My first human contact with theFellowship group was with the main administrative coordinator,Jennifer. She was an Americanized Russian girl who had came to theStates long enough ago to speak both fluent Russian and English, bothwithout accents. She greeted me in the lounge that the Fellowshiphad set aside. “How are you?” she asked.

“I'm good,”I said shaking her hand. “And yourself?”

“Good. Thisis the lounge area,” she said, pointing into the room, “wheretomorrow you'll wait for the interview and the language test. Andover here is the dining room, where you'll meet the people who willinterview tomorrow. We'll have dinner at 6:30.”

“Excellent,”I said back. “Then I can catch up on a little sleep. What shouldwe wear dressing-wise? Is this okay?” I pointed to my ownclothes: a brown button-up shirt tucked into blue jeans and hikingboots. A bit like a President Bush at Camp David.

“Somethingmore formal,” she said. “You should wear your suit.”

“Ah,”I said. A suit. I didn't have a suit. I had been in Peace Corps inGeorgia, where I didn't wear a suit for my entire two years - except twice to meet Joe Biden and Hillary Clinton - and thenI had been traveling for five months, when it would be a bitimpractical to carry around a suit. I could have bought a suit inUkraine, but of course, without knowing if I would have received theFellowship or not, it would have been a bit wasteful to have bought asuit. So I made due with what I had. “How about slacks and adress shirt?”

“Okay,” she said, her eyes lowering a bit.

This might be a problem, I thought to myself. When I wentup to my room, I unpacked my clothes. It was time to get to ironing. I ironed out the dress shirt that I had brought and then lookedaround for my tie. I apparently had left my only tie back inUkraine. This might be a real problem, I thought to myself again. Ididn't even bring a tie. I did bring a vest, so hopefully that mightdo. The vest and shirt looked nice enough together. I'd go to thedinner with only the dress shirt and go to the interview in the vest. Maybe they wouldn't notice I didn't come in a suit and tie. Anyways, how shallow could they be? They knew I was flying in fromKiev, they knew that I was in the Peace Corps and they knew that Iwas on the road. It would be ridiculous to judge me from my dress. Anyways, I hadn't yet seen how everyone else was dressed.

Igot down to the dinner – a supposedly “informal” affair ofmeeting the interviewers – I saw that everyone was dressed forsuccess. All the other men were in suits and ties – if not suits,at least sport coats. Some of the interviewers had sports coatswithout ties. I'd always been used to taking off my jacket fordinner, but everyone remained wearing their jackets. I wasn't inTexas or Colorado anymore; those were the last two places I had a jobwhere I needed to wear suits on a somewhat regular basis. I did mybest to schmooze, despite my current disposition.

On myright, was a giant of a man, who seemed to be the type that didn'tcare about suits. He himself was only dressed in a sports coat, witha blue button-up undone to reveal a white shirt. “The name'sGary,” he said, introducing himself. Gary was of the talkativesort, and easily reminded me of any number of Texan businessmen. “Iwork with the consulting and lobbying with the Kurds these days,”he told me. He advised the Kurdish government on different practiceson logistics and legalities. It was the kind of job I dreamed aboutdoing. “One time,” he told me, sipping on his Coca-cola while Isipped on a glass of dry red wine, “we got this payment from the USgovernment. 2.8 billion dollars. Do you know how much money that isin cash? In one hundred dollar bills, that fills up just about thisentire room. Anyways, first, we had to figure out how to transportthis cash to the Kurdish government. And then they had to figure outhow to use it. They paid for everything in cash. There aren't anybanks around there to store it either. So we kept it in thiswarehouse, covered with security. I wanted them to take it out ofthere and invest it somewhere. Think how much interest you could getfrom 2.8 billion dollars! But then there was the pure logisticalproblem of getting a helicopter full of cash out of there. Can youimagine?”

He had other stories to tell as well, which hetold when our steak dinners were brought out and placed before us onthe table. “Once, there was this party that we were holding. Justthe problem was, they guy wanted me to throw this party even withouthaving anything of his own. No chairs, tables, nothing. So wequickly called some Turkish companies – we couldn't go through Iranor Syria – and had them come in with big truck loads of party gear. The Turks have a surprisingly good relationship with the Kurds inIraq. It's just the Kurds in Turkey that they have a problem with.”

The evening past further with Gary's stories, as well as thestories from the girl to my left, who had other stories that weren'tso wild of a nature. “Gary loves to tell his stories,” she said,almost as if she was a little jealous about them.

After thedinner, I went out to meet up with Jose. He was at an Orient mixer,a mixer for the Asian people in New York and for those people who areinterested in Asian people and their culture. As most of Jose'sgirlfriends in the recent past have been Asian, it was clear why hewas there. He was clearly a fan. Also on schedule to come wasJoseph, the lawyer who was backing Jose in the book affair.

“IsJoseph here yet?” I asked Victor as we sipped on our wines. Idecided to stick to wine after I saw the lineup of beers offered atthe posh New York bar: Budweiser, Coors and, for the truly beer snobin all of us, Heineken, all at a minimum price tag of 8 dollars. “Red wine,” I told the blonde-haired waitress who was taking myorder. Just before she left I asked, “Where are you from? You'vean accent and a look about you.”

“I'm from Poland,” shesaid.

“I almost guessed Ukrainian. I live in Ukraine,right now, actually,” I told her. “I haven't been to Poland yet,though I'd like to.”

“Really? What are you doing inUkraine?”

“I don't really know. I was in the Peace Corpsin Georgia and then I took to traveling around Europe. I likeUkraine for now, it seems a good place to practice my Russian withouthaving to go through a crazy visa regime.” Lots of Americans werein Ukraine because they wanted to study Russian culture but theRussian government wasn't too fond of having American visitors. Itmeant they'd come to Ukraine. It was good for Ukraine, as all theseAmericans would come away from Ukraine loving their country all themore, and soon Ukrainians would be able to travel abroad and hear a“Jak spravoe?” instead of a “Kak dela?” when people found outthey were from Ukraine. As Russia closed itself off to the world andacted all mighty, they became more insignificant, and would maketheir former “colonies” all the greater and more independent –undoubtedly the opposite effect they had intended. It is an examplethat the United States should keep in mind. All these countries areopen to America now, but how much longer can they remain open as theUS treats their citizens like criminals and terrorists?

Joseph was never able to make it thatevening. He had been busy with work the night before and had justgotten home that night, as we were at the bar. He wanted some timealone with his wife and his newborn, a perfectly understandableposition. But that meant, he wasn't there to hear our pitch, to haveme as the new writer on board the project. The pitch would have towait.

While in New York, I decided to checkout the Occupy Wall Street protest, since Jose was off of work, hejoined me. While in Europe, I saw that all the Republicancommentators were enraged by it – and were still enraged by it. Iwanted to see if gatherings in Zuccoti Park could actually blockpeople from going to work and to see if the OWS was the real deal. When we went down to Wall Street, we found that Zuccoti Park was noteven on Wall Street. We walked a couple blocks North from there, onBroadway, and finally found Zuccoti Park. What we found wasmonstrous, it was devastating, it was revealing just how onerous andpowerful Soros and his elite cabal of America haters were – youknow, the guys Glenn Beck swears are backing it. We saw a whole lineof metal boxes along the side of the road. Clearly some sort ofbunkers or shades used to hunt poor, hungry brokers. We lookedcloser, in much disbelief. The bunkers were cleverly disguised ashot dog vendors, complete even with an Armenian or Mexican (orsomething similarly hairy) trying to sell us some “100% beef” hotdogs. This was clearly a conspiracy. The rest of the park wasempty, save for one guy in a dirty hoodie, wearing sunglasses,despite the morose weather. He stood next to a box and a lot ofpamphlets about Occupy Wall Street.

Zuccoti Park and the Occupy crowd“So this is OccupyWall Street, is it?” I asked. To be honest, I was a littledisappointed. I was expecting more than hot dog vendors and one bumlooking guy.

“It is. Well, most people took the day off orare gathered at the atrium,” he said. When he spoke I could seehis missing teeth and smelled something like dead rat on his breath.

“The atrium?” Jose asked. Now it sounded like we were onto something.

“There's a building just down the street weuse for the General Assembly to meet.”

“The General Assembly?”I asked.

“They make decisions on things.”

“Onthings?”

“Like points of objection. Our agenda. Actions.”

“Actions?”

“Like if we're going to doa bicycle ride protest or make t-shirts.”

I was gettingbored. These weren't the Communist revolutionaries I was expecting. It was clearly a bunch of uneducated hippies and homeless people thatcollected enough money to continue doing things they thought wereproductive – which means, doing things unproductive, since we aretalking about hippies and homeless people. “So what exactly is thepoint of Occupy?” Jose asked.

“We're raising awareness,man.”

Were we going to have to batter this guy with acrowbar before he gave us some sensible information? I was about tobreak down and yell at the guy, thinking that it might be the onlyway he'd make me aware of what exactly he was raising awarenessabout. “About what? Raising awareness about what?”

“Abouthow the government and Wall Street are married. How their workingtogether to steal money and jobs from the middle and lower classes. About how they have to stop working so closely together and have tobe separate entities.”

“Hmmm, that doesn't sound veryFascist or Communist. You sure you're working for George Soros?”

“We're not working for George Soros. We take collectionsfrom all sorts of people, but no one but the General Assemblydictates what we do. And the General Assembly is open to anyonewho wants to join.” Okay, maybe it did sound like a bunch ofcommies, just stealing buildings and occupying them. “We pay forthe building by donations. Would you guys donate?”

Igrunted and was growing bored. How all these pundits had obsessed so long over the "occupiers" was beyond me, but I think their obsession had given more credence to the movement than it was worth. Jose threw some dollars into his box. We left the the plazaand went on to a New York sandwich shop, having a sandwich more localthan a Subway – which was an altogether better way of spending timethan talking to bums on the street. I ordered a Reuben, one of my favorite sandwiches, which I hadn't eaten in some three years. It's a bit surprising, since I've been traveling through places renowned for sauerkraut - and other cabbage dishes - and meat. We talked more about thisbusiness of writing books and about the interview that I had thatnight with the Fellowship.

The interview was held at someposh hotel on Madison Ave. It wasn't an overly fancy place, but Iimagined that anywhere on Manhattan island had to cost a fortune. Not only that, but the Fellowship had paid for my flight fromUkraine, too. They must have meant for some serious business. Afterleaving Jose, I went on to my hotel room and settled in. No goodchannels or free internet, but the room was more than comfortable. Ididn't need the heating, since New York was having some weird, hotand rainy weather going on in the middle of February. I had to stripoff my jacket and sweater as soon as I had landed. It was time toget ready for some schmoozing.

Newark airport is a bit of a shock toanyone who's grown accustomed to Eastern European (lack of) customerservice. As soon as I got off the plane, I was almost immediatelyattacked by an army of red coated customer service professionals. “Can I help you, sir?” “Do you need help finding something,sir?” “Can I be of assistance, sir?” It is also striking thatthe majority of these customer service professionals are people ofcolor, which makes me wonder if that's all they hire or if that's allthat apply, since the ole American white folk seem ill accustomed tothe more traditional service roles. Or maybe there just aren't thatmany white folk in the Newark area. Was that a white guy over there? Nope, I was mistaken, he was a Hispanic guy with medieval lookingtattoo writing crawling up his neck, reading something in Spanishlike “Los Lobos reprazent!” Anyways, this blog isn't meant to be acritique of Newark's affirmative action program or a list of possiblyracist jokes.

As I approached the door to the bathroom, Ifound another attendant. “Let me open that for you, sir,” hesaid. As I approached the urinal, I let out a sigh of relief. Notbecause I was pissing – which was relieving – but because nobodyasked me if I needed assistance. I left and found my way to thetram, and waited underneath the sign to the SkyTrain. “Where areyou going, sir?” a customer service representative asked.

“TheSkyTrain,” I said.

“Just wait here, the train will behere shortly,” she said.

The electronic ticker next to thesign said two minutes. “Yeah, thanks,” I told her. When I gotto the SkyTrain terminal, I found that the army had occupied thatarea as well. I was unsure what to think of allthis, but I had a growing suspicion that maybe I was expected to tipeveryone. In which case they looked at me and whispered behind myback that I was another cheap Eastern European bastard. Ha! Littledid they know that this cheap bastard was one hundred percent, GradeA, Prime American cut.

The SkyTrain came in and I took it toNew York. I got off at Penn Station, though at first I wasn't sureif it was the Penn Station in New York or the Penn Station in NewJersey. I looked around for some maps and all I could find were mapsof the New Jersey metro system. I was a bit confused. I lookedaround for some red jacketed gentlemen, but just as I needed them,they were no longer supplied. Only in a well marked airport are theyhired to offer directions. Granted, would someone really trust a redjacketed, “customer service” professional in the New York metro? Probably not. So I went to the customer service desk. “I just gotoff at Newark and am trying to get to Penn Station. Is that whereI'm at?”

“Yes, it is,” the fat lady behind the countersaid.

“Which one? New Jersey or New York?”

“Whereare you going?”

“To Penn Station.”

“Which one?”

“The one in New York.”

“That's where you're at, sir,” shesaid, smiling. This wasn't the first time she had been confrontedwith some poor, lost, non-New Yorker trying to find the right PennStation. I followed signs to the metro, now comforted that I was onthe correct side of the Hudson and went to find where Jose lived. AsI approached his neighborhood, the Upper East End, I saw that I wasearly. I went about finding a cafe that had both wifi and coffee. When I passed a T-Mobile store, I decided to go ahead and get a newsim card. I purchased one for 10 dollars, with 15 dollars of creditfor 1000 minutes. It seemed pricey, but I knew that I was going tofeel new rippage in my anus around the wallet area after I leftUkraine anyway.

“Do you know where any cafes are with freeinternet?” I asked the clerk.

“There's no such thing asfree internet. You gotta pay everywhere. It's in the price of thecoffee or whatever. That's all that marketing and shit.” The guywas clearly an MBA fresh out of grad school.

“Yeah, nokidding, that's just bullshit,” I replied, attempting to speak NewYorker. “So holmes, where's it at? I mean, where can I log in forfree? For the price of a joe, you know?” I decided I was soundingless like a New Yorker and more like Sarah Palin trying to score votes with the youth, so I quit that jive and switchedback to normal English. “I mean, is there anyplace I can login?”

“I get you man,” he said. “No man, nowhere forfree. They used to be all over the place, but not no more. Listenman, you can go on down to Starbucks and log in.”

Werethose funeral bells I heard in the quiet void leftover from hisutterance of the Enemy of All Private Coffee Shops? “Surely youjest!” I said. Well, no, I'm not that stiff and proper, and Ithink I had said something actually a bit more coarse and to thepoint. “Last I was in the States, you had to pay for internetaccess at Starbucks. They had a deal with – ah, T-Mobile. But I do rememberthey shut down all their stores for some strategic meeting, justbefore I left, and one of the results was that they needed to offerfree internet. Yes, I remember. So they did?”

The proofwas in the pudding, as they say. I walked down the streets of UpperEast Manhattan, where last I had been three years ago, had at leasttwo or three private coffee shops every corner where you could log on for free, now there were diners you could drink coffee but not surf the net, and it was filled even morewith sushi shops, Apple stores, Starbucks and “Famous” pizza parlors ownedby different guys named Mike. Whoever says Capitalism bringsindividuality hasn't been to New York. I surrendered and went to thenext Starbucks, which was on the next corner. I felt as though I hadwalked into a zombie movie. Everywhere I looked, chairs were filledby people in business suits with Apple computers, typing away ontheir Facebook and Twitter updates and talking on ear-sets thatplugged into Apple iPhones. It was an Orwellian nightmare ofconsumerism.*

As I sat in the Starbucks, sipping mysteaming hot mocha, I realized that the interior of the shop wasdevoid of power outlets. I had used up my laptop juice in the airplane andwas unable to login to check my own Facebook and update Big Brother on my whereabouts. Unable to do this, I had to settle on watching all the people aroundme, looking for the minute differences that sometimes aboundin-between any two people. There were three black folk sitting onthe opposite side of the room, two of them males with Yankees baseball capsturned backwards, chatting with a girl who had an Erika Badu fro withtight pink sweats. One of the boys had an iPad out, sharing whateverlatest meme had come to his attention. Directly across from me wasan Asian girl, who was jotting down words in her notebook,occasionally glancing around the room, as though she were doing thesame thing I was doing but was actually physically taking notes. Next to me was another Asian girl, typing on her iBook. Some whitepeople were seated next to the window, each of them talking on theiriPhones, even though they had clearly come to the coffee shop tospend time together. In the corner was a large man with a kid in awheelchair who seemed to have Down syndrome, indicated from hisstunted growth and his weak neck that kept his head permanentlyturned. These people were all the same.

It was interestingto me that many Eastern Europeans strove so much to be likeWesterners when they themselves were the last bastions of modernindividuality. Starbucks hadn't yet entered Kiev, exchanging all thelocally developed Kofe Hauz and Coffee Life stores, as well as thesmaller places like Lviv-style coffee houses that have become mainstays ofUkrainian life. But as much as Ukrainians lust for a place in thesupposed modern world, they'll find themselves lost soon enough inthe ubiquity of the Starbucks Galaxy – though, to be honest, nonewould notice the difference between Starbucks and Coffee Life, andMcDonald's had already become a mainstay on most busy corners inKiev.

Back out to New York. Maybe I should have gone toBrooklyn. Isn't that where everything is cool? But in truth, I wasterrified of Brooklyn. I was terrified that I'd step out of themetro stop and find everyone had somehow transformed into dancingrobots and Jesuses, wearing shiny clothes with oversized, brightlycolored glasses, everyone shuffling and shuffling, like in the LMFAOvideos. I don't think I could have handled that culture shock. I needed baby steps. Butthen, there was always Little Odessa, where I could witness EasternEuropeans of the 90s sort, who were still listening to Malchishnik andNautika, sporting mullets and wearing track suits like they werestraight out of an Italian mafia movie. But then, I could have just gone back to Armenia for that.

I had enough of myfive dollars mocha coffee at Starbucks. It was time to find Jose.

*There are plenty of private shops in New York, I just don't know where they are. Ask your local couchsurfers!

I had made a small score of new friendsat the concert that I played at Divan. Mostly, they took the shapeof a list of names in my phone, people who I only vaguely rememberedor forgot altogether. We sat down at the bar at Divan, about to meeta couple of the girls that we had met the night before. Thebartender said an enthusiastic hello, turning to Daria, calling her“the girl who paid.” “What's that about?” I asked.

“Ikept paying for all my drinks. And I bought you a beer too, don'tyou remember?”

“Oh,” I said, smiling. “Notreally.”

As I sat at the bar with Daria, sipping on ourbeers, though still our heads were fogged over by our vastinebriations the night before, I scrolled through the phone. “Doyou know Ivan?”

“No,” she said.

“Sandra?”

“Nope.”

“Misha?”

“No.”

The list of names continued. Occasionally she might nod herhead yes or tell me that I was quite the player the other night. Notthat my playing amounted to anything, since most of the night Isimply sat on my chair, with my accordion on my lap, twirling aroundmy glass of whiskey while the people in the armchair next to me keptchanging. Only one person had occupied my attention then, which wasa dark haired girl sitting next to Oleg. I believe it was the layoutof her crooked nose and her dark inset eyes that had peaked myinterest in talking to her.

“Do you remember that girl yougot the rejection from?” Daria asked. “The one sitting next toOleg while he played the guitar?”

“I got rejected?” Iasked her. “Oh, yes.” She was getting up to go so I had quicklyintercepted her. But I had nothing really to say, except “Do youhave Facebook or vKontakte?” We hadn't said one word to each otherthe entire night and for some reason I had expected her to give meher contact information. Come to think of it, I don't even think Ihad asked her her name.

She paused, looked at me andreplied, “Uh, no.” Then she squeezed in-between me and the tableand went along her way.

We were at the bar that day becauseof something one of the girls had said to me. She had mentioned apossible teaching job in her village the night before at the party. She had told me that the university at her village was always lookingfor native speaking language teachers, since most foreigners weren'tinterested in going into some small village in Ukraine. But I hadsurvived the Georgian countryside for two years, why not one year orso in a Ukrainian countryside? When we were at the end of ourconversation, I told her, “Let's do it. Find out from your deanwhat's possible, then get back to me. Meanwhile, I've got to go backto America, come back and then meet up with an old Peace Corps buddyin L'vov. Sound good? Maybe I can stop by your town on myway.”

The next day, before I had to leave back to the UnitedStates, Daria and I decided to hang out again. To appease my weird,historical and grotesque interests, we decided to go to the World WarII museum at Victory Park in Kiev. What drew me to the museum wasthat there was said to be a glove made from human skin there. Theglove was designed by Madame Koch, a cousin of the father of the Kochbrothers of current corporate fame. She was well known for designinga whole wardrobe from human skin – and I was well known for takinginterest in things like this. I did, after all, make it a point tosee the ossuary in Kutna Hoara in the Czech Republic, and foundmyself held in fascination standing below the bone chandelier.

Wemade our way across the snow covered plaza of Victory Park, which waslined with heroic Soviet soldiers, carved into positions as thoughthey were eternally soldiering across mine covered, artillery shelledfields, rising from their downtrodden past to reach great gloriesabove the Nazi defeat. Triumphant Soviet music blared out fromloudspeakers and as we cleared the weird, faux-rock outcroppings thatformed a bridge over us, we saw the Mat Rodini, the Mother of theMotherland, standing over us, holding up her hands in a great “V”,with one hand wielding a sword and the other holding a shield,emblazoned with the hammer and sickle. The plaza opened out, withthe Mat Rodini on the right hand side and two “peace tanks” onthe left hand side. The peace tanks were an old Soviet T-34 crossingbarrels with a Nazi Panzer. Both tanks were covered in bright,pastel paints with flowers stenciled across them.

Victory Park before the snowThe WorldWar II museum was at the base of the Mat Rodini. Inside it therewere four levels, each level with thematic collections of artifactsof from the World War II period. I assume the curators had a greatdeal more material to work from, but had chosen what they could findto stick with themes and effects. Ukraine was one of the countriesthat suffered as the true brunt of the European theater, war beingwaged across its countryside for almost the entire duration of thewar. Ukraine witnessed brutal Soviet oppression, Nazi-sponsored andfree rebellions against the Soviets, brutal Nazi occupation with massarrests and purges that grew worse than was known under the Sovietperiod, Soviet sponsored and free rebellions against the Nazis andfinally, a return to brutal Soviet oppression. World War II, as onecan easily see from my short, concise and authoritative recounting,was not a happy period for the Ukrainians. There was no happybeginning, middle or end.

We raced through the musuem. Daria had an English class to teach. She had the advantageous setupof being a Ukrainian who grew up in the United States and who owned aflat in Kiev, passed on to her by her family. Now she taught Englishand art to sustain herself, while she figured out something to do toburgeon her art career. But until then, it was English classes. Werelated on that subject. We nearly ran across the first floor,looking at war passports and anti-tank defenses and mines, then on tothe Nazi uniforms and Mausers, on up to more classy looking Sovietgear that were clearly direct inspirations of the Hugo Boss designedNazi uniforms.

When we finished the museum, Daria saw I wasdismayed. “We can ask them where the glove of human skin is?”she told me, trying to raise my spirits.

“No, I think thatwould be an awkward question anyway. Maybe lots of Americans come inasking for it. 'Effing Americans!' they probably say behind them,'always coming for the Nazi-glove.' No, I'll just ask someone who'sseen it. My friend's coming in anyway, after I get back, he'll knowwhere it is. He's the one who told me about it anyway.'”

“Yousure? I could just skip the class.”

“No, you shouldn'tskip a class over a Nazi-glove,” I said, resigned. I would missout on the Nazi-glove that day, but it wouldn't keep me from myfuture adventures.

A few weeks before, when I was inKharkiv, I met some fellows from Orkester Che. They invited me toplay after the lead singer and the main writer did their performance. It was on a Friday night at the club, Divan on Kreshyatik. I'vealready described Divan at length, with it's two long rows of plushcouches, filled with Kiev's punk and hipster population alike. Onthe stage were two chairs, one for Andrei, the writer, and the otherfor Che's lead singer and guitarist, Oleg. There were a variety ofpillows laid out for the audience to sit on, up close to the stage. When I first arrived at Divan, for soundcheck, everything was a bitlate getting rolling. I was in the upstairs room with the Chefellows, who had also invited to random girls up to hang out with us. We drank tea and ate pancakes filled with poppy seeds. Oleg wasgoing over the lyrics to his songs, making sure that he had them wellenough memorized. It was all easy routine for him, though headmitted to the girls that he was nervous. I myself didn't know howto feel. I was used to playing on streets and in front of smallgroups of people, but playing on an actual stage at a club withregular live music was an altogether different experience. I playedmy set, to make sure I had everything committed to memory, then putup my accordion and relaxed as best as I could.

Friends ofAndrei were slowly showing up to the scene to wish him a happybirthday. Each person brought a bottle of whiskey or cognac and madetheir greetings and paid their respects. They opened up the bottlesand the liquor began to flow. I kept thinking to myself, don't getdrunk yet, you've still got to play. But as it happens, one drinkturns into three or four or six, a magic trick that I had learned inGeorgia. I was still well though, and by the time that Oleg andAndrei were on the stage, I was convincing myself that I wasn't drunkand I was downing some bottled Borjomi mineral water. Then I was up.

I sat down before the packed audience. I suddenly realizedthat, actually, I was a little bit drunk. Compounded with the suddenspout of nervousness, I found my right hand shaking. I needed thatone steady, come on now, don't shake! That's the hand that has toplay all the solos! I started with my usual, “Me and Bobby McGee,”but found myself playing the wrong notes. I stopped singingmid-verse, almost stopping altogether, but I decided to keep on. Ijust started singing again, pretending that nothing significant hadhappened. The audience clapped a bit, trying to be supportive,knowing that it was my first time on stage.

I was a littlebit more at rest for “Black Is the Color of My True Love's Hair,”though I still wasn't spot on, due to my shaking hand.

I felt thatmaybe it was my position that was giving me a problem the most, so Ishifted a little to the side and then nailed the Russian folk song“Ochi Chiornie” and the Tom Waits song, “Hold On” spot on. “Pei Moya Devotchka” wasn't the best I had played, it wasn'trocking the Casbah or anything, but it was good enough. When Ifinally got to “If I Had Possession of Judgment Day,” I foundmyself playing fine and at ease, but still nervous and wanting to getoff stage.

“Thank you, thank you. This was my first timeon stage,” I shared with the audience. “Thank you.” I got up,set my accordion down, and immediately retreated back upstairs, whereI downed another glass of whiskey to settle my stomach. I grewmorose and leaned back in my chair, thinking of all the mistakes Ihad made, replaying them in my head over and over again. How could Iplay so bad in front of so many people? I thought to myself. Dariaand Andrei were both there, telling me that I had played pretty welland I had nothing to worry about, but I didn't believe them,convinced they were being nice.

“You took some videos with mycamera, right?” I asked Daria. I took the camera from her andlistened to what I had done. They weren't bad. That was good, atleast. I was a little relieved and feeling a little more sociable. Girls were in and out, I was making a collection of phone numbers inmy phone, half of which I would try to remember who they belonged toin the morning. Then I nearly got into a fight with one fellow,about the Ukrainian hero Bandera.

“I just don't know howyou can raise a statue to the man in Lvov,” I said. I forgot whatbrought up the subject. Maybe World War II had been brought up. Itwas a common subject in Eastern Europe, since Ukrainians and Russiansare usually quite bitter towards Americans who think they thatAmerica had the sole responsibility for causing the fall of NaziGermany.

“He was a good man,” a Ukrainian guy said.

“He killed thousands of Jews, Russians and Poles. The guycollaborated with the Nazis against the Jews and Russians, and thenagain against the Poles. I don't know how you can call him a goodguy.”

The Ukrainian bent over the table and grabbed me bythe neck. “Don't make me hurt you! Bandera was a good man! Youare listening to the propaganda of Ukraine's enemies!”

“Whatenemies? Poles? Jews? Russians?”

“Ukraine's enemies areeverywhere! Bandera shall live on!” He let me go and stormed out. Later he came back and apologized, bringing me something to drink. “Sorry, I just get excited about Bandera. I didn't mean anythingby it.”

“I'm not against Bandera necessarily. Just youguys need to own up to it. I dig Andrew Jackson, but I alsorecognize he killed lots of Indians. It's cool man, it's cool.”

I went to Puzata Xata, the cheapUkrainian buffet. It was a great place to visit, since the food wasalmost always tasty, ethnic, cheap and the interiors made it look asthough I were eating somewhere fancy. Not to mention, the sheerquantity of beautiful Ukrainian women that lingered around tables,eating sausages and cakes – that certainly was not a negative. OnTuesday nights, an English club meets at the Puzata Xata atKontraktova Square, attracting a large variety of Ukrainians andnative English speakers who want to practice their English. I hadgone with Daria one week, who noted that all the American and Britishmen in attendance were mostly LBHs, or Losers Back Home. I couldn'thelp to agree. I had met a couple of LBHs before – many of themhad come to Ukraine, feeling as poor and miserable and unwantedpeople in the US and enjoyed the popularity they received beingEnglish practice tools.

I met one near 50 year old guy whohad published his own poetry book and carried it around to show offto young 18 year old Ukrainian girls. “I'm a published poet,”he'd tell them, showing them his book. I was with another Ukrainianguy who was running a hostel then. The younger Ukrainian said, “Oh,I didn't know you were a poet.”

“What do you think I do? I'm a poet. Obviously. I can't believe you didn't know. How couldyou not know?” the guy said. He was skinny with a mustache andbeard and wore a cardigan, but not in a slightly “I'm cool becauseI do my own thing way” but rather in a “I'm a douchebag” way. It was clear he was a LBH. He kept talking to the girl saying, “Doyou like any American authors? Oh, I'm a literature professor. Hemingway is so awful, the way he writes women is miserable. They'rejust not strong characters, they're so dainty.”

“Butman,” I interrupted. “Femininity in the 20s was centered arounddaintiness, especially in Spain and Italy. And when you couple thatwith a culture that promotes women's virginity and innocence, that'swhat you get. I met many Georgian girls who act exactly like thecharacters in his books. I think critics of Hemingway in this regardoften just don't understand the culture that he was writing from.”

“No, you just don't understand a weak writer.”

“Youcan call him weak all you want, but he at least didn't have topublish his own books.” I didn't know why I was protectingHemingway, but if someone was going to critique him, it should havebeen on something more substantial than a bogus textbook feministargument.

The LBHs were everywhere that teaching English wasinvolved, mainly for that reason. Occasionally you met an Englishteacher who had a genuine interest in Slavic and Eastern Europeanculture, but it was the exception and not the rule. Most had come toUkraine to score with girls who would have been far above them on theladder scale had they stayed back in the United States. That was thesame comment that Daria was making. “You seem to be the onlynormal guy I've met from the States,” she said.

“I'mreally not a good standard of normality,” I told her. “Did Imention, I play accordion?”

Also at Puzata Xata, on Mondaynights, is Russian language club. Since I need all the practice Ican get, I decided to go. Chris wanted in on the practicing action,though truly I know he was going for ulterior motives. Granted, ifI got some hot Ukrainian tail due to my love of Russian language, Iwouldn't be against it. But that wasn't the primo uno reason I wasgoing. And, just my luck, it was all Frenchmen at my table whobarely had a Russian skill and one Ukrainian girl, who spoke at alevel only just above my own.

About thirty minutes into theclub, I got a call. “Shawn, can you come to the school?” Tanya,my new boss, asked. “I have a class for you to substitute.”

“I'm a bit far now, in Podil, it will take me some 40minutes to get there, at least.”

“That's okay, just comeas soon as you can.”

I got up from the table and went overto Chris. “Hey man, I got to go,” I told him.

“Whereare you going?” he said, looking something like a lost child. Itwas clear he wanted to come with me.

“To work!” I said,leaving him confused. I raced out of the Puzata Xata towards themetro. When I arrived at the school, Tanya led me to the class. During class, I felt I was back in my natural state. My new studentsencompassed everything I had liked about teaching English back inGeorgia. They were all friendly, playful and excited to learn –thus saving me from all the aspects of teaching in Georgia that Ihated. When I finished cleaning the classroom, Tanya came to me. “Listen, you will be the new permanent teacher for this class,okay? It will be 200 grivna a session. You have an envelope fromValya?” Valya was the mother of the two year old I had tried toteach that morning.

“Yes, here it is.” I handed Tanyathe envelope.

Tanya tour it open and took some cash out. “Here, this is for you,” she said, handing me 200 grivna. “I'llsee you next Monday? And if you want to attend anyone else'sclasses, you are welcome.”

“Thanks,” I said. I had anew class to prepare for. I left, wanting to celebrate with someonesomewhere, but couldn't, since I didn't want to ride 30 minutes onthe metro back into town and more importantly, since I didn't want tospend much money. Instead I just went to the store and picked up abeer, so I could drink it watching a movie back at home.

It was time to get a job. I had a fewleads from Bruce, a guy I had met a while back and stayed in contactwith, meeting him for coffee once in a week or two. He gave me theemail of a place near where I lived, near the Kharkivska metro. “They're about to have a few openings,” he told me, “since I'llbe leaving them soon, and they have a really unmotivated teacherthere too. I trust you're motivated enough. You've got to becareful who you recommend, because their actions can always reflectback to your own reputation.” We were at Kofe Hauz, his hands werepressed tight around a cup of steaming coffee. I was sipping on myown usual mocha. “Just know that even if you send something nowthough, you might not hear back from them for a while. I mean, it isthe break. The break doesn't end for a few more weeks, on January10th. People want to read the application and makeimmediate hires, that's just how it works here, with teachingespecially. If you can't work immediately, don't apply until youcan.”

I took his advice and waited until it was closer tothe end of the break. When I was in Kharkivska was when I sent outan email to his lead, Tanya. A few days later, Tanya emailed backand said almost the same thing. “Just come in on January 11th and we can talk.” On January 11th,I came to theschool. The language school had its own office in the elementaryschool and borrowed the classrooms after the school was out. As Iwalked in, there were still some children lingering in the courtyard,even though by seven o'clock the dark had already settled over thecity and stray dogs had come out to make their rounds at trashcontainers everywhere.

“You are Tanya?” I asked the girlsitting at the desk on a laptop.

“No, I'm Maria,” shesaid, smiling. “Tanya's coming though.”

I waited for abit and chatted with Maria. She was something of the main clerk forthe language school. We chatted for a bit. She was from theSoutheastern part of Ukraine, where it was the most industrializedand Russian. She shared the family name of a famous Russian marshalwho was one of Stalin's top advisors during World War II. “Once,in Bulgaria, I was late for a plane because of my connecting flightfrom Turkey. They held the plan for almost an hour for me. TheBulgarian captain greeted me, saying he remembered what the marshalhad done for his own father.”

Finally Tanya came, who wasevery bit as attractive as the younger Maria. “We can take you onas a substitute first, but otherwise we have too many teachers as itis. Oh, but I do know one client who has a two year old daughter. Have you worked any with two year olds?”

“The youngestI've taught was an eight year old, but I'm willing to try anything,”I said. I couldn't imagine how I'd come across to the mother of atwo year old girl or how I would just teach her. I could just playwith her and talk to her, I suppose that would work. The daughter ofone of my old host families in Georgia was two years old and we gotalong just fine. That's what I told the mother when we talked on thephone. “Though, to be honest, she ended up teaching me moreGeorgian than I taught her English!”

I went to the meet the next week onMonday. “You'll go to Lebidinska Metro and meet the driver there,”she instructed me. “Meet there at 8:30.” I was there at 8:35,underestimating how slow the metro would be, and how slow my walk toit would be, since I seemed determined on taking wrong turns. Iexited the metro into the tunnels and first took the tunnel to theright. I didn't think the station would be too complicated, but Ishould have realized that almost all the stations are. The drivercalled me and spoke in Russian, “Where are you?”

“I'mhere at the metro,” I said. I was looking around for landmarks. “Where are you?”

“I'm on the side with the green fence. Do you see a green fence?”

“No, I see a green storethough.”

“Oh, you are on the other side.” He hung up. I went back down into the winding maze of tunnels, filled with fruitsellers and window electronics and underwear vendors and came outnear a green fence, behind which was a construction site.

Myphone rang again. “Where are you?” the driver asked.

“I'mon the side with the construction.”

“Oh, I came to meetyou over on the side with the green store, next to where all themarshrutkas are.”

“Oh, okay, I'll come to you,” I said. “Just wait.” I went back into the tunnels and up near where Istarted. I went to the parking lot with the marshrutkas and wasimmediately met by a tall man in a black leather coat. “You'reShawn?”

“That's me.”

“Good, I finally foundyou!” he said. “Come with me, I'm on the other side of themetro.” We went back into the tunnels and came up near theconstruction site. We walked down there a bit and went up to a blackVolkswagen minivan. “If you come back, this is where I always parkand wait, got it?”

“Got it,” I nodded as I entered theminivan, which was already full, with six other passengers. As wedrove, I wondered if these passengers would be dropped off before orafter me. If they were dropped off before, I might be even morelate. As we drove further out of town and into a forest, it becameclear to me that perhaps these other passengers were going to thesame place I was. And if they were, what kind of place was I comingto? The forest cleared out, revealing a huge mansion. Two securityguards in black suits and earpieces were at the door, looking intothe forest. A quick glance around the forest revealed other securitycheckpoints, forming a vague perimeter around the mansion. As Iapproached the door, I expected the large Ukrainian man to take mylaptop case and search it, while the other over-sized guard checkedmy body, but instead they simply opened the door for me and allowedme on through.

The huge, two story circular entrance hadstairs that followed either wall, with a black and white checkeredtiled floor underneath. A Christmas tree still towered in thecenter, its peak reaching up to the ceiling, branches still ladenwith blue and red ornaments. I was brought to a cloak room on theside, where I could leave my things. The mother came in as I wastaking off my coat and greeted me, introducing me to her daughter,Lydia. “Hello Lydia,” I said. “How are you?” I bent downto greet the girl, extending my hand. She took it and said, “I'mgood.”

“What's your name?”

“Lydia,” shesaid. She stepped back behind her mothers legs and stared out at mefrom there.

“If you'd come this way and wash your hands,”her mother, Valya, told me. She was a dark haired Ukrainian woman. More homely than I would expect from someone this wealthy. I wouldhave expected more of a trophy wife, but clearly she had some hiddenattributes, or the man married simply to have a mother for hischildren, since it was clear she was not of the working type.

Ispent an hour and a half with the Lydia and her mother, who mostlysat in the corner of the large parlor room watching us. Lydia and Isat at a small plastic table, playing with a monkey doll and plasticfruits. The entire time, I felt a bit like the Mad Hatter playingtea with little Alice, having her pour me pretend tea into my littleplastic tea cup. “Pour me some tea, Lydia,” I would say.

“No,”she would reply.

“Why can't I have some tea?”

“Mommy!”Lydia said, repeating the word again and again until finally hermother came over and joined us, sitting on another plastic chair.

“I'm right here,” she said. Lydia immediately went toher and climbed up into her lap.

By the end of the hour anda half, the mother gave me a few pointers. “So, just next time,remember that. And we'll work through Tanya, okay? And give thisenvelope to Tanya, too.”

“Sure, right,” I said, takingthe envelope from her and silently wondering what was in it. I feltlike as I was just on a date with the mom and said something wrong –it was that kind of awkward. The driver pulled up in his minivan. This time it was just him and me. As he drove, we chatted in Russiana little, though I was constantly thrown in slight confusion wheneverhe said a word with a “g” in it since Western Ukrainians oftenhave a hard time with the letter, pronouncing it like “h”. Hewas clearly a Western Ukrainian. “Where are you hoinh?” heasked.

“Just drop me at the metro, that's fine,” I toldhim. “Kiev's a great city, isn't it?”

“Yes, it's reallyhreat.”

After I moved into my apartment, Ifound myself having the “now what” moment. My week of partyingin Kharkiv had come to an end and I had to find new ways to occupymyself in Kiev. I had already been building an array of friends herebefore I had left, so I decided to tap into that pool and get back intouch with Bridget. “You want to get some drinks sometime?” Iasked her over Facebook.

“Actually, you know there's aHash meeting and a concert tomorrow,” she wrote back. “You wantto come?”

“Right on.” Hashing is an international clubthat involves jogging, scavenger hunting and drinking. I loved atthe very least doing a third of those activities. Basically, what itinvolves is a group of people meeting at a pub somewhere in a city. They then follow a “maze” of flour spots that the leaders haveput out and they try to find the correct location. At the end ofthis, there's typically a break for beer followed by another flourmaze, then after the hashing is done, everybody meets again to drinkup all the calories they burned while jogging around in circleslooking for the right path. The things some people invent to passthe time in this life! All in all though, I suppose it's better thanwearing hair underwear and flogging yourself in a dungeon.

One view along the hash, piano made of tilesOrganizing the hash was Dima, the same large Ukrainian guywho was trying to kiss me at Anika's party. I didn't mind seeing himagain, since he seemed a decent enough fellow, despite all thedrunken kisses. Though I got used to men trying to kiss me a lotwith their slobbery lips while I was in Georgia, so this wasn't toohuge of a concern for me. I realized that some Eastern Europeans andAsians just tend to take the bromance thing to a whole new notch.

more public art on the routeThere was a decent mix of foreigners and Ukrainians in thegroup. There was one English guy who was in Kiev teaching Englishfor one company. “You should apply there, they take everyone,”he said. I did apply later, but never heard back from them. Thenthere was Daria, a girl who reminded me of the cartoon character ofthe same name, with a very dry wit and a face that looked like shewas never impressed with anything. She carried a professional stylecamera with her and was taking pictures of all the different scenesof the city that we witnessed. There was also Tanya, another girlwho was obsessed with drawing, she kept a sketch book with herwherever she went. Her goal in life was to design monsters for videogames. In the meantime, she was in love with a guy from Canada whoshe may or may not see again.

After the hash, we all wentback to Anika's place where we tanked up on beer, vodka andsandwiches before we headed on to the concert. The concert was at aplace called Babuin, a more Bohemian style cafe that commonly had livemusic. Books lined all the walls and Ukrainian hipsters adorned thechairs, reading books and surfing on their MacBooks while adjustingtheir fake, horn rimmed glasses. Though I have a natural disdain forhipsters – back when I lived in Denver, I used to wax ecstatic forhours regarding how the degeneration of a society can be measured bythe presence of fixed gear bicycles – I always enjoyed theirlocales. Mostly because hipster girls tend to be fairly attractive,slim, wearing black dresses and makeup. The only downside was thathipster girls tended to like more about as much as they'd like Tupac.

The band that we watched was a folk band, playing a varietyof old Ukrainian songs on ethnic instruments. The music was a bitstaunch and rigid though, and there was something a bit tooaristocratic about it to make it real folksy. It was more like if the king hired a "folk" band to play something nice for the nobility, like when Presidents of the United States of America played at a Billy Clinton rally in the nineties.

Moreinteresting was when they were finished. In the other room entered agroup of street bards, dressed up in colored cloaks and masks. Theycarried instruments with them, violins, accordions and bass drums,along with a stench that could be smelled from the other room. Theyplayed a much more lively version of Ukrainian folk. They played twoor three songs in the bar, while sending a bouncy woman around with ahat to collect money from the onlookers, before they retreated backup the stairs and went back onto the street. I assumed they weresome sort of musicians' collective who just toured bars and tried tolive off tip money.

My friends Alex and Katsia showed up,with an expressed intention to go somewhere to smoke some hookah. Assome of our troupe broke up, Alex stood up and said, “Let's get outof here and get some shisha.” We took some of the hashers with usin a jaunt across town, looking for a hookah place where we knew wewouldn't have to reserve a table – in most Kievan bars, tablereservations are a must, as they usually don't have standing room inmost of the bars. Alex took a path that led us through alleys andcourtyards, while Daria kept calling a boy to tell her their exactlocation.

“Why doesn't he just meet us where we're going?”I asked her.

“Because he wants to try to catch up withus,” she said.

“But with this route, he'll never be ableto find us,” I said.

“He keeps saying we're going thewrong direction.”

We finally found the bar, and a few ofthe other hashers caught up with us, but unfortunately the bar hadstopped serving hookah for some mysterious reason. “They usuallyhave hookah,” Alex explained. “I wouldn't have led you guys llthe way here if I had known.” “I thought it was a fun route,”I chimed in. “Maybe the hookah guy is just out? Who knows. Palata No. 6 serves shisha, we can check if they've got any.” Wewent on to Palata No. 6, but without calling ahead for reservations,we found it impossible to get a seat there. We decided to just walkin one direction go to the first place that served hookah, Uruk, whichended up being an Uzbek restaurant near Zoloti Vorota. Uzbek foodrevolved mostly around pilaf and these dumplings that mysteriouslylooked a lot like Georgian khinkali. I opted against ordering them,since their cost was the same as how much khinkali cost at theGeorgian restaurant I had found in Kiev a month back. The hookah wasalso the most expensive I had found yet in Ukraine. It was more thanEl Mate, and didn't have the premium hookah service and flavor thataccompanied the usual trip to El Mate.

Dima caught up withus at the Uzbek place, but only at the end. Everyone had to leave tocatch their respective metros. I was the last out, leaving Daria andDima alone at the bar. I raced to the metro, still having plenty oftime for the last train. Getting out at my stop some 30 minuteslater, the air was crisp and cold and I listened to my headphones onthe walk back to my apartment, ever enjoying the lights of thesurrounding apartment towers.

One morning, Sasha had called fromKharkiv. I was in the other room and only heard tidbits of theconversation. “The police were called? What for? There hasn'tbeen anything here Sasha, it's been all quiet. There was a kidsparty upstairs, but that was it. Shawn's been quiet. There hasn'tbeen anything happening. No, Sasha, you need to talk with thelandlord and put your foot down. Nothing's been happening here.” The conversation gave me a little to worry about, but not much tothink about. I went back to surfing on Facebook. But then laterthat day, there was a knock on the door. I approached it, lookingfor a key, but then it opened on its own. A short, wide man withdarker skin and a thick, Stalin-esque mustache walked in. He lookedCaucasian, but I couldn't tell if he was Azeri, Armenian or Georgian,he had one of those pan-Caucasus looks about him.

Heimmediately walked in and started looking around. “Who are you?”I asked in Russian.

“I am the owner,” he said inRussian. “Who are you?”

“We're Sasha's friends,” Isaid. I didn't know how much he knew about us or if Sasha had eventold him about renting the other rooms out to other people. Being aninternational, you quickly learned that things like housing youwanted to know the least about and accepted the most tenaciousagreements.

“Which rooms are you staying in? That one?”he pointed to Chris's room. The room was a disaster. Papers wereeverywhere, the white pleather couch was missing cushions, there wasa mattress on the floor.

“Yes, we're both in that one.”

“And there's another occupied one,” he said, looking backat my room. “Who's in that one?”

“I don't know, we justgot here.”

He pulled us into the kitchen. “Listen,”he said, putting his hands on the table. “Where are youfrom?”

“We're Americans.”

Chris chimed in, “Tellhim we have our documents. Everything's in order. I can show him mywork documents and registration.”

“We have our documents. Everything's in order. He's got a work visa.”

Chris ranout of the room for a moment. The owner said, “I'm just worriedabout foreigners. You know, we are not supposed to have foreigners. They bring attention. You know, if someone asks about foreigners,then the police might come and check into and I'd have to pay thebribes. I don't like that. I'm weary about foreigners.”

“What'she saying?” Chris asked me when he came back in with a stack ofsheets. I translated for him. Chris hand the papers to the owner. “These guys are always overwhelmed by papers,” he said to me inEnglish, handing over all his papers.

“What did he say?”the owner said.

“He said that he was working in L'vov,” Itranslated. While the owner perused the documents, I asked him wherehe was from.

“Azerbaijan.”

“Azerbaijan! Yaxshi!” I exclaimed. “Yaxshi” meant “good” in Azeri. Iswitched to Azeri. “How are you?”

“I'm good,” he saidin Azeri. “And you?”

“I'm good too. How long haveyou been in Ukraine?”

“For 20 years,” he said.

Ihad expended my knowledge of Azeri, so I switched back to Russian. “20 years? That's a long time. Do you go back often?”

“Yes,often,” he said. “So how long are you guys staying here?”

Chris had gotten up to fix some tea for us.

“We'vebeen staying for a week.”

“How long will you stay?” heasked.

“Can we stay for a couple of months?”

“Whatwould you pay?”

“How about 1300 a month?” This wasthe same amount that Sasha was charging me. I figured it would beokay to offer that.

“How about in American dollars?” heasked.

“That is a joke, right?”

“Yes, ofcourse,” he said. I couldn't tell if he was relaxing a bit. Onlya small flicker of a smile came across his face, but I couldn't readwhy he smiled like such. I also noticed that he didn't necessarilyagree to that price.

“So why are you guys in Ukraine?”he asked.

After translating the question, Chris had metranslate his response. “I'm here because I want to get more intoOrthodoxy. I'm really active in the Church.”

“And whatare you?” the owner asked me.

“Catholic,” I replied.

“I'm Muslim.”

This is when Chris startedreciting a syrah. Chris had, in the course of his career as anEnglish teacher, lived and worked in Syria, where he also studiedIslam and Arabic. When Chris finished reciting the syrah, the ownertook it up and recited the rest. “Do you know what thatmeans?”

“It means that God is one,” Chris said.

“Yes,” the owner said. “Listen, when someone comeshere, tell them you are a friend of Taymaz. That's me. If someonecomes asking, they can't know you are living here. Just tell themthat you are friends of mine and are visiting. You're visiting fromL'vov. Understand?”

“Yeah, sure, no problem,” wereplied.

“Listen, Taymaz, do you know where any good cheapAzeri restaurants are around here?” I asked him, interested inwhere I could get some lamb shish kebab and pilaf.

“Wecould go get some food now if you want to join us?” Chris said.

“Okay, I know a place very close,” Taymaz said. “Butfirst I need to say my prayers.” He stood up, took off his jacketand went into the next room to say the prayers. I drank the rest ofmy tea while Chris went on talking, theorizing about just why Taymazhad come in.

“Do you think the whole thing about thepolice was a ruse?” he asked.

“It might well have been. He might have just wanted to check out the situation here.”

Taymaz came back in the room. “What do you want toeat?”

“I guess some shish kebab,” I told him.

“I'llcall a place.”

“Before we go, I need to go shower.” Iwent to take a shower. When I came back, Taymaz was still sittingthere with Chris. Not having a common language, they sat silently. “How about 1600 grivna for the room per month?” he asked.

“Ineed to talk with Sasha about that,” I replied. I had agreed withSasha at 1300 grivna, plus 200 for the bills.

“I need totalk with him about that,” he said. “1600 grivna?” herepeated, holding up a calculator. I knew that if I had refused todeal, then it would be obvious to him that we had made an arrangementwith Sasha already. But on the other hand, we didn't know what Sashahad arranged with him and if Sasha was receiving a cut from our rentmoney. I wouldn't have minded that, as long as Sasha would have toldme in advance what exactly was going on. After Taymaz insisted onsolidifying the deal, I decided to go ahead and enter intonegotiations.

“1500, but only if it includes everything. All bills paid,” I said.

Taymaz considered and thenagreed. “Okay then,” he said. “I don't want to put you guysout on the street during winter. Where would you go? 1500 is okay,with everything.”

Taymaz then brought us down to his carand drove us over the river. He was on the phone, so I had to waitbefore I asked him where he was taking us. I heard him saying on thephone though, “2,000 would be normal, yes? 2,000 for each room,with all the bills paid. In March we do that. The contract is untilthe end of March.” I didn't know what contract he was talkingabout, but I can only assume he had a surprise waiting for Sasha whenit was time to renegotiate.

When Taymaz hung up, I asked,“Where are we going?”

“Ah, that other place was out oflamb. I'm taking you to another place I know about. But I don'tknow how it is.”

“It's not expensive is it?”

“Idon't know, I've never been there.” When he parked the caropposite the street of the restaurant, he said, “I don't eat atrestaurants anyway. I eat only clean food. So I'll leave you twoguys here.”

“Where's the metro from here?”

“Far,you can just take the bus back. Any bus.”

“Right. Theidea was to eat with you, Taymaz.”

“No, that's okay, Idon't eat out as it is.”

He left us on the side of theroad. Luckily the temperature hadn't turned too cold yet. “Do youreally want to eat here?” asked Chris.

“No, not really,let's get back. I'm supposed to meet a girl soon anyway.”

near my hood I got back to Kiev. From the trainstation, I decided to first go to the new apartment and try out thekeys. I was in a rush to make sure I hadn't been scammed again andwas given a fake set of keys while someone scored on my money. ThenI was going to go back into town to get my main backpack, which I hadleft at the hostel, since I didn't want to drag it all aroundKharkiv. When I made it back to my apartment, I met my new roommate,Chris. When I came into the apartment, he was asleep, but soon wokeup. When he came to introduce himself to me, he wore a towel wrappedaround his waist and a t-shirt. He was short and bald, with intensebrown eyes that seemed to pop out and shake when he talked withsomeone – and he never talked about frivolous things. As his eyespopped, he would also lick his lips constantly, almost appearing likeHeath Ledger's rendition of the Joker, just without makeup, scars andknives. He would prefer guns anyway.

I sat down and decidedto try to talk with him for a bit to get to know my new neighbor. Chris was originally from the Pacific Northwest. He had searchedmost of his early life for a religion that he felt fit the Bible themost, going from Baptist to Pentecostal before finally setting onCatholicism. He became a very strict and traditional Catholic, evengoing on many Catholic missions around the world, from India to SouthAmerica. Eventually, he became disillusioned to what he saw was thecollapse of the Church due to liberalism and decentralization. Hedecided he'd look into Eastern Christianity. He went to L'vov,Ukraine, to see how the Greek Catholics were, if they were holdingtrue to a pre-Vatican II Church. When he saw the Novus Ordo massbeing practiced there, he was further disillusioned and decided tojoin the Russian Orthodox Church – what he saw was the mostconservative of all churches (I've since tried to tell him thatGeorgians managed to beat the Russians in having a conservative andtraditional church).

“I can't stand America anymore,” hetold me. He got up to stir his pot of legumes and grains that wasboiling on the stove. “It's full of degenerate mongrels. We'velet our society completely collapse. I just can't stand it. I hadto come here to find something better. But you know, even here, withhow everyone is looking to the West, you can see the degenerationslowly creep in. Here still, though, they have family values. Theydon't divorce, the wives serve their husbands, you know. Childrenare more obedient, because you can hit them if they aren't. Theystay in line. When I was teaching classes in a Catholic school inIndia, I was trying to keep the class calm. But they were crazy. The headmaster told me, 'Look Chris, just put a stick on your table.' So I did. And the class was calm for a few days, but then theyrealized I wasn't going to use the stick. A few days later, theheadmaster came back in, 'Look Chris,' he said to me, 'you'll findthe boy who is loudest and noisiest of them, just give him a thwack.' And I did. They shut up and paid attention the rest of thesemester.”

Sipping tea, after I got my bag, he went on,“You know what another problem in America is? Mexicans. I used tothink they'd have a positive influence, because they had familyvalues. But they don't have family values anymore. They've come toAmerica and degenerated in all the negative ways Americans have andare even worse, since they come to America and don't even try toadapt to the culture. They keep speaking their Spanish. When Iworked on a farm, I'd work side by side with the Mexicans. They'rehard workers. And even though I spoke Spanish, I would only speakEnglish to them because they were in my country and they should bespeaking English.”

“But you don't speak Ukrainian orRussian?” I interjected.

“That's something differententirely,” he replied. “They're in our country, wanting all ofour rights and benefits, they have to learn our language.”

“Manyjust want to make money and go back home.”

“That mightbe how it used to be, but now Mexico is even more degenerate thanAmerica, with how bad all the gang violence has gotten. And they'rebringing all that violence into America. We should just get rid ofthem all, and the ones that don't want to go should be shot.”

“Idon't know, I think language is a thing of economics. I don'tunderstand how you Republicans can preach laissez-faire on nearlyeverything, but when it comes to language, you puss out. Why? Youcan't learn another language? Whatever language is economicallyadvantageous to speak and know, people will learn. All secondgeneration immigrants speak English fine.”

“But they'redegenerates. And they're preserving their own degenerate race whenthey refuse to bledn into America.” And so on.

Chris wasa generally amicable guy, even though he had some pretty extremeopinions on everything, like how domestic violence wasn't thegovernment's business, how Sharia law was good because it enforcedfamily values and how all Socialist health care was the worst in theworld though he'd only lived in England and Italy (the two countrieswith the worst healthcare in Europe) and that America's was the best,especially because of the malpractice lawsuits and insurancestructure. Despite his opinions though, he was able to keep them atthe table. He never grew violent or directly offensive, nor did heever yell or become haughty and he always let the other person talk. But Chris could out talk anyone and would keep talking for hoursafter I got bored of the subject. Which was impressive, because Iwas normally that guy.

near my hood, after the first snowI had been lying low for those fewdays. Chris was also on a permanent state of lying low, complainingabout not being able to exercise since he was in a slump, or abouthow he hated the growing degeneracy of the Ukrainian people. Icertainly wasn't the most positive charge in the power plant, but hewas a charge, that much was certain. We walked around theneighborhood a few times. Kharkivska mostly consisted of massiveSoviet block apartments that looked rather barren at first site. Butthen I began to notice a cafe here, a bar there, a pub over there,hair salons and butchers, milk shops and fish shops. They even had small beer shops that served some twenty different beers from keg to bottle. The place wascrawling with activity – it was an unexpected surprise.

I went to Dasha's squat one last time,where I found the room full of people. When they saw me, they allgave me a cheer. “The American has returned!” Andrei cried. Immediately they brought me a glass of whiskey. “You couldn't getthe train?”

“It looks like I'll be with you guys anothernight,” I said, taking the glass of whiskey and drinking aroundwith them. They then began to pour some champagne and toasting “tovictory!” “What's all this?” I asked someone.

“Theyjust won the pub quiz,” Dima told me. We poured more rounds foreach other.

Andrei called out to me, “American! Play thatsong I really like!” I pulled out my accordion again and startedplayed a set for everyone. Dasha smiled, clapped and brought meanother round. She said, “I can't stay too long, I've got work inthe morning. But I love your singing.”

The night passedinto the morning, with much drinking and talking. Eventually, thedancing began and I took over the console behind the bar, playingrandom Russian songs.

“How do you know these songs?”Dima kept asking me. “People in America don't know these, right?”

“Right, I just do,” I said as I was putting onLeningrad's “Svoboda”. “Svoboda” is easily my favorite songby Leningrad, its chorus borrowing from an earlier Russian hair metalband named Kipelov. The lines, translated, are: “I'm free, likethe birds in the sky / I'm free, I forgot what fear is.” The songis, on the surface, about a woman leaving the singer and now he'sfree. The truth is though, his lover was the Soviet Union and he'ssinging about its collapse. The Leningrad version is more clear onits subject. “Just when you go against the stream / you understandwhat free opinion costs / Links gather into long chains / the line oflife become exact... to be different means to always be the same,choose what you want, poverty or prison / nobody gets freedom withouta reason / there is no exit and there is no entry.” The song notonly has a meaning I can relate with, but also memories that carryalong with it. I remember going to parties in Tbilisi to visit myEstonian friends, where me and Mathis would run around the placescreaming, “Ya svaboden! Slovna ptitsa v nebecax!” at the top ofour lungs, drinks held high to the air and arms around each othersshoulders. A scene later repeated in Estonia, near his home.

“Youare the best couchsurfer to stay here!” he said. It wasn't thelast time he said it during the night. They had told me about a fewof the past couchsurfers who had come. There was a Dutch guy who wasthere, busy finding women off the internet to come visit him at thesquat. One girl had come and he catered to her needs, only to findher wanting money from him before he left. Then there was an Englishguy who was busy traveling across the world. He spent an entire weekthere, doing nothing but playing on their Sega II. I wasn't simplythe latest normal couchsurfer to come, but also one with a genuineinterest in their culture. I can imagine, compared to those otherguys, I was quite a magnificent traveler.

The next day, Ihad spent most of my time in a coffee shop, waiting for it to pass. There are coffee shops everywhere in the big cities in Ukraine, mostof them resembling Starbucks, with the same corporate feel and almostidentical emblems. However, they usually also include servers andfree internet, two things Starbucks lacks. At the coffee shop, Ireceived word from a Fellowship that I had applied for. TheFellowship was done by a Russian bank, wanting to bring Americans into share their experience and knowledge as short term interns withRussian businesses and NGOs. They offered to fly me from Kiev to NewYork to interview. Of course, I immediately decided on this route ofaction and told my parents and friends and began to plot a trip toDenver if they'd let me stay a little bit longer in the States. Fromthe cafe, I went back to the squat to gather my things and spend myremaining time with Dasha and Andrei.

I left the squat thenext night. More people gathered there in the evening to celebrateDima's birthday. I couldn't stay though, since I was able to buy myticket online successfully and I had to make my train for that night. Dasha went with me to the train station to say goodbye. We waitedfor about an hour at the coffee shop that was right near the station,where we talked. She was worried about her tenure as a mother. “Idon't feel like a mother, but I want to be something to my boy,”she told me. Her boy was 8 years old and she was raising him withthe help of her parents. “I guess I just don't want to grow up. Iwant to be something different, but I want to be something for him.” She was having a hard time expressing her concerns in English.

Wemet Sasha, my new roommate at the platform at 11:30 at night. Mytrain was in twenty minutes. When I first booked, I had somereservations about trusting the Ukrainian railways with twentyminutes, since I knew Ukrainians, like most Europeans outside ofGermany, to be perpetually late. Sasha had reassured me earlier andsure enough, the train was on time. Sasha and his girlfriendstrolled up to me. “Ah, you weren't kidding about playing theaccordion!” he said, pointing to my cart and box. “You really doplay.”

“Yeah, why would I joke about that?” I said,shrugging. “Merry Christmas, by the way.” January 7th,the next day, was Orthodox Christmas.

“Thanks, MerryChristmas. So here are the keys,” he said. Sasha's eyes werealways bright and glowing and with his nearly modelesque stature, hereminded me of Awesome from the television series Chuck. He handedme the key ring and told me what each of the keys did. “ListenShawn, we have to go catch our bus before it leaves.” They left.

Dasha had been lurking in the background, smoking acigarette. She seemed somewhat shy about my leaving. “It's beenfun,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said. Smoke trailed up fromthe tip of her cigarette, joining the smoke she exhaled, gatheringunder her hood before continuing to dissipate into the air.

“Listen, I know it's cold. You don't have to wait her withme, you can go catch the metro.”

“Are you telling me togo?”

“No, I'm just – I mean, wait here if you want, butI understand if you need to go catch the metro.” We walked over tothe next platform and waited for my train, neither of us sayinganything. It rolled up, again exactly on time. I was beginning tobe really impressed with the rail system in Ukraine. Comfortable, ontime, and now with my knowledge of the existence of on-line railtickets, easy to use.

I shared the compartment with anoverweight Ukrainian girl – perhaps the first truly overweight girlI had seen in Ukraine. I was afraid that I would come on board andwake up the inhabitants, since the train had first departed fromLugansk two hours earlier, but the girl had gone out of the train fora breath of air. She came back in with a quick grunt of a hello inRussian. She laid down and tried to sleep, but her phone kept goingoff and she talked in whispers. The light overhead was still on andI couldn't find the switch for it.

“Is that lightautomatic?” I asked her in Russian. The train hadn't begun movingyet, so I assumed that maybe the light would just go off after theystarted rolling and it was only on for the convenience of the newpassengers.

“No, there's a switch over there,” she said. She rolled up and across the room, shuffling aside my jacket whichwas hanging against the wall and turned off the light. She thenrolled back to her bed. Her bed was also on the lower bunk on theopposite side of mine. The top bunks were empty.

“What'sthe word for the thing that turns on the light?” I asked.

“Light-turn-offer. Or light-turn-onner, depending.”

“That's funny.”

“Russian is a very richlanguage.”

“I know! With words like light-turn-offerand light-turn-onner! It's why I love it so much.” It was oftensurprising how simple some things in Russian language was, especiallyin light of its absurd grammatical complexities. It's the littlethings like “lightswitch” and all of its comedic rhymes that makeit all worthwhile.

Even though the girl snored and breathedheavily through the night, I managed to sleep.

I still had to bring Tasha her key back, since she had toleave in the morning for work while I was still asleep. We met nearthe Kharkiv planetarium, a building a block off one of the mainstreets, towering high in some sort of Soviet pride of science andstars. I imagined scores of Pioneers, children in red scarves andbrown uniforms, surrounding the building in the past, weaving in andout of the lines to gaze at the artificial lights in dreams that oneof them might be the next Yuri Gagarin. I stood outside theplanetarium in the dark. It was only five in the afternoon, but thewinter dusk had already settled in, making it seem like a late nightKGB drop. Tasha came running up the hill and hugged me in greeting. “Here's your key.”

“Did you get your ticket?” sheasked.

“There was quite a line. I mean, an insane line,”I said. “I spent all day at the place. But I got iteventually.”

“You know, you could have just gotten yourticket online. I thought that's what you were going todo.”

“There's a webpage for that?” I asked.

“It'seven in English. That's what all the foreigners do, I thought.” She was smiling, laughing.

“Your last boyfriend was in thePeace Corps here, so he probably knew a little bit more than Ido.”

“True,” she said.

“What's thewebsite?”

“E-kvytok.com.ua,” she said. “You shoulduse that. You can charge to your credit card too.”

“Ah,”I said. “Thanks. Good to know for next time. Anyways, I've gotto get going.” We hugged again. I wanted to hold her longer, butit seemed it would be awkward to do so outside the planetarium.

“I'llsee you in Kiev then,” she said, smiling. “We've got a lot to dothere. Go to that shisha place you were talking about, and that gayclub I was talking about.” We left each other, like twoplanets that were momentarily aligned continuing on their orbit, rocketing towards the sun atdifferent speeds.

I went to the squat. Andrei was already there, cleaning the place and making pizzas. Heworked there for Dasha as a kind of club operator, keeping everythingclean and making food for dinner. I liked these little communal lifethat I kept running across, from Kharkiv to Berlin. They gave meconfidence in human existence that I didn't have in the overbearingworld of the corporations. Granted, they were in nature parasitic,relying on the products and services of corporations in order toexist. If everyone were aware of what freedoms could be had outsideof the corporate sphere, then there would be no comforts left. I'mnot saying that in communes nobody works – everybody works and attimes, much harder. But their work seems all that much moresatisfactory. Even in traveling, I find myself cleaning dishes,picking things up, cooking, performing accordion and trying to makelife easier for those I'm staying with. I don't consider thesethings work, but they are. They're all services that cost a persontime, or money, if the person pays another to do such. All ofeconomics runs off of this exchange principal of labor – aprincipal I was still working off of, even using couchsurfing. Labor, however, doesn't have to be demeaning or degrading; it can befulfilling. There are certainly those in the modern system that feelthey have a fulfilling position – and they do. Maybe even, it isbetter to live that way. But I'm not so lucky to be one of thosethat finds happiness in slavery.

My new roommate in Kiev, Sasha,called me. “Shawn, where are you? We have been waiting here atthe apartment for you.”

“I thought you said that youwouldn't be home on Thursday, so to come on Friday, yeah?”

“No,we said on the 5th,” he said. “It is the 5thnow. Shawn, you see, the problem is that we are going to Kharkiv onFriday night.”

“Well, what time does your train get in?”I asked.

“It gets in at 11:30 at night,” he said. Thatmeant the train got in after I left.

“Are there any otherroommates?”

“There is Steve, the American, but the problemis that Saturday is Orthodox Christmas and he is very religious, soprobably he will be gone all day.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Sohow are you going to get the key? Can you get here tomorrow?”

“I'll see what I can do.” I hung up the phone, somewhatsaddened. I was hoping to party all night with the crew at the squatand then to leave the next day. I voiced my problem and thoughts outloud to Andrei, “Maybe I could stay with you guys for a couple ofdrinks, then go off and get a train for tonight. Or I could get alater train for tomorrow night.” I decided to try the first ideaand if that failed, then the second. I waited a little while until areasonable time to go, thinking that if I was able to change thetickets, then I could just wait at the station or at a nearby coffeeshop. At the squat, people kept coming in. First Tasha, then Dimawith a large smile, Misha with a striped sweater. They kept coming. They were gathering to play pub trivia.

I returned to thetrain station, this time with all of my luggage, which I had workeddown to being just my accordion and my Soviet Red Army pack. I knewthe routine now. I had to avoid, at all cost, the regular ticketdesks for Ukrainians. I first looked for the international desk, itwas already closed. Then I went the information desk and asked aboutthe trains leaving. Tonight's train was already booked. But therewas a train coming through at one and another at one thirty. Iweighed my options and then called Sasha back.

“Look,would it be possible to just meet you here in Kharkiv?” I asked. “Then I could get the key from you when you get here and I couldtake the next train out.”

“Yes, of course, thatis possible,” he said. In truth, I had to repeat this a few times,so that my voice was clear over the din of the train station, withthe constant conversations and mechanical announcements beingbroadcast through the air. After we agreed on the drop, I went tothe Ukrainian ticket lines, knowing that I was going to be waitingfor another hour while the people back at the squat continued ontheir own party.

While I stood in line, another old personwho couldn't read Ukrainian asked me if this was the right line. “Iguess,” I told her back. “It seems to me they're always thewrong line, so they all must be the right one, yeah?” She lookedback at me as though I were talking nonsense.

The minutesturned into half hours and the half hours turned into hours. But Iwas glad for two things, that at least I wasn't constantly switchinglines because the clerks were going on breaks, like the problem I hadthe day before. Also, I wasn't in Georgia where no line existed,since Georgians are incapable of the concept of waiting for one's ownturn. In Georgia, even when you talk to a bank teller, Georgians tryto jump ahead of you by addressing the bank teller while you havealready begun discussing your business. “Waiting is for otherpeople,” one Georgian told me once.

I had to go to therestroom. The lady in front of me promised to save my position. Iraced across the train station to the only men's restroom, ran pastthe stern looking babushka with the broom and used the urinal. WhenI made it back, some ten minutes later, I noticed the line had barelymoved.

When I at last got to the front of the line, I told theclerk, “I bought the wrong ticket. Can I exchange it for the trainthat leaves tomorrow at midnight?”

“I can give you arefund here, but you'll have to go to the office outside to buy nextday tickets. We sell only today's tickets here. Do youunderstand?”

“Yes, of course,” I told her, while tellingmyself, “I understand that this whole ticketing system isbullshit.” It was a surprise to me that the entire train systemseemed pretty efficient – the trains were always on the dot intiming and they were fairly comfortable. But for the ticketing! Ileft with my money back in my hand and made it back to the squat.

I met Tasha at the metro station. Assoon as I came up the escalators, she called out to me from acrossthe barriers. “Shawn!” she said, jumping excitedly and waving meover. “I was expecting you sooner. The guy that was on the phonewith me, your friend, he didn't seem to know Kharkiv very well. Hekept saying that you're an American and you'll get lost. But youknow Russian, you've been traveling, I knew you could figure it out.” She spoke in nearly fluent English without an accent. Her eyes andface and demeanor were bright and glowing and energetic. The way shemoved seemed to capture life, though she spoke at near lightningspeed. As we talked on our way to her apartment, she spoke almosttoo fast for me – the native English speaker – to keep up.

WhenI had sent out host requests for Kharkiv, two girls had almostimmediately replied. Dasha and Tasha. I was in luck, since this wasthe first time my top two picks had replied to me and quickly. DashaI had chosen because her situation sounded fun and interesting. Shedescribed her cafe / guest apartment structure as a “squat” withpeople gathering nearly every night. She loved alternative music andalternative lifestyles like my own. Tasha I chose because shemanaged bookstores and was well read. And she had red hair. And inour conversations, she wrote how much she loved accordions. My closefriends all know my childhood obsession with red headed girls. Bothhosts ended up being stellar choices.

Tasha's flat was apractice in interior design. She had mastered making old furniturelook new and modern, mostly by way of using some sort ofpaper-machete technique to cover the furniture in different types ofpapers. She stuck mostly with bright colored paper, to liven up theplace, though on the refrigerator and her bathroom door she used somesort of comic paper. She was well read and had opinions oneverything, and that first night we emptied her bottle of rum andtalked through the hours, even though she had to wake up early forwork. “I hate these things like Pirate Bay, because you shouldn'tbe allowed to freely distribute anything,” she said. “But youknow, books are so expensive and I truly believe that they should becheaper and more available to everyone to read. If the publishinghouses and printing houses would just lower the prices, then theseillegal printing houses wouldn't have to pop up and sell the booksfor less. And we stock those books. But we shouldn't have to.”

“But the presence of the print shops, and the sales ofthem, undermines the free market, so the larger publishing houseswill never feel the need to target the books,” I countered.

“That's not true, because the larger firms can take on theillegal ones as it is.”

“I guess you're right. Butstill, why not sell them if the larger firms aren't? I think you'redoing a good. And I think, for those who can't afford it, Pirate Bayis doing a good. I want people to listen to my music. Whether theyare paying for it or not isn't all that important. Though it'd benice to get paid for all my work, that's not why I do the work. WhenI download music now, I do it knowing I'll pay for the album later,when I have money.”

“Come on, that's just living in anideal world,” she replied.

“But that's my world. I'm anidealist. I live the world according to how I think it should be.”

“Not everyone is like that. And therefore, you'd neverget paid for any of your work.”

“That may be true, but atleast I'm living true.”

“Look, listen,” she said,“I've got to get to bed. You can sleep in as much as you want, andI'll leave you the key.”

“Awesome.”

The nextday, I slept in and walked around Kharkiv. Time was pressing though,and soon I would have to be back in Kiev to move into my newapartment. That meant I had to get the train tickets for the nextnight. I decided I'd get the tickets, then return to Tasha's, thenI'd go on to a coffee shop to write. I thought those would be simpleenough tasks.

The Kharkiv station, in appearance,looks quite orderly and convenient, as all the other stations I'dwitnessed in Ukraine (that is, the Kiev station) were. The floorswere shining and freshly swept and mopped, the doors sparkling, thebrass glistening like gold. The bathrooms were all immaculate andguarded by old fat ladies with brooms that doubled as clubs, to makesure there was no funny business going on like Senators putting theirhands under door stalls – none of that nonsense that happens indecadent Western states could happen at the Kharkiv station. Theticketing system was a greater piece of nonsense than past famousAmerican Senators though. There were about four windows, each withlines stretched across the hall. Each sign was about the same, Icouldn't really figure out the difference between them, though thiswas largely to my not knowing Ukrainian – like most of the oldpeople in the room trying to buy tickets.

“Is this theline to buy tickets?” I asked one old lady.

“I guess,”she replied. I stood in line.

Thirty minutes passed until Icould get to the front. When I was at last at the front, I addressedthe lady asking her about buying tickets for the next day.

“Thisis the wrong counter. Go to the blue sign.”

I steppedback and saw that this sign was indeed a white one. I still couldn'tfigure out the difference in the services listed, though this oneobviously didn't include buying tickets. I waited in the next line. After thirty minutes, I was only halfway through when the clerk wenton break. Her window snapped shut at the next person in line. Iwent to another window. A girl had come in and tried to sneak infront of me, but I let her since she was more attractive than the oldhunched man that was otherwise in front of me. She spent more thanthree minutes with the clerk, which meant the clerk slapped closedthe blinds in front of me. “Please!” I shouted. “This isalready my third window!”

I waited at another window. Ifinally succeeded in getting to the clerk. “We don't sell next daytickets here. You have to go to a ticket agent outside for that.”

I was on the verge of giving up as I stormed out of theticketing hall. But then I passed the information desk and decidedto ask the clerk there. “Is there any way I can buy a ticket fortomorrow? I just want to get back to Kiev.”

“Justacross the hall there, there is the international desk. It is forforeigners. You can buy your ticket there.” I walked across thehall and entered the office of the international desk. There wasonly one person in line. After that person left, the clerk waited tohear me out, then collected my money and printed a ticket. I walkedback to the information desk, “A huge thanks! You are awesome! Iwas waiting hours in that other hall and couldn't get anything done.”

In the evening, I came home a bit late, though with fullintention to fix dinner for Tasha. I wanted to find out where agrocery store was so I could buy some curry or some other herbs andmix something special for her. But I came to find that Tasha hadbeat me back and had already started cooking supper. And what atalented cook she was! She had fixed some tasty mix of pumpkin,chicken and rice. A friend of hers had come over, though he wasfairly quiet and was mostly on the computer in the other room. Welater watched a movie about some girl who pretended to be deafbecause her parents died, then she moved in with some girl that washaving sex with her own father. The movie didn't make much sense,but I guess usually the most quality movies never do.

I woke up at Andrei's place. I scanned the cabinets for food or water, but couldn't find anything and I didn't yet trust the taps in Kharkiv. It was best to stick with bottled water. But my mouth was dry and my belly aching from hunger, so I needed something. While I was shuffling around, trying to figure something out – and being distracted by Andrei's strange collection of cacti in pots on the floor of the kitchen – Andrei woke up. He sat me down and showed me a band that he worked with, Orkester Che. Orkester Che was a local band from Kharkiv, carrying on the “gypsy punk” tradition made popular in the States by Gogol Bordello. I, of course, instantly loved the band.

“Hereis the plan,” Andrei told me. “First we will go see a church inthe country. It is my favorite church. Then we'll go eat and thenwe'll go to a recording studio. But we'll come back here first. Okay?”

“Sounds good.”

We left the apartment,crossed the now snow covered streets, to a small “beer-a-ria”(roughly translated from the Russian) where we met with his friendwho ran the place. He poured us two morning beers and we stoodaround and talked for some while. Two security guards came up andtalked with us as well. Mostly they were talking about how the guywas remodeling his beer-a-ria, with fresh coats of paint on the walland soon they'll paint two large images of Popeye with beer drinkingquotes that went something like, “When I want strength, I drinkbeer” or “even if I'm without my woman, I'm still happy with mybeer.”

We hopped into the car of the bar-a-ria owner, whodrove us to another restaurant of his he was renovating before hetook us to the church. The church looked new, the inside covered inbright and shiny murals that look like they were painted yesterday. I asked Andrei if it was a new church, but he said it had just beenrenovated. Which explained why it looked new. The church appearedas if they took painstaking efforts to restore it to what it musthave looked like during its peak, each paint stroke replaced withprofessional accuracy.

From the church, the guy brought usto the center of town to drop us off so he could get back to work. Andrei took me to a native Ukrainian vareniki restaurant to eat someproper vareniki. “Puzata Xata is not real food,” Andrei told me. “I want you to try real Ukrainian food.” He was very insistenton this. He also ordered some real Ukrainian homemade vodka,something that tasted between honey and ass. We drank it waiting fora dumplings, watching on a giant projector screen Ghostrider, withNicolas Cage.

After the dumplings, we picked up my accordionand went to Andrei's friend's house. He was the guitarist forOrkester Che. We sat around drinking beer and vodka and listening toGuns 'N Roses, when Andrei finally said, “Come on, play that songthat I love for us. That 'Drink my girl, drink my sweetheart' song.”

“Sure thing.” I pulled out my accordion and played.

The guitarist was equally excited about my playing, affirmingwith Andrei that I needed to get to the studio. When a couple ofother band members arrived, we all went back out onto the streets andtried to hail a taxi. The taxis kept passing, full of passengers. People who would otherwise walk didn't want to bare the cold, snowyweather, so the taxis were pretty occupied. But one black car, whichwas not a taxi, pulled to the side of the road and agreed to driveus. We went by the liquor store, picked up some Scotch and made ourway to the studio.

We were sitting around, drinking andwaiting for the studio guys to get ready. This was the same studiothat the regionally famous 5nizza recorded at, as well as OrkesterChe. I felt a bit overwhelmed that I was playing at the same place. When I was first introduced to the production engineer, I felt a bitembarrassed and he looked a bit confused, “An American onaccordion?” he seemed to think. “What nonsense has Andreibrought me?” But when I got bored and pulled it out to play myversion of “Me and Bobby McGhee”, he came up to me and said,“What are you waiting for, let's get you into the studio.” Hisdemeanor had changed completely, now a lot more excited about therecording process.

We took three takes, one of “Pei moyamilaya, pei moya devotchka” (Drink my sweetheart, drink my girl, anaccordion adaptation of I wrote of the early 20th centurypoem of the same name), “Ochi chiornie” (black eyes, a Russiangypsy folk song) and one of Tom Waits' “Hold On”. I had grownaccustomed to playing to live audiences, since there's a bit moreleeway and I can gauge the audience response regarding how I play. Now when I play in front of people, I don't get near the nervousnessthat I first had in the streets of Vilnius and Regensburg when Ifirst started to perform truly publicly, outside of at parties. OnceI started playing in the streets though, my nervousness completelyvanished when playing at parties.

I came back into the maingreen room. Everyone was there clapping. “You did amazing man,”Andrei said. “Maybe you want to play at Divan after Orkester Che? It would be great.”

“I don't know man, if you want meto,” I said. “I don't think I did that well playing. This isall weird to me, you know?” They gathered around the table todrink more Scotch, which they traditionally drank with a chaser ofmilk.

“I don't want to get too drunk, I still have to meetmy next couchsurfing host. And I don't want to make a badimpression.” We took two more shots chased with milk. The rest ofthe members of Okester Che arrived and they began to work on theirnext album. Later, I went on my way to find my next hostess.

I decided to leave Kiev for a week andgo see Kharkiv. The motivations were twofold: I wanted to see ifKharkiv was a livable city and I needed to save some money. Kharkivwas the first capital of a modern Ukrainian state (it was the hotbedof Communism, from which they fought the Nazi allied Capitalists inthe West) and is now the “Russian capitol” of Ukraine. TheEastern half of Ukraine is mostly populated by Russians. Thus, itmakes sense for a student of Russian to go to the Eastern half. Though, I've found Kiev is also filled with Russian speakers – Ihear Russian in the streets far more commonly than I hear Ukrainian. There was that practicality of language acquisition, but also therewas the fact that the hostel was burning one hundred grivna a nightfrom me and I could achieve something cheaper, plus have a morecultural experience in and see a city, but running off andcouchsurfing somewhere. I sent out some requests just before NewYears and was happy to see two quick responses. I had places to stayand people to meet.

I went to the train station in Kiev theday before, to make sure I could get a seat. Everything in order, Ishowed up to the train station just before my train on the next day. The train was roomy, Soviet built train systems were a bit wider thanthat of their Western counterparts. The chairs were clean leather,with mats that you could put on them to convert them into beds. Allin all, it was one of the best trains I've ridden on my trip so far,which says a lot. It left directly on time and arrived in Kharkivexactly when they said it would: 9:44. though they could haveadjusted the clock to make it so. When I first sat down in thecabin, the two upper beds were occupied by an older Russian couplewho were listening to some comedy show on the radio. Then came in anAfrican couple with a small girl. The stewardess followed them in,addressing them in Russian, “The girl is older than six, you haveto buy a chidlren's ticket for her.”

“What do you mean?”the man said. Seeing black people speak Russian is always a strangeand curious sight to me, since in general, you don't see black peoplein Eastern Europe. When you do though, they're almost always Africanand not American.

“The girl is older than five years old,you have to buy a ticket for her. She can't have a place herewithout a ticket.”

“She will stay with me,” the ladysaid. She switched to English to address her male friend, her thickAfrican accent flowing like a song. “Victor, go back to yourcompartment. The lady will think you will pay if you don't go backto your compartment. I can handle this, I understand this kind ofperson. Don't worry about it.”

“Are you sure it's okay?”Victor said.

“Just go back to your compartment and I'llsee you in the morning.”

Victor left. The stewardessrepeated her demand.

“I don't understand,” the ladysaid. It was clear to me she did, since it seemed she knew enoughRussian.

The little girl said, “What are they going todo?”

“Nothing, child, they won't make us pay. It's inGod's hands, just let it be in His hands.”

Eventually, thestewardess gave up and said, still in Russian, “The chief iscoming. I'll go get him and you will have to pay for the child'sticket. But there is no room on this car, so you'll have to move toanother car, and it's cheaper there.”

“I don'tunderstand. I don't have any money,” the lady said. Thestewardess left. The lady told the child again that “it's in God'shands, he'll take care of us.”

“She was just saying thechild is over six so she needs a ticket,” I told her in English.

“I know what she wanted. I understand people likethat.”

“Ah,” I said. Silence again. The chief stillhadn't come. “Where are you guys from?”

“Nigeria,”the lady said. Her eyes narrowed.

“Nice.” More silence. I took off my shoes and laid down. The chief never came. The childstayed with the lady and slept close in her arms. In the morning,when I woke up, the Russian couple had already left. The stewardesscame back and asked if we wanted tea.

“I'll take some,” Itold her.

She turned to the African lady, “Do you want sometea?”

“No, we don't have any money.”

“Justtake some tea. Give some to the child. Just take the tea.”

Thestewardess came back with everyone's tea. I tried to give the childthe cookies that came with my tea, but she only looked at me withwide eyed suspicions. The child looked up to her keeper, who said,“She's not hungry, she is chewing gum.”

“Ah,” I said.

The train pulled into the station. Imet Dasha, my next couchsurfing host, next to the giant New Yearstree still decorating the square. We went onto the metro and changedtwice. “Kharkiv must have a lot of metros,” I observed.

“There's only three lines, but if you change them likethis, it's a lot quicker to get to the station.” Dasha was a quietand shy girl. She had an eight year old daughter who lived with herand her parents. She also was renting an apartment to run as a sortof private club and bar. That's where I was staying. On theoutside, it was a storefront that read, “Place for AlternativeMedicine, Oriental and Indian.” Past that, there was a large room,the walls covered in concert posters and flags of differentcountries. There was a bar on one end and two doors. One door ledto a photography dark room and the other to the kitchen and the sparebedroom. “Here's where you'll be staying,” Dasha told me. Sheleft to go take her daughter to a movie. I took advantage of thetime, fixed some eggs and went off to explore some of Kharkiv.

Lenin guiding the way to the carnivalIfirst arrived at the main square, where there was a large holidaycarnival. Huge machinery for children's rides and games were set up. Little kids marched up towers and came out of doors to slide downsteel chutes, making it look like it was a factory for processingchildren. Above the carnival stood a giant statue of Lenin, holdinghis hand out to the people below. Past the carnival was the main oldtown area of Kharkiv. Kharkiv was a bit more run down than Kiev, butit still had a beautiful city core, lined with colorful buildings,but with a bit more of a Soviet feel to it. However, Kharkiv alsohad far more trees than any other city I had yet seen. Trees wereeverywhere, rows of it along side walks, parks and plazas were likeforests. The city seemed almost as if it itself were a giant park.

A street in old townThe day ended and I went back to, what Dasha called, thesquat. Only one other guy, Andrei, showed up that night. I playedfor my accordion and Andrei loved it. When Dasha had gotten tired,Andrei insisted that I come with him to his place, only a few blocksaway. “It's so cold here and it's much warmer at my place.”

Ifollowed Andrei back. While we walked, the snow was beginning tofall, the snowflakes looked like miniature feathers falling throughflood lights at a photography studio. Andrei was collecting hisfriends as we approached his place. He was making calls and by thetime we arrived at his apartment, we had five more people, eachholding a bottle of vodka. We went up to his place. The apartmentwas old and mostly empty, though a pile of miscellaneous junk, fromcar parts to magazines to a refrigerator, filled one room. I'm notsure how he came across the apartment, but Andrei had just been leftby his wife three days before. It was clear he had just gotten thefirst thing available.

We all sat on overturned bucketsin the kitchen as we drank and sang songs, me at the accordion. Thenight passed into the early morning and the people started to gohome. In the morning, I found myself curled up on a sofa cushion onthe floor of an empty room, next to an old Azeri carpet with manydark stains.

I had decided to go to the hostel partyat Why Not? for my New Years celebration. It was 150 grivna for anall you can eat and drink deal, so I thought, why not? The Canadianswere also going, as were some other people from my own hostel, theChillout. Some thirty people were gathered around a large table inthe common room. The table wasn't quite large enough, nor was theroom, so all the travelers were squeezed in next to each other. There were people from Australia, Russia, the United States, Canadaand a handful of other countries. Food was served, mostly small bitesized sandwiches and other hors d'oeuvres that were scattered aroundthe table. The drink was mostly vodka, a series of short toasts ledby the Australian, who was also leading the music selection. He keptinsisting on listening to Irish drinking songs. Finally Leonid, thehostel worker at the Chillout, suggested to me to get my accordion. I pulled it out and played two songs, when finally the Australiansaid it was enough and added, “But I've got a really good songhere.” He proceeded to put on one of the latest club favorites,“What the Fuck?” Which was my question to myself when I foundpreference for that song over my accordion playing. I went into thehallway and retired the accordion, though more people there wereasking me to keep playing. I pulled it back out and soon a hostelworker at the Why Not? came by.

“You can't play that here man,” hesaid. “People are sleeping. You can play that in the commonroom.”

“They're sleeping at 10 o'clock pm on New YearsEve?”

“I don't make the rules, man.” And at Why Not?hostel on New Years, there were rules!

The commonroom was still being dominated by the Australian and his array of Irishtunes and club hits. I brought the accordion back up to my hosteland came down, finished for the night, just waiting for the New Yearsto come so I could get it over with. That's when Leon and Marc foundme. “Hey man! Come with us to go see the fireworks at Maidan.” I grabbed a bottle of champagne, put it in my coat pocket, and joinedthe procession of party-goers into the main square of Kiev. Millionsof people were gathered there by this time, all waiting for thecountdown. The streets were packed, we had to weave our way through,picking through small cracks in the crowd like a mother picks forlice in her child's hair. Soon we were just before the stage and thecountdown had begun.

“10, 9, 8,” the crowd called off.

Leon kept repeating, “This is my best New Years ever! I'mnever staying in Canada for New Years again!”

“2,1!” and the fireworks began to shoot up into the air, loud cannonsand explosions of color illuminating the sky for miles. Thefireworks kept going for about thirty minutes, keeping pace with theconstant cheering masses. People took videos, held up their childrenon their shoulders, hugged each other, called loved ones and wishedeach other blessings for the new year. After we downed our bottle ofchampagne, the two Canadians and I ran through the crowd, wishing allthe Ukrainians we could find a “S novom rokom!” Soon though, wegot separated and I couldn't find them again. I began my walk backto the hostel, watching all the well-wishers. People were gatheredin their groups on the street, sharing glasses of champagne andvodka. There were street performers, fire twirlers and guitarplayers, singing into the cold morning of the new year.

Happy New Year!

Istarted talking with one group of Ukrainians. They were headed thesame direction as my hostel, so we were all walking together. “Whereare you going?” I asked them.

“We're going on to aparty,” one guy, Maksim, said in English. “What about you?”

“I'm just heading back to my hostel,”I said.

“Why don't you come with us?”

“Yeah,why not? You know, I've got an accordion I could go get as well.” We picked up my accordion at the hostel and went on to theirapartment, which was only a few blocks away. We came into theapartment and wished everyone a happy new year. There were about 10people in the apartment, each of them with drinks and food, listeningto mostly American music playing from the computer. They turned itoff to listen to the accordion, and I played on while they dancedaround in a circle. My accordion playing was redeemed. I eventuallyset it down and engaged everyone in conversation. Eventually, Ifound myself in the kitchen, surrounded by guys, talking aboutpolitics and current events.

“What do you think of the Ukrainiansituation?” one guy asked me.

“You guys had a goodstart,” I said, “with the whole Orange Revolution thing. Butthen you stopped and took some steps back. Just like everyone. Theperson you elected in was corrupt, but not as much as the old guy,but now the old guy's back and you put the new girl in jail. I can'tsay that's overly democratic, since now the guy who's in charge isworse than Timoshenko. But I think there's hope. You're generationman, you're the post-soviet generation, it's up to you to clean itup.”

“I don't know,” Maksim said. “I think we'refucked.”

“You guys can change it. Look at what'shappening in the Arab states now. They're rising up and trying totake control.”

“But they're not succeeding. The armyjust took Egypt. And who knows what will happen everywhere else. Wecan't change anything.”

After more of this talk, I was growingtired, so I told them I had to go.

“You can stay herethough!”

“No, I need to go,” I said. I gathered mythings and left back into the night, finishing up the completelyrandom experience between me and some strangers in the night.

During the last day of the year, I wentoff with my new Canadian friends to see more sights. I was findingmyself overcoming my inherent American racism against Canadians –especially against French Canadians, a combination that's about astolerable to an American as mayonnaise on French fries – the moretime I spent around Leon and Marc. We took the metro and got off atthe Dnipro station, which is seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Thestation is situated along the Dnieper river, with only a gloomy viewof the array of towers lined up on the Left Bank. On the city side,there's just a big hill that blocks the view of anything, so thewalking traveler can't be sure about where he is. We went down thestreet and soon found ourselves at the entrance of the Pechersk-Lavracomplex, a complex of hundreds of golden topped religious structuressprawled on the southern side of old city of Kiev. The complexstarted as a series of cave monasteries which served as a Byzantinemission to the Kievan Rus some 1000 years ago. The monks were sobusy missioning that they didn't have time to build homes, so theyshacked up in some holes in the ground instead, thus birthingPechersk-Lavra.

the main monastery complexAt the Pechersk-Lavra monastery, we alsofound the Museum of Miniature Art, which is where religious girls canbring their non-religious boyfriends when they want to go makeprayers at the Cathedral of the Dormition. To get on the groundswhere both the museum and the cathedral are located, you have to gothrough the main gates, paying a 60 grivna price for entry. We wereat the cashier's box, when I leaned in to ask how to get to themuseum.

“It is that way,” the lady told me in short,heavy tones. We looked down the street at where she might have beenpointing.

“Thanks,” I said. “I think she means insidethe complex?” I said to the Canadians. We walked up to the frontgates.

“Tickets,” the guy guarding the gate said.

“You speak English?” I asked in Russian.

“Yes,some,” he said back in English.

Since I didn't want to getmore confused, I switched to English. “Where trying to go to theminiature museum. Where is it?”

“You have to get aticket back at the casa to enter here, and then it's inside and youhave to get a ticket at that door.”

“Right.”

the entrance to the monasteryWewent back to the cashier's box and asked for the tickets. I wonderedto the Canadians, “Why didn't the lady tell us we'd have to buytickets from her?” Another classic example of really helpful,post-Soviet customer service. We bought the tickets and entered themonastery grounds. It took us about thirty minutes to find theactual museum, since there were no sign posts guiding the way and wehad missed the map that was right at the entrance of the monasterygrounds. The museum contained about one dozen nano-sculptures,figurines of books, insects and people that were mostly no largerthan a hair, to be viewed with microscopes that were attached to aglass in front of the sculptures. The nano-sculptures were clearresults of bored, overpaid Socialist scientists who had nothing to dobut to shrink books and statues with their top secret Sovietshrink-ray technology, like the kind they used to film “Honey,I Shrunk the Kids” (it was also based off a true story).

From there, we went on to the WWIImuseum, passing by a large display of artillery cannons and tanks. On top of one the tanks, two young ladies were playing and gigglingand asked Leon to take a picture of them. Meanwhile, a nearby guardwas approaching, and telling the girls to get off the tanks, but hewas being ignored. He threw his hands up and then put them down athis side, resigned. Something told me the girls weren't the firstones to play on the tanks. While Leon was taking a picture of them,I asked Marc, “Was that a 'ca vas' I heard them say? I think maybethey're speaking French.”

They were speaking French. Thetwo girls had met at studying at a university in Montreal. One girl,a short, brown haired Spaniard, was visiting the other girl, a short,blond haired Ukrainian girl, for the duration of their vacation,before they had to resume their studies in Canada. We walked withthem to the Holodomor Memorial (Holodomor is what the Ukrainians called the collectivization campaign enforced under Stalin, forcedly starving to death over 7 million Ukrainian, Russians, Kazakhs and others) and to the Eternal Flame, the WWIImonument in every Soviet capital, where a flame has been burningsince the end of the war, where afterwards the Ukrainian girl, Masha,showed us her favorite bridge in Ukraine.

The Eternal Flame and the Holodomor Memorial“I can see whythis is your favorite bridge,” I said, referring to the footbridgethat crossed over a road. “I mean, the way the steel bars gleam inthe night light and the metal construction beam just sits there, withsome asphalt on top. It's beautiful! A real architectural wonder! Like a wood log being tossed over a stream.” She glowered at me. I assumed she must have been referring to the view and not the bridgeitself.

We walked on from Mariinsky Palace to Maidan Square,where we looked out at all the lights and preparations for theoncoming New Years celebrations. There was the giant, blue stagenext to the pyramid-like New Years tree that towered over it. Peoplewere already beginning to gather, as were people in costumes of oldSoviet cartoons like Cheburashka. The costumed people often attackedthe regular people, trying to get them to pay to get their picturestaken with them, though some times just accosting girls with randomhugs and, in the case of one bat-monster with Masha, bites. Eventually we left the girls and made way for the New Yearscelebration which the hostel was hosting.

Independence Square, ready for New Year's

At the hostel, I met two FrenchCanadians from Montreal, Leon and Marc. When I walked into thecommon room, I heard Leon talking, with a heavy – what I thoughtwas French – accent. I sat down. I heard Marc talking then, whodidn't speak with much of an accent at all. “You're not Frenchthen,” I said. “Quebecois?” I was right. Leon was still living inMontreal, working as a chef in a bistro in the suburbs, while Marchad moved off to Lithuania to follow his Lithuanian girlfriend, wherehe worked as a French teacher. Marc had long been living in Europethough, living also in France, where there he had worked as anEnglish teacher. They often chatted back and forth with each otherin French, though with a high nasally sound that made it notably Quebecois. To me, it sounded a bit like the chatter called “Simlish” fromthe game, The Sims – a series of Charlie Brown sounds going up and downthe tongue. Their plan was first to just wander the city. I had afew hours and was intending to go and see St. Sophia, so I invitedthem along. I had seen the outside of St. Sophia before, when I wasfirst walking the city with Pavlos and others from his hostel, but Ihadn't gone inside with them, opting instead to go on to a coffeeshop.

St. Sophia was built around the turn of the firstmillennium. It was a built as a small scale model of the HagiaSophia – indeed, the floor plan almost exactly matched the churchin Istanbul, except for the fact that it was maybe eight timessmaller, which still made it a large church. For a thousand yearsand various destructions and reconstructions, it stood as thehallmark church to the Ukrainian Orthodox people, the seat of theKievan Rus's power and the center of religion and culture of theUkrainian people during the later years under the Russian Empire. Inside, the walls were entirely covered in religious murals, scenesof Christ and the saints performing miracles and the Virgin Maryholding the Christ child. It was how, I imagined, the Hagia Sophiaonce was, before the Muslims had taken it and covered all of thereligious murals with white wash, leaving the walls bare of art andgold, decorating the interior with only four large green placards,emblazoned with verses of the Quran in Arabic.

The nextchurch we went to and walked through was St. Michael's, standingopposite down the road from St. Sophia. It's not hard to say thatdowntown Kiev is littered with great, golden domed churches,glittering in the sun – at least, I imagined them to glitter in thesun, but the sun was something I hadn't seen since the day Pavlosleft. Though with that thick blanket of clouds that hung over us,the weather stayed remarkably warm, though with the occasionaldrizzles. After that, I left the Canadians so I could go meet withanother friend and then see about my next apartment. The apartmentwas near the Kharkivska metro station, in one of a thousand toweringSoviet block apartments that crowded the streets on the Left Bank ofthe Dnieper River.

the Left Bank of KievI waited at the McDonald's there forabout an hour to meet my possible new roommate. I would have chosenanything else but McDonald's, if anything else didn't look like dark,dirt floored pubs filled with slot machines and prostitutes. Back inthe former Soviet world I definitely was! It was more what I hadoriginally imagined Kiev to be, not what I had found it to be, withits sprawling and clean old town with its mix of variousarchitectural styles. Here were the block apartments thatcharacterized the Soviet world from the outside, though they servedmainly as a source of cheap overflow apartments for workers, witheasy access to factories and downtown alike. The Soviet blockapartments, first being constructed under Khruschev, were a temporarysolution to housing shortages. The idea was to build them upquickly, so all the people who were living in apartments with threeor more families as a result of the Soviet expansion or World War II,could be given their own quarters. But the idea was never finished out, and like Hoover in the United States, Khruschev was in a sense ridiculed, as the alternate name for Soviet block apartments is "khrushobki".

I finally was able tomeet with Sasha as he, his girlfriend and a French couchsurfer wereon their way out of the apartment to do some pre-New Years shopping. They decided to show me the place very quickly before they left. However, Sasha and I got to talking about hockey, soccer, Englishteaching and any other number of topics when Sasha's girlfriend camein and said, “I've been cooking dinner and it's almost ready. Willyou join us?” So I sat down with them and broke some bread. Weagree on the price and I left the apartment, glad that I couldfinally have a place to live.

When I got back into downtown,the Canadians had wandered off somewhere and were without phone credits,which meant that I couldn't call them. I at first decided to take aquiet night, hanging out with two other couchsurfers who were hangingout at the hostel. They were two American girls who frequented Ukraine and Kiev and they were their for the couchsurfingNew Years Eve party. I was almost on the edge of deciding to go tothat for New Years. Leonid, the hostel worker, came in. “Come ondownstairs to the other hostel, Why Not,” he said. “They've gotdrinks!”

Down I went to join him and hang out with the otherpeople. The Why Not? hostel was situated right on the main road ofSaksaganskogo Street. Each room had its own them – including aCommunist room, all red with Lenin heads painted on the wall – plusthere was a large kitchen, patio, common room and a small movie roomin the basement. They were throwing a New Years Eve party as well,which was open to everyone coming. Suddenly, people were beingrounded up to go to a club in the Podil district, Xlib.

Xlibwas another club situated in the basement of some office complex,though since it was completely dark when our taxis pulled up, I couldhave mistaken the office complex for some run down slab of emptyconcrete, towering high above the trees. There was a 50 grivnacover, a security check giving a pat down and a coat check to hang upyour stuff. The club had two main rooms and a chillout room. In themain room, and had something of the look of an empty warehouse,reminding me of my old raver days in Dallas. There was a reggae bandplaying on the stage while in the smaller room they had a DJ playingdubstep, a strangely popular style in Kiev. Drinks were on thepricey side since they only stocked import beers, but the usual cheapshots of vodka found through Ukraine were still present. I drank itup and did the best I could at the frenetic dub step and the morelackadaisical reggae hippy dancing, trying to fit in with all theUkrainian hippies in their dirty clothing and dread locked hair. Itwas clear that the girls their must have smelled my clean, shampoowashed hair, because they made a large ring around me, staying clearof anything perceived as an advance. Not that I cared, what did Iwant with those dirty hippy girls anyway?

William was returning to Scotland andleaving his girlfriend behind in Ukraine, though he planned to returnin two months after he got his university studies finished with. Hewanted to go out to eat and have some drinks with his new friends whowere living here in Ukraine, that is, Slava and myself. I had alsobeen promising two Canadians at the hostel, Betty and Chris, that I'dgo out to eat with them as well. I merged the two groups togetherinto one. Betty was Chris's girlfriend, who had come in from Canadato visit him, hooking up in Poland and then coming down to Ukraine. Chris was a writer working on finishing up his MFA. He received agrant for a project of his, which sponsored his journey acrossEastern Europe and finishing in Russia.

Betty had to leave toreturn to Canada late that night and wanted to return early on sinceshe still had to pack. She wanted somewhere close and they had founda veraniki place in the guidebook that was close by. Vareniki arelittle dumplings that are strikingly similar to Polish pirogi, whichare themselves strikingly similar to Siberian pelmeni. Ukrainiansusually insist that they invented it, so they were just as fun tomake fun of as are Georgians about khinkali – another dumpling dishthat was likely brought in from the Mongolians. Betty and Chris wereopen to eating to Puzata Xata, but having eaten there nearly twice aday for the last two weeks, I was growing tired of the buffet. That's not an accurate statement, as really, it's impossible to growtired of it. Better would be to say that I was wanting to try newplaces and new places are always best discovered with friends.

Thetwo other girls, weren't so keen on trying new places. They wereweary of guide books and wanted to show us a place they knew that wasnearby. Twenty minutes later, on the far end of Khreshatik Street,the main avenue in Kiev, we found ourselves in front of theirveraniki place – a place which had long gone the way of mostUkrainian cafes and converted into a sushi restaurant. “Well, weknow another one over near Vokzal,” they said. Vokzal was an equaldistance on the other side of the hostel.

Khreshatik at night“Why don't we justgo where the guidebook suggested?” I insisted.

We went back,though the girls, having never seen the place, still didn't believein its existence. I took the map from Chris and navigated the way. When we finally found the place, Dasha, William's girlfriend gasped,“This is the same place we were going to take you!”

Theinterior of Varenichnaya #1 was in a Ukrainian folk style, made to looklike a large wooden cottage, complete with a pen with a baby pig atthe front, squealing and honking as it played with its toys. Uponentry, I wondered just how many veraniki the pig will make when hegot fully grown. The food focused mostly on various styles ofveraniki, from the common meat, potato or sulguni cheese stuffeddumplings to the more unusual liver and heart meat stuffed dumplings. William was insistent on drinking vodka with the meal, so we beganour steady descent. The lesson of the veraniki was this – justbecause it's exotic, doesn't mean it's necessarily good. The bestveraniki were the simple meat ones, the meat being, I suppose, pork,but like with khinkali, pelmeni and pirogi, no one really knows theactual content. As I've found long ago, sometimes one shouldn'tspoil a good thing by asking too many questions.

The nextplace for the night was Divan. This was where Betty and Chrisdecided to depart us so they could prepare for Betty's flight. Divanwas an underground club in the center of Kiev, just off of Khreshatikstreet. We entered, went immediately downstairs, passed an aquariumfilled with grey crawfish and finally came to the scene of the club. The room was long, filled with about one hundred divans, fifty oneither side. The booths were overstuffed and tall, designed for arestaurant far more fancy and expensive than Divan. In fact, Divanwas a place far more fancy and expensive, running under some othername long forgotten. What was left was a real punk rock place, withall the pretentious furniture and design; the chandeliers andmirrored walls and a newly installed stage on one end. The band wassinging some alternative rock in Ukrainian. I could only guess itwas original music. This was a good thing: when I was living nearTbilisi, the only live music sources I could get were either coverbands of jazz music or of 1960s rock and roll. But at least here inKiev, there's something original. “Those times are passing,” aUkrainian friend later told me. “Original music is gettingreplaced by cover bands. Even some of the older, more interestingbands are just starting to play covers. That's what's popular.” Icursed the gods of Western music who had, not only slew the gods ofmodern Georgian music long ago, but now they had gone on to destroywhat was the budding Ukrainian scene.

I was the last toleave the club, having been busy talking to some Ukrainian guysthere. My emotions were becoming magnified by the alcohol and I wasin despair. My first plan for New Years was to go on to Moscow, butthat had failed when I found the complications with the Russianembassy and the matter of the timing to visit my friend. Myex-girlfriend, who was still near and dear to my heart, was thenplanning to come sometime in January, so we had decided why not forNew Years? But she got a promotion and with her newresponsibilities, was unable to visit any time in January. Thatwould leave me celebrating alone. But it wasn't just that, it wasthe new realization that maybe I wouldn't see her again and maybe Ishould finally take an effort to move on. I had plenty of newfriends developing in Ukraine, but without my old girl, maybe I wouldprefer just a dark alley and a cold bottle of vodka.

Parties happen if you're at the righthostel. Joanna's boyfriend was over, Pauhlo (owner of the Center Station hostel), and his friend Marcelo. Pauhlo was shorter withlong, curly hair. He was the one that was planning on taking heracross the world in his old, beat up van. Marcelo was taller andskinnier, with an easy smile on his face. They were cooking someBrazilian food, clattering the pans and the knives as they createdtheir Amazonian smells which leaked into the common room. AnotherUkrainian girl came over, bringing her Turkish guy friend. He was studying in Germany and had stopped in Ukraine to spenda night. I couldn't figure out if the Ukrainian girl was with him ornot that night.

Ipulled out my accordion and started to play, to give someentertainment. The Ukrainian girl – who I'll just call Tanya –lit up (even more) and bounced. She wanted me to keep playing and I wanted to keep playing for her. I couldn't keep my eyes off of her and her smile. “You'll have to buy me some beers,” I told her.

“Okay!”she said. She and the Turk ran downstairs to the market and broughtme up a few bottles of beer. Not bad, but only if she wasn't withthe Turk! Eventually Marcelo came in and sat down, using a nearbybucket as a drum to play along to the accordion. The time was passedlike this, until the dinner was served.

The next day, I raninto Pauhlo, who was hanging around the hostel, visiting hisgirlfriend. “Hey man, we're having a Christmas party over at myhostel. Come on over and bring your accordion.”

OnChristmas Eve, I was waiting in the hostel with William, the Scotsmanand a random Japanese kid, Suyu. We were going to go to the partytogether, but we were waiting for a call from Joanna, to know wheneverything was ready. Slava was going to join us as well, but shesaid was going to be late. When eight o'clock hit, the original timeof the party, she called up and said, “I'm here and waiting, whereare you?” I decided we should then go and said to everyone else,“Forget it, let's just go, if we're early, we're early.”

Wecalled a taxi. We waited outside for another fifteen minutes andgave up on our taxi. I hailed one off the street and negotiated adecent price. When we arrived at the address, Slava was alreadythere and waiting. She didn't appear to be as happy as the Cheshirecat, instead she had a stone frown on her face. “You're mad,aren't you? Please forgive me.”

“No, I won't,” shesaid. And that was clear, as she mostly ignored me the rest of thenight. But not to fear, there was Tanya, the Ukrainian girl, who wasthere, but if only she wasn't with the Nepali guy! When I pulled out myaccordion, she lit up again, keeping rapt attention on me as I playedand sang, though the Nepali guy was keen enough to keep his armwrapped around her so she didn't float off too far my way.

Central Station hostel had an interesting format. It took up two apartments in a newer Soviet block complex, one on top of the other. To go from the common room, which simply looked like someone's living room and kitchen, to the sleeping quarters, one had to actually go back into the main stairwell. The location was a bit badly placed - that is, not close to a metro, but it was right next to one of the more interesting and popular bars in Kiev - Palata No 6.

The nightprogressed and people were up and dancing as I kept pace with theaccordion, people in lines and circles going along, moving to therhythms that I played. Marcelo pulled me out of my corner andbrought me into the line, and there we were going around, me at thelead with the accordion. Invigorating! Normally I'm fairly shy,both with my writing and my playing, as I don't think I'm all thatgreat. Which is why it feels that much more immense when I seepeople enjoying my playing.

The night went on and eventually wounddown, people coming in and out. Several Brazilian plates wereserved, and finally, near midnight was the turkey. It was a turkeybigger than any I had seen from the United States, which is sayingsomething, since we usually inject ours with all sorts of growthhormones. The food was eaten fairly quickly and the crowd began todwindle around 3, where people either went off to clubs or back totheir own hostels and beds. Which is where I ended up, back at thehostel.

I spent the week in relative peace andquiet. While I was attempting to arrange things with Roman, not manyother things bothered me and I spent most of the week in coffee shopstrying to get some work done. I was staying with a younger guy,Vladya, and his father in a village thirty minutes outside of Kiev. Everyday, we had to get up around 10, catch the bus – or sometimeshis father would drive us to the metro – get to the last metrostation and then stand in, packed like wood logs on a train, waitinganother thirty minutes to get into town. The house used to be adacha for his family, but when his parents got divorced, his mom keptthe apartment and his father moved into the dacha, expanding it tomake it more of a full house. Every year, Vladya goes on a trip tohis birthday, across Ukraine or Europe. This year he was planning atrip to Malta, “I found a real deal on flights,” he explained tome. “It costs only 50 dollars to fly to Italy, and then another 25for a ferry to Malta.” He later plans on studying at a universityin Prague and in the meantime, works at a grocery store and studiesCzech.

The weekend came, and I felt an itch to get back to thelife of the inner city. Kiev is a fairly massive city, with a beatand vibration all its own. With every turn of exploration, there'sanother layer and facet that's revealed. For the weekend, I decidedI'd return back to the hostel – for one, I still needed to meetwith Roman and he was staying at the Chillout. There are differentadvantages to couchsurfing and to hostels for the budget traveler. With couchsurfing, you get to meet a local or long term resident, whotends to know the city or local culture a bit better. Couchsurfingis meant as a cultural exchange, where you bring something from yourculture in to theirs. But at all times, you know you're an invaderof sorts – you're coming in, sleeping on their couch, eating theirfood – and you try to provide something in return, like somegroceries or beer. But it's only a good situation for two or threedays, unconscious of whether you overstayed your welcome or not. While staying at hostels, you remain in the bubble, among expats andtravelers that are in and out, who might know one or two expat bars,but beyond they don't tend to know much about the city or localculture. The advantage though is that everyone is in the situation,on the same level. We're all travelers traveling at a hostel, youdon't have to worry about the host-guest relationship. You also meeta variety of people who've come for a variety of different reasons.

The Chillout was becoming a type of home for me. I wasbecoming more intimately familiar with its bright paints and Jamaicanvibes, its cramped kitchen and single toilet. The common room – amust for hostels, in my book – was among the best that I had foundin Kiev. Old furniture that reminded me of a living room in a commonhouse in Georgia, complete with a bed that was being used as a couch,and a hookah to make bohemian relaxation complete. After my return,I entered the room and sat down. There were two newcomers stayingthere, an Australian named Mike and a Scotsman named William.

Mikewas a smaller guy with a sturdy frame and huge forearms, he had longhair tied at the back. He grew up in Australia, working as a chef,when at a yacht party, got acquainted with a guy who seemed to havesome steady advice on investing. The guy would call him up and tellhim when and which stocks to buy and sell. Mike would turn, call hisbroker, telling him he wanted to immediately sell his stocks. “Butthat's a crazy trade!” his broker would argue, only to find thatthe stocks in that company collapsed the next day and Mike madethousands of dollars by following the yacht guy's advice. Eventuallyhis broker began to understand, asking Mike once, “You're not withDerry and his boys, are you?” “Just make the sale!” Anotherhundred thousand in returns. Mike decided to go while the going wasgood, before Derry and his boys were brought in for insider trading.

After Australia, Mike traveled across the world, living offhis newly acquired wealth. He traveled through Southeast Asia,India, China and Africa. He talked to everyone he could, trying toget the information on this new company in Ghana, or some newinvention a guy just patented in Brazil. “But even learning allthis information,” he told me, “I was still where I was at in thebeginning, when I was just following Darry's instructions. I didn'tknow what I was doing and I was being that much of a success on themarket. When I was home, in Ireland, I read over ten newspapersevery morning, trying to get some sort of view on the right trades. I was looking at long term investments, real information like what Iwas looking for, couldn't help on the short game. Computers allcontrol the short game, that's why all these broker firms have to benext to Wall Street, since even the slightest nanosecond of a tradeor sell can make a huge difference on success – they're all runningthe same algorithms anyway. But I still felt that I wasn't learninganything new in the game, even the long game, or being any moresuccessful. I was doing worse than I was when I was with Darry. Itmade me realize that maybe the whole game is rigged. The entiresystem is set up by criminals to keep them in power. The older youget, the more you realize this. The system is not designed forlittle players. We're all just pawns and even Darry wasn't anythingbut a bishop or rook.” In Ireland, Mike gave up his quest for fulltime trading and started at the bottom of a construction company,getting paid 15 euros an hour to sweep decks. He worked overtime asmuch as he could and eventually, the contracting company made him amanager, then a director, which is what he does now.

William'sstory was shorter and less extreme. Well, what I could understand ofWilliam's story, since it's often harder to understand a Scotsmanthan it was to understand any of the foreigners trying to speakEnglish. William had become enamored in Eastern European culture,studying Czech and Polish in school. He eventually met his Ukrainiangirlfriend while studying in Prague and he followed her back to Kiev. He could only stay in Kiev for a short time, since he had to getback to Scotland to finish up his degree. He fell in love with Kievthough and was planning on returning, though he didn't know how he'dafford to live. He studied Polish in school, but he didn't think hecould get a job teaching Polish. English would be hard to speak,since nobody can understand a Scottish accent. “I'll have topractice my BBC accent,” he said, resigned to a world against theScottish.

Joanna, the owner of the hostel, had us all gotout to Palata No 6 for dinner. I ordered a huge rib-eye steak dinnerfor less than five euros – another win for Kiev. It was onlyreaffirming my assertion that it was better to be poor and unemployedin Kiev than it was anywhere in America. After the dinner, Mike wasstill wanting to go out to party. I was hesitant, “Well, you know,I've got to start saving my money.”

“You don't worryabout that, mate, I've got seven figures. Just come on out.” Therest of the group didn't want to go, so it ended up being just Mikeand myself. We went to Vodka Bar, one of the more scene places inKiev, where women dressed up just to look good and be snotty, lookingfor high rollers to whisk them off and buy them diamonds. It wasfine for our purposes though, since Mike was a high roller. When wearrived at the bar, he bought us both a drink, and a drink for theguy standing next to us. He gave the bartender 500 grivna for thedrink. The bartender came back and confessed, “This is too much!” Mike gave him 100 grivna for his honesty. “He's a good mate,”Mike said. “I like to feel out the bartenders like that.” Wechatted with various girls, Mike continually buying rounds for every three or four people who were around us. Eventually, I had to go usethe restroom, which meant waiting in a line that took almost thirtyminutes. When I got back, I couldn't find Mike. I searched throughall the people in the bottom floor, then up top, squeezing throughTurkish guys wearing Armani suits and Gucci sunglasses and localUkrainian lads wearing nothing so nice.

Occasionally, whenI'd stop looking and just start shaking around, in a move I like tothink is what others would call dancing, I'd fall into conversationswith the Ukrainian guys. “Ah, you are American! It is greatcountry!” most would say, and continue on to buy me a drink. Oneguy I was standing around complained to me about the Turks. “Allthese rich Turkish guys, they just come to Ukraine, flash all theirmoney and take our women. I hate Turks! I get it, it's Ukraine, wehave the best women. It is good. Many people come for the women, Iget it. But Turks, with their sunglasses and oiled up hair, thepompous ass holes don't give a shit about Ukraine, they just want thewomen. They never speak any Russian, barely even English. They areso shit.”

I finally left when I realized it was alreadysix o'clock in the morning. I walked back to the hostel, stillwondering if Mike had made it back or not. I went straight to sleep. In the morning, I saw that Mike's stuff was gone and the girlworking said he had made his taxi to the airport, so he could makehis three day tour of Belarus.

On the fourth day, I wasstill in the hostel when Mike showed up at the door. “Mike!” Isaid. “What happened to you? You disappeared that night. I wentto the restroom and got back and you were gone.”

“Sothat's where you went, mate?” he said. “You had disappeared onme and I went outside looking for you, still having my drink my hand. I don't know why I had gone outside. I turned and just vomited onthe sidewalk and these two cops saw me and asked for my passport. Iforgot about the two hundred dollars that I keep tucked in there andthey took it right out and pocketed it and gave back my passport. But then they kept saying something, so I thought they were going totry to shake me for more, so I just ran, mate. I got into a taxi andtold him to go straight back to the hostel, but then he went quite abit past it. He stopped and asked for fifty, but I was too drunk orsomething and he ended up swiping my wallet when I got out of thecar. I don't know what happened, I don't normally get that drunk. Ikind of think someone slipped roofie or something into my drink whileI was there. I was just knocked out by something. And I lost myjacket, that was a 200 euro jacket. I think I must have dropped some400 euro that night.

“You know, they say that as you getolder you kind of care less and people are more likely to takeadvantage of that. I feel it, mate, I'm getting older and I don'treally care all that much. It's just all a part of life. It's allexpendable. But man, I got to keep my wits straight, that was acrazy night!”

“How was Belarus?” I asked him.

“Belaruswas really something, mate. The women there are beautiful and alldressed all proper. Just people are a bit standoffish, really quiteshy. And everything is really, really well organized. Signs are allposted and big, everything runs on time. It's quite weird and all,it's very... Stalinist. It really is a big flash to the past, Ithink. You've got to check it out some time.”

The aftermath of the party was a brokenlaptop, no more apartment arrangements and on less friend. Though,before Pavlos left for London, he did call, apologize and wished mewell. I had to figure out what to do. My finances were beginning todwindle (I accept donations by paypal!), I couldn't keep making large sacrifices like this. I neededsomething fast. I stared blankly at the map hanging on the wall inthe hallway, as though I were memorizing every alley in Kiev. Mapshelp my clear my mind, give me order and structure, I could gaze atmaps for hours. Maybe I needed to go to flight school and become anavigator – that's the kind of love I have for maps. Not makingthem, per se, but reading them.

A man was looking at me. Hewas shorter and thinner than I was, with a sharp, angled face, likethat of a lean horse. “What are you thinking?” he asked. Irecognized him from the hostel the week before. He was still stayingthere. We had exchanged a few words previously, but not in realconversation. I could tell his English skills were at a minimum. “Ihear, no talk,” he said once, explaining his English skills. “ButI want learn.”

“My laptop just got busted and all myinformation was on it. I mean, not all of it, I keep backups, butthere was stuff on it,” I told him in Russian, but with not so manywords. “I mean, this story I've been working on is on it. Thelast two months of work. I've been lazy about backing it up.”

“I have a friend, he might be able to help.”

“Thanksman,” I told him. I introduced myself. He told me his name wasRoman. “See if he can. But in the mean time, I've got to get tomy friend's house. I'm waiting on some documents there. I can seeif I can save the information myself. Also, I need to find a newplace to stay. Something a little more permanent.”

I leftRoman then and went to visit Alex and Katsia, where I was having theoriginal invitation mailed. I sat down at their kitchen table,sipping on tea and letting the time pass in conversation. “I stilldon't see why they need the original,” Alex was saying.

“Yeah,I don't really get it either. I mean, they issued it, why can't theyjust look it up and see it's legit?”

Katsia chimed in: “Butthen, there's all that stuff that the American government does too. They take a couple hundred dollars from everyone, and when theyrefuse entry, they don't give back the money. I had a friend, whohad everything lined up to do the work and study program, theAmericans didn't let her into the country and she lost hermoney.”

“Yeah, I don't really care for how we run things,either,” I said. “It's all reciprocal, the worst we treat otherpeople, the worse they treat Americans. That's what an Azeri guy inVienna. He worked at the Azeri embassy and asked if I had ever beento Azerbaijan, since I speak a little. I told him, 'No way, it costs150 dollars!' And he said that they were just being reciprocal. Butif you want people into your country, if you want tourism, if youwant maybe for one day for the American government to be nicer, thenyou should let Americans in for cheaper. And anyway, look at all theaid money we're dumping into Azerbaijan. 150 dollars? What's inthere that's worth so much? That's what Russia charges. I'd rathergo to Russia! And Turkey is only something like thirty bucks.”

Alex and I tried to plug my laptop into his monitor to fixit, but it only went blank and made sounds. After powering it up anddown enough times, we finally grew tired of it and Alex realized heneeded to get back to work. So I sat back down at the kitchen table,waiting more for the package while I talked with Katsia.

Aswe were talking, the package came. It was well after one o'clockthough, so I couldn't go directly to the Russian embassy. “It'sprobably too late though,” I told Alex and Katsia. “The ladysaid it'd take two weeks, and now I'll be going in on Tuesday. It'llbe after the New Years, no doubt.”

“Maybe they'll workwith you,” Alex said, “you should go ahead and try.”

“Theroute this took was crazy,” I said. “I checked online for it. It could have gotten here overnight from Moscow had they just put iton a train. Instead, they flew it to Leipzig, then to here and ittook 5 days. Isn't that insane? Leipzig!”

I made it backto the hostel, still feeling down on my luck. Roman was there,telling me that his friend could still try to fix the computer. “Butit will cost probably six or seven hundred grivna,” he told me.

“If he gives the information to me on a working hard drive,this is okay,” I said. “I mean a hard drive that I can use witha USB, then I'm not really losing money on that.”

“Yes,of course.” I turned to go, Roman caught me. “Also, you know, Iwas going to move into a place in the Obolon district. There are tworooms there, if we both stay, then it would be about two thousand sixhundred grivna a month each.”

“So about three hundreddollars each,” I said. “Sounds perfect. Can I see the apartmentbefore?”

“Of course, you can see it on Friday.”

Igave him my hard drive and told him I could see him the afternoon ofthe next day. That night, the hostel owner helped me to order a newlaptop, which took a couple of additional days. In the morning, Iwent back to see the Russians. It was the same lady at the desk, Iknew that no sob story could work with her. “Look,” I said,handing her the documents, “I got the original.”

“Twoweeks,” she said.

“But I need to get there before NewYears,” I said. “I've been trying for months to get this visa.”

“Two weeks, that is the rule. I told you last week youcould come in by Friday and have it by New Years.”

“Butthey didn't send it by Friday,” I said.

“So you won'tget it by New Years. Two weeks.”

“Nevermind, I can't gothen. My friend is leaving on the third to Austria, so there's nopoint in getting the visa and going then. And the invitation is onlygood until the fifteenth, so I won't even get to see my friend almostat all.”

“I can't help you, that's the rule.”

“Ican't pay more to speed it up?”

“No, you are not aresident of Ukraine. If you were a resident, you could have it inthree days.”

I left the embassy with mixed thoughts. Onthe one hand, I couldn't get the visa, but on the other hand, I wasgoing to get some affordable housing, so maybe things were looking upfor me, I couldn't tell. I met Roman later that day at a cafe. Hegave me a hard drive and told me that it would only be thirty grivna,for the drive and for the labor.

“You're kidding me,that's crazy cheap,” I said. I gladly paid him and took the drive.

We met again on Friday, so that we could discuss theapartment. “The landlady told me,” he said, “that theoccupants are still there. They're foreigners and they're leaving onMonday. That's when their flight takes off, so you can't really seeit yet.”

“Okay, no problem,” I said.

“Also,maybe you can lend me some cash? I need like eight hundred grivna. I'll just put it a part of the rent, so you won't have to pay thatmuch rent.”

“Yeah, sure, that won't be a problem either,I'm just happy to get a place. I've got six hundred grivna on menow, I can't give you eight though.” It didn't seem improper atthe time to loan him some money, especially if he made good on theapartment.

On Sunday, Roman had disappeared without a trace. I had gone to a party on Saturday night and woke up late the nextmorning. His things were gone from his room and he was no where tobe found. I asked the owner if she had seen him, “No, not at alltoday,” she said. And then later, another worker who I had beenbecoming friends with, told me while we were drinking at the bartogether, “We need to find Roman. Not only does he owe you money,but he hasn't paid for a whole month at the hostel! That pederast!”

We had some good times. I played themthrough my head while I watched the lights pass by the taxi,streaking in my eyes like a long exposure photograph. The Russiantechno beats playing as steady rhythm to my changing visions. I sawus in the Czech Republic, exploring the dimly lit Sedlec Ossuary,with its human bones hanging as a chandelier overhead and the great,bone coat of arms hanging on the wall, in front of the pyramid ofskulls. I remembered us in Slovenia, wandering the streets in thefreezing night, backpacks loaded and me pulling my accordion aroundbehind me, looking for the couchsurfing group, I trying to make jokesto lighten the load but Pavlos thinking I was simply complaining. How Pavlos was teaching me to say, “Look at those knockers!” inGreek, and I was sharing the same in Russian. There was thecouchsurfing accordion party Pavlos organized, where I played to anaudience of some thirty people at a bar in Zagreb, people dancing andsinging along to my music. And in Budapest, that night of completeinsanity where neither of us remember the end, but both of usremember not keeping the contents of our stomachs. Then in Kiev,where we were sitting in Alex and Katsia's living room, trying tofigure out how to play “Ophelia” by The Band on my accordion.

The good times... look at how we smile!There were good times, though in an effort not to sound toomuch like Dickens, there were also bad times. We were arguing liketwo lovers who were never meant for each other but stayed togetherfor the children. But in our case, there was no sex and there wereno children, our only intimacy in that we shared the road underneathour feet and the packs on our backs. Pavlos, the fire Leo, alwaysseeking out new people to socialize with, as though he needed otherpeople to affirm his existence so that he didn't lose it. He wasconstantly dragging me into new situations with new people, though mystrongly introverted nature didn't always care for the intention. Heseemed to think as though the problem were that I wasn't brave enoughto face women or uncomfortable situations when the truth of thematter was that I simply wasn't interested in those things. I soughtto move with meaning and I seek relationships that have meaning –even relationships that are found and lost in moments should havesomething blowing in the sails. Pavlos, divorced with two kids inCanada, was having a mid-life crisis, and needed – no thrived –on changing where he was at and what he was like as he was involvedwith a long distance struggle to maintain some connection with hischildren, but at the same time figure out who he was in the aftermathof this great cataclysmic life event. Maybe he was trying to livelife so furiously and quickly because he was trying to make up forthe time that he had lost. He was on travel mode, on vacation mode,on a mode different than where he was at before, trying tore-identify himself. But I already had an identity, firmly set onthe ground, a burning light in a fierce darkness. It wasn't seekingto change or be changed. My traveling and movement was already who Iwas. I wasn't on travel or vacation mode, but just simply livingmode, and my life on the road wasn't much different than my lifeliving in Bolnisi or in Denver.

That's what I was thinkingin the cab home from the party. Somewhere out there, I imagined, Pavlos wasstumbling around like some sort of Greek lycanthrope, half-man half-goat, drunk and alone, howling curses at the bloodshot moon. I had called him on the cell phone, told him, “Get into the cab, you don'tknow the way home. Just get in the damned cab!” “No, I don'tneed your help. Fuck you!” and silence. The disconnection of thephone was the disconnection of our life line, the breath that hadpushed away when I was lying on the floor earlier.

Itstarted with an invitation to a party. I was talking to Tanya fromcouchsurfing. She had written an ad that she had a place to stay. If my Russian visa didn't go through – of which I would know on thefollowing Monday – then I was looking to stay in Kiev for at leasttwo months to work on my Russian language skills and my book. Sheinvited me to a party that night, welcoming some Dutch people toKiev. I naturally invited everyone I was sitting with at the time,which was Pavlos, Wayne and a French guy – two guys we had met atthe Dream hostel – whom had all joined me at the coffee shopoutside of St. Sophia's. We were doing a short walking tour of thechurches in Kiev.

St. Sophia's at night“We're invited?” Pavlos said.

“Ofcourse,” I said. “Just one rule please, don't hit on Tanya, myfuture possible roommate, okay?”

“Sure,” Pavlos said. Pavlos hit on every girl in the room, all the time, even if I wastalking to her and trying to chat her up – even while I was tryingto chat her up. He did it even without realizing it, the intenseflirtation being a natural part of his Greek Mediterranean blood. Tome though, it was degrading, not only that he'd attempt sleeping withgirls whom I were talking to, but that with each additional girl heflirted with, he decreased the humanity of the other women – atleast, that how I saw it.

“You can try to sleep with anyother girl, but just not her, okay?”

“I'm not that bad,”he protested.

“But you are!”

Patrick and theFrench guy couldn't join us. We had gone on with just us two to theparty, which wasn't that far away from where we were. At the party,we were instantly mingling. We met girls and guys alike, conspiracytheory rattling journalists to Orthodox church activists to Anika,our Dutch host and celebrity of the night. Then there was mypossible future roommate, Tanya. “Well, I was thinking aboutmoving out,” she confessed to me, “because I wasn't able to finda roommate. But if you want to come and look at it, then maybe I'llstay another month or two.”

The night went on, we made ourrounds, we danced. As I was dancing with one girl in the room, I sawoutside, Pavlos had Tanya up against the wall, kissing at her neck. I grunted, but I tried to forget about it. He was on vacation mode,while I was trying to establish a life. Just enjoy the dance. Thegirl I was dancing with left the room to join the others in thekitchen. I sat down to enjoy the Gogol Bordello music pounding outthe speakers, “Immigrant, immigrant, immigrant punk!” The songbecame like a theme song to me, since I hadn't known the life of acitizen in my home country for some time now. “Of course weimmigrants wanna sing all night long,” Hutz sings, “don't youknow that singing salves the troubled soul?”

Back in thekitchen, I found Pavlos kissing with the girl I had been dancingwith. Tanya pulled her away and they made their exit. I sat down,talking to a big Ukrainian guy who was just about becoming asobsessed with kissing as most of the Georgian men I had met. He wasflirting with the Anika before, but now he was intent on trying toget more kisses and hugs from me. I tried to stick with the Germankid who was living there too, to keep my lips dry from the slobberyman-love of the big Ukrainian guy.

The night wound downfurther. Pavlos fell asleep on the couch. Anika expressed herdesires to go to sleep, so she called us a cab. “Come on, Pavlos,”I siad, pinching his arm to wake him up. “We got to getgoing.”

“No, no, I'll stay right here,” he said, stilldreary from sleep.

“You can't stay right here, this isAnika's bed.”

“That's okay, she can sleep with me. Itwill be nice.”

“I don't really want to sleep with you,”Anika said. “You've been trying to sleep with everyone.”

“Wecan't stay here, come on,” I kept repeating, coaxing him from thecouch. We finally got him to the hallway when he changed his mind –either he was fully alert by this time or still in a dream mode, itdidn't matter to me, but then he was headed back into the room. “No,you can't stay here, Pavlos. She doesn't want to sleep with you.”

“I never said I wanted to sleep with her,” he said.

“Yes, you did, just five minutes ago!”

“No, Ididn't. I'll just sleep on the couch.”

“The couch is herbed! We have to go, there's a cab waiting for us.”

“No,I can stay here.”

I pushed Pavlos against the wall. “Listen to me, we have to go,” I told him.

“Get yourhands off of me.”

“Will you just listen to me? We haveto go. She doesn't want to sleep with you.”

“If you don'tget your hands off of me at the count of three, I'm going to dosomething bad.”

“Just listen to me!” I yelled. Igrabbed his jacket tighter and pushed him harder against the wall. “Would you for once just listen to me?”

“One,” he saidcalmly, ice in his tone.

“For the love of God, justlisten. You can't stay here. Every single fucking time we go out,it's the same damned thing. Every fucking woman man!”

“Two.”

I grabbed his hand, knowing that I was in the weakerposition. The hallway was narrow and he had leverage from the wall. I couldn't think of where to go. I had one last appeal, “Justlisten for once!”

“Three!” Pavlos lurched into me,taking me down using a standard wrestling knockdown, slamming hisshoulder into my stomach. I fell back, landing right on my laptopwhich was slung across my shoulder in my bag. We struggled for amoment, each of us trying to get to the top, but he was able to climbwith ease to have his legs pinning me down. He raised up his fist,ready to slam it back down. “I told you to fucking let go of me!”

The other guys in the apartment were at Pavlos in an instant,both of them pulling his arm back and peeling him off of me. “Whatthe fuck man!” I said. “I'm trying to tell you to go. You justwant to sleep with every fucking woman around, don't you? It cloudsyour senses. She doesn't want to sleep with you. Get over it. Noteveryone appreciates that treatment, it's demeaning man. Grow thefuck up and start treating people like people.”

“Fuck you,you miserable waste. I don't need your help.”

“You knowwhat, ass hole? You can find your own damn way home.” I left. But then, I felt guilty for losing my cool as I neared the bottom ofthe stairs. I had to at least see him home. I went back up. Peoplewere in the apartment shouting and putting Pavlos's things into hishands. He was still insisting that he could stay. I went back inand yelled, “You can't fucking stay! Have some fucking respect forsomeone, man! Every fucking time!”

Finally, he left. Hewent back down into the night. I followed him down after a fewmoments, taking a few breaths to renew my cool. I saw the cab,waiting outside, and I looked in. “Did you see my friend comeout?”

“No,” the cabdriver said.

I lookedaround the building. No sign of Pavlos. I got into the car and toldhim to go. That's when I picked up my phone to call Pavlos that onelast time.

I met up with Pavlos again at the Dream Hostel in the Olympic district in Kiev. He had been staying therefora night already when things had gone sour with his last host (readabout his adventure here) and he was unable to find anothercouchsurfer. I had one last night with Andrew before I moved on tothe Chillout Hostel, which was right around the corner from theDream. Andrew had to go back to Slovakia to handle some privateaffairs, so I wanted to get out of his hair so he could spend acouple of days left with Olya. The Chillout Hostel was run by afriendly Polish girl named Joanna, who for some reason decided toleave Poland for Kiev. Here she met a Brazilian guy who owns anotherhostel in town, fell in love and now they're making plans to goacross the world in an old, beat up Soviet utility van. FromUkraine, they plan to cross Russia, go to Central Asia, drive aroundthere and then on to China. The hostel itself was very relaxed andwith a hippy feel. There was a common room with purple and yellowwalls, couches covered in jungle drapes and a shisha free to smoke(pending availability of shisha). There were two six bed dorms, onebathroom, a toilet, a kitchen, internet and a computer. It felt morelike someone's house than a hostel.

The Dream Hosteldefinitely fell more like a real hostel. The interior openedimmediately to the common room, with a high decorated ceiling. Thewhite walls gave it a somewhat clean, corporate look. There were sixbeds to each room and two toilets and two bathrooms. The staff wasfriendly enough and wanted to know what I liked about the Chillout,grilling me while Pavlos napped on the bed. There we met some Frenchand other people. We decided we'd all go meet at Palata No. 6 andthen move on to a Georgian restaurant. I had been to Palata No. 6once before. Alex and Katsia took Pavlos and I there one night whilewe were staying. The place started, and still is, a student bar –priced appropriately and with a fun theme and childish reserve. Theplace was decorated to be like an old Soviet hospital - it was named after a psychiatric ward from a Chekhov story - with whitepainted brick walls, and the waitresses and bartenders were dressedlike nurses and doctors. They gave vodka shots in test tubes and,for the more adventurous, giant syringes full of liquor servedstraight into the mouth.

Slava, the girl I had met at thecrazy guy's house, also joined us at the bar, completing our circlewith two Ukrainians (Pavlos had brought his date from the othernight), a French guy, an Italian guy and a few other stragglers fromthe hostel. Palata No. 6 was full, which left us standing at thebar, huddled around, trying to stay out of the way of the servers. It's always best to reserve tables there ahead of time. Eventually,we all were hungry, so we went on to the only Georgian restaurant Icould find out about, which was back in the Olympic district.

Theplace was very modernist in decoration, looking like it had beendesigned by an interior decorator obsessed with the badly shapedfurniture of the future. The only thing Georgian about it was on onewall, where there was a lot of random Georgian words painted on likesomething from a Starbucks in Tbilisi (which doesn't exist yet). Ididn't bother reading what they said, since I imagined they weresomething like “relaxing”, “release” and “restoration”,or other words you'd find on a Starbucks paper coffee cup. I turnedto the server and said in Georgian, “Hello, how are you? Table for6 please.” The waiter looked confused. “Oh, you're notGeorgian?”

He continued to look confused.

Iswitched to Russian. “Table for 6?” I thought that, since welooked out finding a Georgian family owned place in Ljubljana, weshould have been able to find a place in a country that actually wasonce part of the same country as Georgia! But we did not find suchluck.

I was in charge of ordering, since I was the one mostacquainted with Georgian food. I went into Georgian mode – orderwhat might be a little too much for everyone and everyone would behappy, besides, Georgian food was cheap! At least in Georgia, itwas. I ordered khinkali, kubdari, xatchapuri and salad. What cameout were all vague interpretations of the actual Georgian food, noneof it being as good as the actual Georgian food that they wereinterpreting (who's heard of a basic Georgian salad with lettuce?). The only thing that was redeeming was the khinkali, which did justiceto the dumplings I've had in Georgia. What didn't do justice to itwas the price. In Georgia, khinkali costs about 30 cents each. WhenPavlos called me over from the servers' area, I knew there had to bea problem with something.

“Does this look right to you?”he said, showing me the bill.

“That looks like a lot ofmoney to me,” I replied. We looked back at the menu. Eachkhinkali had cost about 3 euros. We had ordered 20 khinkali for thelot of us. I threw up just a little in my mouth. That came out tobe the most expensive and least satisfying Georgian food I'd everhad.

The days I spent with Andrew werefairly lazy. I was recuperating from the massive drinking I foundmyself involved in when I was with Pavlos, and so for the most part,Andrew and I stuck to small amounts of beer and wine. I wouldn'tmeet up with Pavlos again for a few days, since he was off staying atanother couchsurfer's place. The nights were spent in such a way, cooking eggs and sausages and drinking our aperitifs. We chatted through the night, Andrew and his roommates, Olya, Jenya and a tall and ripped Ukrainian man who washed windows and painted tall buildings for nearly 12 hours a day. Jenya and the man had to share their room, both sleeping on the floor, and I found a space on the floor in Andrew's room to sleep.

With Andrew, I went to theChernobyl Museum, near Kontraktova Square. The place was in whatappeared to be an old firehouse, with old style ambulances and troopcarriers in the front – I wasn't really sure if those were part ofthe museum or for police use, since there was a police station rightnext door. The museum entrance was in the front, and immediately wewent upstairs to the museum itself. We were greeted by an oldbabushka who pointed us into the room. The museum itself, besidesits arty interior, had no seeming organization or relevance. Mostly,it was composed of random belongings of people who had died in theChernobyl accident, held in glass cases with yellow stickers that hadthe radiation symbol on them. I wasn't sure if that was for effector if the things actually still registered with some radiation, andif they had, I wasn't sure how they thought that the glass wouldprotect the viewers from the radiation.

Kontraktova SquareChernobyl, for thosesomehow unaware, was the nuclear accident that occurred back in the80s in the then Ukraine Soviet Socialist Republic. The accident wasessentially caused by a failure of the safety systems as they wereundergoing tests of those systems. There were about 30 deathsimmediately and over 30,000 people died from cancer afterwards (anumber still largely unknown). Afterwards, the Soviets had torelocate over 300,000 people from the area and spend 18 millionrubles trying to contain the disaster. It didn't cost as much astheir war in Afghanistan (or ours), but it was still pretty damagingto their economy. They tried to cover it up as best they could, theWest only finding out about it when monitors in Finland spiked andpeople started asking questions about the large nuclear cloud thatwas forming over the rest of Europe. The museum itself has severalsimulations concerning the spreading of the cloud and the evacuation.

If you had nothing to do in Kiev, then why not visit themuseum? But otherwise, it wouldn't rank as a “must see”, notlike the pair of human skin Nazi gloves they've got in the WWIImuseum (designed by a relative of the Koch brothers, by the way). Chernobyl itself has some interest to me though. It serves as a sortof Soviet Pompeii – as the area was nearly completely evacuated,the place is like an ethnographic museum on Ukrainian life in the1980s. The grounds are relatively safe to traverse these days andmany places organize tours up there. One of these days I'll hopalong.

The next day, we went to meet an old friend of Olya'swho was living just on the outskirts of downtown, hear the Olympicpark. Ivan liked to collect old Soviet memorabilia, and the walls ofhis room, which smelled something of unwashed laundry and sweat, werecovered in old posters and flags of the different modern countrieswhich were once part of the Soviet Union. He spoke slightly crazy,shaking his hand as he talked and repeatedly brushed his hair back,though there was no need to. He spoke in Ukrainian mostly, butsometimes switched to Russian or English depending on who he wastalking to. We also met there Slava, a red haired girl who wasstudying English and was eager to practice with native speakers,though she had to leave soon.

Ivan showed us a video he hadmade some time ago, with him an Olya and a few others travelingacross the Ukrainian countryside and visiting some random village. Icouldn't tell what the point of the video was – as it was all inUkrainian – but he seemed quite proud of it or the idea of it, Icouldn't tell. I kept thinking about the movie 12 Monkeys andthinking how much the guy reminded me of Brad Pitt's character, witherratic movements and speeches involving bizarre conspiracy theories,“Germs, man, germs!”

When we left, I had the feelingthat I had just watched some sort of thought provoking, life changingmovie, but I couldn't remember any of the details or the plot. Andrew seemed to share my sentiments. “That guy was crazy,” hetold me. “Yeah, just a little bit,” I responded. “Bona fide.”

Adriano had called us while we were atthe sushi house after I visited the Russian embassy. “Does Pavlosstill need to go to the dentist?” he asked. Pavlos had broken atooth while in Romania and when at the dentist there, he was told heshould see about another tooth. We decided to meet with Adriano sothat Pavlos could get his tooth done, meanwhile I would continuearranging the papers that the Russians had requested. I sat backdown at El Mate to drink some cappucino and get my affairs sortedout. I then called Adriano to see what the progress on Pavlos was.

“Oh, he's been done,” Adriano told me. “We're at myhouse now.” And so I went on to his place, a one bedroom apartmentin downtown Kiev, overlooking a nice Italian restaurant and a busystreet filled with cars and pedestrians. Adriano was busy preparinga hookah for us to smoke, while Pavlos was getting comfortable in oneof the armchairs in the main room.

a street in KievWe sat about smokingshisha for a while when I told Pavlos, “Look we need to get goingto get our stuff at Alex's at four and then on to meet our nextcouchsurfer at five. So we can hang around here for an hour.”

“I'm not staying with you guys,” Palvos said. Hecontinued, “I found a girl couchsurfer to stay with tonight. And Ihave a date at seven, too.”

“A date?”

“With acouchsurfer.”

“Pavlos, that's not a date. That's a coffeeand a drink,” I told him. “That's not how couchsurfing works. It's not a dating site, it's a traveling site.”

“Whatever. If something happens it happens, I'm not against anythinghappening.”

“No, you're rather for something happening andyou really go for that happening.”

Pavlos naturallydisagreed, saying there's nothing wrong with something happening. Pavlos settled on Adriano's extra bed and fell quick asleep.

“Hecan sleep through anything,” I told Adriano. “Even when we wereon the train from Budapest, when we transferred tracks, he sleptright through it. When he woke up an hour later, he asked me if wehad switched yet!”

Adriano and Pavlos were planning ongoing to a gym to work out, but I went ahead and left for Alex's. When I arrived there, I realized I had left my phone at Adriano's. Alex called my phone and Pavlos picked up, saying that he was on hisway over. “He sounded a bit upset,” Alex told me. I thoughtmaybe he was upset for leaving him snoring on the couch.

Alexand Katsia sat down to drink tea with me while I waited on my phone. I had to push back my meeting an hour with my next couchsurfer sinceI had left it. “You know, one of my hobbies is going up torooftops,” Alex told me. “But a lot of these buildings, they'vestarted locking the doors. So I ordered some lockpicks from China. Then I can start roofing again.”

“We had some couchsurfersrequest us in January,” Katsia told me after she sipped her owntea. “Alex was really excited, since they were into roofing too,so we emailed them. But then they said that they didn't know whenthey would be in, since they were going to go to Belarus for thewomen. It's so annoying how people just come here for the women. Imean, that's not what couchsurfing is. Of course, romance canhappen, if it happens, it happens. Alex and I met on couchsurfing. But it's not for that.”

When Pavlos arrived, he handedover my phone. “That was stupid of me,” I said.

“Yes,it was,” he said, turning into his usual father figure tone, “Youhave to be more careful with your things.”

“Thanks,dad,” I muttered.

We parted ways again and I met my nexthost, Andrew, at the metro station across town. Andrew was an olderCanadian, in his forties, living in Ukraine. He had a wife inBudapest, but they didn't work out and he ended up falling in lovewith a young Ukrainian girl in her early twenties whom he wasteaching English. So he decided to come to Ukraine to live with her. “Where is your traveling partner?” he asked me.

“Hefound some couchsurfing girl to stay with,” I said.

“Oneof those guys, eh?” he said, chuckling.

“He did keepreferring to himself as a fox in a henhouse,” I said, referring tohim and all the beautiful Ukrainian women. Though it's true thatsaying “beautiful Ukrainian woman” is a bit redundant. I sharedthat feeling at times, my eyes overloaded with the sheer amount ofeye candy walking the streets. It's possibly the second thing aperson notices in Kiev, after the amount of McDonald's. After wesituated my things at his house, he told me the plans. “We can goto visit where my girlfriend works, at this chocolate shop, and thenget something to eat, if you want?”

“Yeah, lets do it.”

Andrew was a real laid back guy, full of positive talk. Along the way, he shared with me his story of traveling across thesea and ending up with his current love. “I really adore her,”he said. “But even so, there are so many beautiful girls here! Iwouldn't ever cheat on my girl, but there is a lot to look at. Andshe knows it anyway. I mean, she knows I'd be lying if I told her Inever look. But that's part of what's great about her.”

Wesat at the chocolate shop for a while and drank some hot chocolates. The hot chocolates, as most hot chocolates available in thechocolateries in Kiev, seemed to have been made of a full bar of purechocolate, simply melted and poured into a cup. They're thick andrich and served with a spoon. I had the impression that I should eatit quickly else it would turn into a cup of chocolate, stuck to thebottom of my mug. It seemed apparent that Ukraine was rich in twothings, and thus perfect to visit for both men and women: beautifulwomen and delicious chocolate.

When Andrew's girlfriend,Olya, got off of her work, we went on to a Ukrainian cafeteria calledPuzata Xata, which translates to “Paunchy house.” It's ratherappropriate to call the place that, since huge meals of greasy meatcost no more than five Euro (including beer), leading one to eattheir often and develop a mighty fine beer holder above the belt. The following days, I ate there often, almost twice a day, showing itoff to everyone I met with, from Pavlos to random guys at the hostelI later stayed at. I had my own nickname for it, “the viewinggallery”, since you could just sit back and watch all the prettygirls walk around and sit nearby. It had become a real henhouse forPavlos, as when I brought him there later, he was unable to sitstill, always itching to go talk to girls, getting the numbers of theless attractive ones for me, at least trying to make picking up womena group activity, though I didn't really care to take part.

Our couchsurfinghosts were busy for our first day in Kiev, so they directed us to anice shisha bar hidden in a courtyard surrounded by imperiousresidential blocks. The center of Kiev is full of them, toweringsome five or six stories, built or restored after the Second WorldWar and many painted in bright pastel colors, or left in the softbeige of stone, with statues of gargoyles and naked women, imitatingthe art that was there before the war devastated the city. Ukrainehad not yet really recovered from the economic collapse of the fallof the Soviet Union, not like Baltic countries had. Those pastelpaints had long faded and cracked, showing signs of soot, ash andage, yet the center city was still beautiful in its own somber wayand there were plenty of signs of revival, new layers of paintcovering the old. The outer neighborhoods were rows of the moretypical Soviet block apartment style, canyons of morose and greyconcrete, sharp and dark like the lives of the inhabitants, the lightfading in the twilight of the eternally missing winter sun. Theouter city reminded me of the neighborhoods of Tbilisi and Rustavi inGeorgia that I had become accustomed to. My eyes fell to the dyingtrees and the gutters and the broken marble blocks under my feet, wetfrom the falling rain. I felt at home once again after my longtravels. I was no longer in alien countries, but somewhere I couldrelate with, somewhere I was used to. Unlike Tbilisi though, Kievwas filled with an inordinate amount of sushi and shisha bars,chocolate shops and an inordinate amount of McDonald's. Life pulsedon the streets, people moved back and forth, even through the mistand rain, filling the cafes and bars.

The Ukrainiansthemselves were hardly like the cloudy sky and cement blocks. Whenwe first arrived, walking up the stairs of Alex’s apartmentbuilding, we passed people who said hello and smiled as I allowedthem to pass around my bags and accordion. Just in Alex’s buildingalone, I got five more smiles than I got from nearly my entire timein Hungary – it was a warming difference. Budapest is generally acleaner and more modern city than Kiev, but the people there were asopposite as their city as the Ukrainians were to Kiev. In fact,outside of the typically rude Soviet-style customer service,Ukrainians proved to me to be a very warm people. They packed thesidewalks, bracing their jackets from the cold. Musicians were atevery metro and underground station, playing accordion or guitar andsinging.

Pavlos and I had spent our first day at theshisha bar, smoking and talking and loitering on the internet. Thebar was called El Mate. At its door was a mural of Communist Cubanfreedom fighters with the words, “El Cuba Libre” and a young CheGuevara holding up his fist. Down the stairs was a Cuban flag andthe interior was decorated in bamboo and wood lattice-workedfurniture. Inside were photographs of Che Guevara, strikingdifferent heroic poses and generally looking hairy and bad-ass, as hedoes. There we met the friendly hookah-preparer, Adriano. Adrianoeven prepared the shisha himself, mixing in the tobacco, fruits andmolasses. He was an always smiling Arab from Lebanon whose dream wasto have a Ukrainian wife and live in Canada. The next few days,Pavlos hung out with him a lot, hoping that Adriano could hook him upwith some Ukrainian girls. In the meantime, Adriano was hoping thatPavlos could get him to Canada somehow. Maybe by making a few callsto his friends back there. “I know this pregnant girl who works inimmigration,” Pavlos told him. “Maybe you two could hook up.”

After our time at the shisha bar, we left and met up withAlex and Katsia at their apartment. Pavlos cooked some of hisclassic Greek lentil soup. He had to replace the lentils with beanssince he couldn’t find any, the grocery store selection being asdiverse as a scene in the desert. The soup still came out flavorful. “It's a great vegetarian dish,” I said.

“No, it'svegan, not vegetarian,” Pavlos corrected me. “It has no animalproducts whatsoever.”

“I know what veganism is. This isstill vegetarian. All vegan foods are vegetarian.”

“No,vegan products have no meat whatsoever. It's an old Greek Christiantradition.”

“It's an old Hindu tradition, to have no meatproducts whatsover. It was there first.”

“The Hindusdidn't come until the 300s.”

“The rig vedas came around1000 BC, it's hardly a new tradition. Anyways, it doesn't change thefact that all vegan food is vegetarian.”

“Vegetarianfood includes eggs and dairy, this does not.”

“It doesn'tmatter. If it's vegan, it's vegetarian. You're just wanting toargue.”

“This conversation is over. I'm ending it now.” Pavlos put his foot down, placing a cold wall between us. It wasn'tthe first time.

“Oh, you're ending it? No, I'm ending it.”I meet ice with fire. Of course, either way, hell is just asnice.

“I'm ending it,” Pavlos retorted. This childishschism went on for some few minutes while our hosts played with theirspoons, swirling them in the bean soup, both caught in silence as they uncomfortably observed this battle. In the end, Pavlos had hisway and ended it and I grunted and grew silent. It wasn't the firstor the last time that Pavlos wanted to completely ignore my input orrefuse any ability for me to know what I'm talking about. He went onto explain all the glories of Greek olive oil for an hour or two.

The next day, I went to find the Russian Embassy. Iwalked across the city, spanning the broad valleys of the Sovietblock apartments. I passed a protest marching around a building,holding up white signs with red hearts. The last prime minister hadbeen arrested and imprisoned on corruption charges – a humorouscharge considering the current prime minister and the crude oil-likeconsistency of corruption inherent in the Ukrainian system. Riotpolice were lined up along the streets surrounding the protest,stone-faced police officers in black armor, hands resting on thehilts of their black steel batons. It was a scene quite unlike theriot police I saw in Paris outside their Occupy Paris rally, wherethere the police were huddled in groups, drinking steaming coffee andjoking with each other. But it was still a better site than in mostrallies I’ve seen in America. Here the riot police were notconfronting the crowds, where in America they typically form a wallaround the protestors, waiting for someone to break the cold peacethat exists between officer and civilian. The more time I spend inactual police states, the more I wonder about America and how closewe’ve been becoming. I’ve been living in countries where peopleare regularly arrested for political activities and it saddens me tosee Americans calling for the arrest of protesters in my ownhomeland. The freedom of speech and assembly is a dying right.

Atthe Russian embassy, I met the gatekeeper. That is to say, the guywho makes sure all the documents are in order. “You'll just haveto copy this,” he said in Russian.

“Where?” I wasafraid I'd have to leave the embassy and look for some hidden xeroxshop.

“Just in that room there.”

When I had allthe documents in order, I went into the visa application room, wherethe older lady gathered all my documents together and looked at them. “But do you have permission to stay in Ukraine longer than threemonths?”

“No, just the normal stamp. The US and Ukrainehave a visa waiver agreement good for three months.”

“Withouta permission, you have to wait two weeks, without your passport.”

“Okay, fine.”

“And also, you need an originalcopy of the invitation. You'll have to call this company's Moscowoffice for them to send it DHL. If you can get it to me by Friday,then you can get there by New Years.”

“Really? Do youreally need it?” I said. “I've got a friend there I haven't seenin ages, he has a new family, I really need to visit him.”

“No,it is not allowed. These are the rules to get a visa in Ukraine. They cannot be changed.”

I left, somewhat resigned. Ittook the short walk to meet Pavlos at the sushi shop to restore myspirit. “They want the original invitation,” I told Pavlos. “It's stupid, they issued the original invitation – the Russiangovernment in Moscow. Why can't a copy be good enough?” And thenI set off to get the original document, having it sent to Alex'shouse, though we were to stay at another couchsurfers house soonafter.

We metConstanze in the wrong train station. Wewere buying tickets to Kiev at the Nyugati station, hoping the trains left fromthere, as that was the one closest to Amanda’s house. There was a short, German girl at the counterahead of us. “I need see tickets to Berlin,ja,” she was saying. I’ve always lovedfemale German accents. Well, not always,just since I’ve been to Germany. It’snot like my love of female French accents, but the Germans are better people thanthe French, so that more than makes up for it. As I went up to bat to acquire us the tickets,the German lady went back and looked a bit lost. That’s swooped in for his magic. When I turned back around, tickets in hand –as well as the discovery that we’d have to get to a different train station inmind – I heard him saying, “We’ll help you find where you need to go.” All of Constanze’s documents and money werestolen in a mall earlier and she wasn’t able to fly back to Germany with herhusband without her passport. Shedecided to try to take a train back to Berlin then and let her husband fly on,since you don’t need a passport to ride the train.

We took her along with us to the main train station, Keleti. Nyugati means “west” in Magyar, which was amystery to Amanda, since it’s more in the central and not even remotely to thewest of Budapest. Though if one were toonly look at a map of Pest, then it could have been considered in thewest. Keleti means “east” in Magyar, soit was understandably placed. We tookthe subway over to Keleti and then decided we would find a café and spend sometime there until the trains were to come.

The café we found was real authentic. When we walked in, we found a dim lit and smoke filled interior, with solidwood benches along the wall. Smallgroups of old Hungarian men were huddled over the tables, smoking andwhispering. Along the far wall was a rowof slot machines with a few young kids drinking beer and pulling handles, themachines were occasionally making ding ding sounds of near wins while we drankour beers. Pavlos and Constanze went offto the grocery store to load up on apples and bananas for our long haul and Iwas left alone to sulk with the baggage. I looked up information on the train and found out that there was norestaurant car. “No restaurant car,” Itexted to Pavlos. “Go crazy.” He never got the text, though he did comeback with a huge bag full of bananas, apples, oranges, nuts and a bottle ofJagermeister. As if he didn’t haveenough of the unicum from the nights previous.

“Do you get my text?” I asked him when he and Constanze came back. “There’s no restaurant car. But we can get a bucket of KFC chicken forthe ride.” Which is what we did. When the train departed, with Constanzebehind on the platform, we were plus one big bag of fruits and nuts and one bigbucket of KFC hot wings. Riding instyle, if anyone asks me – riding in a grease bucket, mutated chicken, smilingColonel Sanders style. In fact, I hadn’teaten so much KFC in 10 years since I have upon meeting Pavlos in Prague.

On the surface, the train was very comfortable. It was two people to a cabin, with two beds, a chair, a sink and a wardrobe. There was plenty of room to pack in ourthings and ourselves. The wagon hadclean bathrooms on either end and two friendly attendants who kept them clean. But as soon as the train started, we realizedthat the train also doubled as a sauna, with the radiators on max throughoutthe wagon. I asked the attendant to turnoff the radiator in our room, which lasted until the morning and brought ussome temporary comfort in our sweat soaked skins. It did, at least, keep the chicken hot forsome time longer than otherwise would have been expected.

Since there were electric plugs, we were able to keep ourselves entertained bywatching movies. Though my currentcomputer collection of movies was rather weak, not having been expanded pastBorat and Hangover II for some time. Thetrain hit the border at around 11 o’clock. First the Hungarian guards came on, with their typical serious Hungarianfaces. The train moved for a short whileand then the Ukrainian border guards came on.

Reading about Ukrainian border guards on the internet, I thought they’d all bedull faced soldiers waiting for bribes. Such was hardly the case. Inwalked two, beautiful Ukrainian women in tight blue uniforms, big fur hats and stilettoheels, asking for our documents. I wasthinking that this was the beginning of a John Holmes movie. “Do you have a visa?” “We don’t need a visa.” “I know.” And then it begins. But it wasn’tso exciting, actually. She just took ourpassports and was replaced by a shorter male officer, who asked us about ourcustoms papers and luggage. “What’sthat?” he said in Russian, pointing at my accordion. “An accordion.” “Do you play?” “Yes, I do.” “Nice.” And then he left.

When all of the officers were done collecting passports and asking aboutbaggage, the train started to shutter. There was banging from all directions as the workers prepared the traincar to be lifted off the wheels and carried over to a parallel track to adifferent set of wheels, since the track gauges in Hungary and Ukraine weredifferent. The Soviet Union had used alarge gauge for their train transit than the rest of Europe, which means thisoccurs at any border into a formerly Soviet country. Pavlos was ready to witness this procedure,but quickly fell asleep, snoring through the entire ordeal of the clanking andswinging and, at one point, what sounded like a sledgehammer being poundedagainst the wall under our window. Hewoke up and asked me, “Have they done it yet?”

“Yeah, an hour ago.”

The night went on. I slept soundly inthe gently rocking train, waking up long before Pavlos. I reached down from the bunk and grabbed thebucket of cold chicken, to finish it off for breakfast. Then I went and asked the stewardess for acup of coffee, grabbing some tea for Pavlos as well. When I later asked for more, the stewardessinformed me that you had to pay for such services – much to my surprise. That meant I couldn’t have any more coffeebut that one cup.

We arrived in the late evening. Alex,our next couchsurfing host, a bearded man in a green jacket and cheerful smile,was waiting for us at the station. Hetook us back to his house, an apartment just near the centrally located IndependenceSquare, and introduced us to his wife, who was four months into apregnancy. The young couple was about toadd on to their family.

I wanted tostay for the folk dancing night. Folkdancing is one of those things you can only experience the real bit in theright country. You can go to a punk orrock show in nearly any country. Sure,some slight variations on style and sound occur, but in the end, modern musicis modern music. I had fun in Germanywatching I Heart Sharks and in Czech Republic watching Tata Bojs, but neitherwere really German or Czech, as they both had modern, international sounds. The real beat of a culture is in its folkmusic. But as Pavlos had once pointedout, “Things can either get stuck or they can modernize. Things can happen where they don’t just getstuck, but they move forward too. Tradition doesn’t have to die, it can move forward, it can change and adaptand still be tradition.” Folk music and dance make a statement about to a culture, and to an anthropologically minded person, can provide a window. Buttraditionalists often don’t agree, wanting everything to remain pure and olduntil its covered in cobwebs and broken bones. In some ways, folk music is like that, it is the old, bitter man in thecorner, stumped over from osteoporosis, with an aching back and burningjoints. But sometimes the old man canshake himself off, get down and boogie.

The club was called Godor. It started asa project to build a new theater, but as they dug and dug, for some reason theproject was abandoned, leaving a great gaping open pit behind. Someone else picked up the idea again andkept the place underground, with a gentle slant that went downward to theclub. They put in a bar and severalrooms for dancing and space for live music and named it “Godor”, which wasHungarian for “the Pit”. Now they playlive music every weekend and live Hungarian and Romanian folk music every otherThursday. One room was dedicated to aband strong in the violin, playing more intimate songs meant for pairs, whilethe other room featured more of a jam band style folk group where the dancingmostly involved large circle dances, with some more skilled pairs in thecenter. As the night waned on, thelesser dancers went home and the real serious folk remained behind, doing theirtwists and twirls with expert precision and timing.

Pavlos (here's his blog) and I went there together, and met Sara, who had showed me the tea rooma few days before. She had brought twoIndian friends, one of whom she met off of couchsurfing and the other a friendof that one. We all danced and drankbeer together, until finally we left around three in the morning and hit up agyros joint. After the gyros, everyonewent on their own way. I walked Sara tothe bus stop, as Pavlos went jogging into the night, trying to find his wayhome on his own, which was interesting to me, knowing that he had no sense ofdirection whatsoever. It was endearing thoughsince I knew he was trying to give me time alone to hook up with Sara, since heknew his overpowering charm would distract her away from me, and perhaps hefelt sorry for my lack of game. My lackof game paid off in the end, with a hug, a smile and a wave goodbye.

Pavlos ended up calling me from some dark street on the other side ofBudapest. I was already home and asleep,but woke up to the sound of my phone. “Shawn,”Pavlos said, “where am I and where am I going?”

“I don’t know where you are, but you are going to the Nyugati station.”

“Do you know where the Nyugati station is?” he was asking someone else, perhapsthe owner of the phone. “Okay, I’ll seeyou there soon.”

I went back to sleep and woke up to the knocking on the door. I opened the door and saw Pavlos there, stilljogging in place. “You know it wasunlocked, yeah?”

The next night we were to go out with our hostess, Amanda, who was finallytaking a break from her studies. Firstwe went to a bar, the Loft, nearby her place to wait for her to get home at thelibrary. We ordered what was called a“giraffe” of Stella Artois. Why Stella? We learned some time ago that Hungarianscould not make beer, and both of us knew that the Belgians could. Since the internet wasn’t working, and thewaitress didn’t seem too eager to help us with anything, Pavlos took a napwhile I wrote on my laptop. When Pavlosexcused himself to go have a smoke, I grew bored and looked at the people around. There was a pair of Hungarians across fromme, occasionally kissing each other and holding each other’s hands. Some Hungarian guys sitting down andchatting, occasionally shouting at each other. And in the far corner, a group of four English girls. So I went over to talk to them and pass thetime.

They were in Budapest for a weekend, having found some cheap flights over theinternet and just looking to get out of London. They had come from all over England. Laura had moved in with her boyfriend, whose flat mate was Leah and theyhad become friends. When Laura and herboyfriend broke up, she and Leah found a new home, where they met the other twogirls and they had been friends for solid years afterwards. They asked me about my trip and all the placesI’d seen and what were my favorites. “Prague was fun, it was nice and cheap, but it’s pretty normal. I think Ljubljana was amazing, that was areal party town. It’s small, but there’sthe river and just tons of bars lining the river, and they’re open around theclock.”

“That sounds perfect,” one of the girls said.

“And Strasbourg might have been the prettiest town I visited,” I said. Though I didn’t care much for the Frenchpeople themselves, Strasbourg was undeniably beautiful.

“That sounds German,” one of the girls said.

“It was. Then it was French, thenGerman, then French. It’s right on theborder, they’ve fought over it a lot. Sowhat brings you guys here?” Then Pavloscame up and sat down with us, stealing my thunder and pushing me back intoinvisibility while all the girls focused on him. So I focused back on my beer and watchedPavlos weave his own stories in and out, talking about anything from CentralAsia to smoking to jumping jacks in the morning, keeping the girls’ attentionfocused on himself. Knowing how rapt hewas, when one girl spoke up about something, he joked, “Excuse me, can we keepthe attention on me?” I drank my beer insilence, until he up and decided to leave. He had left a jacket back in Romania and his last hostess had put it ona train, so he was hoping he could get it from the driver. He tried the same tactic when he left hischarger in Ljubljana, but it had never arrived in Belgrade, like we were hopingback then.

Now the attention was back on me. Theyasked me interesting places to go in town. I told them about the folk dancing, but then realized they weren’t goingto be there for a Thursday night. “Thenyou want to go to Szimpla,” I told them. “It’s in the Jewish district. Ididn’t get to go, but everyone I talked to insisted that I go there for somereal partying. Or –“ and then Amandabuzzed me on the phone, she was home and getting ready for the party. “Excuse me ladies, I’ve got to getgoing. The friend I’m staying with ishaving a party. You guys can come laterand I can send you a text then.”

We went to another bar near the museum. Hanging on the high walls were random objectsof pop culture, from a blow up Spiderman scaling the bricks to a fixed gear1960s style bicycle. We were there tosay goodbye to Amanda’s friends, namely a collection of undergraduate Germanstudents who were taking a few Masters courses for their Erasmus exchangeprogram. Which was how Amanda metthem. The Germans were from all overGermany and shared that same pleasant, humble friendliness found throughoutmost of Germany.

After mingling at the bar, we went on to one of Amanda’s friend’s housesnearby, where we had more beers and danced to reggae and jazz. “Ophelia!” went one song by The Band, “Where have yougone?” This was a song Pavlos hadintroduced me to on our trip and was worth every listen. I found a box of falafel mix in the kitchenand insisted that we make some, so I pulled out a bowl and stirred it up. The next day, Amanda confessed that shethought I was making it from scratch – “I was thinking I’d have to sit back fora couple of hours! But then in 15minutes you already had it out and served.”

“You must have thought I was a master chef or something,” I said back toher. Our things were strewn about theapartment and we were slowly gathering them, getting ready to leaveBudapest. Our train was at 7 o’clock inthe evening, arriving in Kiev then next day at 8 o’clock in the evening. I didn’t know what to expect from the train. “We don’t have to packany food,” I said to Pavlos, not yet knowing at the time there was no restaurant car. “There willbe something to eat, it’s no big deal.”

Ifound the place next to the museum where the couchsurfer meeting was being held. It was a nice restaurant, with black solidoak tables and silver finery, but it lacked any real character or charm that makesa place unique, like what I had witnessed the day before in the Sirius tea room. About 15 people had showed up. There I met a girl who worked for Avis, butdrew cartoons as a hobby and had just entered some into a competition. Also arriving was an old Scottish friend, Al,who I knew from Tbilisi. He was ajournalist who was dating a Georgian girl who was attending university there inBudapest, so he followed with her. Nowhe works with some Roma group who’s working on raising awareness on Roma issuesin Hungary. The Roma, more commonlyknown as gypsies, are a complicated issue. As one of the couchsurfers who was talking to Al put it, “I hate to beprejudiced against anyone, but I’ve never met a gypsy not trying to take mymoney.”

Pavlos arrived a bit late to the place, with all of his bags and readiness tojoin into the party. He immediately satdown and broke into the conversations around him. He relates with people with an uncanny ease, alwayshaving some story to tell relating with nearly anything, so you never have toworry about him being a melodramatic wallflower at a party. After the party, we hopped on the train backhome. Amanda was living in an apartmentblock building quite near a train station. The building, which was quite typical in design in Budapest, opened toan inner courtyard, from which all the apartments were accessible. Across the courtyard from Amanda’s apartment wasa brothel with a sign, “Sweet Massage Escort Service.” Roman had told me that if you actually wanteda massage there, you’d have to pay extra.

The next morning, I made my way to the Russian embassy, my papers in order andin hand. When I entered, I was greetedby a guard, who asked me in Russian, “What is your citizenship?”

“I’m an American.”

He nodded and smiled. “That’s verynice. Have a seat right over here andyou can go to the window after this man.”

“Thanks.”

A few moments passed. The man went tothe window. The guard returned, saying, “Actually,go to that window. The lady there speaksEnglish, so you won’t have any problems.”

I thanked him again. I went to thewindow he had mentioned and greeted the lady, an older blonde Russian ladywhose face was lined with wrinkles. Islide my papers through the window slot.

“Permission to stay in Hungary,” she said in English.

“Permission?” I showed her my passportwith my entry stamp.

“No. Permission to stay in Hungary,” sherepeated. She pushed my papers backthrough the slot.

“I don’t need permission. I’m anAmerican and Hungary is in the Schengen. We can be here for three months without permission.”

Without saying another word, she closed the window and walked off. I waited. And waited. And waited. I was thinking what I had read online. I had gone to both the Russian embassy in theUS website and the Russian embassy in Hungary website, making sure that I hadall the appropriate documents. Fifteenminutes later, she returned. She openedthe slot, pulled through my papers and looked at them. “Insurance?”

“Yes, I have it.”

“Where?”

“I don’t have any copies. It didn’t sayI needed copies.”

“You need insurance. Bring insurance,then two weeks.” She slid my papers backthrough the slot.

“It said I can buy a faster service. Athree day service, yeah?”

“No, two weeks.”

“No three day service?”

“No, two weeks.” She closed the slot andstared at me, waiting for me to go. Ileft. I was not pleased. It meant I had to revise my journey. I could wait the two weeks in Hungary or trymy luck at the Russian embassy in Kiev. If I had to wait two weeks, it’d be better to wait in Kiev, since atleast I can speak one of the common languages there, Russian, and I couldpractice that. In Hungary, there wasonly the jibba jabba of a language that wouldn’t help me advance in anything ifI practiced that.

“We’re going to Kiev,” I told Pavlos, coming back into the apartment. “Friday, we’ll go. Then we can still do the folk dancing thingon Thursday night.” Pavlos wanted tostay an extra day though, so we compromised to Saturday. “I just need to be at the embassy in Kiev onMonday to apply,” I told him.

The bridge to BudaThe rest of the day was spent walking around on the Buda side. Buda was the side with the big hill andcastle on top. The castle, which was ahuge fortified area, included a small medieval style town, a palace and an oldcathedral. This was where the oldnobility would have lived, though long since replaced by rich foreigners andbankers. I overheard one tour guidesaying, “People do live in the castle district, but I don’t understandwhy. It’s expensive and crowded,especially in the summer when all the tourists are out. But, I think, when you tell someone you livein the castle district, then it sounds pretty cool.” To me, Buda was lacking the real spirit ofthe city, though it was more scenic. Themore vibrant side of Budapest was definitely in the flatter, Buda side.

View of Pest from Buda

Pavlos along the city battlementsBuda CastleWe got back to the Nyugati district late, intending to go to a couchsurfingmeeting at another bar which was nearby our apartment. The bar was called Pokucs. I had looked on a map before and it seemedfairly straight forward to find. But aswe walked up and down each street, unable to figure out where it was, wedecided to try to find the address on my phone or search for passersby whomight know. We did find one guy, who waswith a couple of Australians. They didn’tknow where the bar was, but Pavlos took the guy’s iPhone and logged on toFacebook to find it. With Facebook, hegot the actual name of the bar and searched for the address. He gave the phone back and we went down thefirst street I had thought the bar was on. There was an unmarked fence that we had toenter, then to continue down a small, tree covered patio until finally we foundit, what appeared from the outside to be a small squat squeezed in-between twofive story buildings.

The rest of the night was spent meeting other couchsurfers. I had been sitting next to this one buxom,brown haired Hungarian named Dora, who smiled an unnatural amount forHungarians. “What do you think ofHungary?” she asked me.

“I think Hungarians never smile,” I told her. “Except for you. But usually, y’allseem so serious. I mean everywhere. Restaurants, bars, at shops, with friends. I haven’t seen this many depressed peoplegathered in one city in all my life. Even in Georgia, where I was living, there was a lot of miserablepeople, but not like this! But, at leastyou smile, and it’s a pretty smile.”

We were joined by another American guy named Craig. He was blonde haired and blue eyed, with abroad face and a mole on his cheek. Icouldn’t tell if he had already known Dora, or was just trying hard to hit herup, since as I got up to get us some traditional Hungarian shot, he moved Dorafrom sitting next to me opposite him to next to him and when I came back, I foundmyself sitting in Dora’s old spot. “Thisunicum,” Craig explained to us, “has a story. They say there were two Hungarian brothers. One had gone off to Germany and inventedJagermeister and the other had invented this. It tastes a lot like Jagermeister, but it’s somewhat stronger. Most people can’t handle it.”

What Craig failed to know was that Georgia was a real conditioning ground fordrinking. Especially when it came totchatcha. No drink in the world burned liketchatcha does, or makes a man want to heave up when he drinks it. There is absolutely nothing enjoyable orcompelling about tchatcha, except that it’s an overwhelmingly efficient way toget drunk. To tell a good grade oftchatcha, you light it on fire and make sure that it burns a bright blue. Jagermeister didn’t compare to it, and as Ipoured this new, blood red syrupy substance into my mouth, which tasted likeJagermeister, I didn’t think it really compared either. “That’s nothing,” I told Craig. “You need to try some Georgian liquor.”

Later, Dora left and Craig got up to escort her out. I thought they were leaving together, butthen Craig had come back. “Your friendthere,” he said, pointing across the room at Pavlos, “had come out followingDora trying to creep on her. He wouldn’tgo away.”

The night passed and Pavlos and I were next to each other again. “Man, that Dora girl was hot,” he toldme.

“I know, I was talking to her most of the night.”

“I went out to try to get with her,” Pavlos said, “but that Craig guy wascreeping out and following her. Hewouldn’t go away.”

“But then he came back,” I told him. “Hestarted talking to me again, so I got him to buy me some drinks.”

“Yeah, I don’t get it. I mean, why didn’the just go home with her, if he was going to go through that trouble?”

“I’ve gotthis card to mail to America and this one to Georgia,” I told the postalworker, sliding each card as I spoke across the window opening, representativeof my sending them across the continents. I had clearly written the names and addresses on each card.

She picked up the card addressed to the Georgian address. “You have to put the country on this.”

“I’m sending it to Georgia.”

“So to America?” the woman asked. As shetalked, her double chin hung and swayed from side to side.

“To Georgia. The country I’m sending itto is Georgia.”

“You mean the state in America?”

“It’s not in America,” I told her, speaking slowly. “It’s a country.”

“So it’s in England?”

“No, it’s not in England. It’s not inAmerica. It’s a country in the Caucasus.”

She stared at me, not moving.

I turned to the line that was forming behind me. “Can someone tell me how to say Georgia inHungarian? I mean the country?”

“Georgia,” everyone said, but with a slight accent, as if they were saying “Jor-jee-a”.

I turned back and repeated it to the clerk. She still seemed a bit as though she had never heard of the country, butwent ahead and stamped the card. Iassumed that card was now headed for an unheard of address near Atlanta. I knew now I was in the first country of my trip where the language was complete jibba jabba. Well, ever since Sweden and the Baltics, but at least Russian is common enough in the Baltics.

From Cluj, I had taken the direct train to Budapest. It was fairly cheap and I was able to buy theticket right up front. The train wasclean and modern, complete even with power adapters, something I wasn’t expectingin a train this far in the East, especially after my experience with Balkan andRomanian trains and seeing how broken down they were. My plan for Budapest was to apply for myRussian visa there, wait a week, and then move on to Ukraine or Moscow,depending on how long it would take. That would give me enough time to experience the city and the easyability to get on to Russia – a plan not slightly ambitious, since the trainfrom Budapest to Moscow was a little over thirty hours, and one that likelydidn’t have electric outlets, which meant I couldn’t work on writing much. Anyone who’s tried their hand at writing in atrain with paper and ink should know that the only practicality in writingwould be with a laptop. The sway andbump of the rails is no companion to writing legibly, and believe me, I don’tneed any help to write illegibly.

In Budapest, there lived my friend Amanda. Amanda was another Peace Corps volunteer, but she had volunteered inArmenia. Our paths had crossed a fewtimes when I had visited Armenia, first to watch the Armenia-Mongolia hockeygame (poor Mongolians didn’t even know how to skate, they lost 0-15!) and partyit up in Yerevan, and then when she came one weekend to Tbilisi inGeorgia. Now she was living in Budapest,busy working on a masters degree in international politics or whatnot. She warned me ahead of time that she would becompletely swamped by her studies, as she had finals the very next week, butthat I was more than welcome to stay on their extra mattress in the livingroom. So two subway transfers later, I foundmyself at her place near Nyugati Station, one of the main stations inBudapest.

Living with her was a giant of a man named Roman, who stood some seven and ahalf feet tall and whose single pec was larger than my head. This barrel chested behemoth worked as abouncer at a gay club in Bratislava on the weekends and studied for his mastersin Budapest on the weekdays. He had agirlfriend in America, and after I discussed how annoying it was to get a visato Russia, he replied: “Come on man, that’s nothing compared to an Americanvisa. I’m a European Union citizen andthey still treat me like a criminal over there. They ask you all these questions, take your fingerprints, eye scans andeverything. Why the interrogations? I’m just visiting my girlfriend!”

Since I wasn’t with Pavlos, I decided to take it slow, catching up on somewriting and just walking about the city, and I could also cleanse myself ofalcohol. Pavlos was going to catch up ina couple of days, so I could catch up on my drinking then, but for the time,slow and quiet. Preserve money andhealth. I could meet with somecouchsurfers for tea, but I wouldn’t break my rule for drinking until the thirdday when there was a couchsurfing meeting, which is where I had to meet Pavlosat anyway.

Budapest is a beautiful city, not unlike Prague in its look and feel. In fact, as it’s slightly cheaper thanPrague, it’s only a matter of time that it steals Prague’s mantel as the hipsterMecca. Instead of judgmentalconversations in American coffee shops starting with, “Have you been to Prague?”and your level of hipness being determined on the question, it will soon be, “Haveyou been to Budapest?” And then the guywill scratch his ironic mustache and tip his trucker hat a certain way dependingon your answer. Or if you say no to thatand to liking Arcade Fire, you know the girl that’s sitting across from youwhose attention you once had after mentioning your accordion playing, wouldsuddenly find you a bit too common for her tastes. But now – now! – I have both an Arcade Firealbum and experience in Budapest, preempting the hip appeal in artsy cafes andunemployment offices all across America.

Budapest used to be two cities, Buda and Pest, long ago united into a singleentity. It developed as one of the finaloutposts of the Romans against the German barbarians across the River Danube,the hill that Pest is built on a perfect place for fortifications, offering along view either way down the broad river. It was later taken by the Magyars, an Asiatic tribe that had come inwith the war raiding of the Huns. Theysettled their and developed their own civilization, taking much of the landaround them. It really developed underthe Austro-Hungarian Empire as the Empire’s Eastern capitol, with periodarchitecture of New Empire and Neo-Renaissance really flourishing throughoutthe city. During World War II, Hungarytook an eager part in siding with the Nazis, and sent tens of thousands of Jewson to German death camps as their solution to the Jewish question. In downtown Budapest, one can still walkthrough the Jewish quarters, which is where the old WWII ghetto was, where theJews were put and stored until they were ready to be shipped out. Now the Jewish quarters is one of the liveliestneighborhoods in Budapest, filled with cafes, bars and night clubs, thougheveryone is vaguely aware of the area’s dark past. As a crown to the neighborhood and itslegacy, the second largest synagogue in Europe stands proudly, as a testamentto Jewish defiance.

On the edge of the Jewish quartersMuch of the day, I spent trying to find a decent coffee shop. Budapest is filled with Starbucks-stylecoffee shops, like California Coffee Co. and Costa’s Coffee, but it’s muchharder to find the independent places. In the Jewish quarters, there was one I found called Massolit, which wasa bookstore and a coffee shop. Thebarista, Livia, claimed it was the best coffee in Budapest, along with theother coffee shop she worked for. I wasexcited simply to find an English language bookstore, since I had recentlyfinished reading my last book, Sarajevo Marlboro, a collection of short storiesabout people who had lived (and died) in Sarajevo during the Balkan Wars.

at Sirius I later met a Hungarian couchsurfer, Sara, who agreed to show me around. She was a tall, skinny girl dedicated to herbicycle. She worked for an anti-racismNGO and liked to folk dance. She showedme to a tea house called Sirius, which was near the museum. The tea house had a Victorian style in theentrance, with old wooden furniture perfect for an English style tea time. In the back rooms, it was much more Bohemian,with walls covered in brightly painted murals, split floors where you have toclimb up to the seats and pillows being the main type of chair. The menu had over a hundred different teasand five coffees, lacked alcohol but they did serve hookah in the mainroom. Not a bad place to sit and pass anhour or two in conversation.

Like theocean’s horizon, it was hard to tell where the clouds began and the frostyfields ended. The world was white andfrozen in ice, like any imagination in Heaven, everything bathed in white, butfor the biting cold. The train creakedand rattled as they moved along the tracks. Pavlos was curled up in a fetal position on his bench, snoring loudly,though on occasion interrupted by a mumble or a twitch. I watched the landscape pass and moved myfeet away from the heater as I began to sweat. Such old trains in Romania and the railway stations were evenolder. All the concrete of theplatforms had fallen to decay, huge cracks stretched across them like a Martianlandscape, but for the dead sprigs of weed and flowers which had grown tallfrom the earth underneath.

Our first stop was Deva, a small town about 4 hours by train from Cluj, thoughwith how slowly that train tugged along, I wondered if it would have been lessthan half that time had we taken a car. We walked through the town. Itlooked like it was still under Socialist times and was almost the exact copy ofwhat an old Socialist city must have looked during its peak period. Pristine walkways extended on well kept blockapartments, each block painted bright colors. This was not a town in collapse, but rather one well maintained andkept. People walked along the paths,busy going to friends’ and families’ houses for the holidays. Two guys in black jackets walked up to us oneither side, handing us flyers. “FreeEnglish classes,” they said.

We kept walking on by, as was our normal reaction when randomly handedflyers. Pavlos yelled back, “We don’tneed it, we’re Americans!”

“You’re not American. You’re Canadian.”

“I’m North American.”

“North American scum,” I said, thinking of the song by LCD Soundsystem. “And all the kids that want to make thescene, when our young kids get to read it in your magazines. So where’s the love tonight? But there’s no love man there’s no love andthe kids are uptight.” When we got tothe city center, I remembered that Romania still had Peace Corps. Though it was quite inexplicable why Romaniastill had Peace Corps, since the only thing 3rd World about Romaniawas the train system. “Those guys whogave us the flyers could have been from the Peace Corps! I should have asked them. Then we could have gone back to their hostfamilies’ houses and had some proper Romanian countryside experience.” Though, in truth, I knew that Pavlos wouldhave seduced the daughter and the father would chase us out of the city with ashotgun, all before we even got to see the castle.

The castle in Deva was used in the opening scene of the movie Dragonheart andis still under restoration and archeological work. There is an operating funicular that takestourists up to the peak of the hill for easy access to the place. But once up top, you can only walk along oneof the battlements before your stopped by wood fences blocking off the digsite. After our short walk around thebase of the castle, we decided to head back down and make our way to Hunedoara,which is about a 20 minute bus ride from Deva.

view of Deva castle

View of Deva castleFrom Hunedoara station, the castle is about 20 minutes away by foot. Hunedoara is a crumbling town, left over fromlong finished iron mines and smelters. Huge heating stacks towered in the sky, casting long shadows even overthe castle. The castle was built becauseof the iron mines though, so the presence of the smelters made since from aneconomic perspective. But now that theiron mines were gone and the smelters no longer used, and the castle havingbeen renovated, it made everything awkwardly out of place, like if Disney haddecided to build a castle in the middle of New York City. Actually, come to think of it, that might beoddly fitting.

After walking around the castle, we caught the train from Hunedoara to Simeriaand then on to Cluj. Across from theSimeria station, there was a small, beer only café. The type of building was all over Georgia,where they served only beer and breads. There was a Russian word that described that kind of place perfectly,that translates to “place you don’t really want to spend much time in becauseit’s dirty and disgusting and there’s a fat creepy guy in the corner staring atyou”. Russian is a rich language.

The trains in Romania usually offer your own cabin (at least the more expensiveones). This doesn’t mean that the trainor conditions of the train are any better. In fact, when you have your own cabin, the lights often don’t work andsince it’s isolated, you can’t count on your neighbor’s cabin to light yourway. Our cabin was originally occupiedby a large old lady and a man fast asleep who was sprawled across threechairs. The steward brought us to acabin only occupied by a small old lady. We sat down and the old lady quickly stood up, collected her things andleft.

“Whatever, at least we have the place to ourselves.” Which meant we pulled out the portablespeakers and started jamming to Balkan gypsy music. The music must have been like a chum, sincealmost immediately gypsies appeared on the train. One child opened the door, holding his handout. One couldn’t tell if his skin wasnaturally dark or if it was that way because of the dirt, the hair in clumpedknots on his head, sticking out in different directions. He opened his mouth to show his missing teethand look as cute as possible, though it’s not really that possible for a gypsykid to look cute. We couldn’t reallytell if in fact, the child was a male, either, I’m just using it because it’seasier than saying “he/she” the entire time.

“No, no money!” we said, shooing the boy possible girl off.

Time passed. I had to go to therestroom. When I emerged, a whole familyof gypsies were coming down the corridor, holding and dragging luggage that wasprobably filled with stolen goods. Icursed myself. “My God man!” I said inRussian. The father came up to me andextended his hand, wanting a handshake and my watch while he asked for acigarette. I did a quick inventory of mygoods and gave him a quick handshake – since I almost always automaticallyrespond to handshakes – but made sure it wasn’t the same hand with mywatch.

“Sorry, I don’t smoke,” I said in Russian, hoping that would make him goaway.

“Money? You have money?” he said inEnglish.

“No, no money,” I said in Russian.

“Money? Money? I have little kids I must feed.” The boy thing reappeared at my feet alongwith a little girl with tousled hair, dressed in an oversized pink nightgown. Another gypsy was in my way on myleft, attempting to block the path with luggage. They had me cornered and they were moving in,the kids reaching for my pants pockets and the adults reaching for my jacketpockets. I had to make a movequick. I remembered my tai chi andturned into a Kung Fu master. With award off, I pushed my back hand into the rib cage of the guy blocking thecorridor, sending him back against the wall. Then with a crane-walking-the-sky, kept my hand in place, using it as aprop to vault over the luggage and spin around, facing the gypsies to make surethey didn’t sneak up on me. I didanother mental inventory as they were trapped now on the other side of theluggage.

I harrumphed and returned to the compartment. “You better put away your iPad man, those gypsies had their luggage,which means they’re about to jet. Whichmeans they’re going to make some slap and grabs at anything they can.”

“I’ll just punch any that come in,” Pavlos said.

“It’s not so simple. You punch one kidand another kid appears and grabs your eyepad. They work the voodoo man. Justbest to put your stuff away and keep a hold on it.”

The gypsies never came in.

When we got back, we went on to a couchsurfing party that Timea, thecouchsurfer I had met for coffee a few days back, was holding. It was a sausage fest, but it wasn’t toobad. When everyone heard I playedaccordion, they gathered around and chanted for me to play it. I brought it out but then Timea got excited,“No, you can’t play! It’s midnight and Ihave neighbors!” I put the accordion away.

“But you can play in the street!” someone said.

I was able to play two songs before my fingers were beginning to freeze. I was also beginning to suspect that one ofthe neighbors was about to call the cops, if they hadn’t already. “Let’s get back in.”

Pavlos was leaving with an Italian man, for more party rocking. “Pavlos,” I said to him before he left, “I’moff to Budapest tomorrow, just so you know.”

“I’ll see you there. I’m going to hangout a bit longer and explore some more of Romania, I think.” And with that, he and the Italian guy wereoff.

Zoltan andI spent most of the holiday at l’Atalier, checking out the favorable girl to guy ratio anddrinking coffees mixed with whiskey and Bailey's. There weren’t much better ways to spend cold December holidays. I couldn’t get a hold of any of the girls Isaw the day before, so we simply resolved to meet with a different group of hisfriends later that night. We spent some time watching music at an outdoor festival that was celebrating the holiday. There was a drum corps group trying to be a mix between Safri Duo andStomp playing the finale, after a short lineup of Romanian folk and soft rock. After one of the bandmembers had talked for abit, Zoltan translated for me. “He’ssaying they were originally from Cluj, so they’re really glad to be backplaying. And they all went to the musicschool here.” He added his owncommentary. “But look at what they’redoing. Music school? I think probably they started out with a goodidea but then some producer came along, wanting to make them famous and this iswhat happened.”

St. Michael'sWhen we walked away from the festival that was held outside the Hungarian Catholic Cathedral and under the statue of the Hungarian king, King Mattias, we were interrupted suddenly by a military parade. "It's strange that they're doing all this over here," he said. "I mean, it'd make more sense to do it in the Romanian square on the other side of town." "Maybe they're just trying to rub it in that they own the house now," I suggested.

a poster at the barWe went to a café called Bulgakov. I insisted on going there, since it and its companion bar, Woland’s CatHouse, were both named after the Russian writer, Mikhail Bulgakov, and were themed off of his book, The Master and the Margarita, one of the more cleverand ingenious satires published during the Soviet Union. Though, my old host mother, who was a schoolprincipal, argued, “It is not a satire! It is a very serious piece of literature. There is not one funny thing in the book, itis very serious.” Either she didn’t readthe book or she didn’t get it, since there were plenty of funny things in thebook and plenty of commentary against the Soviet government, which was why ittook almost 20 years to get it published through the Soviet censorship boards, despite even Stalin himself thinking it was a clever book. Though Stalin was known for his statements like, "This book is too clever, it must not be allowed! But do congratulate the author on a job well done." He would then write down the author's name and make sure he was included in the next purge.

“The real genius of Bulgakov’s work though, I mean the Master and Margaritaspecifically,” I told Zoltan as we drank hot, mulled wine in the bar, silhouettesof cats with knives for claws and bright red eyes were painted on the dark greenwalls, “is how the Master was writing his work and then burned it in thestove. After he left, his lover savedthe works. The same thinghappened with the Bulgakov’s book itself. He also burned his manuscripts. It's clear he probably added that bit in when he rewrote the book from memory, but still, it's interesting.”

Zoltan’s friends joined us. One was anEnglish teacher that taught at a university in Cluj and who traveled often toBucharest to see her boyfriend. The otherwas her boyfriend. Then Zoltan’s sistercame, who was in from the countryside to be ready for when they’d leave forItaly the next day. I tried to speak some Romanian to the waitress, but she didn't understand my attempt.

"She's Hungarian," Zoltan explained. "We were speaking Hungarian, so she had to change languages. The owner of this bar, actually, is Hungarian, so most people who hang out here and work here are Hungarians."

"You learned some Romanian?" Zoltan's sister asked.

"Yeah, sure, I mean, just the proper words. I learned that 'pussy' is a kiss and that 'moya' is a blowjob. But not much beyond that."

friends in the CathouseThe last to join us,in proper style, was Pavlos ushering in two girls. One of them was his couchsurfing hostess andthe other her friend. I have alreadymentioned that Hungarians make a significant minority in Romania. The Bulgakov bar was renowned for being aHungarian joint, while all the people sitting at the table, even with the additionof Pavlos’s hostess and friend, were Hungarian. Pavlos’s hostess didn’t want to stay long, since she had a party to goto later.

“Pavlos,” I explained to my Greek friend, “we’ve got to get up early tomorrow,around 6, if we’re going to make the train that will take us to Deva andHunedoara.”

“No problem,” he said. “I’ll just go tothe party and stay up all night long. Sounds fun to me.”

"This place is good for you, Pavlos, you're a real Woland."

Pavlos, withhis immortal spirit of party, winked as they left.

I was left alone on my first day in Cluj to wander the streets. My host, Zoltan, had to work. It was his last day of work since the nextday was the Romanian national holiday, which celebrated its independence fromHungary. For ethnic Hungarians likeZoltan, it was a bit of a weird holiday, but since they got a day off of workall the same, they didn’t mind. InTransylvania, there was a large minority of Hungarians, who were Magyar inethnicity and Catholic in religion, whereas the Romanians were descended from theRoman people and were Orthodox. “Itfeels like a Friday though,” Zoltan shared. “We don’t have to work for four days. So I’m taking my sister to Italy this weekend for her birthday. The computer maintenance guys though hate us, since we all keep talking about a Wednesday being a Friday.” It was nice hearing that, it reminded me ofwhen my brother took me to Las Vegas. It’salways good to spend some time with the kinsfolk, though not too much lest youend up at each other’s throats, too many conversations ending in bitter discussions onpolitics and religion that have more conflict in the fact that one youth can’tforgive the other for breaking his toys when they were younger than the actualdiscussion itself.

Usually, when couchsurfing, the traveler can get tired of people just offering coffee or a drink, or saying that "I'm sorry I can't host you, but we can meet for a coffee!" But the traveler can't be too judgmental, since even the coffee drinkers can provide some daily entertainment and conversation. It had been a long lesson learned from my time in Paris. I went about meeting other couchsurfers to keep myself entertainedin-between my walkabouts of the city of Cluj. Cluj, with some 300,000 people, isn’t a small town by any means, but thecity center is still small and easily walkable. When I say small, I’m comparing it to Prague or Vienna.

the main canalCompared to other Balkan and Carpathiancities and considering Cluj’s relative size, the city center is an old metropolisfilled with Baroque, Gothic and Romanesque buildings. In its old towns, Western Romania has some ofthe more interesting architecture, since they were constantly being transferredto the various powers of Austria, Hungary, Serbia, the Ottomans and their own independentrulers – every period contributing significantly to the atmosphere of the cities. In Timisoara, the old town square, Union Square, is known forits 12 visibly different styles of architecture.

St. Michael's, the Hungarian Catholic CathedralAt Capriccio, a fairly basic, corporate style café, I met Timea. She was throwing a couchsurfing party laterthat Friday and after I sent a text about getting some coffee or beer, sheinvited me there to hang out with her and her friend. Her friend was a writer and after she heardthat I was a student of Russian language and culture, she threw in that she hada huge interest in learning Russian. “Butthe alphabet’s so hard!” she lamented. “Youdon’t think Russian is hard?”

“When I first studied Russian, I thought it was hard,” I told her. “But when I started studying the Georgianlanguage, I became convinced that Russian was easy.”

The two girls went back to school and I wandered around the city somemore. I got another response from acouchsurfer, Andreea, to meet at a place called l’Atalier. Her friend for the most part, sat at the bar,away from us. She was wanting to go homeas soon as possible. In the meantime,Andreea discussed to me her love of bubbles and how she became an entertainmentmanager there at l’Atalier. “There wasone wedding I was in,” I told her, trying to think of anything to do with bubbles,“where – you know the part where the people line up and throw flower petals asthe bride and groom walk past to the car? – instead of flowers, we blewbubbles.”

“That’s amazing!” she said. “I’m goingto have that at my wedding. If I everget married. Which I’m in no rush to do.”

“Do you like bubble baths?” I asked.

“No.”

“Why not? There’s lots of bubbles inbubble baths.”

“Because I’m afraid I’d never get out.”

Her friend came in and joined us. Iuliasat down. She was tall, thin and withbrown curly hair, wearing grey sweat pants and a green sweater. Heavy bags hung underneath her eyes. “I hate winter,” she said. “I just want to hibernate until spring.” We talked and shared origami skills. Andreea made a bird, I made roses and Iuliamade a tulip. When Zoltan got off work,he came and joined us, but by then Andreea and Iulia were already headingout. Zoltan sat down and ordered a beer.

“I love this place,” I said, looking around. “The furniture is really clever, it’s all just cardboard. I think I’m going to do this for my house,” Itold him. “I mean, that’s free. You just pick up a ton of cardboard fromhardware shops and grocery stores. Thesetables and chairs are all pretty strong; it’s such a great idea.”

“Yeah, it’s a great café,” he agreed.

“And look at the girl to guy ratio here.” I counted. “It’s 8 to 1 inhere. Fantastic. I love Cluj!”

“Yeah, it’s a great café,” he agreed.

From there, we went to get some shwarma and then on to a German bar where hisfriends were meeting. His friends were acollection of people from different department of his work, from sales to logisticsmanagers. Everyone talked through theevening and drank their series of beers, preferring the moderately moreexpensive German beers (though German beers in Romania were cheaper than inGermany) to the cheap and inexpensive Romanian beers. “We came here to enjoy the beer, not to drinkcheaply,” Zoltan said. The place wasdecorated like it was a Bavarian restaurant, though it didn’t serve any schnitzeland it didn’t play any German music. Themusic was a mix of 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s, 2000s, rock, funk, classic rock, rap,jazz, new wave – that is to say, anything that came out of Britain and theUnited States in the past thirty years. We went home, full of conversation and good beer, satisfied for the evening.

Teodoraand Sima showed me around the Romanian town of Timisoara. Timisoara was at its base a university town,with a small town center filled with old buildings, ranging from the 1500s tothe modern day, though the modern buildings weren’t nearly as profound as theirpredecessors. The more interesting bars,as I explained before, were often hidden from the streets, the entrances insidethe courtyards, the balconies of the courtyards or down sharp steps in interiorhalls, with half rotten doors hanging from hinges of dark entryways. There was a certain romance and mysterybehind Timisoara, especially as the clouds hung low and the mists swirledaround the church steeples.

Victory Square

I met Teodora’s sister as we were eating eggs in the kitchen. Dark haired Patricia was wearing her pajamabottoms and a tight fitting blue shirt, her eyes still covered in sleep. Like Teodora she was studying in university,but also did massages for money and was obsessed with salsa dancing. She traveled the world in quests to findsalsa parties and conferences. Shealmost reminded me of my Ghanaian friend Frederick, who I had once called the SalsaKing of Ghana, for his smooth moves and quick steps.

Union Square

Teodora and Patricia were off at university, which meant for my last day inTimisoara, I would wander around alone and find a café. I found one cafe, where the wallswere lined with bookshelves, filled with books and games, looking quite like astudy that belonged in the house of a pretentious nobleman. Music like from the Verve Remix albums werein constant play, a smooth jazz-house softly filling in the gaps ofsilence. Teodora met me there. From there we went to a shisha bar, where wemet Patricia and more of Teodora’s friends. Patricia told us about how she liked a gay guy.

I’m using the word “gay” here liberally, in that Patricia never referred to himas a gay guy, but rather the guy by whom she was enchanted. The guy had never touched or kissed Patriciain their moments of constant hanging out and even spending the night togetherin the countryside and because, he too, is obsessed with salsa music. Not that I’m saying salsa is a precursor tohomosexuality, just I often had my wonders about the Salsa King of Ghana aswell – but he was never hesitant to touch a woman, which also resolved thosewonders. We broke the news to Patriciathat her friend was very likely gay.

Then I received a call. “Where you at?”said a familiar voice from the other end of the line. It was Pavlos. He had made it to Timisoara, two days aftermy own arrival. We were still on thesame track, apparently, both of us headed to Timisoara, then to Cluj and thento Budapest. I gathered my new Romanianfriends and we crossed the city center, passing the main square that was sothick of fog that the people we passed whose footsteps I could hear. And then into another unmarked hallway,passed another door hanging from its hinges, down dark stairs. There, they played heavy metal music, whilepeople sat in dark corners, smoking herb and drinking hot mulled wine to staywarm. We found Pavlos and hiscouchsurfing girl friend in one cavernous room, with low, curved ceilings,where I half expected to see stalagmites hanging like spears from the ceiling,an upside down Vlad the Impaler at work in the dark underground bars of Romania. “She didn’t have much of a profile oncouchsurfing,” Pavlos told me. “But shewas hosted Aida, so she let me stay.” Aida, if you remember, was hour hostess in Slovenia.

After dancing with Patricia, I felt the weight of shisha smoke, beer and hotwine pulling heavily on my stomach. Iwent outside to wander around the Union Square and have a breath of freshair. I sat down before the cathedral,whose bright orange double bell towers were like illuminated spears slicinginto the darkness and fog. I heard a couplekissing nearby, as the wind pushed the mist into Archimedean spirals, I couldsee glimpses of them as the boy put his hand under the girls shirt and shemoaned, half from the pain of his icy touch and half from receiving that touchfor which she so yearned. Some otherpeople were chatting behind me as they walked across the square, too far to seethe couple, but close enough to hear the clopping of their footsteps,interjecting sharply through the smacking of the lips of the kissing couple. Where was that girl for whom I stillyearned? Was she looking now, into thesame fog, but from the other side, the winds carrying our gaze across mountainsand seas? But fog obfuscates everythingand time lifts it off into the sky to contact the stars, cosmic dust gentlyglowing in the trails of comets and meteors, speared the horns of the bull and devoured by the great bear.

I missed the first train to Cluj. Itmeant that I had to catch the next train, which was three hours later andwouldn’t arrive in Cluj until after midnight, as it was a seven hour long rideto transverse only a quarter of the country. I called Voltan, my next host to ask if that was okay. He affirmed it. I bought a ticket and then went to theinformation desk. “Is there a baggagecheck or lockers?” I asked.

The attendant behind the desk was on her cell phone. She put one finger up, showing me to waituntil she was done talking to her boyfriend. Then finally, she pressed the button. “Jibba jabba,” she said. Iassumed this was Romanian for “Can I help you?”

“Is there a baggage check or lockers?” I repeated.

“No,” she said. She then picked up herphone. It was clear she had never hungup, but had come to a break in the conversation. I tapped the window, I wasn’t done. She put up another finger so that she couldget to another gap in her conversation. When she was satisfied, she asked in English, “What?”

“A café?”

“There are cafes outside.”

“Yes, but where is there a good –“ I stopped. She had let go of the button and had already resumed herconversation. I knew that there was nopoint to continually trying. I walkedoutside. The station in Timisoara wassurrounded by street vendors selling sandwiches, hot dogs and shwarma – I assumedthat was what she meant by “cafes outside”. I walked some fifteen minutes down the street, backpack on and accordiondragged behind me, turned left at the train tracks and finally found a decent caféto pass the time and update my Facebook and Google Plus statuses. This wasn’t a prettier part ofTimisoara. Mostly, it was rows and rowsof block apartments, common square structures of concrete common in the formerCommunist republics. Occasional olderbuildings stood out as eye candy, but they were few and far between.

The train to Cluj from Timisoara, as I said, takes about 7 hours. They call it the “starvation train”, sincethere’s no restaurant wagon and it doesn’t stop anywhere long enough to buysome food. This means either you justhave to be hungry or you have to pack your own food. That was a common occurrence among my fellowtravelers. An old, fat woman here wouldbe digging through her bags, looking for a bag of hips and a sandwich, a smallframed man over there was snacking on a Snickers bar. I spent most of my time writing poetry andwatching movies, though I found that the loads of movies I had downloaded whileliving in Georgia were now beginning to dwindle.

When I arrived in Cluj, it was night and the ground was covered in frost,giving the concrete walkways a slick sheen. Zoltan had met me at the station. He was bald with a pointy goatee, making him look ever the wizard hisname would lead one to believe he was. Heworked in the IT department of a multinational company, and liked all the usualthings IT guys like, such as Lord of the Rings and Transformers, except forvideo games. He drove me back to hisapartment, which was in a smaller block apartment right on the edge of the Clujcity center. “Can I get you something toeat?” he asked. “I’ve got some left overspaghetti.” He served me his leftoverspaghetti. “I’m sorry I can’t be much ofa host tonight.” He poured two glassesof wine and toasted with me. “It’s justlate and I have to work in the morning.”

“Come on man, you picked me up at the train station, drove me back, are givingme dinner and wine! How is that notbeing a very good host?”

“Just, you know, I feel there’s always more to give.” We clinked the glasses. I toasted him a traditional Georgian toast,that is, “To hosts, gaumarjos!”

Pavlos and I went down to the train station together. I dropped my stuff off there so we could walkaround downtown a bit more. Hungry, wesat down at a Serbian café to get some more ethnic food. Pavlos ordered the fish soup and fish plateand I ordered the stuff steak. Icontemplated what a stuffed steak was while we waited. A group of Russians came in, sitting behindme, and ordered vodka and juice. Theypounded the vodka and pounded the juice and then left. The waitress brought us our dishes. The meat was stuffed with cheese and moremeat. Serbians clearly had no doubtswhen it came to eating meat. I was glad Ididn’t have any carnivorous reservations of any sort and I dug it. It’s hard to be picky the further East you,as customer service declines a great deal with every kilometer, and I oftenshrank back in mild embarrassment even every time Pavlos tries to explain towaitresses that he can’t eat anything with dairy in it. Not that customer service really exists inWestern places like France either, but they do have plenty of hippy vegetariansin that direction setting up cafes. Thepeople of the East are harder, sterner folk, years of oppression making themmore resilient to the pansification of post-modern civilization.

We made our way back to Hotel Moscow to sit on the internet while gazing at thebeautiful Russian and Serbian women who were sitting there to drink coffees andto listen to the piano. Pavlos waswearing his headphones, as usual, to blast away part of the atmosphere of wherehe was at. I believe in full alertnessto an atmosphere, so that one can be propelled into the most heavenly height ofthe sense-experience of the moment and as the senses merge together in a singleidentity, the moment blurs together like streaks of paint across animpressionist landscape. I would haveshared this with Pavlos, but I knew he wouldn’t hear me over the gangsta rap hewas bobbing his head to – “bitches ain’t shit but hoes and tricks”. I’m not saying I never listen to earphones orDr. Dre, nor that they themselves can’t enhance the experience. I often find that I feel myself floating toChopin when I’m wandering dark alleyways in fog and rain.

As I sipped on my cappuccino, I found myself moody and ponderous. Was I happier before Pavlos joined me as atraveling companion? Was I sadder? Was there a difference? I’d certainly had fun with Pavlos, but I knewalso I found myself annoyed with him. Itwas an indication that we needed a break, certainly.

We went to the Irish pub, for one last round of Irish car bombs. We had to explain to the bartender how tomake them. “You take a half shot of Bailey’s,a half shot of Jameson’s and a half glass of Guinness,” Pavlos explained tohim. He brought back one shot of Bailey’s,one shot of Jameson and a full glass of Guinness. We scratched our heads at that. The waitress then understand what it was wewere trying to explain and then tried to explain it to the bartender. He just poured half of each into anotherglass, making a clouded up mixture of Jameson’s and Bailey’s. It didn’t matter too much though.

“Here’s to the good times we’ve had,” I toasted and we drank. I got up and hurried back to the trainstation, catching my train just in time. I was the only one in my compartment of the entire journey to Timisoara,Romania. There may have been five or sixmore people on the entire train, including the old guy standing in the hallway,staring out the window while taking long drags from his cigarette. None of the compartments had any heat and Isat bundled in a corner, watching the IT Crowd until my battery ran out. The hours passed. I read from a new book, Sarajevo Marlboro, that I received from Reet. I tried to pass time and ignore the cold, butI was failing. There was nothing to seeout of the windows but darkness and it was only five or six in theevening.

The train stopped. It was time for the Serbianborder check. Soldiers came on board,pulled up all the seats in every cabin, searching for drugs or explosives orsomething. They left. The train moved on. Romanian border guards came on board and didthe same thing. One soldier pointed tomy accordion. “What is that?”

“An accordion.”

“Open it up.”

“Sure, would you like me to play?” I asked.

“What?” he asked me.

“I said, yes.”

The train continued. It was too dark toread, too dark too watch anything out the window and too cold to sleep. I tried to think about what happened betweenPavlos and me and imagined what Pavlos would do in this situation. Normally, he was always dancing to somethingwhile we walked, especially when he went down a staircase he liked to skipsteps and spin around as if he was in a club and he was busting moves to themusic, only this music was being pumped only to him via his headphones. So, I decided to do just that. I pulled out my phone, turned on some LMFAOand party rocked around in my cabin. It keptmy blood moving, warming me up a bit and helped me pass some time.

I met my next hostess, Teodora, at thetrain station. She was holding a book sothat I could recognize her. It was agood thing I was easily recognizable, since I saw about three girls holdingbooks. She was short, round andsmiling. “How was your trip?” she askedme.

“Long and cold. I had to dance to keepwarm.”

“It was an hour late too.” As I checkedmy watch, she added, “We’re an hour ahead of Serbia.”

“Sorry. You didn’t stay here the entiretime, did you?”

“I was at a bar nearby with some friends, had a couple of drinks.”

“Well done.”

She got a taxi to pull over and we put my stuff in. Then we sped around town, picked up anothergirl, Sima, and went back to Teodora’s apartment. As they spoke, I listened, trying to pick outwords and accents. Before coming toRomania, I thought everyone would speak in accents that resembled Dracula’sperceived accent. But I discovered thatRomanian accents were something more Italian and less vampiric, while it wasSerbs and Croats that sounded like vampires. We went out to a bar later that night, afterTeodora made sure I was well fed.

Sima and me Many of the buildings in Timisoara are old and falling apart, though there is aslow process of restoring them to their former glory underway. Many of the buildings are built in a Romanstyle, that is, the building is built around a courtyard and many of the doorsopen to the courtyard rather than to the street. This means that many bars are completelyunrecognizable from the street and have spread by word of mouth alone, packingcrowds because of their own unique and individual atmospheres. In fact, in all my travels, I haven’t foundso many unique and creatively decorated underground bars since I arrived inRomania. I knew I’d enjoy my time here.

Thenext day started at an Irish pub. Pavloshad left his MacBook charger back in Ljubljana and asked his lover there tosend it forward. Instead of posting it,she left it with a train driver, which meant we had to go back to the trainstation every few hours to find the driver she left it with. The day was not proving fruitful in thisendeavor, but it proved successful in the endeavor of finding a proper drinkinghole. When first we walked to the bar,we were told the bar stools were reserved.

“We’re in an Irish pub, yes?” I asked to make sure. “What kind of Irish pub reserves bar stools?” But it wasn’t long when other stools werecleared up and we made our way to rest our feet, pad our cushions and softenour weary souls. We ordered the onlyproper drink proper men can order at an Irish pub, no matter where in the worldthe pub may be, whether it be in Dublin or Boston or Belgrade. We ordered Guinness, the dark and creamynectar of the gods. The rounds came andthey went, leaving us in empty glasses lined with brown nitrogen cream. We started adding to the flavor by mixing thestraight Guinness with Irish car bombs, a move that ensured we would not makeit back to the train station on task. When we started fiddling with Pavlos’s camera and making differentposes, Pavlos swept his arm aside and knocked one Guinness straight to thefloor, splattering all over my pants and shattering the glass under myfeet.

"Here you guys are," the bartender said, handing us over two free shots, as though we were to be rewarded for making a mess.

“Maybe, Pavlos,” I said, “you should start breaking more glasses.” We took the shots. “You know, Pavlos, we’ll regret this in the morning, after we make up.”

“After we make up? Are we going to have a fight?”

“I said after we wake up. Because we’ll be hungover,” I thrust my fist through the air towards his head in a fake punch. “No, why would we have a fight? These are the moments that make the adventure.”

Guinness ad by PavlosWe met Reet back at the train station, almost not caring whether we could findwhatever it was that Pavlos was looking for – we couldn’t remember that partanymore anyway. With Reet we went to atraditional Serbian restaurant, where they served us beer and huge slabs of tendermeat cooked in various manners – my kind of cuisine. Pavlos kept distracting himself by running overto a table of high school students and hitting on the girls, trying to getkisses on the cheeks and using his camera as a way of getting his desire,possibly deleting pictures of monumental churches to find memory for picturesof monumental lip smacking.

one of those possibly deleted pictures from Pavlos's camera

An old man came up to us, “You should control your friend! He is buying those kids drinks and then notpaying for them!”

I asked Pavlos if that was true. “No,”he said, “I’ve already paid for them.”

I went back to the old man and told him, “No, he’s already paid for them. What’s your problem?”

Out waiting for the bus, Pavlos started trying to chat up another girl and getanother picture. An old man pushed himand shouted, “Don’t make me call the cops!” I asked the girl if Pavlos was bothering her. “Maybe a little, but not that much,” shesaid, shrugging.

Back at the house, Pavlos and I had an argument about him going for everysingle girl he could get, even the ones that I was going for – an argument thatwas building up across Europe. I shoutedand ranted, circling the house in a drunken stupor. “Do you love any of those girls?” he askedme.

“No,” I told him. “But it’s allanimalistic. Every time you screwsomeone – hell, when you just start charming them in that weird, unnatural wayof yours – you turn them into dogs, man. There is no meaning! There isnothing without meaning! How do wedefine life if we just resolve ourselves to fucking with it?”

“If you don’t love them and it doesn’t matter, then it’s all fair game.” He went outside and smoked a cigarette. I followed him. “Shawn, you’re too serious, man. You need to realize, we are animals. And sometimesthat’s okay. We’re traveling, it doesn’tmatter. Lighten up.”

I said: “Maybe it’s time we parted for a bit.” I was growing tired of it, of his endless flirting and charming all thegirls, and perhaps jealous of his demonic skills. “It’s been so cloudy and gloomy, man. Where did the sun go? I’m tired of the clouds. It’s been two weeks since I felt the sun onmy face. The darkness of madness blindsus from the desert sun.”

“Can’t we just be normal again for tonight?” Pavlos asked. “Let’s go to this gypsy place, let’s just benormal again for tonight.”

We went to the gypsy place, Blek Panters. It was situated out on a hidden place on an island. To get there, we had to take a cab and pass through some security gates, and then cross over what appeared to be a blasted out bunker, with crumbling concrete steps leading to a shore. The shore side was filled with boats as far as the eye could see, various types of music skidding across the water, blending into a mesh of static sound. Inside our boat, it looked like a fine dining restaurant, groups of shady looking people sitting at their tables, in dark suits and talking low, with a gypsy band playing in the middle. We tried to act normal, but nothing was normal, everything was quiet andawkward between us, despite the band playing loudly and the gypsy accordionist crossingthe room to flicker his hands and wink at the women; despite the girl in the tightleopard print dress, swaying her hips to the beat, raising her hands to snapher fingers, to lift her breasts, flicking her blonde hair from side to side,making me remember that I, too, am an animal.

Reet,our next couchsurfing host, brought us into her house. Belgrade was still under the shadow of theclouds, even though noon had already passed, there was still an ever presentdarkness that made it feel like dusk. Her house was a lot lighter, with bright walls and a rounded, moderndesign, a complete contrast to the stark housing blocks outside. Reet herself was a short, dark haired ladywith the usual square face of an Estonian woman. She had come to Belgrade working for theEuropean Union, but found that she loved the country so much that even afterher contract had expired, she decided to stay. She was working on her own training consulting company, the Training Doctor, trying to teachBalkaners to have more positive training conferences and not just accidentalmeditation sessions.

After we made ourselves comfortable, she made us some coffee and we all sat onthe couches in the living room. “So whatdo you guys want to do while in Belgrade?” she asked us.

“I need to see some gypsy music while I’m here,” I told her. That was my mission in Belgrade.

“You know, Serbs really hate gypsy music,” she told us. “Or at least they say they do. But you can always find a few Serbs hangingout around gypsy clubs. It’s theirguilty pleasure. I know this reallygreat gypsy club called Blek Panters. It’s on a boat in the river. I almost always take all my couchsurfers there. There's a lot of boats up and down the river, but this one is the best, I think. Most of the others just play pop dance music, but this one's always got a gypsy band. Do you want togo tonight or tomorrow night?”

Pavlos leaned in, “I was thinking maybe we could do a couchsurfing accordion partytonight and the gypsy thing tomorrow night.” He then told Reet about our success in Zagreb. After Pavlos posted up an event notice oncouchsurfing, we were set. We went backdowntown and explored the city a little bit more, discovering the Moscow Hotel,where they have one of the most comfortable cafes in Belgrade, with plushfurniture, tall, Baroque ceilings and a pianist tinkling away on his chimes inthe corner.

We arrived back late to Reet’s house, but still with time enough to buy beerand prepare for some guests to arrive. Afew trickled in here and there, mostly Reet’s friends, who were almost all talland friendly Serbian men. I put a lot of space in between my accordion playing and talking,so that I didn't play all my songs for just the first two or three people, as I knew after I ran out of my twelve songs, I'd have to start repeating. Not that people would notice or care, but I knew that I would.

Also arrivingwas a self-labeled Communist, Sergei, who had seen that a “Georgian living inUkraine” was there, which was a slight confusion on his part regarding myprofile, which read “I was living in Georgia and I might live in Ukraine in thefuture.” Since he didn’t speak English,the confusion was understandable. Thismeant that much of the conversation that night about economic and government systems and globalizationwas spoken in Russian. Pavlos, an ardentfree-marketeer from Greece, won his support by simply being Greek. “Solidarity, brother!” Sergei called out. There was an irony, in that the nationalistGreeks were protesting because they didn’t want to lose their large pensionsfrom their government jobs, which is what the austerity measures would callfor. Sergei undoubtedly understandsthat, but Pavlos supports the protests from an anarchistic standpoint, seeingthe austerity measures as something like Germany's version of the economic assassinations theUnited States performed in South America in the second half of the twentiethcentury.

Sergei was a Russian born in Ukraine and who moved to Serbia during Milosevic’sreign. He found Milosevic’s rule throughnationalism inspiring and wanted to live there and try the new Serbianexperiment. The Serbians present in theroom nervously smoked their cigarettes and drank their beers as the Russiantalked. “You’re talking about Fascism,not Communism,” I told him. “Milosevicwas not a Communist. He centralized hispower under the auspices of nationality and police power."

“I am a Communist,” he said. “And your accordionmusic has no soul.”

“You are a Fascist and have no idea what Communism even is, do you? And have you heard soulful accordion music,man? That’s what it is. Anyways, it’s fine if you’re a Fascist. Whatever, I respect people of all politicalideas, if they’ve got their own reasons, but at least call yourself what youare, man. Communism is when the workersrule their own companies, it’s decentralized power given to small groups ofpeople working for common causes. Socialism is what you’re talking about, when you talk of your heroesbeing Stalin and Milosevic, you are talking of Socialism - when the government runs the businesses. Not all Socialism is like that, mind you, asthe politics can be different. Like inmodern Sweden and Germany, where they have more firmly established democracies. At least just know what you’re talking about. Communists were called Communists because they, at least the founders, saw worker power as the end result of their experiment, after a reorganization of society by a Socialist government.”


"Which should be achieved by force and national separation and empowerment."

"The problem is is that force, coming from a government, cannot change people so radically - that kind of impetus has to come from the people. In a social democracy, maybe that can happen, since the two are blended, but then you have the problem that Rousseau and the French Revolution landed into, which was that the Will of the People is basically mob rule and can't protect the minority. But even now today, in capitalistic societies, we see moves towards communistic companies, where the workers have input in their own corporations. But depending on the company, it might not even be a good thing, since democratic rule in a company can be too risk averse or slow to change. The best economy is a mixed one, I'll always maintain.”

“I’m not praising Stalin and Milosevic, mind you. Well, I am. They were great men, but they were sick men. That’s what Zinoviev once said. Do you know Zinoviev, come I’ll show you somespeeches on YouTube.” I tried to playmore music, so the other guests who were not so entertained by heateddiscussions concerning political history in a language they didn’t understandcould feel more included on the liveliness. But the self-apprised Communist continued to break into conversationsand steer them back into talks of nationalism and anti-globalization – two pointswhere at least Pavlos the Greek could relate.

The trainpulled out of Zagreb at near midnight. The French guy we met at the party drove us from Iosip and Antonia’splace to the train station, where we all shared a couple of beers togetherbefore racing off to the train. We hadopted for a four person cabin rather than a six person cabin, but in truth, itwas the same cabin, just at a slightly higher price. We were lucky to be the only two in ourcabin, since one of the beds was broken, off its rail and one side droppedagainst the floor. It was like Titobuilt the train with his own hands and no one repaired it since he died. Which could very well have been true. There was a Dutchman, a Slovenian and a Turkin the cabin next door. The Dutchman andthe Turk were both on their way to Istanbul, traveling on train all the wayfrom Amsterdam on a nearly direct path.

I tried to go to sleep soon after boarding, while the dim blue light ofPavlos’s iPad lit up the room and the hairy defines of Pavlos’s face. It seemed days had passed when three o’clockcame and the attendant pounded on every door in the wagon, calling out,“Passports! Get your passportsready!” The rocking motion of the traincame to a halt and soldiers could be heard outside, yelling commands. Pavlos and I sat up in our beds, wearing justour underwear. A Croatian guard openedthe door, looked at our passports, stamped them and gave them back. The train began to move again. Thirty minutes later, the same routine, butnow there were Serbian guards outside yelling orders.

The Dutchman moaned from the next cabin, “Sleep is impossible on thistrain!”

The Serbian border guards rifled through everyone’s passport. He took my American one. I was expecting him to hassle me aboutit. When I was crossing from Slovenia toCroatia, the Slovenian border guard there must have reviewed my passport someeight or nine times, showed it to his friends, and then looked at it evenmore. The Serbian soldier glanced at mypassport, stamped it and handed it back. “I was ready for something more,” I told Pavlos.

“Why?”

“I mean, we did bomb them twice. I didn’texpect problems from the Slovenians, but the Serbians – if anyone would have areason not to trust Americans, it’d be them.”

It was 6 o’clock in the morning when we arrived in Belgrade. The train station was almost as depressing asthe train. It was visibly old, withbroken windows, empty buildings and unpainted, drab, grey concrete. I felt like I went to a post-Sovietcountry. It was a huge difference fromZagreb. When we were leaving the train,we met the Slovenian guy, who offered to take us for a short walk and show usto a café. The Slovenian guy worked inthe Slovenian embassy in Belgrade and was often going back to Slovenia. “There are two buildings the Americans blewup during the war,” he pointed to two buildings that appeared on the verge ofcollapse, glass windows were long ago blown out and half of both of the sixstorey structures were in heaps of rubble. “That one was an apartment building and that one was a hospital. They blew up a hospital!”

“And the Serbs just left it like that. Why not bull doze it and make it into a memorial park or something?” Iasked. “Unless they’re using it forpropaganda. I mean, that war was 12years ago.” I might say here that, withthe Slovenian guy, this was the oddest I felt in Serbia for being an American. The rest of the time there, when I was withSerbs, I mostly received genuine warmth and friendliness.

the pedestrian mall, early in the morningHe didn’t know any places to hang out there since generally he didn’t do anypartying in Belgrade. “And crime hasreally picked up. It’s just not safe,”he warned us. He brought us up the hilland down one of the main streets, showing us where the pedestrian mallwas. From the foot of the mall, he leftus, with only two more directions, “That way is to the big horse. It is good place to meet people. And that way is to the castle. It’s very nice. Good luck!”

We walked down the pedestrian mall while eating some pastries we pickedup. Everywhere was closed. The grey, cloudy skies blended in with thegrey concrete buildings. Silence hadseized the streets, as the only souls moving were street sweepers, constantlyraking the cement walkways with their brooms. I got the feeling that I often felt in Georgia, that the country wasonce part of something great, but that was 30 years ago, and it had since seeneconomic collapse, brutal regimes and near constant warfare. We found our way to the park where the castlewas. The park was unusually busy; mainlyit was filled with men in dark coats with walkie-talkies. As we approached the castle, Pavlos said,“You know, they’re following us.”

Belgrade CastleI couldn’t tell. Everyone was wearingthe same dark jackets and had the same dark hair. “I think they’re actually differentpeople. And maybe there was nothing elseto do for the park security.” We turnedthe corner and found a line of tanks, their barrels raised to blast a stonewall. Maybe they were just there toprotect the tanks that were part of the Yugoslavia military museum that wassnuggled between two rampart walls.

the military museumAfterexploring the park, we went back to the downtown area. As the light started warming the streets, thecolors began to fill out in the walls of the buildings, light greens, pinks andyellows started to glow through the grey void. People started filling the sidewalks, walking to work and school. It was like a spring garden, blossoming andcoming to life again, with the season of one day.

church in downtown Belgrade“You guys speak English?!” a guy said as he crossed the street towards us. He was bearded and wore all sorts ofmismatched clothing. He had a bigsweater with a kangaroo pocket, where he showed us his beer bottlecollection. “You want something todrink?”

I didn’t understand. Was he selling beeron the street? “No thanks,” I said. Then turned to keep on going, but Pavlosseemed to want to engage the guy in conversation. The guy who looked like a Serbian bum wasactually a Serbian from Chicago who had come back to visit friends, ran out ofmoney and now was boozing it on the streets of Belgrade. I guess that meant he was a Serbian bum anddidn’t simply look like one. The bumshowed us a coffee shop and then went to take care of some business. “I’ll be back in an hour!” he told us. “Don’t go anywhere!”

We sat in the café. There was a woman inthere who may have been working there. “Can we get some coffee?” I asked in Russian. She replied, “It is not time.” She pointed to the clock. I translated for Pavlos.

“It’s not time for what?”

“That’s what I don’t get. Maybe shedoesn’t work here?”

“But she was cleaning things earlier. Maybe she just cleans things and the person who serves coffee isn’tthere yet?”

“Maybe. Hmm, no internet here,” Pavlossaid, looking up from his iPad.

“We could go on up to somewhere on the mall. I saw a place with free wifi.”

“And ditch that guy?” Pavlos asked.

“I guess we’ll have to. A travesty,” Isaid. “Probably he could teach us how toget stuck in Belgrade.” We moved up toan Italian café that was just around the corner, waiting for time to pass untilwe could go meet our next host, Reet, a lady from Estonia who had moved toBelgrade working for the European Union. She lived out in one of the outer corners of town. At last it was time to meet her, approachingeleven o’clock. We got on the bus, firstin the wrong direction and then figured out to go to the other end of the busline. When we got off the bus, we had noidea where to go, and we were an hour late to meet her.

The bus driver and a couple bystanders saw our confusion and they came to ouraid. “What is the address you’re lookingfor?” the asked us in broken English.

“Number 3,” Pavlos said. The emailwasn’t coming up in the iPad so we couldn’t recheck the directions.

“On which street?”

“Um… this one?”

“Number 3 is down there,” they pointed. We walked down there and came to the Number 3 hours. There was a high gate. We pressed the door bell several times and Iused my Georgian doorbell, that is, I shouted “Reeeet!” several times reallyloudly. Neighbors looked over atus. Finally the door opened and out camean ancient lady, short, white hair and wrinkle framed face.

“Are you Reet? Do you know Reet?” Iasked her in Serbian.

“What? What? Go away!” she said, waving us away.

We closed the door.

“So, where do we go? You don’t knowanything more?” I asked Pavlos.

“Just that it’s not on this street.” We couldn't use our phones since both of us were out of minutes, though we didn't understand why, since we told the Croatian T-mobile company to give us plenty more. Wewalked around more, pressing more Number 3 door bells until finally we foundReet, coming out of her door and calling down to us from her upstairsapartment.

“You’reamazing at accordion,” Antonia told me as we were drinking coffee in themorning. Pavlos was in the shower andIosip, Antonia’s boyfriend, was doing his morning ritual of playing chessonline. “You’re unstoppable, unless someoffers you some croquettes.” She wasreferring to the party the night before. We decided the morning previous that we would throw a couchsurfingparty. We were at one in Prague, inVienna and in Ljubljana before and they were all successes. Pavlos figured, since we couldn’t findanything happening in Zagreb while we were there, then we’d make somethinghappen. He put up an announcement on thecouchsurfing site for an accordion party. If there were more than 7 people, then it would be at the nearbyMedvedev restaurant and bar. By the timeit was afternoon, there were 15 people signed up. We went to the bar. Roughly 30 people arrived to join us, while Iplayed accordion for entertainment. People clapped and sang along, the laughed and shouted, and while I wason break, some were making their own songs.

There was a French guy with crazy hair who did body painting in SouthFrance. There was a Croatian girl withdots of makeup around her eyes, three dots below the right, three dots above theleft. There was a red haired Croatian womanand her guy friend with long black hair, both watching me with great interest,the girl completely captivated. There wasa short, blonde American girl working and living in Zagreb. The people came and went, talking andclapping and singing and drinking and talking and clapping and singing anddrinking. The night was a success, wehad taken over the bar by force, the singing revolution had begun. It is in my goal in all things – politics andreligion aside – to spread a little bit of happiness wherever I go, to givesomething like love to all I meet. It’snot always a success, but that night, it was an epic success.

Pavlos finished his showering business and asked Iosip for some rounds of livechess. We sat in the living room,smoking, drinking coffee and playing chess. “So what are your plans today?” Iosip asked.

“We were thinking about seeing this Mirogoj cemetery and going to the Museum ofBroken Relationships. Then we’ve got tocatch the train at 11:30 tonight to get to Belgrade.”

“The cemetery is really nice,” Antonia said. “How are funerals like in America?”

“The best ones are in Louisiana,” I told them. “Especially big ones. There’stons of music playing, lots of lively jazz, it’s a real celebration oflife. They have the wake at the house andthen they march it to the cemetery. Theband plays a slow march until the body is done with when they play some hotterjazz. And the cemeteries there are realbeautiful. They can’t bury the bodies,since the earth is too wet, so they have to have sarcophagi and tombs all aboveground.”

“That’s like the Mirogoj cemetery,” Antonia told us. “There are statues everywhere.”

“And if you guys make it to America ever, New Orleans is one of the bestcities,” I said. “It’s not very big, butit’s so rich in its own unique culture that it’s a must see. New York, Chicago, New Orleans and SanFrancisco. If you don’t go to thosecities, you haven’t really seen America.” I showed them pictures of New Orleans, feeling a kind of pride that myfamily was from near there. Growing up,I used to hate to visit Louisiana in the hot and sticky Southern summers. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I reallycame to appreciate the South. But then,when you’re a kid, you can’t really go to smoke filled jazz clubs in a city anhour away from where your family is. Norcan you really appreciate the French colonial architecture and the weeping willows that hang low over the still bayou waters that define Southern Louisiana. You can appreciate the food, the spicy boudin and shrimp filled gumbo,or that the crawfish your uncle cooked that burns your lips before it eventouches, or the endless piles of red fish your other uncle cooks, which allplay a role in some of my favorite memories as a child. No, when you’re a child, you don’t always seethe beauty in a place. The state is toohot for me – literally – but it’s one of the best in the country.

Pavlos may have mentioned something about some Canadian cities, but talking aboutCanada is like talking about Hobbiton or some other fairy tale land of low crime and cheap healthcare that only exists in tales spun by evil socialist hippies in port-a-potties at Occupy protests that are a constant nuisance to people who don't live or work near one. Such silly talk makes me zone out into astupor. “So are you ready to go?” Pavlosasked me. They were done playing theirchess. I had a moment of a timedysfunction, but I finally realized something was happening that didn’t have todo with Canada, so I got up, grabbed my coat and we were out.

the museum arcadeThe easiest way to Mirogoj cemetery is to catch the 106 bus that departs justoutside of the cathedral. The bus stopsdirectly in front of the cemetery arcade, a huge fortress wall on the streetside. After you go through the gates,you can see that the wall is actually a one sided arcade, filled with marble statues,memorials and fountains, open to the air towards the cemetery itself, which isalso overcrowded with tombs and statues – not unlike one of those Louisiana cemeteriesI was talking about with Antonia and Iosip.

From the Mirogoj cemetery, we went to the Museum of Broken Relationships. Like the name might reveal, it’s one of the mostdepressing museums I’ve ever been to, though it’s got a few light heartedmoments. The Museum is an internationalcollection of items that have reminded people of their past relationship withsomeone they loved, but because the significant other moved, died or was alying, cheating bastard, the relationship ended.

outside the museumAlong with the item, there’s a little plaquethat talks about the relationship and the significance of the item. The items range from key chains and teddybears to dildos and paper machete breasts – one man brought home a pair oflarge paper machete breasts to make his wife wear in bed because hers were toosmall, a story that is easy to understand the why of that item’s donation tothe museum. The Museum sees itself as away of letting go. It’s receiveddonations from all over the world, from Zagreb and Belgrade, Berlin and Paris,and all the way even from San Francisco. They are constantly receiving new items and rotate the items on display,so it can be a unique visit every time.

better than the real thing?“What did you think of the museum?” the porter asked us as we left.

“That was perhaps one of the most depressing museums I’ve ever visited,” I toldher. “But it’s interesting. And the story of the Frisbee is great.”

“A stupid Frisbee”

2 years and 2 months

Belgrade - Zagreb

“Description: a stupid Frisbee, bought in a thrift store, was my ex-boyfriend’sbrilliant idea – as a second anniversary gift. The moral was obviously that he should be smacked with it in the middleof his face the next time he gets such a fantastic idea. Since the relationship is now preceded by theword “ex,” the Frisbee remains in the Museum as a nice memory and expellednegative energy. Feel free to borrow itif you like.

P.S. Darling, should you ever get a ridiculous idea to walk into a culturalinstitution like a museum for the first time in your life, you will rememberme. At least have a good laugh (the onlything you could do on your own).”

Marcleft in the morning for Budapest. We haddecided not to go with him but to continue on to Zagreb. I was packing up my things when I walked inon Aida and Pavlos, hearing them talk about going to a lake somewhere. Pavlos said to me, “You can go on to Zagreband then we can meet there.” I went backinto the kitchen to continue preparing to leave. Aida came in, “Aren’t you coming with us?”

“I didn’t think I was invited, I assumed this was a romantic walk around the lakeyou guys were taking.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “Of course,you have to come with us. I wouldn’t letyou come to Slovenia and not see any of the countryside.”

“Yeah, come on,” Pavlos said. I wasconfused. Didn’t he want to seduceAida? But then, I did want to see thecountryside, so I tagged along. We wentto this town called Bled, which is in the mountains of Western Slovenia. Bled is a small town on the side of LakeBled. Slovenia’s only island is in themiddle of Lake Bled, where the medieval Slovenians built a church. On top of a great cliff side, overlooking thelake, is Bled Castle. We went to BledCastle first, though the lake wasn’t visible, shrouded in fog as it was. The air was cold and biting, as we walked aroundthe lake, it only grew colder and the fog thicker until all was dark and brightglobes glowed in the fog like ships lost at sea.

The Church of the Assumption of Mary, Bled, Slovenia

We weren’t able to get back to Ljubljana in time to make our train toZagreb. Being tired of wearing dirtyunderwear as I was, I decided to stay at Hostel Celicia, near the train stationand on the edge of Metalkova. Pavloscalled up Marushka and decided to stay with her. I didn’t really want to stay their either,since I knew Pavlos was going to try and seduce Marushka and it’s not afavorite pastime of mine to watch him seduce women. I was beginning to find his whole ritualanimalistic and demeaning, but as he once told me, “Sometimes women just wantto be demeaned.”

Hostel Celicia was an old prison during the Yugoslavia days. After the collapse of the Yugoslav state and thedevelopment of a free Slovenia, they stopped using the prison. It was later converted into a hostel, thoughthey maintained many of the prison features for the rooms, including the steelbar doors on a few of them. Don’t expectany blood stains like in the KGB museum in Vilnius, as this place was otherwisethoroughly redone and was one of the nicer hostels I’ve stayed in. They provided sheets, towels and acontinental breakfast, and my room had only four beds with a private toilet andshower, all for 19 euros. The onlydownside was that I had to pay eight euros to do the laundry, but there was noother option I knew of in town.

The next day, Marushka and Pavlos met me at the ethnological museum. It was closed for the day, but in herconstant drive to network people, she was able to get a hold of someone whoworked there who let us in for free. Themuseum wasn’t anything too special, only a collection of antiquities found inSlovenia and other things from families during WWII and later, to showrepresentations of how Slovenians lived throughout the modern days.

The Ljubljana marketAfter the museum and a short visit to the market, we made our way to the trainstation. We smoked one last shisha pipeat the shisha bar at the station (which, after smoking at two other shishabars, decided was the best one in town) and then boarded the train toZagreb. From the station, I guided usthe wrong way. We walked for twentyminutes in the wrong direction with all of our gear until finally I decided tostart asking people for directions. Noone knew the street and no one knew the landmark I was told, which was a small café. One lady suggested we go into an office andask to use Google maps. A man with a smalldog went with us and, after he and the office worker found where we were going,told us, “Look, I’m headed in that direction anyway, so I’ll give you a ride.”

We arrived not much later to Antonia and Iosip’s house. Both of them were laid back andrelaxed. “We were wondering where youguys were,” Antonia said after we told her the story. “We’re pretty busy tonight,” they said, whenwe invited them out to a few drinks. Wewent on to a brew house called Medvedgrad, where we had some local dishes and beer. It was easily one of the best places to eatin Zagreb if you’re looking for traditional Croatian food – which means sausage,potatoes and sausage and potato soup.

The next day, our hosts couldn’t join us to show us around Zagreb, as they hada casting call to attend. Since theywere students, they found the best way to get money was to do random jobs likecommercial shoots or small acting gigs. Another French guy, who joined us later, noted that “You guys are agreat looking couple. No, seriously, Iknow, I do lots of body painting back in France and you guys are good looking.” Pavlos and I left the house late in themorning with a typically slow start. We came across a bar called Hemingway, and since I was American, we decided to step into the bar (I was always being fascinated by what others thought was an "American bar", since most bars in America I can think of are either dives or Irish pubs). I told the barman, "We'll have two beers. What do you have?"

He began to list off beers that were either from the Netherlands or England. But I wanted something local. "No, no," I interrupted him. "Do you have anything local, like from Serbia?" And then I realized what country I'm in - "I mean, from Croatia!" He brought us back two miniature beer bottles, which was as if to say that he was quite offended by the mix up. Balkans have killed for less, after all. But instead, he laughed and asked us if we had just come from Serbia. "We're on our way there."

"Belgrade is a terrific city. And have you been to Bosnia yet?"

"Well, no, we're kind of skipping it." He frowned. I added, "You're not from there, are you?"

"No, I just lived in a village there for thirteen years, until the war, which is when I came here to Zagreb." I wondered if the village even existed anymore.

Wewalked to one of the main squares, Petra Preradovica square, thinking it wasthe main square. On one side there’s aSerbian Orthodox church (you read that right) and on the other end there’s aT-mobile store and elephant topiary. Crowning the square, towering over the church and T-mobile store alike,was a four level shopping center, with an H&M at the entrance. “H&M!” I called out. “Socks! Let’s go, I need to refill my socks.” For a man like myself who likes to wear crazysocks, H&M is a great store. I onlyrecently discovered this when my Estonian friend, another connoisseur of crazysocks, made H&M his first destination when we went to Stockholmtogether. Needless to say, I bought somesocks and Pavlos bought a sweater, as he was freezing under his five thinlayers of mostly rain jackets.

Petra Preradovica SquareWe made our way from there to the Cathedral of the Assumption of Mary, whichtowered over the true main square, Ban Jalacic Square, a block away. Ban Jelacic had nothing interesting like aT-mobile store or H&M on it, only a giant post office and a stand with aguy cutting ham. We hurried past thepost office to the cathedral. We lookedinside and then around the back, where there’s a large stone wall andcollection of small huts lining the wall. A man came out of one of the buildings and glanced at us for amoment. “You guys speak English?” heasked.

“Yes,” we answered. I was thinking thathe was about to say that laymen were not allowed in the back of thecathedral. But instead, he made smalltalk and laughed a lot. And then – “I’mon my way to a meeting. But you know, Imeet you guys, my friends. You are myfriends, yes? Haha! So, I show you around Zagreb.”

“You just said you have to go to a meeting?” I asked.

“No – yes – just it is important to show guests around. I am history teacher at the Jesuit universityhere. I show you around Zagreb.” Zlatko was his name and he pulled us from onebuilding to another, telling us the background of all the differentplaces. “A river used to be here, yes,and a bridge. The noble people lived onthis side and the others on that side and they were always fighting. That is what that wall is for. No, not for Ottomans, but for eachother. And that is why we call this road‘the Bloody Bridge’, since many battles were fought on it. Though, the bridge used to be above thisroad. And over there, yes, is a pharmacythat was started by Dante Alighieri’s nephew in the fourteenth century. It’s still a pharmacy today. Obviously, it has changed owners, hahaha!” About two hours later, he pulled us into the tourismshop to give us maps and tour guides. “Heretake these, they are for free, yes, haha! Now, I must go to that meeting.” And he left us back on the main square, our hands then stuffed with tourguides, prayer cards and a large picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus.

Old Town Zagreb with Pavlos and Zlatko

TheFrenchman named Marc had joined us that Friday night in Ljubljana. He drove us back from Metalkova to Aida’shouse, where we, Pavlos, Marc, Aida and myself, ended up sleeping. He drove a white van which he had modifiedhimself to run off of used cooking oil, which he picked up for free atrestaurants. We were going to hitch aride with him to Zagreb, which was on his way to Budapest, but he decided tonot take the chance of leaving the Schengen Zone. “Driving with cooking oil is illegal,” heexplained to us. “If they caught me,they could very well confiscate the car.”

“Why is it illegal?” I asked.

“If things like self-modifying cars caught on, you know,” he said, “thencorporations stand to lose money and governments will lose taxes. Especially when fuel is for free.” As he spoke, flashing lights filled the carand a police officer was outside, waving us over. We pulled in front of two police men. Ajda was cursing quietly, though luckily, shehad stopped by the time Marc rolled down the windows. I was wondering to myself how Slovenian copswere. Were they like Russian cops andwanting bribe money or what?

“Documents,” the officer asked. Marchanded over his papers. The officerglanced at them, handed them back and waved us on.

“That was it?” I said, not really believing it. We went on home.

The next day, we explored Ljubljana with Marc while Aida was busy withclass. Ljubljana is a small butbeautiful town with a river splitting the center in two, a series ofintricately designed pedestrian and car bridges uniting the two halves. There’s a castle that overlooks the town thatone can go up to and see, with a 4.50 euro entrance fee to the lookout pointsand historical museum. We went up toexplore it. The place has been rebuiltsince old times and has a very modern look and feel to it. I didn’t like it since it resembled more of aconference center than a castle (they even hold conferences and weddingsthere).

The day was cloudy and misty, sothere wasn’t much to see in terms of a view either. We went on down to meet Aida and go on to aGeorgian restaurant. We decided onGeorgian food because of my experience in Georgia and wanting to share some ofthe food, and since I was missing cheese bread and khinkali. I thought Pavlos might enjoy the khinkali ashe was always on a quest for delicious dumplings that didn’t have cheese on it –I’ve already written to some extent on his aversion to cheese and other thingsdairy.

After sitting down at the Georgian restaurant and receiving our beers, Pavlossaid, “Ah, finally, at the place of my people.”

“They’re not your people, Pavlos.”

“I’m Cretan and we’re the same people, man. I did that genetic test and I’ve got the G2 gene and Georgians have theG2 gene.”

His insistence and claim of being Georgian set me off. I’m not sure why, but the two years ofhearing how Georgians are the greatest people on Earth and then having to putup with Pavlos going on about how Greeks are the greatest people on Earth, andnow hearing Pavlos linking his own greatest people with these other greatestpeople to make some sort of super greatest people super genome of awesomeannoyed me to the maximum. After a fewmore back and forths, I set my beer down and said, “What I had most is thatboth Marc and Ajda are taking your side here. Greeks aren’t related to Georgians. Georgians are not an Indo-European culture,they’re completely unique. They nevermigrated anywhere, they’re not interested in migrating anywhere and they arequite convinced that their land is the best on Earth. Why would they want to go to Crete? But, I can go on with all these reasons, butwhat’s pissing me off most is that they’re believing you over me, nevermindthat I’m the one who speaks Georgian, knows Georgian history and livedthere. And you’re an asshole.”

“We can just agree to disagree,” Pavlos said. “I’m just saying I have the G2 gene and that’s the Georgian gene. It comes from Georgia.”

“I’m just saying you’re an asshole.” Whenwe finished the meal, the owner of the restaurant came down to say hello. His son, the waiter, had undoubtedly fetchedhim since there was an American who was speaking Georgian, an uncommon occurrencein Georgia and an especially uncommon occurrence in Slovenia. Since he didn’t speak English, I found myselfagain in the place of translator. Temo,the owner, was a typical looking Georgian, short, bald and with a large winegut, big smile and honest eyes. He hadcome to Slovenia from Kutaisi, Georgia seven years ago with his family. In Slovenia, he’s trying to set up a Georgianethnological museum in the mountains near Ljubljana, where he built a giant,clay wine jug, 6 meters in height. Temo,excited by the visit, pulled down random items of Georgian apparel from thewalls and dressed us in them, he also brought some clay pots and drinking hornsand then we all took pictures together. He grabbed a bottle of wine and poured it out, sharing it with us. The time made me remember all those days inGeorgia and all the friends I had (and still have) back there, making me wonderwhat’s happened since I left. Was itlike the States, where nothing really has happened to my friends since I left? Were my Georgian friends also living the samelife that they were living before I was there?

After the Georgian restaurant, we stopped by the Occupy Ljubljana site, whichwas mostly a collection of empty tents in a plaza, with one main tent wheresome hippies were gathered drinking tea. Where I can understand the problems in New York, where people areprotesting corporate greed and the marriage between the banks and Washington,along with all the corruption in the banks regarding usury and predatorybanking policies, I couldn’t quite understand what the problem was inSlovenia. The only propaganda I saw werethe posters glued up on the neighboring office building wall. It was mostly confused socialist propaganda. I say confused, since it was clear it was putup by a bunch of students with no real understanding of global operations. I felt the same wonderment in regards to theOccupy Amsterdam protest I saw. Butinsofar as nobody was actually doing anything bad – or anything all thatinteresting – I didn’t really see the harm in having hippies camped in tents ona plaza. Why not? And if a passerby can score some free tea anda warm-up in the main party tent, then also, why not? Granted, said passerby would have to put up witha bunch of hippies talking their marijuana jive about socialism and communityaction, but then there’s a price to everything.

We were at the “protest” to meet one of Aida’s friends, Marushka, who was abouncing young blonde girl of high energy, who kept talking about a “revolution”. We later went to Marushka’s apartment to “helpplan the revolution,” she said. Where Ithought maybe she was thinking of blowing up cars or storming the Parliament,it turned out to be something a bit different and possibly more crazy. “I want to connect people,” she said. “It will be a social revolution. I want to connect one person to anotherperson and to another person and then they can all work together. Like these purses,” she brought me a pile ofhandwoven purses. “L___ here in Sloveniamade the fabric and sent them to M____ in Sweden who put all the zippers andsewing work. Aren’t they wonderful?” She kept stressing an international communityof interconnectedness and synergy.

Marc was skeptical, “You don’t need this ‘revolution’ or anything, you justneed to do it. Find what you want to doand do it. Like I am working with thesekids in Africa.”

“Let me connect you to this other African guy and you can work together.”

“We don’t need to work together. I’mdoing this thing,” Marc said. “Noteveryone has to be connected. Theimportant thing is just to do something. To quit talking about things and just do them.”

Pavlos was in the corner, busy talking to Aida about dating and relationships,touching her hand periodically, pulling her into his web of womanlyentanglements, like a Venus fly trap giving off a scent to capture abutterfly. Aida was the butterfly of thenight and she was yet another insect fluttering her wings around him, charmedby his unnatural charisma. If he couldhave, he would have devoured her that night, as he was trying to maneuver thesituation so that they would stay there with Marushka and Marc and I wouldreturn to Aida’s apartment. Undoubtedlyhis plot was to capture both of them at once, or one in each bedroom and hecould rotate like the chamber of a Magnum revolver. But then Marushka changed her mind aboutletting them stay, “I’ve got so much to do tomorrow morning. But we will meet again tomorrow to work onthe revolution, yes?”

Westepped off the train in Ljubljana at 8:00 in the evening. The land was already shrouded by the night,the mist cloaking any lights that might relieve the darkness, only makingdistant glowing spots, like lighthouses resting on a shore above a rocky coast,water spraying up past the flashing light. “We should go to the hostel,” I told Pavlos. “I need to do laundry anyway and we don’tknow if we have a host. I know the way,it’s just over there.”

“Come on, man,” Pavlos pleaded. “We justneed to sit down somewhere with internet and check to see if anyone emailed usback in the last second. And anyways, wecan just go to the couchsurfing meeting and see if someone can host us there.”

“But those meetings,” I said, “just because people are going to those meetingsdoesn’t mean anyone can actually host. And if we don’t end up with a host, then that’s it, man, you can’treally check in that late to a hostel. And I need to do some laundry, I’m on my last pair of underwear.”

“Come on, let’s just sit down and check. If nobody can host us, then we’ll go to the hostel.”

“Fine,” I agreed. We went back into thetunnel that passed under the tracks, where there was a row of restaurants andbars. One shisha bar, called Simplon,was packed with locals, which might have been because they had the best quality shisha for cheapest in town. It was open 24hours a day and huddled right next to a 24 hour pizza/burek restaurant. It was a strange thing to see, a locallypopular 24 hour bar in the train station. We sat down, ordered a shisha pipe and logged onto the internet. A group of kids, none older than 18, was atthe table next to us, also smoking shisha and drinking beer.

“We have a host,” Pavlos announced, looking up from his iPad, shisha smoking curling from his mouth as he spoke. “Just send a text to this number, her name isAjda.” I sent the text and was a littlerelieved. Now I didn’t mind so muchgoing to the meeting with all of our stuff. Though I knew that we’d have to haul it halfway across town and squeezeinto a bar with it all.

Our first destination was Skeleton Bar, where the couchsurfing meeting wasbeing held. We pulled our stuff across downtown,passing a few hecklers. “Hey man,” someguy with gelled hair and a blue and white striped button up shirt calledout. “You want some advice? Don’t carry so much stuff! You’re supposed to pack lighter!” He was referring to my accordion that I wasdragging behind me on a cart. Pavloswanted to go thank him for his advice and start chatting with him, but I toldhim to ignore the guy so we could get a move on it. I didn’t want to be around those kinds ofguys. “Let’s just get to the meeting,” Igrumbled sharply.

We arrived at Skeleton Bar. The bouncerstopped us at the door. “You can’t bringall that stuff down there.”

“Why not?” Pavlos asked. “We’ve got ameeting down there. It’s a couchsurfingmeeting.”

“There’s just no room,” he said. Helooked back and forth between Pavlos and me. It was clear he was being honest. “You can leave it up here, behind the door.” He pointed to an area in the stairwell, outof the way of passing customers. It wassecluded enough that no one coming in or out would see it, and he would be atthe entrance the entire time anyway. Wewent down the stairs into the bar, which was, as the bouncer had told us, small– enough room to sit maybe twenty people and no room to stand. The bar was full of skeletons hanging on thewalls and skull candleholders on the table. It was like a bar was decorated for Halloween or a Pirates of the Caribbeanparty, but it was like that year around. The people sitting in the chairs were all nicely dressed in variouscolors. In the States, one would assumethis bar would be for Goths or punks, but neither stereotypes were frequentingthe place. Instead, it was full ofSlovenian yuppies, possibly looking for some place a little edgy lookingwithout actually being edgy.

We texted the party organizer where they were. I got a message from my service provider, saying that I had less thanone euro on my account. Another text,this one from the organizer. “Where areyou guys and we can pick you up?” I waswondering how long my texts would last and how many times I’d have to text theguy. It finally worked out and I toldthem to meet us on the bank of the river. We stood outside, surrounded by our luggage, in the freezing cold,watching all the dressed up people pass us by. Tiled banks are on either side of the Ljubljanica River, with bars andcafes lining the banks, all of them packed with partygoers and many of them runningfor twenty four hours a day, feeding the intensity of the party atmosphere in thisfairly small town. They found us easyenough at the bank and brought us to the next bar, where some twenty couchsurfers were gathered.

I did the natural thing and pulled out my accordion to entertain everyone. I didn’t rock the place out, though I didfind a few fans in the crowd. One guywas to follow me around for most of the night, telling me how much he loved myplaying. Another was a girl fromEstonia, who I yelled the traditional Estonian toast of “Terrible sex!” to whenI learned she was Estonian. She had beenstudying in Germany for a few years and then decided to come to Ljubljana tocontinue her studies. We sat for sometimetalking about Estonia and making fun of Russians. Ajda, our host, met us there and brought aFrench guy named Marc with her, who was also going to couchsurf at herplace. The bar shut down while we wereall talking and I had finished with my accordion playing, but no one wanted tostop the party, so we continued on to Metalkova.

The walls of the Metalkova district were covered in street art and graffiti,faces of demons and angels staring out at the passersby, whispering promisesand curses into the ears of the partygoers. Large warehouses surrounded a courtyard, each warehouse playingdifferent music, one with live punk music, and two more with drum and bass, thebass vibrating the aluminum walls of the clubs. People were packed inside, drinking from beer from cans or mixed drinksfrom plastic cups. They bobbed up anddown with the music or they gathered in small circles, talking and laughingwhile shifting from side to side. Pavlos, on a chair to the side, was teasing the Estonian girl, who had justturned from me after confessing she had a Slovenian boyfriend she met while studyingin Germany, which was why she moved there. Somehow, Pavlos's charms were working on her, and after telling me ofher boyfriend, she turned to Pavlos and patted his ass and tried to steal hishat. I wandered away and talked withsome Croatian guys.

“Tell the Americans that Croatians do not hate Serbs,” he told me. “We are cousins, the times are betternow. Here, let me get you a beer.”

As I left him, the Estonian girl was saying her goodbyes. She gave Pavlos a hug and he gave her a kisson the cheek. “Come on, a kiss on thecheek,” he pleaded with her. She leanedin and he moved his mouth over to plant it on her lips. She was flustered, but didn’t seem to mindtoo much. To me she gave a hug beforeshe grabbed the hand of her friend and they wove through the crowd to the door.

During theday, we walked around the cold streets of Vienna, the clouds still hanging lowover us. It was the coldest day yet, ourhands barely able to snap pictures of the beautiful city streets as we keptstuffing them back into our pockets. Westarted at Stephansplatz, mainly because on the metro map there’s a picture ofa bunch of buildings and the writing, “The City of Stephansplatz”. We figured it must have been somethingbig. When we got there, we found that itwas a square with the large cathedral of St. Stephan’s. St. Stephan’s is a Gothic Romanesque church,its uniqueness lying in the green tiled roof, which from the front looks likean emerging period in between the two spine-like spires. On the side of the green tiled roof, the tileschange colors to make the seal of the Hapsburg emperors. Underneath is a complex of catacombs that canbe toured, the entrance can be found inside the cathedral.

Cathedral of St. StephanMuch of the architecture of the downtown area of Vienna looks similar toPrague, both are imperial and baroque. Vienna is larger though, but not as expansive in its sprawl of old,historic buildings, having a much larger range of new towers and modernapartment buildings. Vienna offers a lotof cultural activities, from some of the best opera and classical music in theworld, the city responsible for the fame of Mozart and Beethoven, after all, tomuseums, fine restaurants, pubs and wine bars. However, coming from Prague, where the beer costs a little more than aeuro, Vienna struck me as the rich man’s playground, where Prague was much morefor the commoner.

We wandered around the town until we met up with my next host, Carolyn, wholived in one of the mentioned modern apartment blocks. Carolyn met us on a street nearby, laterexplaining, “When people ask me about accepting strangers into my house fromcouchsurfing, I tell them that if the people look too strange, then I’ll justkeep walking and tell them that something came up at work and tell them where agood hostel is.” Yet, she still acceptedus to come up to her apartment. Theapartment had wood floors, a hidden refrigerator, automated ventilation andheating systems in the bathroom, automatic lights, alarms and so forth. It was an onslaught of domestic technologythat I hadn’t envisioned since I was back in the States. But with the automatic vents in the bathroomthat detected changes in humidity and the lack of manual switches, I could onlywonder what would happen if the sensors broke.

We sat down in Carolyn’s living room, handing her a beer and chatting with herfor a few hours about life, economics and politics. Carolyn worked for the International AtomicEnergy Agency doing exactly what I’d like to do one day as a career. She did adhoc logistics organization for specific contracts – basically, seeing thatthe contract gets fulfilled from A to Z. We invited her to come out with us to a couchsurfing meeting out at abar in MuseumsQuartier, but she declined since she had too much work todo.

We found the place after walking up and down a few streets in the Quarter. The streets were lined with stalls, each withChristmas lights hanging from their frames and often selling hot wine orcocoa. The streets were packed, even asthe evening and the cold wore on, Austrians braving the cold to talk with theirfriends over their steaming hot drinks.

At the meeting, I met people from all over. Mostly I talked to some Mongolian ladies in Russian, and a half AlbanianTurkish girl who also spoke Russian. “Ilove Russia! I think Turkey would be betteroff if it was owned by Russia.” I alsomet a man from Latvia and an embassy worker from Azerbaijan. The embassy worker spoke very carefully,catering his every word to show that he represented a free and democraticAzerbaijan, no matter how the truth is opposite. When we finished the event hours later, wewent to a restaurant to finish my search for some wienerschnitzel.

“I hear you still have the sniffles,” Pavlos said, as he and Karen walkedalongside of me.

“Yeah, it’s from my cold,” I said. “Notfrom my cheese intake.”

“I’m telling you, it’s true,” Pavlos said. “You shouldn’t eat dairy.”

We sat down at the restaurant, only to discover that they had closed theirkitchen. I had to resolve mywienerschnitzel fixation at a restaurant next to the train station. The schnitzel was a bit dry, but it was stillgood, served by an old lady who was quick to say what I wanted. “You want wienerschnitzel?” she said rightwhen I walked in the door. Pavlos hadbeen there earlier. He was trying towrite in a postcard earlier, but his pen dried up. A neighboring old lady saw his pen malfunctionproblems and said something in German to him. “I don’t speak German,” Pavlos said. “But how about English, Greek or French?” Then she reached into her purse looking forsomething. He went back to his food. She came over and handed him a pen. When he was finished eating, he tried to giveit back to her. “No, no, it’s a souvenirfrom Austria.”

On thetrain to Vienna, I sat up front, still riding on my Eurail Pass ticket. Pavlos had to buy a second class ticket,since he didn’t want to pay the difference to ride in comfort and I didn’t wantto condescend myself to ride with him amongst the peasants. After the ticket checker passed, I went backto the second class to inform him. Ipassed all the proletarians, smelling of old clothes and sweat, factory andfield labor, glad that I didn’t have to lower myself to be among them, eventhough I knew that soon I would be back amongst their toilsome presence, oncemy Eurail Pass ran out in two trips.

“Hey Pavlos,” I said, pinching his arm to wake him up. He was in a cabin with six seats, occupiedonly by a wide eyed, dark haired lady and her two screaming children, who werethrowing feces at each other like monkeys. Having become accustomed to being among the bourgeoisie, I feltincreasingly out of place surrounded by the dirt and muck of poor people,wondering why they didn’t work as hard as my unemployed self worked and didn’ttherefore live such a luxurious life as mine. “The ticket checker has passed and there’s an extra seat in my booth.”

Pavlos came back to join us, leaving his stuff with the lady and her twomonkeys. In my compartment was ahandsome young gentleman wearing a suit and had a bit of scruff on his face –not in a sloppy manner but in a stylish manner – and an old Italian woman whowas wearing a nicely pressed pink dress, looking somewhat like Queen ElizabethII out for lunch. The waiter brought usbeers and welcomed our new guest, asking if he’d like a beer as well. I leaned back, sipping on my carbonatedalcoholic beverage, feeling that it was right and proper to be of a higherclass and glad that the lesser people were happy with their shit tossing ape mongrels.

The young man was from Brno, one of the larger towns in the CzechRepublic. He was an operations managerfor a dog food company and constantly traveled between Brno and Prague. He had a wife and a newborn baby of sixmonths, so after a week away he was itching to get back to his country villaand see them again. “She’s so precious,”he said, smiling. It was clear that it’dbe impossible for the child to become a wild mannered fecal philanderer likemost lower class ill begotten children. This was an upper class breed and incapable of receiving suchretardation. We are told in America thatsuccessful people are such because of their own hard work and that God lovesthem more than poor people, who are poor because they are stupid and don’t workhard, and perhaps this is also the reason God does not love them quite asmuch. These things were clear to me now,seeing such sharp differences as those that exist between first class rides andsecond class rides on trains throughout Europe. And I’ll tell you another thing: you don’t see gypsies riding the firstclass either! Though, I think perhapsthe waiter may have had some gypsy blood.

Our first hostess in Vienna was a young student named Karen. She lived in a flat above her parents, on theoutskirts of town. She was skinny, shortand had dreadlocks and a very quiet disposition, mostly just listening to whatothers were saying. She did not evenobject that night, when we were sitting around smoking and drinking, to Pavlosreading out loud from her Biology book, during which time I myself was glad tohave my computer to distract me. Shewent on to say, “Mmhmm, yup,” for some time as Pavlos continued to read eachchapter, exclaiming, “This is really interesting!” even though was only lookingat pictures and couldn’t read anything in the German script.

She had taken us to a sushi restaurant in downtown Vienna. Ever since some passenger had mentioned thatan all you can eat sushi restaurant existed somewhere in Vienna, Pavlos becameobsessed with it. “There’s an all youcan eat sushi restaurant here,” he told Karen.

“Where is it?”

“It’s, I don’t know, where is it Shawn?”

“Over near sss- ssss – ssssomething that starts with a ssss and ends in an ing. It’s across town. First train stop. Ssss – ssssomething.”

“Simmering?” Karen asked, after a few looks with a raised eyebrow and a fewmore of my hissing sounds.

“Yeah, that’s it. Three metro stops onsome metro line from there.”

“I don’t know.” I knew she wouldn’tknow. It struck me as slightly humorousthat Pavlos was holding onto this sushi restaurant told to him by some random guyin the train, concerning this restaurant. I was wanting wienerschnitzel myself. I was dreaming of it, thinking of it more than I think of women’sbreasts, which is a lot of times in the day. Ever since I realized that my path would in fact, take me throughVienna, I knew that I had to have a wienerschnitzel, unadulterated by thecreamy mushroom sauce that I so often savored on a schnitzel, but having it inpure wiener style. That is, Veinnese – Vienner- Wiener style. “But I’d ratherwienerschnitzel. I’ve been – reallywanting some.” Best to hold back mynear-sexual salivations from immediate expression.

But my dreams were crushed.

“I’m a vegetarian,” the girl said.

“I knew you would be,” I said. “Yourdreadlocks give your kind away.”

We went to eat sushi. It wasn’t all youcan eat, but near enough, as I ate my fill for around 12 euros. 12 euros not spent on wienerschnitzel, but wecan’t have everything our way. We walkedaround the Museumquartier district of Vienna, filled with streets lined withbright lights, glimmering advertisements bars and, true to its namesake,museums. Inside the courtyards of themuseums, there were bar tents set up. Viennese – Vieners – Wieners were doing what they liked to do most,standing around and soaking their tubes. They were drinking beers and hot wines, wrapped in heavy wool clothes,standing outside. It was an inexplicableanomaly that I wouldn’t be able to fathom for some time.

“Are there no bars here?”

“Yes, of course,” Karen said.

“I mean, why are they standing outside?”

“They are drinking.”

“Couldn’t they go to a bar and drink?”

“They are drinking here,” Karen said.

“I see that, but I mean – nevermind.” Like many things of other cultures, like vegetarianism, it was just a part of other people’s lives I would haveto accept and try for myself. So asPavlos asked us if we wanted some hot wine, I consented. I stood around with them, in the cold, feelingicicles form on my beard, while drinking my red, hot mulled wine. I didn’t learn why the Wieners were standingaround outside, but I did learn that red, hot mulled wine was delicious.

To get toour next house, after leaving the hostel, Pavlos and I took the metro to theend of the line and tried to find the bus. Unsure really of the bus allotment system, we went to a café in thebottom story of the station. Pavlosbought a pastry and a drink and told me to ask her where “Chvaly” was. I did just that. Using the little Czech I knew, I ordered acoffee and asked her which bus went to Chvaly.

“I am not the information,” she told me back. “Upstairs is the information.”

“But do you know?”

“I am not the information!” she said. She handed me my coffee and nodded her head, signaling the finality ofthe conversation and our contact with each other.

“What did she say?” Pavlos asked.

“She said the information desk is upstairs,” I replied. I put the sugar and cream into my coffee andstirred it with a knife I picked up out of the silverware tray. They were lacking in spoons and I wasn’t surewhat they expected me to stir my coffee with.

“Ask her if she knows where bus #225 is.”

“She’s not going to tell us, Pavlos,” I said.

“Just ask her.”

“It’s really no good. Even if she didknow, she wouldn’t tell us. She’s notthe information desk,” I shrugged. Whenwe stepped back out into the cold Prague day, we saw the bus coming up one laneover. We quickly hurried over the barsand jumped onto the platform to catch the bus.

We met our hostess, Martina, at her house. She was friendly and told us some advice about where to go; that weshould see Karlstejn Castle and how to get to the ossuary (see previous post toread about those places). Her house wassimple in décor, with many picture montages of different places she had been,like Southeast Asia, Turkey or Australia. She told us that maybe we had enough time to see Karlstejn Castle thatday. We jumped back on the metro andwent to see the castle, coming back in just enough time to take her to a nearbycafé for dinner. We walked outside,around a wall and into a large yard, with a tree trunk and a large pit forbonfires. The tree trunk had been carvedso that each branch looked like the foot of a different animal.

“It got so cold,” Martina said. It wascold. We were all dressed in heavy coatsor layers, scarves and hats and had our hands stuffed into our pockets. But the sky was clear and the stars wereout.

“It was still warm because it was cloudy,” I said. “The clouds acts like a blanket, trapping inany of the old heat and when the clouds blow away, the heat lifts off. And now it’s clear and cold.”

“That’s wrong,” Pavlos said. “It has to do with the high pressure system. A high pressure system moves in and thepressure makes the heat and it makes the clouds.”

“That can –“

“No, you’re wrong. I’m telling you howit works and you’re wrong.”

Martina ordered a crepe, Pavlos ordered dumplings, which seemed to be hisfavorite meal, and I ordered a gallete. Pavlos had wanted to order a crepe or galette too, but all of them werewith cheese. He was allergic to dairyproducts himself, finding that he swelled up and got pimples if he ate it. “Now when I have a little bit of cheese,” hetold us, “I just feel all this mucous around my mouth and throat. That’s what cheese does for you. Seriously, just stop eating cheese for amonth and then eat it again and you’ll feel all the mucous.”

“I don’t think I’ll stop,” Kristina said, “I like cheese.”

“Yeah, why would we stop for a month and start just to feel mucous?” Iasked.

“I’m being serious, that’s what cheese does. You’re sniffing your nose right now, right? That’s because of dairy products.”

“That’s because I have a cold,” I said.

“It’s because the amount of mucous created by the cheese, plus the amount ofmucous created by your cold, adds up and makes your nose stuffy,” Pavlosexplained. “When you’re sick, youshouldn’t have any dairy products.”

“Sure,” I said, taking a sip of my dark beer.

“What kind of beer is that?” he asked.

“It’s a dark beer. You want to trysome?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’d like a taste.”

“Just be careful not to catch my milk allergies,” I said, handing him the glassand laughing.

“I’m the one allergic to milk.”

“Right. My point was – nevermind.”

We continued to eat. The galette Iordered was something right near delicious. It was covered in mucous forming cheese, spinach and mushrooms, spreadabout a crepe like someone had thought the crepe were a pizza. My mouth salivated with every bite. “What is this thing called again?”

“A galette,” Pavlos said.

“Tell me about your guys’ time in Jordan,” Martina said.

We talked about how we met on the border of Israel and Jordan, along with myPeace Corps friend Edith. We had satthere, outside a liquor store and the passport control, how we discovered thatwe were all planning on staying in a cave in the desert near Petra. We spent a week altogether, exploring thedeserts of Jordan, until finally Pavlos left and was replaced by a German guynamed Nils, whom I had visited back in Hamburg.

Next, Pavlos talked about his time in Israel. “I stayed with this Greek Orthodox monk in Nablus,” he told us. “This monk lived in this shrine there thatwas built around Jacob’s Well, a site holy to both Jews and Christians. He had wanted to rebuild a shrine there, sohe need to raise money. Arafat wanted togive money to his cause, but he didn’t want to allow Arafat to use itpolitically, so he refused the money. Hewent around the Mediterranean to raise money for the project. He got enough and then worked on the placewith his own hands.

“The Greek Orthodox had possessed the area for about a thousand years. They had built one shrine after another onit. There was a monk murdered there, andduring his murder the shrine was damaged, which is why this monk I had met haddecided to work on repairing it. In1979, some Jewish Orthodox guys had come in to the shrine, threatening the thencaretaker to leave. They told him thatif he didn’t leave and let the Jews take the site, then they would killhim. He refused to leave. The Jewish guys came back, axes and grenadesin hand, and chopped his feet, hands and penis off before finally ending his lifeand chopping his head off. Then theythrew the grenades into the shrine, blowing up the ikons, the pictures ofChrist, Mary and the Saints. The policecaught the Jewish guys and put them on trial, but they got off on a plea ofinsanity, not even serving a year in jail.

“This new guy took over and decided to rebuild it. The Jewish guys came to him and made the samethreats. He ignored him. The guys came back, again with axes. The monk fought back this time, with the longstaff of a candelabrum. He managed tobreak one guys arm and another’s leg and finally a guard had come in to chasethem off. The police only caught one guywho was again released on insanity.”

“That’s terrible,” Martina said.

“Yeah, it is,” Pavlos said. “But thatplace is so peaceful and so nice now. I’dreally like to go back and spend more time in Nablus. When I was there, I couldn’t just help myselfto go to the souk and just buy one thing after another and eat and eat andeat. Everything was so fresh anddelicious.”

Our meals were finished after Pavlos’s story. We finished our beers and left, back into the cold night, to get back toMartina’s apartment.

There aremore reasons to go to the Czech Republic than just the cheap and tasty beer andatrociously bad customer service. Thereare plenty of places to see outside of Prague and any visit to the CzechRepublic would be bare without those visits. Of course, there is Plzen, which is the home of the Pilsner Urquellbrewery. If you’ve never taken a beertour in your life, you owe it to yourself to at least go there, since PilsnerUrquell is a very solid beers, and based in the birthplace of pilsner beers,which is the most standard of all beer types. The American domestic beers are, truthfully, vague and horribleadaptations of the pilsner brew variety. A real pilsner has some flavor other than that of bitter water. Having been to my fair share of brew tours, Ihad decided against going to the tour when I was in Plzen.

The two Bohemian towns Pavlos and I decided to visit were Karlstejn and KutnaHora. Both being an hour train ride fromthe central station in Prague, tickets costing around 8 euros and trains beingfairly common and comfortable. Grab abeer and sit back to enjoy the rocking motion and clickety clack of the trains,many of them being of the older Soviet styles, with closed cabins for everyeight passengers, though six passengers are more appropriate.

The first day, we went to Karlstejn. Karlstejn is a very small village southwest of Prague. It’s mainly one or two streets that followthe road up a mountainside to a castle. The castle was built to store the crown jewels of the King of Bohemia,whose main residence was in Prague. It’snot visible from the roadside or the river, but you have to cross the river andenter the valley in order to see it. Itcreates a perfect military advantage since it’s impossible for an army to getclose enough to study the advance of the castle without first being seen andharassed itself.

The castle is one ofthe best preserved in all of Prague and they hold inside tours every hour indifferent languages. The tours are a bitpricey and they don’t allow you to wander around the castle on your own. We decided against a tour, though we were toolate as it was, since when we arrived at 4:00, they were already shutting downthe public parts of the wing to get ready to abandon the site at 4:30, eventhough it was supposed to all be open until 4:30. When Pavlos went down to see the well and takesome pictures, at 4:15, there was already a large women waving tourists awaylike she was a horses tail waving off flesh eating flies.

View form Karlstejn Castle“I just want to take one picture though,” Pavlos protested, showing hiscamera.

“Pavlos, it’s worthless arguing. I’veseen this behavior in Georgia. If thesepeople weren’t getting paid, they’d go out of their way to help you. But they’re getting paid. Money turns everyone into ass holes.” We went back up the stairs and looked foranother open wing, but were blocked by another worker there wanting to go homeearly. We left the castle, still happyto see such a beautiful place, the valley being shrouded by an evening fog, litpurple and red by the setting sun.

Thestreet is lined with authentic Czech restaurants, serving authentic Czech food(and Russian and Hungarian food) with Czech menus (also available in Englishand Russian) and Czech beers (and some German beers). Talking to attendants is always a play inlanguages, since you have to settle on the language of approach, should we trymy smattering of Czech, or our more capable English or Russian, one of whichthe waiter might know? And the languageissue is usually not solved until the third or fourth exchange. Most of the restaurants in Karlstejn are verycheap but very quality. We sat down andordered three course meals, paying less than ten euros each for a meal thatwould easily cost thirty euros in France. But then, it’s not hard to be charged thirty euros in France.

I had found out after some time that when trying to speak Czech and resortingto English, it was the best way to be treated rudely. People didn’t have patience for it. But when speaking Russian immediately, itseemed as though people had a natural subservience to Russian speakers. It worked better. Not to mention that, if I spoke Russianslowly, then the Czechs would understand me, and the same went for theopposite. Sitting in a restaurant with Pavloscalled “Darling I’ll call you later”, we were able to work out the preciseorder Pavlos wanted. First goulash, butthere was no goulash. Then borscht witha side of dumplings. We got the side ofdumplings, but they were filled with raspberry jelly and topped with whippedcream and cheese – more delicious than I thought my Russian skill was capableof.

the ossuary groundsKutna Hora was our next stop which we used for our next day ofentertainment. We got off the train andwalked directly to the ossuary. Ossuaries have a long history. When people began to run out of room to bury the dead, or when the deadpiled up too fast, like in wars or plagues, than people built ossuaries, ormass graves that still followd the religious rituals of burial. In the small village of Sedluc, outside KutnaHora (which is still labeled Kutna Hora for the train system), there is theSedluc Ossuary. It was founded as atraditional graveyard near a monastery. A monk was sent out as an emissary to the Holy Land and he had broughtback some dirt from Golgotha, the hill where Christ was buried. He then spread it across the grounds of thegrave yard and soon the area became famous for this. People died in masses to get buried there. As the piles of dead mounted up, the monksdeveloped an ossuary. In the 1800s, theyhired an artist to figure out what to do with all the bones. He thought of making some small pyramids, achandelier and a few other items of interest. Since then, it’s become famous tourism destination across the world.

bone chandelier and Gothic skull spiresa closer look at the spires and chandeliersAcross the street from the ossuary, there’s the Cathedral of the Assumption ofOur Lady and St. John the Baptist Church. The Cistercians built the first one in the 1200s and the replacement(after its destruction by the Hussites) in the 1500s, creating the largestcathedral in Europe and one of the first to use vaulted ceilings, which becamea standard throughout Gothic architecture. There are two saints interred there and on display as well, St. Francisand St. Vincent, of whose fame I’m unaware and thus, can’t share.

Cathedral of the Assumption of Our Lady and St. John the BaptistFurther into the old town of Kutna Hora, which is about a thirty minute walkfrom Sedlec, there stands the gigantic Gothic Church of St. Barbara. Whereas the Cistercian Cathedral was built in30 years, St. Barbara started construction in the 1300s and didn’t finish untilthe early twentieth century. Theexterior of the church is truly impressive, having a kind of uniqueness thatmany Gothic churches don’t maintain, since often they follow under a standardpattern of design. There isn’t muchdifference between the cathedrals in Regensberg as there is in Prague. This church though, with its semicircle backand pavilion front and central spires, looks like no other church that I’veseen before. It sits on the sheer faceof a steep hill top and is surrounded by the old city. Easily a day can be spent here at any of thenumerous cafes that spot along the streets of Kutna Hora.

When Pavlos and I went, we both had to go to the restroom. I had been holding it in for so long I wassweating out the piss. Finally, afterwalking around the interior and examining all the chapels, lighting candles forloved ones and all the other things Catholics tend to do by instinct, I finallywent up to the porters. The church had abizarre setup as a kind of church and museum. During services, the church was a church, but outside of service hours,it was a museum, probably using the money gained from entrance to maintain thebuilding. Which I was fine with, as mostpeople who come aren’t Catholics, aren’t interested in Catholicism and are onlyinterested in marveling at the deeds Catholics (and I’m mostly including thepeople who were coerced into labor by the Church here) bled over. The snap some shots, say “oh that’s nice” andmake on their way. Similarly, I hatewhen people take pictures of street performers and don’t pay. How do these people think these “oh that’snice” things can last without funding to maintain them? So, why not, charge entrance fees like amuseum.

the approach to the church, from the front of the GASK museumSt. Barabara's from the sideAnyways, I asked the porter in Czech. “Prosim, kdetoilet?” They pointed me outside andtold me the tourism office. I went tothe tourism office across the street and both of their toilets were out oforder. Not only that, but they costfifty euro cents. I went down the streetto a café, bought a coffee for 40 euro cents and enjoyed the restroomfacilities there. When I made it back toPavlos, who was waiting at the church, I said, “Look, you can go to the café,use their restrooms and get a free coffee.”

“Where do they go to the restroom anyway?” Pavlos asked, referring to theworkers at the church and the tourism office.

“I had half a mind to pee on the tourism office, myself.” How does a church not have restrooms? And if a church is charging a fee to enjoythe interior, then can’t that fee pay to clean up the restrooms, if that’s whatthey’re worried about? Seemed a trifleimpractical to me.

We went back to the café where I used the restroom so Pavlos could do the same. The café was situated on just the oppositeside of the GASK museum than the church was. I sat down and looked at their menu. When Pavlos came back, he asked, “Something to eat?”

“They only have goose here and it’s a bit expensive,” I said. “A bit expensive” meant five euros. After thinking about that and thinking abouteating a goose, I overcame my natural miserliness and agreed with Pavlos tosplit a plate of goose. It was sweet,tasty and tender, the skin a bit stringy, but overall, beat the poultry at theKFC we ate the other day, and it was for nearly the same price. Goose or mutated chicken? That’s your choice, in the end, but I’dadvise you to try the goose.

Pavlos andI found a hostel near the main street of Prague, a highway that ran from the northend, over the train station and down to the south end, mounting a bridge over avast valley that was filled with buildings, streets and trams. I knew the location since it was near where Iwas staying with Jitka and I had passed a sign several times that said “CityHostel”. We had to go up to a gate toget there and hit the buzzer. The dooropened and we walked into the courtyard, following the signs to get to theplace. We walked down a few steps andfound a man behind the desk. “You haveno reservations?” he asked. “Correct, noreservations,” we told him.

“We are all booked right now,” he told us. “There’s one last couple coming in at 8:00. Maybe if they don’t come, you can have theirroom.”

“Do you know any other nearby hostels that we can try?”

“No,” he said.

“None whatsoever? You don’t know any?”

“No,” he said.

We walked out and through the gate a second. Pavlos stopped me, “Wait, what is this?” He pointed to a sign that was right underneath the City Hostelsign. The sign read, “ArtHarmony Hostel.” “Another hostel?” We followed the signs back to the buzzer andpressed on the ArtHarmony button. Avoice from the speaker asked, “Do you have reservations?”

“No, we don’t,” I said. “Do you have –““Come onup!” the voice said and the door opened.

We followed the signs to ArtHarmony, to a door that was right next to the CityHostel door. “And the other guy said hedidn’t know any other hostels!” I exclaimed. We made it to the top of thestairs and finally into the hostel. There was a cheery, long brown haired guy and a middle aged hippylooking woman named Jitka. “Jitka mustbe a common name here,” I told her.

“No, it is not,” she said, smiling.

“You’re the third Jitka I’ve met, though.”

The man was training the woman on how to use the computers and the card readersand all the details of the check in and check out process. Meanwhile, he was making jokes to us. We told him about the next door hostel andhow the guy didn’t tell us about this place. “He is Arabian you know. Arabsdon’t like their competitors too much!” and he laughed. I looked over at the refrigerator next to thedesk. “And I’ll take two beers.” I grabbed two out.

“But not those two, those are crap. Takethe Gambrinus, it is good at least.”

“Okay,” I told him. “We’ll take theGambrinus.”

“But really, Pilsner Urquell is the best. I should know, I am an expert,” he said. While he spoke, he grabbed a bottle of Pilsner Urquell from the shelf anddrank it with his pinky up. He spoke insuch a manner that he thought no other person could know beers as well ashe. The Oktoberfest shirt underneath mybutton-up began to itch. I felt an urgeto tear it off and show it, like Clark Kent ripping off his clothes to showcasehis tight blue outfit and giant S. Except, in my case, it was a loose brown shirt with a giant OKTOBERFESTwritten across it. Any man who makes thepilgrimage to the real Oktoberfest, I feel, must know a great deal about drinkingbeer.

The place was one of the cleanest hostels I’ve been to. Each of the rooms were individually organizedand decorated, bamboo and shaved tree trunks and walls with painted flowers andanimals being the overlying theme. Mostrooms only had four to six beds and other rooms could be rented out asapartments. There was a small, commonkitchen and multiple common bathrooms. The only thing that made this a little less than my experience at Wombat’sin Munich was that the common area was so small that it wasn’t a very easy placeto meet fellow travelers. But I wasalready with Pavlos and I had plans to meet with the other Jitka, the one withdreadlocks, that night.

We went across town to the Devjicka district to find the bar where Jitka andher friends were. They were studentsstudying architecture and they were going to a series of sustainabledevelopment seminars. The bar was alocal place, operated by an older, tall bald guy who was very quick with theorders. “What do you want? No, something else. No, I close kitchen now, I no make youfood. Order something else. What do you want? What is it?” All his sentences short, direct and with the intonation that he’d rathernot be dealing with work at the moment.

“You were in Peru?” I asked Jitka.

“Yeah, I was doing a project down there. I was trying to design a house from bamboo. But one of the engineers pointed out that itwasn’t a good design because the materials wouldn’t hold during an earthquake.”

“Did you change the design?”

“I changed the materials. We made it sothat first there would be a wall of dirt, then around that, thin bamboo sticksand then on the corners, thicker ones.”

When Pavlos heard that she had gone to Peru, he had perked up into motion. “You know,” he said, putting down his beer,adjusting his glasses, smiling and turning on his charm, “my goal in life is tofind a Greek Orthodox Latina Rastafarian with dreadlocks.” He wasn’t lying, he had expressed this desireto me before. I assumed that, when hehad worked in a medicinal marijuana facility in Canada, he probably smoked abit too much of his own product to imagine the existence of such a woman. Though whenever I make fun of his choice ofaspects, he just counters with the Law of Averages refutation, “There has to beone eventually.”

“I’m not Greek Orthodox,” she replied.

“But we can always work on that. It’snot necessary she starts as a Greek Orthodox.”

“I’m not a Latina,” she said.

“But if you’re Rastafarian, then that’s four out of five. And that’s not bad.”

“But I’m not Rastafarian.”

“Three out of five is still above half.” You had to give it to Pavlos, at least he was flexible.

All of us talked on a variety of subjects, since all the students knew Englishfluently, or if they didn’t, they at least pretended well. After many laughs and drinks, everyone leftthe bar on their way home. Pavlos and Idecided to stop by the KFC near our hostel and try a taste of it. It’s not hard to find a KFC in the CzechRepublic, their almost as common as Asians in China. I hadn’t eaten quality, American style friedchicken for nearly three years and KFC for maybe ten. The explosive flavor of KFC’s spicy chickenleft my mouth near burning. Not only wasit deliciously spicy, it was also physically hot. But I couldn’t keep myself back fromdevouring the unnaturally large pieces of chicken. After eating chicken in Georgia, and livingnext to a whole pin of them, I came to realize the difference between naturalchickens and growth hormone injected chickens. Those were not natural chickens. The hormone enhancements might go to explain the Tea Party and Occupymovements. Too many KFC customers inthose crowds, I imagine.

After the chicken, I developed another yearning for beer, so we walked down toa bar right next to our hostel. Insidethe bar, there was torn up carpet, broken lights, mirror holders withoutmirrors, foosball tables without poles, two drunk girls dancing to Paula Abduland a few tables of what appeared to be high school girls. The place had two signs written all over it:Czech dive bar and jail bait. After we satdown at the bar to order our drinks, two young girls came up to talk tous.

“How are you?” I asked the girl named Vichka, a skinny brown haired girl with amole on her cheek.

“I’m 17,” she said. I thought she hadlooked young, but I didn’t think that young. But as I didn’t plan to do anything with her, or even buy her a drink, Ididn’t care.

“No, no, I said, how are you?”

“I’m 17,” she said again.

“Yeah, I know, you’re 17. But how areyou? Not how old are you. How are you?”

“I’m 17,” we both said at the same time. She giggled. I perceived thatnumbers were perhaps the depth of her knowledge of English.

On thefollowing, I woke up to find many of the guys at the party from the nightbefore still in the apartment. We rubbedour collective eyes until we were awake to wash the dishes, clean up and eat anddrink all the leftovers. The dirtydishes disappeared with the wine and beer and vegetable pies, the only thingthat remained was a new row of empty bottles lined up against the recyclebins. I had some time to kill until Imet with Jitka (my hostess) and we would go off to Plzen to watch a Tata Bojs concert.I walked around Jijkov, looking for a coffee shop. Though there are plenty of coffee shops andbars in the area, and I’ve even seen them with my own eyes, I somehow missed themall and ended up in a park. Aftergetting through the park, I decided to head on to find the train station andmissed it to the north, where I found a barren pedestrian wasteland of high,barbed wire fences and towering superhighways. I felt as though I had suddenly left Europeand all its cozy alleys and returned to the States. In instants though, I was back, with toweringBaroque buildings all around me again.

We met at the train station, with Jitka running in minutes down. “I’m always running late, almost missingeverything.” “You might use some timemanagement skills.” “You’re doing theserious thing again, aren’t you? You’vegot the serious face.”

Silence.

She laughed. “Yup, the serious face.”

We kept on to the train, with time left. We talked for most of the way on the train. “There’s some people who want to improvePrague,” she told me. “Most of them havebeen living in Prague before. It’s thenew people that come here and want to improve, the people from the smallerCzech towns.”

When we had arrived atPlzen, I had decided that we shouldn’t do the brewery tour of PilsnerUrquell. Instead, we wandered around theold town center and walked through a town fair, where there was a band playingcovers of Czech rock songs. “Every timeI come here, things have changed,” she told me as we walked around, huddled inour jackets. I was drinking a beer andshe was drinking a hot wine. “It doesn’tfeel like my home any more.”

“I know what you mean,” I told her. “Myold home town, Tulsa, didn’t feel like home anymore last time I was there. My home there was gone. Buildings and cafes were all different. But many of my friends were still there. Now they have families, homes. But it’s not my home.” I stared off, watching children jumping upand down on some bungee trampolines set up in the square. “But that’s the nature of cities andhomes. They’re always changing andliving. If they stop, they’re dead. I’d rather my friends different than dead,and I’d rather my cities changing than dying. I sometimes imagine myself on a train with a great darkness behindme. At each train the station stops, Ican see the darkness growing. One ofthese days, when the train is resting at a stop, the darkness will catch up anddevour us all. We can’t slow down, wecan’t stop, or we die.”

We went to the concert that night with one of her friends. A girl who was studying psychology in schooland was doing her thesis on Ripley’s gender role in Alien. Certainly a non-conventional thesis, which iswhat I found greatly attractive about her. “But girls don’t usually like science fiction,” I said to her, taking ahuff from the cigarette she had handed me.

“Now you’re assigning me a gender role?”

“Fair enough, but I’m not the one doing the assigning.”

The concert was Tata Bojs. Their musicisn’t for everyone, it’s a kind of poppy version of LMFAO. Their performance is better than any of therecordings I could find, but for the sake of example, I’ll post one of theirmain hits right below.

The next day, I departed Plzen without Jitka, as she was going off to meet hersister in the countryside. I wasreturning to Prague, where I would meet up with Pavlos, who had flown in thenight before. We met at a metro stop,after I stood around waiting in the chill, wondering if he received my lasttext about where I was standing. He cameup the stairs and we embraced. I pulledtwo beers from my deep jacket pockets. “Yousure we can drink here?” he asked me.

“There are no public drinking laws here. Welcome to Prague!” and we clinked our drinking receptacles together, mybottle against his tin can. We stoodbefore a large contraption with solar panels and a spinning wheel that blewsoap bubbles. The bubbles sailed acrossthe air and were popped by the fingers of a little boy in a red jacket, who wasgiggling as he ran in circles, destroying the little soap globes, an Angel ofDeath against cleanliness.

When we at last made it to our new hostess’s place, there was another guy thereas well. “I don’t know why I can’t stayanother night,” he said. One of thehostesses wasn’t there yet, a girl named Kamilla. “I mean, last I saw Kamilla, she was okaywith me, we were on good terms.”

“Just Kamilla wasn’t very happy with you. I know she wouldn’t want you to stay,” Annette, the blonde haired girlsaid, trying to get him to pack up his things earlier.

“What exactly happened?” I asked the guy, an American.

“I met a girl last night and stayed at her hostel with her. You know, we hit it off and everything. I just forgot to call them, my couchsurfinghosts. I mean, I guess I should havecalled.”

“For one thing, we told you we didn’t want to stay up all night,” Annette said. “And we didn’t know if you were coming backour not.”

Through the entire conversation, there was a frost of awkwardness. The air was thick with the weight of theawkwardness and even breathing became hard. I didn’t understand why it was like that exactly. That night, we all (minus the guy) went to an all you candrink club event. The girls got hammeredand we had to virtually carry them home to make sure they were safe. The next day, Pavlos and I went out exploringsome more, and when we came back (we were supposed to stay another night),there was that awkwardness again, except this time between us and them. Maybe it was the apartment that just madeeverything permeate with this general discomfort about life. At this point, I didn’t even want to stay atthe apartment again.

“Maybe we’ll just stay at a hostel,” I suggested as we all stood crammed in theentry hallway. The girls hadn’t reallyinvited us in, but neither had they really said that we couldn’t stay anothernight. “It’s no problem again.” So we grabbed Pavlos’s things and went off tofind a hostel.

The firstfew days I was in Prague it was overcast and cold, the clouds hanging low overthe city, casting a grey, sad light through the streets. I was standing on the bridge over the RiverVltava, fog rising from the waters while birds flew from obscured places,propelling the mist into quick swirls behind the flapping of their wings. The old medieval bridge was further down,parts of it hidden in the mist, with the tower at the base rising out. Further on and upward was the Prague Castle,a huge expanse of palaces and churches, crowned by the Cathedral of St. Vitus,with its two great Gothic spires spiraling upward, looking like an HR Gigermasterpiece for an Alien movie. Anotherhill, to the Castle’s left, rose up even higher and had a wall going straightdown it and it was topped by a steel tower that looked like the Eiffel.

Jitka had told me to walk that way, straight onward and soon enough I would seethe castle. Standing on the bridge, Itried to discern which was the castle, looking for something far more medieval,with stones and battlements, walls and towers. I figured that maybe it was where the wall was, connecting upwardsomewhere just over the hill, outside of my view. So I hiked up the hill, all the way to thetop and found only a fake castle, made of wood and steel. I raised my fist and cursed the gods, much tothe confusion of the surrounding Russian tourists, most of whom were veryexcited to take the elevator on the Eiffel Tower thing to the top and get anice view of the clouded over city of Prague. I walked back down and seeing St. Vitus on my way back to the river, Idecided to go there.

View of the Castle from Petrin ParkThat was when I discovered that the palace complex around St. Vitus was PragueCastle. The castle must refer to the oldfortress that used to be there 1200 years ago that eventually evolved into theconglomeration of palaces that began to be built in the more recent times of 500years ago, replacing much of the older style fortifications that were destroyedin various wars and insurrections. Ifound my way through the narrow passages of the Mala Strana (Small Town)district until I heard the sound of trumpets and drums playing a march. The guards of the presidential palace werechanging, marching through the courtyards of the complex to the barracks with anew set of guards having already marched in to take their place. Staring at the men in the black uniforms whostand perfectly still, seeming to stare into oblivion, I wondered how well aman could guard like that. But I figuredit best not to test their performance in this.

Now content with seeing the “castle”, I made my way to the Staromestske (OldTown) to wander around there and find a café and get some writing done. There was a Coffee Costa, which is somethinglike a Starbucks in how much it was overpriced and the general corporate feelof the decoration, in My. The old stateuniversal store, Mai, which during Communist times was like a mall for standardsupplies that almost never ran out, had been turned into mall named My, filledwith high dollar stores like Armani and Gucci. Oh, the victories of Capitalism! The same thing had happened in the old State Universal Store in Moscow,across from Lenin’s Mausoleum. The newstore had been nicknamed “The Galleries of Price”, since during the ‘90s fewcould actually afford what was being sold there.

Old TownThat night there was a party at the flat. Each week, they had a documentary night, where each of the people oftheir documentary club made a vote on which film to watch. Some twenty people show up every time, eat,drink and watch together. Afterwards,they have a discussion and go for a walk or something else cultural. This week, I played accordion while everyonegathered and ate some appetizers. Thenwe moved into a room and watched on a projector the documentary, BogotaChange. The movie was about how twomayors turned Bogota from a crime infested cesspool of a city that was somewhatsafe, clean and filled with parks and public transit.

One of the girls at the party, a Czech with blonde dreadlocks, had spent amonth in Columbia and shared with us her experience there. “It is a nice city, though Medellin is somuch nicer, it’s a beautiful city. ButMedellin is smaller too, so it was easier to get progressive change, I think,”she told us. They talked some about howthey could change things in Prague. Though Prague is already clean and beautiful, with a low crime rate andwith a well functioning metro and tramway system, and has easy access torecycling, so I couldn’t really see a source for real needed change. For the most part, it seems like the youthwould appreciate more bicycle lanes, as the roads are overcrowded with cars andare nearly impossible to bicycle on. Thoughit’s beyond me why roads are overcrowded, given the easy availability oftransit, so maybe bicycle lanes would help to reduce some of the trafficproblem, though for a time increasing it.

We went on and walked to another castle in Prague, this one with the walls andfortification systems that I imagine castles should have in order to be calleda castle. The castle stands south ofdowntown, along the river bank. We werethere at night, looking out across the city at all the lights, shining up intothe clouds, lighting them up across the sky. I spent most of my time talking with the girl with the dreadlocks,another Jitka. I realized, about an hourinto it, that probably she wasn’t too interested in hearing my long schpiel oneconomics and how the situation is a bit more complicated than most peopleunderstand. “If I wasn’t interested,then I just wouldn’t continue the conversation,” she told me when I apologizedfor being so long winded on the subject.

“So where are you living?” she asked.

“Not anywhere, really. Just traveling.”

“It doesn’t get lonely?”

“I suppose it does, from time to time. That’slife though. But I’m less lonelytraveling, I think. At least I don’tthink about it.”