature.

That’s all I know for now . . .

Be good,

Pete

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[1] Though the Microsoft Word dictionary does not recognize the lowercase version of this word, it is grammatically correct.  If you don’t believe me, perhaps my man Webster can convince you.  He says it’s a noun meaning:  a vocal complaint or lament.  Now, let’s never have this conversation again.

A Strange Saturday

Dear family, friends and fearless readers,

I hope this gray, frozen, snowy day finds you well fed, warm and in good spirits.  As a spell of remarkable luck, the hot water in my shower came back this morning.  It wasn’t as hot as usual, but it was warm enough and I took advantage of the opportunity.  I’m sure Zhmerynka appreciates the hopefully permanent reprieve from my musk.

A week or so ago I wrote an entry entitled: “My Best Laid Plans.”  The post was a short bit about my future plans and intentions.  The literati among us will recognize the title.  This title comes from an old Scottish poem, the same poem from which Steinbeck took the name of his seminal work Of Mice and Men (not that I’m comparing my blog post to a book in the canon of American Literature).  The more astute among us will know how this line ends:  “the best-laid plans of mice and men / often go awry.”  And, to be honest, I’d be a naïve Peter if I had expected the plans to come to fruition as intended.  Luckily, I wasn’t disappointed when that first spanner was thrown into my gears.

After lengthy searches online, and considerations as to which train would best suit our timetable, I got frustrated not being able to find game time, and ticket prices for the Ukraine – Romania rugby game.  The only thing listed online was that the game would be held in Odessa.  So, after a final look online I called the Ukrainian Rugby Federation.  The girl on the other end of the line was surprisingly helpful (especially considering the fact that customer service doesn’t really exist here).  She told me the game would start at 2:00 pm.  Reasonable enough, I though.  She told me admission was free.  I was astonished, but in a good way.  Then, right before disconnecting the call I confirmed the venue:  “Very good, so 2:00 on Saturday, Spartak Stadium in Odessa?”  Response:  “No, no.  2:00 pm Saturday, Spartak Stadium, Kyiv.  Fortunately, my train tickets to Odessa had not yet been purchased.

Admittedly disappointed, I gathered my resolve for a trip to Kyiv.  Other than the rugby, I was less than enthused about going back to Kyiv.  As I’ve written elsewhere, and earlier, I like Kyiv about as much as I like New York City (read:  not at all).  I painted it in rosy colors when it was the only city in Ukraine I had been to, but in comparison to Odessa, or my favorite, Lviv – Kyiv leaves much to be desired . . . (if this weren’t a family atmosphere, I’d make a caustic and harsh statement right here!).

Saturday morning came and dressed warmly to brave the 10ºF temperatures.  The train left, and arrived and brought me to my requisite McDonald’s lunch.  Fully sated, takeaway McCoffee in my hands I headed down to the Metro and started my cross-town expedition:  Metro to Petrivka, followed by bus to Moskovsky.  Get off the bus at Frunze, and find the Hotel Spartak, the field is right next to the hotel.  Do all of this, while trying not to freeze, and if a grocery store or produkti (mini-mart), be sure to get refreshments for the game.

A bit of a miscommunication with the driver caused me to go about two miles out of the way.  I had asked him to shout when I needed to get off, but he determined that my knowledge of the city was sufficient enough that I did not need any special treatment.  Expert navigator that I am, I didn’t let this bother me.  I just trekked through the spitting snow towards the stadium.  I’m embarrassed to admit, but I was on the phone during this time, and I didn’t even think to take the tram.  The tram line was literally right next to me, and would have saved me at least 10 minutes.  But, we’ll just say that the walk was good exercise.

I arrived at the stadium about three minutes after the scheduled kick-off.  I was nervous I had missed the kick-off, so I was relieved when I saw that rugby games start with the same punctuality as everything else.  There was a smattering of people at Spartak Stadium.  I’d say at least a hundred.  After about 5 minutes with no news, no players on the field and no referee, I went to the grocery store across the street to get some snacks.  Prepared for an afternoon as a spectator it was back to the stadium for me.

No sooner had I sat down, than a young guy close to me said, in English (surprisingly) “the game’s been declined.”  I asked him if it would be later, or if it wouldn’t at all.  He said it wouldn’t happen at all and we shared a bit of disappointment.  He must have noticed the cold on my face because he followed this statement with:  “have some cognac with us; it is helping you to keep warm.”  Never one to disappoint I made my way over and introduced myself.  There were four of us total, myself, Dima (the guy who had invited me over), Alex/Sasha (another rugby player that lived for 6 months in Arizona, and speaks near fluent English, with a spot on English accent) and Sergey.  Poor Dima, the scrumhalf found himself surrounded by three front-rowers.  After some pleasantries, talking about how we’ve all played in worse weather, and there is no reason for the game’s cancellation we had finished the bottle of cognac.  Sufficiently warm, and satisfied that no one had lied, there would, indeed, be no game we decided to find some more cozy confines.  This took us to a small café/bar about a block away.

Two rounds and about an hour later I was invited to O’Brien’s, an Irish pub, in Kyiv.  They were planning on watching the Rugby 6 Nations matches of the afternoon, Italy – England, and Wales – Scotland.  I gladly accepted.  I was in Kyiv, after all, a small town boy in the big city.  And so, following a fruitless search for a bus to the center, we grabbed a cab down to O’Brien’s.  It was a longer distance than I had anticipated, and I saw a good deal of the city that I had not seen prior.  These areas were more residential, none of the imposing touristy buildings of downtown, the nitty-gritty of Kyiv.

O’Brien’s is generally a haven for expats.  It is a bit out of the price range for Peace Corps volunteers.  So it was a chance to treat myself.  But we spent the rest of the day and evening there.  The place was full of Americans, Scots and Welsh.  I’d imagine the other British Isles were represented as well, but I didn’t meet them.  Around halftime of the first game, someone came and sat down in the open seat next to me.  I didn’t recognize him, but introduced myself, with the usual “where’re you from?  What are you doing in Ukraine?”  It turns out the guy next to me was not only from the Boston-area, he was from Rhode Island.  A graduate of Bishop Hendricken High School, and had been teaching there when I was at school.  Absolutely wild, and completely unforeseeable, that’s the first time I’ve ever met someone from my high school abroad.  We’ll also have another product of the Irish Christians brothers coming to Ukraine this coming March.  The Hawks are well-presented in the Eastern Bloc, that’s the only conclusion I can draw from last weekend.

In terms of the rugby, I’m told there will be a game between Ukraine and Russia on March 12^th in Odessa.  I’m putting my faith in that, and hopefully my trip to a city by the sea won’t be foiled by another unexpected venue.

This is all I know for now.  One other thing, Friar Fans:  make sure Coleman is taken off the floor whenever something important is happening.  He made a crucial mistake against Pitt, and now cost us the DePaul game.  Awful, awful, awful.

Be good,

Pete  

The Banya – баня

Dear Friends:

As we volunteers always say:  Everybody’s Peace Corps experience is difference.  With that disclaimer out of the way, I’d be shocked if I heard of a volunteer that went a full two years in Ukraine without a trip to the sauna, or the banya.  The following is an account of my second trip to a banya in Ukraine, and my first time with Ukrainians.  The trip happened towards the end of November.  Actually, it was on November 18.  I remember the day quite clearly.

Following the birthday of my good friend Sergiy (Seriozha), I was invited to the banya in a village close to my town, Martynivka.  The invitation was extended by Seriozha’s father.  I gladly accepted.  This is the type of opportunity that does not come about everyday:  immersion into the trenches of traditional activities and pastimes, especially when one does not live with a host family.  When I am part of a large group, or at a big social event, there is usually someone with me that serves as a translator for me (not a hired translator, just friends that are far more proficient in English than I am in Ukrainian).  It is my own damn fault, but my Ukrainian proficiency certainly leaves a lot to be desired.  This fact definitely made the event more interesting, and perhaps more enjoyable, and definitely funnier.

The night started like most in November.  It was raw, windy and cold; already very dark at 5:30 in the evening.  I met up with Seriozha’s father, and we headed down to the village.  If I could use one word to describe driving (or more accurately being a passenger) in a Ukrainian car, I’m not sure scary would precisely describe the level of the emotion.  But, as per usual, we made it there unscathed, and I was only a little bit frazzled by the arduous (15 minute) journey.

I should give an explanation of the banya.  They banya is an ancient Slavic tradition.  If you read any travel guide for Russia or Ukraine, you should demand a refund if it doesn’t include a section, or at least a blurb on the banya.  The time-honored tradition hearkens back to the days of public bathing, and baths being uncommon at home.  The banya is a group ritual.  If it’s going to be done properly, one needs at least one partner.  The process goes: shower, steam, jump in cold water, rest, repeat.  During this process it’s expected that you will have your body beaten by birch branches, and likewise you will beat your partners with birch branches.  The birch branch beating is not meant to improve your toughness, but actually to improve the body’s circulation.  While reading about the banya ritual and history, I found the following passage from St. Andrew in The Tale of Bygone Years, this passage being about 900 years old:  “Wondrous to relate.  I saw the land of the Slavs, and while I was among them, I noticed their wooden bathhouses. They warm them to extreme heat, then undress, and after anointing themselves with tallow, they take young reeds and lash their bodies. They actually lash themselves so violently that they barely escape alive. Then they drench themselves with cold water, and thus are revived. They think nothing of doing this every day, and actually inflict such voluntary torture on themselves. They make of the act not a mere washing but a veritable torment.”  A bit extreme, to be sure, but it is not all that far off.  I found the jump into cold water barbarous beyond words.

So, after the banya explanation, I’ll tell about my time in the banya.  My first banya experience started on the right foot.  (In honesty, it never got off the right foot, but it started on the right foot, too.)  When I entered I was introduced to the manager.  I was introduced as Zhermynka’s American English Teacher.  And, if I remember correctly, I was/am the first American the manager had ever met.  It’s always heartening to receive a warm welcome from an older person.  This is especially true knowing the person grew up during the days of the Cold War, learning that I am from the other Evil Empire.  We shared a beer while we waited for the rest of the Thursday night banya crew to arrive.  The banya is opened every Thursday night specifically for the employees of the factory that used to be open in Martynivka.  It was a vodka factory.  

The banya procedure is one that is generally done (when in single-gender groups) in the nude.  That means we prudish New Englanders would have to leave our comfort zones, and immerse ourselves without concern for modesty.  As one never overcome with too much modesty, this was not much of a problem for me.  So, after disrobing, folding my clothes, and slowly shutting the locker (read: delaying) I entered the formidable chamber.

The first step, once you’ve entered the banya is a shower.  In the company of new friends, I showered, and I had my back washed for the first time since I was a child being bathed by my mother (. . . memories!).  After washing up, and clearing my pores I entered the steam room.  If you are doing the steam room right, you stay in for a full five minutes, or at least as long as you can.  The bolder among us even dump more water over the coals to make the air even thicker, and for those not given the pulmonary strength of your humble narrator:  harder to breathe.  I’d be lying if I told you, dear readers, that I was fully comfortable, and stayed in for the total five minute period on my first entrance.  Even more embarrassing than my early exit of the steam room, was how quickly I left the cold pool after jumping in.  It was so cold; I was out about as soon as I touched the surface.

As I mentioned above, the steps are repeated as long as one deems necessary.  I have read that the showers that start off each round should be taken at different temperatures.  That was one of thing I neglected.  I also omitted the jump into the freezing pool after the steam room on the next rounds.  After the first round, for me, it went: shower, steam room, hang out, repeat.  If there is one thing I’m slightly disappointed with, it is the fact that there were no birch branches, or branches of any kind in the banya.  That is something I would still like to try, and there will be plenty of time in the future, and plenty more Thursdays, to try to ingratiate myself.  But, it is important to recognize the benefits received.  And, following the second to last round I was on the receiving end of a sweet massage.  Very thorough, and very relaxing, it let the steamy air really seep into my muscles and joints and I felt tremendous when it came time to put my clothes back on and get on with it.

And get on with it, we did!  By get on with it, I do not mean we left.  After steaming, freezing, lukewarming, and repeating it was time for the true test of endurance:  the meal.  In large groups I am frequently told I do not eat enough, I suppose this was no exception.  Following my second plate, I wasn’t able to cram any other solid foods into my stomach.  The table was full of delicious, though.  There were grilled rotisserie chickens, pickles, various salads, bread, pickled tomatoes, sausage, salo (bacon minus the meat; yes, that does mean pure pig fat), pork.  I am sure I am forgetting things, as well, but I can say that there was barely room to place a cup down on the table, so it’s a lucky thing that shot glasses are so small.  Toasts, as usual, accompanied the meal.  In passing, recently, I have heard my strong stomach mentioned in conversations I am not a part of.  This topic of discussion comes from my performance at this table, specifically.  I was able to hold my own, and the total physical relaxation that had permeated my body, was met with an equally powerful ally in the form of that sharp potato juice.  But, this revelry, I must say, was performed in a controlled, and responsible manner; truly being used as the oil of conversation.

The topics of conversation were the usual topics that are broached when I meet people for the first time.  Where my wife and kids happen to be is always first.  After finding out that such a seasoned veteran, like myself, is still single I was advised that I can always find a good girl in Ukraine.  And now, another important topic was brought up with much gravity.  Which country has better, more beautiful girls?  Ukraine or America?  Always the diplomat I gave a relatively stock answer about how beautiful Ukrainian women are, and how there are many beautiful American women, too.  I even dispelled the myth that American women only eat McDonald’s.  While dispelling that myth, I did admit my affinity for the golden arches.  The topics were fast and furious, and I’d say my understanding was probably between 40 – 60 %.  So, it is possible that I’m recounting a whole group of questions and answers that never happened.  On a lighter note, and perhaps what I should leave you with:  As I’ve mentioned before, my language skills are not stellar.  This usually iblem, as I can do everything I do on an everyday basis with the words I know.  I can have my general conversations without problem.  But, at the table, I was a bit over my head.  At one point, there is a chance I agreed to be the godfather of one of the men’s daughter.  I haven’t heard anything else in this regard, but it is, possible.  I may just have said that I will be a Christian, though.  The words are very close.

I’m looking forward to my next visit.  It was a blast, and I’d like to do it again.  I’ll make sure to find the birch branches, as well.  For now, though, that’s all I know.

Be good, and be well.

Pete