Saturday Nights and Sunday Mornings

Friends, Americans, Countrymen:

The end of the school year has come and gone since last we met.  Things are going well.  It’s been hot, but the heat is a welcome change from the frigid winter.  I think a friend of mine said it best when she said, and I’m paraphrasing here:  “After Ukraine, I never want to be cold again.”  Hopefully that isn’t something I’ll have to worry about for the remainder of my days here.  We are certainly in the homestretch.

As some of you may know, I’ve started training for the Kyiv Marathon which will take place on September 18^th.  In fact, I just finished my fifth week of training.  As I’m not much of a runner, I still absolutely hate running, and probably always will, I’ve made some dietary changes to help make this transition, and training as innocuous as possible.  One element of this has been the elimination of unnecessary beers, as much as that hurts to admit.  My already greatly reduced consumption[1] has been further decreased in the past few weeks.  Saturday night is the time now I allow myself to indulge my taste for liquid carbohydrates.

Being a sucker for tradition and various other pomps and circumstances I’ve started a new routine.  I should say first, that Saturday is the long run for this marathon training program.  Yesterday, for example, allowed me a nice little run of ten miles.  After such an onerous task in the morning, I feel the evening owes me a good time.  I’ve started haunting Café Relax at the train station in town.  The café allows me an outdoor perch on their balcony where I can rehydrate, read and generally stand sentry over the train station.

Saturday night supplies

I usually roll into the café around 8:30 PM.  It’s a little late, I know, but I still get an hour of good light, and then about an hour of twilight.  It takes limited supplies to have an enjoyable night here.  I need my glasses, my watch, a book and a couple of grizzles (as the Ukrainian unit of currency, hryvnia, is so affectionately known).  For the equivalent of $1.50, I can sit with my book, and enjoy a couple of draught beers.  If I want to add another $.50, I can add in a little bag of peanuts or croutons, and if I’m feeling really baller, I can get a portion of fried potatoes for $1.00.

When I’ve had enough of my book, I can sit back and watch the hustle and bustle of the train station itself.  This provides enjoyable people watching, interesting bird watching, and even anonymity – a difficult thing to find in my town.  The sights and sounds of these two hours vary every weekend, but they don’t stray too far from a general script.  There are people hawking various foods, beverages, adult beverages and salted fishes near the arriving trains.  There are usually Roma parents, looking for glass and plastic bottles while their children seek alms from philanthropic passers-through, and often to their consternation.

From my table the platforms at the train station.

If all this isn’t enough, just imagine, I get to see the militsiya in action; stopping people for documents, sending ne’er-do-wells on their way, and generally maintaining order.  Among all this activity there is a near constant cry from taxi drivers offering their services to a tired traveler.  This is done amid the continuous ring of announcements over the loudspeakers telling us which trains are arriving, and which are departing.  Surprisingly, while the station is constantly busy while I’m holding court, I very rarely have much company on my perch.

Train platforms and kiosks and taxis in the parking lot

Watching the day reach its logical conclusion at the train station is a relaxing enterprise.  I enjoy seeing people getting on and off trains.  While train travel itself has lost its romance for me, I still like seeing people getting out there into the world.  And, while I envy whatever adventure they just had, I’m usually glad they were able to have it.  I also take a bit of pleasure watching people sprint to trains that are starting to steam, grunt and hiss.  I don’t want them to miss their trains, but the endeavor is fun to watch.  It is even more satisfying knowing that I have nothing to do and nowhere to be . . . which is depressing for a Saturday night in its own right.

Now, don’t get me wrong, watching sunset descend on Zhmerynka, Ukraine is in no way comparable to sitting at Castle Hill, or one of the harbor-side bars or cafes in Newport, but it will do.  Sometimes appreciating where we are is all about the art of lowered expectations.  I’ll take this seat, and these evenings over sitting in my apartment looking at pictures, on facebook, of what all my friends are doing.  Hell, I’ll even admit that I enjoy these evenings.  Of course I’d prefer a bit more adventure and being a lot more rambunctious.  But, there is a time and a place for everything.  Soon enough I’ll get a little time off for bad behavior.[2]  All this said, I generally make my way home around the time the sky grows completely dark.

The day comes to its logical conclusion at the train station.

Sunday morning brings a day full of promise and choices.  When I wake up, I can choose whether or not I want to go back to bed, and there is usually a strong possibility that I would like to.  I carve an hour out of the day for a walk.  It is beneficial for my legs after the long run, and as an added bonus, I’m seeing parts of my town I had never seen before.  It’s surprising how much I didn’t know about, and how many places I had never seen.  The rest of Sunday can vary.  A Skype conversation or phone call may be on the agenda, sometimes I’ll be lucky and the Red Sox will have a day game that I can stream online.  Tonight was enjoyable; I was able to watch the USA – Jamaica soccer game.

This, of course, is a special Sunday.  I’d be remiss not to wish a sincere Happy Father’s Day, to all the fathers, and father-figures out there.  Some of us, especially those in my extended family, have been blessed in this regard, and we certainly don’t acknowledge it enough.  I can unequivocally say that I would not be where I am, both literally and figuratively, without the influence of the man lovingly referred to as Big Dave.  I was lucky to be able to speak with my parents, brother and sister today.  Even better than that, in just a short time I’ll be meeting my parents in the Krakow airport ready to show them my favorite non-Newport city.

But, it’s late, and that’s all I’ve got for you.  So, I hope things are going well, and summer weather is making its way into your lives.  Things are good here.  I’d love to hear from everyone.  Feel free to send me an email, or poke me on facebook, or send me letter, I’ll even get a fax machine if that would be more conducive.

Be good,

Pete

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[1] Greatly reduced, but it was coming from a pretty high standard which would have been difficult to maintain.

[2] Pamplona should consider itself warned.

Trampling out the Vintage Where the Grapes of Wrath are Stored, or, Running a Half Marathon in Sub-Carpathian Wine Country

Dear family, friends, readers and confidants:

At long last we meet again.  I hope you'll oblige me while I spin a little yarn your way.

Maybe based on my penultimate post, I shouldn’t go around quoting The Battle Hymn of the Republic, but when running through wine country it just seems appropriate.  Now some of you may know, because I’m a glory hog, and enjoy tooting the horn of my own accomplishment and self-promotion, that I recently ran a half marathon.  Then again, if you didn’t previously know, the astute reader could have probably ascertained the fact from today’s title, but I digress.

           

I recently posted about my disdain for, even hatred of running.  When I say this I mean, of course, that I hate performing the actual act of running.[1]  But, as I mentioned earlier, full of hubris, self-importance and barley juice I said (after not running for a year and a half) that I would run a half marathon.  As such, I did not want to be shown a liar.  So, in order to prepare myself, for a good three weeks, I ran five times per week.  Full of confidence I would be prepared I elected to take ten days off from running to entertain my brother on his visit (more on that at a later date).

            

Now, getting to Berehove, the site of the half marathon, was not the easiest thing in the world.  If you’ve read the last post, you’ll know what I mean.  By the way, whoever said it’s not the destination, it’s the journey has never dealt with Ukrainian trains and train stations.  Regardless, we made it to Berehove hardly all that much worse for the wear.  Arriving in Berehove we got off a bus in the middle of town.  From there the goal was to find our guest house.  This seemingly easy task was made more time consuming by streets with Hungarian as well as Ukrainian names, and the fact that we had no idea where the street was.  After a half hour or so we found the place and put our bags down.

            

If you’re up for a geography lesson, Beregove is in the far west of Ukraine.  It is a Hungarian town.  As such, the street signs are in both Hungarian and Ukrainian.  The menus I saw were in both languages, and both flags were flown around the town.  The town became part of Ukraine following World War II, as did the entire oblast (regional administrative district) it is a part of.  It is also a part of the sub-Carpathian wine country, so it is a fertile place with a lot of beautiful vineyards.  There were also a lot of hills, they were nice to look at, but they made Saturday a bit difficult.

            

We arrived on a Friday.  Exploring the town was as fun as exploring any new town is (I’m not being facetious, I mean that).  There was a nice downtown area with a park, a number of outdoor cafes, and a variety of other shops and general places of commerce.  There were also a lot of people out and about which is always nice to see.  Friday was the day to check in, pick up the race number and the official race t-shirt, as well.  After checking in and a bit of exploring, I sat down for a combination of lunch and wine.  The lunch was terrific:  shashlyk, fried potatoes, salad, and a delicious Hungarian soup (I’m not sure if it was goulash, it might have been).  The wine was tasty.  I elected for the white wine.  I didn’t want anything too heavy.

            

Lunch led to more wandering, and catching up with other volunteers.  Following this lunch we were given a small tour of the town.  The tour went up the main street we were in and gave us a bit of context for the town; the religious history, the political history, the ethnic history, all that good stuff.  I could recount this all for you, but I don’t remember, so I hope you’ll forgive my ignorance.  After the tour we had our opening ceremonies.  There were a number of speeches.  There was dancing by a number of girls wearing skimpy costumes.  There were boys break dancing.  It was a party!  

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[1] I am Pete Meegan and I still stand behind this statement!  (and its redundancy)  

I think this will be next year's official event poster 

My fresh new t-shirt was pretty popular on Friday.  I’ve posted some pictures, but it says:  “Running Sucks.”  This combination of the t-shirt, my build, and the fact that I was freely imbibing on the local fruits of the local viniculture proved misleading.  The festival attendees were, for the most part surprised to learn I planned to run the half marathon.  Why not, right?  Not only was I planning on running, I was planning on finishing without stopping.

Luckily, I called an early night on Friday.  Staying in a guest house with a lot of people helps keep me on my best behavior.  This Friday night was no different.  So, after performing an adequate degustation, I made my way back to get a full night’s sleep.  Up early, and after a power breakfast of beef jerky (thanks Matt!) I was ready to party.  And by party, I mean run a half marathon . . . slowly.

The official starting chute 

Starting the run was a bit exciting.  I had never run that far before.  I had no doubt I would finish, but I didn’t know how much of the race I would be crawling for.  Fortunately, a Peace Corps Medical Officer had warned me about the course.  The first quarter or so of the course was uphill.  Not very steep, but substantial enough.  The hills didn’t end there, but it was nice to have an idea of what was coming my way.  There were a good amount of runners all starting together.  Combined with the half marathon there was a 10K, a 5K and a 4 person team challenge for the half marathon.  As soon as we heard the starting signal I started my half marathon strategy:  running.

An example of the course's scenery 

 Sub-Carpathian wine country

We ran through town, and through some agricultural areas.  We ran past some villages as well.  It was, as I’ve written earlier, a nice area.  Another great thing we had on the course were a few hydration stations they were at kilometers 5, 10 (the turnaround point) and 15 (the place as 5).  While some of the PCVs (Peace Corps Volunteers) ran in the events, some volunteered on the course.  They did a great job.  They held up signs.  They gave us water.  They cheered us on.  One even threw some cold water at my back as I cruised on through kilometer 15 (the ¾ mark).  I’m glad she didn’t ask first, I would have said no, but it was refreshing.  The only complaint I have about these volunteers is that they thought I was joking when I asked them to call me a cab.  It would have been a much more expedient way to get to the finish.  Though, I imagine that would take any sense of accomplishment out of the mix.

If you're not going to finish first, finish memorably:  The start of an attempted cartwheel 

Attempted cartwheel continued 

This is as close as I came to completing the carwheel.  No picture of me on my back exists, but if there was one it would follow. 

I have a long held belief.  It is as follows:  if you can’t be first, be memorable.  To help fulfill this belief I thought long and hard about how I would cross the finish line.  There was, in spite of everything, no question that I would cross the finish line.  I’m a Meegan, and as such, I don’t do things halfway.[1]  The finish came down to four options:  a somersault, a barrel roll, a mid-air freeze frame (this would require a photographer to catch the moment, otherwise it would just look like a jump) or a cartwheel.  I decided on the cartwheel.  It seemed the only viable option.  I didn’t know if I could cleanly perform a somersault after the 13 miles.  I didn’t want to end up with a concussion and a million stitches in my head.  The barrel roll would take to long, and I wouldn’t want to get up afterwards.  I didn’t know if we’d have a photographer at the finish, so that was the demise of any mid-air shenanigans.  The cartwheel seemed a good choice, anyway.  Unfortunately, I forgot how tired I would be by the end of the race.  I didn’t quite land the cartwheel.  I wound up on my back.  After laughing for a second, I was given a few glasses of water, instructed to stretch, and given directions to the bathroom.  I didn’t hear my time, because I was on my back, but I don’t think it was too much more than two hours.  Who knows? 

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[1] Unless halfway is the only option, like a half marathon.  Hell, half is in the title of the event, don’t call me out on this.

I finished and I had a certificate, wine glass and have a medal to prove it. 

We spent the rest of the day under the green tents next to this building.  This time was full of good food, good wine, cold beer and music.  Sounds like a good day in any part of the globe.

The rest of the day was low key.  I was given a medal, and a wine glass.  I quickly put the wine glass to use.  Sampling the local viniculture for a second day was in no ways disappointing.  I had a bit more shashlyk, and some salad as well.  We spent what feels like hours under a group of tents.  Almost everyone there was American.  Some of our friends even serenaded us with some live music; a combination of guitar, banjo and violin.  I was even interviewed at some point herein.  From a combination of my dehydration, rehydration and general tiredness I cannot remember how the interview went, or even what language it was in.  I imagine it had to have been English, but I should try to find it.  

A large group went out to a disco this night.  Again I elected to close shop a little early.  I have no problems with a group of Americans dominating a disco, bar or club in Lviv, or Kyiv, or any of the big cities, but I had my doubts that such a small town could handle that many Americans.  Thankfully, it could.  There were no problems or run-ins with locals, or the law, and that’s always a positive.

            

Sunday was a bit sore.  Luckily there wasn’t much to do.  There was a lot of waiting around and reading the park.  I had coffee at a number of cafes in town, and even had a smoothie.  It was tasty.  On flat ground I was alright, but anytime stairs were involved I thought my legs were going to fall off.  But, all in all, it was rather doable.  I didn’t die.  I have parlayed that success into an attempt to run the Kyiv Marathon in September.  We’ll see how that goes.  I’m two weeks into training now.  I’m actually going to train this time, too!  Also, in case you’re interested I found a YouTube video that was made for this year’s marathon.  Here is the link:  http://wn.com/Beregsz%C3%A1sz_Maraton_2011

That’s all I know for now.

Be good,

Pete 

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