I'm sittin' in the railway station, got a ticket for my destination
On a tour of one-night-stands, my suitcase and guitar at hand
And every stop is neatly planned for a poet and a one-man band



Homeward bound, I wish I was homeward bound

Home, where my thoughts escape, at home, where my music's playin'

Home, where my love lies waitin' silently for me-Paul Simon “Homeward Bound”

So, it’s been awhile. There’s no reason I haven’t written. It certainly hasn’t been lack of inspiration, or lack of energy. Maybe it’s been a bit of apprehension trying to write something of any worth. I’m at the point where conclusions must be drawn. Loose ends tied up, and sleeping dogs woken up. I’ve taken the opportunity of the past few weeks to make a bit of a “Farewell Tour.”

I’ve been from Simferopol and Sevastopol in the south to Kharkv in the far east, and Lviv in the far west. I’m in Kyiv now. I’m sitting in a coffee shop paying American prices for coffee from a french press, and finishing some work. Well, I finished (sort-of) the work, after hours of procrastination reading and re-reading the same four articles about Providence College basketball, the Friars’ first win, and the start of the Ed Cooley era. I have a couple of meetings today, and then it’s back to Zhmerynka. I won’t be leaving town for the remainder of my service, until the fateful day I board a train with two tickets, one for me, and one for my bags and head back up to Kyiv to bid a fond “fare thee well” to my “dvoyridna krayina”, my second country. I won’t say my adopted home, because my home is only one place, but this land will still hold an important place in the Chronicles of Meegan the Youngest. I imagine there will probably be a movie made on it.

On this tour, I only spent a few days away at a time, mostly weekend days, and always coming back to my home base in Zhmerynka. It was great, I was able to really finalize my time here. I performed a few feats of strength I had hoped to complete while here, and enjoyed delving back into the country. It’s easy to get into a routine here. And, in so doing, the country loses its novelty. Not that travelling around Ukraine is completely novel anymore, but it reminds me of the beauty, diversity, and breadth of the country.

The first achievement on my way: I jumped onto a moving train. I take trains all the time. They are completely commonplace for me, now. But, and this is a big but, I had never been so late as to need to jump onto the train. I’ve been so late as to miss the train, but that’s a whole different animal. Calmly arriving at my train three minutes before departure I began walking the length of it down to my wagon, which to my chagrin was the very last wagon on a substantially long train. I must have had to walk the length of fifteen or sixteen wagons. All of a sudden I noticed the train started to move. Sometimes trains shunt a bit while waiting, but it didn’t stop immediately, so being a bit concerned I scanned for an open door. The conductor was standing on her platform yelling at me for being so late. She decided that she would deign to give me an unnecessary hand, as well . . . after I was already fully on the train – grabbing me by the middle of my sweatshirt and giving a solid yank. I still had a few more wagons to traverse before I made it to the end, but it was an auspicious start for an 18 hour train ride. The train ride included a stop at some small town with one of the best sandwiches I have eaten in Ukraine as well, so I’m glad I made it aboard.

The second success is not necessarily a good thing. But: I was finally bitten by a dog. I’ve been chased by dogs since I started running here. I’m barked at on a near daily basis by any number of fearsomely boisterous canines, but never has one made the first move. My bite-less days in Ukraine all ended though, and it ended last night. Running to the top of the High Castle in Lviv there were a number of people at the very top. It’s a beautiful view of the city, and being without glasses I just made a summary examination and started back down. Before I could make it off the lookout point a big ol’ dog came and gave me a solid nip on the thigh. He yelped a bit when he bit down, probably because my legs are so muscular from all that running that he hurt his jaws. And, it serves him right. I’ve been hoping for a dog bite for awhile, because it always meant a free trip to Kyiv to being an anti-rabies regimen. For this dog to take the liberty of biting me when I already had a scheduled trip to Kyiv was not only audacious it was a very blatant show of disrespect. If I was a more petty man I would have shown him who’s the boss, and I’m not talking about Tony Danza. Contented by the fact that I’m at the top of the food chain, I elected against that.

Today will be a full day. I have an interview with my Regional Manager, a language proficiency interview, and a grant to close out. I’m also hoping to see Khreschatyk today, but we’ll see if I have time. I have about six hours before my train, and should be done with all my work around 4:30 or 5:00. It’ll be the second to last train ride I take in Ukraine. While I’m certainly not getting sentimental[1] there is getting to be a lot of finality in my movements. It’s the last time I’ll do this, or the last time I’ll do that. I know I’ll come back here someday, so I’m not that upset, but there has been a bit of melancholy attaching itself to some of my actions.

I’ll go more in depth as to what I’ve been up to soon.

This is all I know for now.

Be good,

Pete.
[1] I have not had any emotions since high school, with the exception of the manly ones: anger, disdain, disgust, disappointment.

Entering the promised land: clean bathrooms, free wi-fi, here I come!

Friends, Americans, Countrymen:

I have a confession to make: I love McDonald’s in Ukraine. Truly, “I’m lovin’ it!”; or as we say here: “я це люблю”. I’m not confessing that I love McDonald’s, I’m confessing that I’m not embarrassed by it. I know, as a young Peace Corps Volunteer, I should not readily admit this; but, there you have it. Forgive my candor, but sometimes it’s liberating to publicly acknowledge my guilty pleasures.[1] So let me be very clear: I love McDonald’s; and I love McDonald’s unrepentantly.

I probably go to McDonald’s more here, in Ukraine, than I ever did at home (if drive thru[2] coffee doesn’t count). This seems to be the general consensus among most of the Peace Corps-eans with whom I am acquainted. I’m not sure why, but it just seems so much more desirable when I’m far from home and captive to my own cooking. In the absence of affordable restaurants with other types of cuisine (Thai, Asian in general, classic delicatessens, diners, seafood, and the list goes on and on and on . . .), McDonald’s fills a palpable void. There are a few other aspects which are important to consider:

Beef – I can eat beef at McDonald’s in Ukraine! Beef is frightfully absent from my diet. As a red-blooded American male this is hard to countenance. Here in Ukraine I regularly eat sausage, pork and chicken. Beef is the rarity. As such, McDonald’s is an easy way of adding beef to my diet (without having to cook it myself).A chicken roll and a cheeseburger. There's some beef under that bun!

Coffee – For the majority of my time in Ukraine I have been blessed with substantial amounts of tremendous coffee, mostly from Updike’s Newtowne, in North Kingstown. Those days have long since passed; gone gently into that good night. As my days are getting fewer I have not asked that any more be sent, and I have been surviving on instant Jacobs for the past 3 months. It is nice, when away from my apartment to get a decent cup of coffee, and not have to pay too much for it. McDonald’s has decent coffee at a good price.Professionalism – Perhaps this quality, professionalism, is one that is most sorely lacking in any field in which customer interaction is a necessity. I could go into specifics on that prior statement, but would prefer not to. I have never had a bad experience at a McDonald’s in Ukraine. At virtually every place I frequent, here, I have had something infuriating happen. This has never been the case at McDonald’s. Certain things exist here that make this happen:Friendly Staff – Staff smile at customers here. If I don’t have exactly 73 kopeks, that’s OK, they’ll be able to make change. If I do have that 73 kopeks, they thank me for giving them exact change.Expedience – If my meal takes longer to put together than expected, the cashier will apologize, and tell me that is the case. In fact, once when ordering breakfast my meal took so much longer to put together than acceptable, that they gave me a card for a free ice cream cone or small soda. Expedience and efficiency are not things that Ukraine is known for, and to get to experience them, even in small doses is a welcome reprieve.Order – Lines exist at McDonald’s in Ukraine. This is perhaps the only establishment in Ukraine that can say this. It is nice to arrive at an establishment and not have to keep my elbows high and box out every person that comes in after me. Every now and then someone will come in and sneak to the front, but it’s the exception, and not the rule; that’s a nice thing.Cleanliness – The premises AND bathrooms are always clean. If I am sitting at my table longer than expected, and my meal is finished, my tray is even taken for me. I feel like I could eat off the floor of most of these restaurants here.Quality – Frequently, when ordering a meal here, we’re not quite sure what we’ll end up with. At McDonald’s, for better or worse, that is not the case. I always know exactly what I’ll end up with, and it’s always exactly as I ordered it. Granted, I don’t make special orders, it’s still nice to experience consistency with quality, at least for your humble narrator.The chicken roll, my "healthy" alternative. It's a tasty treat.I am a stalwart defender of McDonald’s . . . and globalization in general. I refuse to humor self-indulgent westerners that claim that McDonald’s kills culture. In two words: It doesn’t. Culture isn’t something McDonald’s can kill or nurture, and showing a successful business model is not doing developing countries a disservice. In fact, some of the best practices are beginning to be used by up-and-coming restaurants that are homegrown. Chelentano Pizzeria would be indicative of this. Regardless of this fact, culture is something that people have a responsibility to maintain and preserve on their own. To put is simply: I don’t expect any Ukrainians to force me to maintain my American traditions, and I’m sure no Ukrainians expect Americans to help them uphold their traditions, especially not an American restaurant.

Living one hour and twenty minutes from the closest McDonald’s, my location is one of envy for many fellow volunteers. But, just as I do not apologize for the privilege of being American, I don’t apologize for having such ready access to that chapel of capitalism. Just the sight of the golden arches can brighten my day, even if I won’t be dining their. It’s true! Also they have barbeque sauce.

And that’s all I have to say about that!

Be good,

Pete


[1] While we're at it, you should know that I also love LFO. [2] I hate this spelling of the word through, but am using it as the variant preferred by McDonald’s.

Towards the end of the Kyiv Marathon and trying to keep the legs moving.The following is an account of my first marathon. It should be noted that, though I have submitted this narrative fully centered on me, I had incredible support over the course of the marathon, specifically near the start/finish. A loud contingent of Peace Corps Volunteeers assisted us by cheering with spirit and enthusiasm whenever we passed. I also had a wonderful pit crew, namely my friend Sara who served me Gatorade and GU upon request. Their support was humbling, and greatly appreciated.

For my first marathon, I ran the 2nd Kyiv Marathon in Kyiv, Ukraine on September 18, 2011. The following is my report of the events of the day:

As with most things in this part of the world, the event, the 2nd Kyiv Marathon in Kyiv, Ukraine, was “organized.” Over the duration of the four months since I registered and race day the course changed at least four times, and always for the worse. I was excited for the first course which, though difficult, was absolutely gorgeous – going around the most beautiful cathedrals, statues and parks in Kyiv, including a quick jaunt over the Dnipro River and back. Ultimately the course became a loop of five miles run five times following a little pig tail loop in the beginning to round out the necessary distance. The start was Maidan Nezalezhnosti, Kyiv’s Independence Square, the main city square. Those of you familiar with coverage of Ukraine’s Orange Revolution seven years ago would have seen this square on the nightly news.

After the start we continued down Khreschatyk, the main street of Kyiv. Like every weekend it was closed to vehicular traffic. It was a nice area to run down (at least for the first three laps), passing political protests and counter-protests, happy people and other varied city sights.

On Khreschatyk towards the beginning of the raceStill feeling good and smiling. Probably towards the beginning.

The course continued on down a main street but quickly deteriorated. The long downhill (and cruelly, later, uphill) was all cobblestone. Through streets were not closed to traffic, and on more than one occasion I had to stop while the traffic control officer tried to bring motorists to a halt. I even saw a car hit a runner! (Granted it was not hard, but it’s an indication of what I mean.) This part of the course was hardly scenic, but we soldiered on.

The next step was a bit of a challenge. Because running a marathon is easy, and anyone can do it, we were sent to run through a roadwork zone. Not only was it a roadwork zone, but they were busy working on the road while we were running, where we were running. This part of the course had exposed/elevated manholes (luckily they were covered), a torn off road, and enough hot sticky tar to make me never want to see the stuff again. At the other end of the zone our fortitude was rewarded with an aid station. The menu had apples, bananas and water . . . until the cups at this station ran out around hour number three. They rectified the situation, but it took about 30 minutes, a tough 30 minutes to go without water. (Addendum: I later found out they ran out of still water after I had passed this station for the final time. They started giving runners carbonated water. They had already run out of fruit at this time, as well.)

Gunning for TGI Friday'sThe most important part of the race for me was a bet. After a couple of beers a month ago a buddy said a mutual friend of ours would beat me in the marathon. Not wanting to sound weak I took him up on the bet, and the stakes were high. The winner of our wager would receive a dinner at TGI Friday’s; this includes an appetizer, an entre, and two beverages. To put some context around the bet, or at least the prize, I’ll mention two things: 1. TGI Friday’s tastes so good when you miss America and American food. 2. A meal of this magnitude would cost about 15 – 20% (per person) of the monthly stipend your humble Peace Corps Volunteers receive.The most important part of the race for me was a bet. After a couple of beers a month ago a buddy said a mutual friend of ours would beat me in the marathon. Not wanting to sound weak I took him up on the bet, and the stakes were high. The winner of our wager would receive a dinner at TGI Friday’s; this includes an appetizer, an entre, and two beverages. To put some context around the bet, or at least the prize, I’ll mention two things: 1. TGI Friday’s tastes so good when you miss America and American food. 2. A meal of this magnitude would cost about 15 – 20% (per person) of the monthly stipend your humble Peace Corps Volunteers receive.

I started out pretty conservatively. Mile one was a little slower than a crawl. I tried to keep to a very gradual build-up strategy, which is harder in practice than in theory, especially when the course map/location of hills starts as a mystery. I was relatively successful with my conservative pacing. By the end of mile 6 I was about a minute faster than I had planned, which I felt fine with, because I was still going a bit slower than goal pace. My rival[1] gained some serious distance on me from the beginning. She jumped out to a three or four minute lead. This was easy to tell because of the two turn-around points when we would pass each other. Self-control has never been my strong suit, but I was resolute, and kept the reigns on the horses. I also had a few spies on the course for reconnaissance. I hit the half way point at about 1:54 or so. It was slightly faster than I wanted, but I had done an okay job of keeping under control. I stayed pretty well hydrated along the course, and took advantage of a couple GU packets, but I was better served by the bananas on offer at the second aid station. I probably should have eaten a bit more on the course, but I was trying to avoid any unnecessary trips to the port-a-johns (which, they do have in Ukraine, I just found out). Around mile 15 another friend running (substantially faster, he finished in 3:42) told me my rival was looking strong and asked when I would make my move. I stayed on track at a relatively stable speed, though. Finally, at mile 17.5 I overtook my rival. I was starting to get tired, but still feeling pretty good. Soon I made my fourth ascent up the long hill. It was tougher, but still not too bad. Going back through the main section of the race where the fans, including a number of fellow Peace Corps Volunteers were, was uplifting.

Gatorade from Sara, and PCV's cheering in the background.

This led me past mile 20, past 21 and into the final lap. My legs were lead, and I was exhausted, but still running decently. With no energy to recall Ukrainian I started sharing my pleasantries with other runners in English. The general consensus was that we all could have used a beer. Following the final turn-around and a couple of fuzzy miles I don’t remember well, I came back upon the hill. A former minnow, this hill became a Leviathan. Staring at me. Mocking me. It ultimately defeated me; try as I might, I didn’t have it to run up the hill, and I ended up walking for a good stretch, until I reached the top. A well-paced guy I had paced a few minutes earlier put a hand on my shoulder, and gave me a “devai, bratan, blizko” (C’mon, brother, it’s close). And it was close. We had about a mile and a half remaining. I had abandoned my idea of a 3:55 finish, which at the beginning of the final lap seemed to be almost assured. Considering 4:00:01 to be utter failure, I bumbled on with about 13 minutes between me and total (self-imposed) ignominy. I walked a few more paces getting myself ready for a final assault on the finish. I’m vain, as well, so I wanted my friends to see me running hard. Through the “Start” side of the Start/Finish I was cruising. Not pain free, and certainly not fast, but I was going. I made the final turn-around, and had about two-tenths of a mile remaining. Hearing my name, and English encouragements I started picking up speed like a runaway train. Running the fastest my body was capable of and with a look of absolute fury I barreled across the Finish with a fist pump, and a few seconds to spare. I don’t know what the time was officially yet. I imagine something like 3:59:15 – 3:59:30, but I avoided the shame of utter failure, even after the hill defeated me.

Angry at the world, and tired as hell, about 30 secons away from a good mood.

My favorite shirt felt appropriate. This is probably ten minutes or so after the race. I can barely move here.

So, I finished. That was never in doubt, and I don't think finishing is good enough. I also brok the four hour mark, which still seems a bit average. I knew someone that would describe this effort as "pedestrian, at best." The goal now is shifted. It is resting on the Providence Marathon in May of 2012. I'm hoping that with an extra bit of training, and some exerience and a flat course I'll be able to break 3:50. 3:45 would be a time I'd be very proud of, but I'll take 3:50. I'm doing a recovery program as we speak, so training will start in earnest in a few weeks.

[1] My rival is, in fact, a friend not a rival. She will only be referred to as a rival because she stood between me and a Jack Daniel’s burger.

I hope you’ll forgive a bit of reflection in place of a true update, an update which is long overdue, and on its way. I’m sure everyone remembers where they were when the heard of the attack. I was a sophomore at Hendricken. I had first period theology class with Ms. Magill. Someone came in late, and asked if anything had happened. Nobody in class knew anything; this was, of course, in the days before smart phones. We heard an announcement over the loudspeaker that a plane had hit the World Trade Center, it seemed a terrible, but isolated incident. Soon after, changing classes, we sloughed our assigned equations or fractions or radicals, or whatever we were doing in algebra, and watched the coverage. I’m not sure if we were watching when the second plane hit, I know we weren’t when the first did, but the memory of the day is still crystal clear. I’m currently listening to NPR coverage. I don’t know if I have the stomach to watch television coverage of the attacks. The sympathetic tones of the NPR anchors are helpful for me, as well. Even still, it’s emotional. Listening to some of the stories, reading some of the information at times I’m almost physically ill. Even as I type my face is burning, I don’t know why. Burning as if I were embarrassed. Perhaps I am. This was the first time I realized that America doesn’t have every answer. The first time I realized that there are people and ideologies that hate America, or at least their understanding of it. The day was most definitely the most significant day of my life. It was undeniably the most earth-shattering and life changing. I’m humbled listening to the stories of heroism. I’m saddened listening to the stories of tragedy. I’m uplifted hearing the story of the indomitability of the human spirit. The day is more significant, though, I think. It’s a day for serious reflection. Not only on what it is to be American, but what it was on September 12. We’ve fallen away from the sense of unity that carries us few the scary days after the tragedy. We answered the call as Americans answer every call: heroically. But quickly we moved away from it. We alienated the world and our allies, polarized our politics, and have wrapped ourselves in the flag in a form of nationalistic chest thumping. The patriotism and optimism innate in being American are wonderful things. We are sons and daughters of an incredible country, and I’m damn proud of it. But, wrapping ourselves in the flag and saying “these colors don’t run” isn’t enough. It’s not enough to be proud of being an American. It’s not enough to fly the flag. Go out and do something. We should witness our patriotism by our actions, in our thoughts, and in our public discourse. We should witness our patriotism by living up to our American ideals. Let’s unify ourselves as a nation, as a people. Saying once a year “never forgotten,” isn’t good enough either. To be honest, I don’t know how to end this. But it’s the life we live day after day. A life we’ve been blessed by grace of God (or (accident of science) to live. Let’s make the most of our opportunity. Let’s not take our world for granted. Remember today: not the destruction, and not the death, and not the fear. Remember the sense of unity that brought us together; E Pluribus Unum made manifest. This tragedy changed our lives, but like the phoenix we have risen, now we must overcome. We must live lives that were worth saving.

I'l get off my soapbox now.

Be good,

Pete

Dear Friends, Family, Anonymous Readers:

After three weeks on the road I returned home on Saturday. This is quite a significant statement. I think this is the first time in the twenty-some months I’ve lived in Ukraine that I considered Zhmerynka home. Furthermore, I, personally, am shocked that this place that drives me CRAZY, and steals my heart as soon as I’ve had absolutely enough, has come to feel like home. Vacation is a hell of a thing, and I love to consider myself a rambling man; but, there is nothing like being on the road to remind me how much I enjoy the familiar, the routine. I can unequivocally say that this trip was one of the best. I’ll give details about the places later. I started in Kyiv. I met a friend, and we travelled together to Krakow. The next day I picked my parents up from the airport. From Krakow we made our way to Warsaw for a night, and on to Barcelona. Barcelona was terrific. I said goodbye to my parents there, and made my way to Pamplona. After a few sleepless nights, and bus station naps I made my way back to Barcelona. Flying into Katowice, Poland, I got a bus to Krakow. My train back to Ukraine was cancelled. I took another bus into Lviv. The bus to Lviv brought me to another bus to Lutsk, a city in northwestern Ukraine. Another transfer brought me to a sanitarium called Prolisok, where I spent four days studying Ukrainian. Finally, after the language refresher I got back to Zhmerynka. I arrived about 5:15 AM. The best part of my arrival was learning that over the course of the previous three weeks I had left my key somewhere. Ever the courteous tenant, I slept for a couple hours on my bags, waiting until 8:30 to call my landlord. Another half hour later, key in hand, I opened the door and collapsed into my practiced home life. Exhausted and contented I slept the entirety of the day away, at least (don’t tell my dad) until 3:00 PM. After waking up, I realized it wasn’t just a familiar bed, and a high pressure shower I was missing. I missed the tree I sit and read under. I missed my train station café. I missed the taste of stale, flat and/or warm beer. I missed my ChelentanoI missed the town I live in. I missed my friends here. Hell, I even missed the marshrutka ride to Vinnytsia (even if the price has gone up 1 hryvnia each way). Maybe it was just my vanity. It’s very possible I missed people whispering and children shouting “khello!” whenever I walk by. Who knows? All I can say is that I am back home, and I’m not misspeaking/mistyping by stating that.

That's all I've got for you.

Be good,

Pete

Saturday night supplies.

From my table the platforms at the train station.

Train platforms and kiosks and taxis in the parking lot

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

Dear family, friends, readers and confidants:

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

Maybe based on my penultimate post, I shouldn’t go around quoting The Battle Hymn of the Republic, but when running through wine country it just seems appropriate. Now some of you may know, because I’m a glory hog, and enjoy tooting the horn of my own accomplishment and self-promotion, that I recently ran a half marathon. Then again, if you didn’t previously know, the astute reader could have probably ascertained the fact from today’s title, but I digress. I recently posted about my disdain for, even hatred of running. When I say this I mean, of course, that I hate performing the actual act of running.[1] But, as I mentioned earlier, full of hubris, self-importance and barley juice I said (after not running for a year and a half) that I would run a half marathon. As such, I did not want to be shown a liar. So, in order to prepare myself, for a good three weeks, I ran five times per week. Full of confidence I would be prepared I elected to take ten days off from running to entertain my brother on his visit (more on that at a later date). Now, getting to Berehove, the site of the half marathon, was not the easiest thing in the world. If you’ve read the last post, you’ll know what I mean. By the way, whoever said it’s not the destination, it’s the journey has never dealt with Ukrainian trains and train stations. Regardless, we made it to Berehove hardly all that much worse for the wear. Arriving in Berehove we got off a bus in the middle of town. From there the goal was to find our guest house. This seemingly easy task was made more time consuming by streets with Hungarian as well as Ukrainian names, and the fact that we had no idea where the street was. After a half hour or so we found the place and put our bags down. If you’re up for a geography lesson, Beregove is in the far west of Ukraine. It is a Hungarian town. As such, the street signs are in both Hungarian and Ukrainian. The menus I saw were in both languages, and both flags were flown around the town. The town became part of Ukraine following World War II, as did the entire oblast (regional administrative district) it is a part of. It is also a part of the sub-Carpathian wine country, so it is a fertile place with a lot of beautiful vineyards. There were also a lot of hills, they were nice to look at, but they made Saturday a bit difficult. We arrived on a Friday. Exploring the town was as fun as exploring any new town is (I’m not being facetious, I mean that). There was a nice downtown area with a park, a number of outdoor cafes, and a variety of other shops and general places of commerce. There were also a lot of people out and about which is always nice to see. Friday was the day to check in, pick up the race number and the official race t-shirt, as well. After checking in and a bit of exploring, I sat down for a combination of lunch and wine. The lunch was terrific: shashlyk, fried potatoes, salad, and a delicious Hungarian soup (I’m not sure if it was goulash, it might have been). The wine was tasty. I elected for the white wine. I didn’t want anything too heavy. Lunch led to more wandering, and catching up with other volunteers. Following this lunch we were given a small tour of the town. The tour went up the main street we were in and gave us a bit of context for the town; the religious history, the political history, the ethnic history, all that good stuff. I could recount this all for you, but I don’t remember, so I hope you’ll forgive my ignorance. After the tour we had our opening ceremonies. There were a number of speeches. There was dancing by a number of girls wearing skimpy costumes. There were boys break dancing. It was a party!

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

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

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

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

The official starting chute

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

An example of the course's scenery

Sub-Carpathian wine country

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

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

Attempted cartwheel continued

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

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

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

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

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

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

A large group went out to a disco this night. Again I elected to close shop a little early. I have no problems with a group of Americans dominating a disco, bar or club in Lviv, or Kyiv, or any of the big cities, but I had my doubts that such a small town could handle that many Americans. Thankfully, it could. There were no problems or run-ins with locals, or the law, and that’s always a positive. Sunday was a bit sore. Luckily there wasn’t much to do. There was a lot of waiting around and reading the park. I had coffee at a number of cafes in town, and even had a smoothie. It was tasty. On flat ground I was alright, but anytime stairs were involved I thought my legs were going to fall off. But, all in all, it was rather doable. I didn’t die. I have parlayed that success into an attempt to run the Kyiv Marathon in September. We’ll see how that goes. I’m two weeks into training now. I’m actually going to train this time, too! Also, in case you’re interested I found a YouTube video that was made for this year’s marathon. Here is the link: http://wn.com/Beregsz%C3%A1sz_Maraton_2011

That’s all I know for now.

Be good,

Pete

Following the whirlwind of gluttony and indulgence which was my brother’s visit, I immediately boarded a train for Vinnytsia (the closest city to me). I met up with my tried and true travel companion, picked up supplies (I’ve learned my lesson about not being prepared with food), and prepared for another eleven. Being a planner, and wanting seats together I had bought tickets for this train at the very beginning of the month. The date of departure was April 28th. It seemed as if everything was good to go.When we got the train station, with substantial time to spare, we were Ukrained in a serious way.[1] Our first cause for concern was the fact that our train was not showing up on the timetable. Generally trains are listed on these timetables about an hour before they are scheduled to depart. Slightly apprehensive, we went to the Information desk and were told that the train would be on the 3rd Platform. We went to the platform and found a train going our way. It was even going through our destination. Slightly hopeful, we were immediately disappointed when they looked at our tickets and told us to keep moving on. I felt like Forrest Gump getting on that bus: “seat’s taaaeken.” Again we went inside to regroup. Upon reading some notices near the ticket windows we were informed (recall, from a flyer, not the INFORMATION! desk) that our train no longer existed. Back at the information desk we told the woman our train did not exist. We passed her one ticket, and then the other. Following a brief search she handed one ticket back with a new seat. The other ticket, apparently, had disappeared.Now those that know me may be aware that at certain times, and during certain situations my cheeks flush as red as China, with rage and I have difficulty keeping my mouth shut. This was one of those times . . . after biting my bottom lip to keep quiet, and with a furious mien I started yelling, telling the woman that she needed to fix this and give me my ticket. I also gently reminded her that this was not our mistake. The attendant at the desk did not look for the ticket at all. In fact, she simply started crossing herself and saying: “I didn’t steal the ticket.” Of course I was not in any way accusing our denizen of customer service of theft, that would be rude. I simply wanted my ticket back.Luckily, I do not know the proper grammatical constructions to swear at people in Ukrainian, so I didn’t say anything too bad. Picture a three year-old yelling, and that’s probably what it sounded like. (I should probably be thankful, nobody patted my head and said “awww, the wittle guy is angwy.”) Also, it is fortunate that my tried and true travel companion is much more even headed than her friend. She was able to talk some sense into me. We got out of line, and she walked over to the entrance to the booth, the door marked “forbidden” and tried to speak reasonably. I poked my head in, and right next to where our opponent was sitting, on the floor there stood a ticket. I pointed it out and, sure enough, if was my ticket! Now, to give credit where credit is due, though the lady at the information did not so much as turn around in her seat to look, she did apologize, and with that I’ll call us even.With both tickets, and an existing train situated we went to a train station café and had a beer. Slowly, and steadily I decompressed and got ready for some successful half-marathoning. Another hour and a half or so, and we got on a train and reached our destination. My blood pressure was no worse for the wear.

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

Be good,

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

Certain news has quite understandably dominated the past couple of days. Perhaps, as with September 11, 2001, I will always remember where I was when I heard the news. Maybe this is like the Kennedy (either, but mostly John) or King assassinations were to my parents’ generation. The similarities, of course, end with the remarkableness of the event, and its importance to the current state of affairs. Being that I have a facebook account, and I have a blog, I’m probably part of the problem, not the solution. It wouldn’t be the first time that was true. I generally make passing references to politics here, or sometimes tongue in cheek references. But, I have a forum, and if you’re here and wish to read, I plan on using it. I’ve been reading comments, and articles, listening to news stories, and seeing videos of reactions to the news. I wish to weigh in myself. For the record, when I heard I was on a train back to Zhmerynka. I checked my email on my Kindle. My dear friend Paula, with an uncharacteristic show of brevity sent the following: “The US killed Bin Laden. 9 years, 7 months, & 20 days after we set out to find him. Wow.” I read this while the train was pulling up to my town, so I put the Kindle away and made my way back home. It didn’t seem all that real. But, as soon as I got home I turned on my computer and facebook was bombarded with comments, as was ESPN.com and my trusted news source NPR.org. About as soon as I saw the news corroborated by all the different sites I started seeing different updates on facebook, and articles either celebrating the death, or denouncing the celebrations of bin Laden’s death. I understand the discomfort celebrating the death of another human being. I had a history professor at Providence College who used to preface each death statistic saying “now remember, every human life is sacred” (he could do that, it’s a Catholic school). I’m not sure I agree with him. Mark Twain’s "I've never wished a man dead, but I have read some obituaries with great pleasure," has also been bandied about with abandon these past not quite forty-eight hours. I’d say I’m a bit closer to his statement. Are the celebrations out of line? Do these celebrations make us “no better than them?” I don’t know if that’s true. These celebrations are emotional reactions. Some of our co-nationals are truly celebrating the death of person. Others are celebrating the blind hand of justice finally reaching this person. Some are celebrating a milestone, an important aspect in a mission in our war in Afghanistan. I’m celebrating the elimination of a threat to American security, and the world at large. I’m celebrating the elimination of a source of evil; the architect of the single most significant event that has happened in my life, at least on American soil. I’m celebrating the fact that someone responsible for so much evil, so much death, and so much destruction, and so much desecration is no longer around. The person that was killed early Monday morning (my time) did not deserve our tears, and does not deserve our sympathy. Does celebration of his death mean that we have been desensitized to violence and death? I don’t think that’s true. It means that we are celebrating justice. We are celebrating a world that may soon be safer than before. If I were at home right now, you could bet your ass I’d be leading a “USA” chant. Good riddance, God Bless America and the brave men and women who serve her. And that’s all I have to say about that.

Dear friends, family and fearless readers:

When I was given the offer of a trip to Mt. Hoverla, the highest mountain in Ukraine, I responded with an emphatic “eh, sure, why not?” I’ve always been such an ardent adventurer! The trip was planned for the Saturday and Sunday following our spring break. A large group was going; over a hundred American Peace Corps Volunteers, some 400 or so Ukrainians, and a number of Germans (there are a number of young Germans working in Ukraine in a similar manner to Peace Corps Volunteers). To get to Mt. Hoverla our group needed to meet in Lviv. Around 10:00 PM a train reserved entirely for our group would push off for a town called Vorokhta – about a seven or eight hour journey on the train (the train was rolling along quite slowly). From the train station we squeezed into some buses and made rolled along to the mountain, about twenty minutes away. This was where we would begin our glorious ascent. Being that our trip took us through Lviv, it was only natural to spend a little time in the “City of Lions”. I’ve said before, and it bears repeating, that Lemberg, Lwow, Lvov, or Lviv[1], I don’t care how you say it; it’s my favorite city in Ukraine. Our contingent consisted of me, my sitemate[2], and three of our friends from town. We did a lot of the usual tourisy thing on Friday. We climbed the town in the middle of Market Square. We went to little back-alley cafes. We walked around near the opera house, and through the craft bazaar, and along Shevchenko Prospect. The general idea was to wander around and enjoy the city. It was a nice way to spend a Friday waiting for a train. As much as I enjoyed the city, its cafes and its delicious restaurants, it was a difficult place to spend a Friday in the middle of Lent. I don’t need to eat meat everyday, but it’s tough to not be able to with good restaurants all around. The effects of this failure to satisfy my carnivorous desires were dire. The effects were not felt until the next morning though, when I failed to live up to my Boy Scout past. This is to say that I failed to be prepared for the journey up the mountain. I had a bag of gummy bears for a snack, but no food or water.On top of the tower in Market Square, Lviv

A back-alley cafe in Lviv

Rocking out on Market Square in Lviv[1] Different names given to Lviv over the years (German, Polish, Russian and Ukrainian); the names are indicative of what country/empire was governing the city.[2] Sitemate is Peace Corps jargon for another Peace Corps Volunteer living in the same town/village/city.

When we loaded onto the train I made my bed and was out ready for sleep within the hour. I am embarrassed to say it, but I couldn’t even finish my beer before I was called into my slumber. By the time I woke up I thought I had entered that inferno Dante wrote about. It took a minute to realize it was just a Ukrainian train car with the heat turned way up. I caught my breath, put on my big-boy jeans, a windbreaker and a fleece, put a hat in my pocket and was ready to go. We squeezed onto buses, and after a twenty minute drive were at the gate to the national park in which Mt. Hoverla stands. After getting to the gate of the park the buses stopped. We got off the buses, and wandered a bit. There was a small market by the gate, which naturally attracted us. Me, and a new friend Phillip went up to the shop only to be disappointed. It was closed. Adventurers that we are, we walked around the shop, saw a little valley, and we could hear a river flowing. We decided the only logical next step was to go down and check out the river. After poking around, jumping across ice, and letting our inner frontiersmen out we headed back up to the gate of the park. The buses were all gone when we got back, but that did not seem strange. There was good news: the store had opened up during our little side trip. In the shop we purchased some victuals; we got a loaf of bread, a hunk of sausage and some cheese. We also got a bottle of water, and some celebratory Ukrainian champagne for the summit. If you’re going to climb, you should climb in style.

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

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

Now it should be said, as an aside, that I am no stranger to getting lost. In fact, those of you that were at my “good riddance, get lost” party before I left may remember. My father asked people at the party to say something about me; a pleasant memory or anything of the kind. Other than my roommate Pat’s reply, “I have a lot of memories, but I don’t think any are appropriate to share right now,” the best answer came from my grandmother. “He was . . . ,” and then there was a short pause, “always getting lost.” This was by no means an inaccurate statement. Getting lost has been one of my fortes since the early days. When I was six and my family went to Disney World my parents had to keep me on a leash. When I explore new cities I frequently start walking with no idea where I’m going. Hell, it even happened in Egypt causing quite a commotion among the resort staff. About an hour after we had gotten off the original buses the next group of buses came. One of the drivers was kind enough to stop and let us in, and we were given a number of confused looks by the driver and passengers alike. Quickly the road turned around a corner and we saw a sign that said Hoverla – 12 km. We were immediately thankful the park ranger had caught us. That would have been a long hike just to get to the beginning of the trail. A benefit of making this trip far after the group was that we got to go completely at our own pace. We could stop when we wanted, and go when we wanted. We could also talk about anything with much greater candor than a huge group would allow for. In fact, other than a few times when we weren’t exactly sure if we were on the right trail, I’d probably say I am happy we took the lonely road after the group. Another benefit of going after the group was that only one person was witness to the ridiculous contortions I made at different points along to the trail in an effort not to fall. I only ended up falling once along the trail. Big trees fall hard, remember that. Going up the mountain was interesting. We had different weather conditions along the way, as well. At the beginning there was a light rain. After about a half hour we reached a milestone and the light rain turned into hail. A bit further up, in the middle of a forested section of the trail there was no precipitation. And finally, on the last part of the climb there was some of the hardest snow I’ve been in for quite a while. The snow and ice made the trail and the climb a lot more difficult than I expected. For most of the days prior to the trip I had been making jokes about the mountain. It’s Ukraine’s highest peak, but it’s only about 6,200 feet high. When I was actually on it, it had its revenge. One of the issues of going behind the group is that we were not able to hit the summit. People labeled “alpinists” were allowed to summit. This involved having special boots, and special poles to help along in the climb. We did not have either. I didn’t even have a heavy jacket. There is only one volunteer I know of that was able to get to the summit. He did this by going way in front of the leader. Missing the buses we did not have that option. Even if we hadn’t missed the buses I’m not sure I’m in good enough shape to have had that option.

Channeling my inner mountaineer

Germans and Americans on top of the mountain

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

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

A long, rainy walk to the bottom

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

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

A group of volunteers refueling and rehydration after an arduous journey

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

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

That’s all I know for now.

Be good,

Pete

Dear Friends, Family and Fearless Readers:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s all I know for now.

Be good,

Pete

Dear Friends:

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

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

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

The sun coming up over central Ukraine

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

Stairs at the Bazaar

The men bide their time

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

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

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

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

Blue skies and the church; inside the castle walls

The castle is a testament to the history of the area and region. It was built as the seat of a noble Polish family, and built to its current size and grandeur to protect the surrounding expanse from marauding Turks. In fact, the castle survived, but was commandeered by the Turks at the end of the 17th century. The Turks were allied with the Ukrainian Cossacks and put the castle under siege during the Cossack uprising of 1648.[1] During Soviet times it was open as a museum (with the exception of the church), and now it has reopened as a museum, but the church works. Included in the castle complex is a museum honoring and remembering the victims of the Holodomor, which was the forced famine of 1932-33 during which Stalin starved Ukrainians (among other constituent republics) into submission.
[1] Cossack means “free man,” by definition. I’d compare the Cossacks to American colonists to a certain extent. The Cossack uprising was an attempt to create a free state in Ukraine. The fight was against the Polish noble families that ruled over the countryside. This was when Poland was part of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth.

Trying not to look depressed leaving the Holodomor museum

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

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

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

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

Be good,

Pete

Dear Readers (it’s been too long):

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

Now I'm not saying only bad news comes

For the people who want it

But you gotta play that music for who's listening

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s all I know for now . . .

Be good,

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

Dear family, friends and fearless readers,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be good,

Pete

Dear Friends:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be good, and be well.

Pete

Dear Friends:

I’m well aware of the statement about the best laid plans of mice and men, but planning little outings for the near future is a nice way to add a momentary respite of escape to every day. That’s what the following is: a brief syllabus of the little trips I have planned for the near future. This will not take us too far, simply to the middle of May, and perhaps it is not even an exhaustive syllabus, but a recount of what currently lies on my agenda.

In the States, I’m often surprised when a tourist from abroad tells me about all the great places they have visited. It is not rare that they have gone to, and seen more places and landmarks than myself, a lifelong resident. I’ve noticed that this is similar in Ukraine, at least among Peace Corps Volunteers currently living here. I suppose it’s typical that a tourist, traveler, or transient tries to maximize its time abroad. I’m certainly hoping to do so. I am sometimes a bit surprised that in the time I have been in Ukraine (15 and a half months), I have been to a number of places that my friends in town have not been able to visit. I suppose not having a family here makes that easier, also.

As I mentioned, the near future will find me making some new trips to “exotic” local locales. First, this coming weekend I will make my second visit to seaside city of Odessa. We’ll (I know for sure my sitemate, Lindsey, and our friends Yana and Seriozha, and perhaps more) will take an overnight train from Zhmerynka on Friday night, and spend Saturday, and maybe Sunday in the city. My main motivation for the journey is a rugby game. The national teams of Ukraine and Romania will be playing. I’m really looking forward to seeing the game. Any Michigan fans out there will be happy to hear me say: Go (sky) Blue (and yellow)!

But, while in Odessa, I’m going to take advantage of my proximity to the water, and spend some time walking near the Black Sea’s shores. I really enjoy (and miss) being near the water constantly, and it’ll be good for the soul to be by the beach. Hopefully I’ll even get to eat some Georgian food. But, I’m not ruling out stopping by a Mexican restaurant. Ethnic food is something that it is important to take advantage of when the opportunity arises.

In about a month and a half, on March 25th, I’ll take my second trip. This will channel the alpine adventurer in me. I’ll be climbing (read: hiking) the highest mountain in Ukraine, Hoverla. Hoverla is not very high. It is only 6,762 feet, but it should be an enjoyable climb. The climb is part of an organized event, being hosted by the partner-organization of a Peace Corps Volunteer. There will be a large number of both Americans and Ukrainians making the trek. We will even be having a picnic at the top. I have rarely met a picnic (or any meal) that I didn’t like. I have wanted to climb Hoverla for awhile, now. I’m glad that I have found a way to do it in a large group; the more the merrier, eh? Here’s hoping for a mild end of March, so I don’t freeze my toes off on the hike up.

Finally, and a bit further afoot, is a trip to a site with UNESCO World Heritage Site aspirations: Kamyanets-Podilsky. Kamyanets-Podilsky is a castle complex in relative proximity to where I currently live. The castle complex is over 600 years old. It has a history of repelling attacks from Tatars, Cossacks, and Ottomans. There is another castle complex close by, called Khotyn. We will be seeing Khotyn, as well. While I know Kamyanets-Podilsky is home to a magnificent castle, I know Khotyn is home to a castle, but I must plead ignorance to the magnificence, but I have heard good things about it. Our tentative dates are May 14th and 15th. We’ll be camping out, as well. Hopefully, this is indicative of an opportunity to shashlyk (our version of bar-be-que). If tomatoes are in season by then, I might just be the happiest person in the world, at least for a weekend. After a long, gray (and relatively mild) winter, I’m eager to get outside, and am looking forward to these trips. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll even get good weather, too. A boy can dream.

Hope things are well with all of you.

Be good,

Pete.

Dear readers:

From your humble narrator, the following are a number of bullet points about things I think, do and see while here in Ukraine. They are in no particular order, and this is really just being used to fill some space, and buy me some time to put down something cogent about my trip to Egypt, and what I’ve been doing the past few weeks. I’m even considering writing about a few things I had planned on writing about earlier, namely my trip to the Banya in town, and my trip to the Khmelnytsky Bazaar and the Medzhybizh Castle. I plan on doing at least one of those before the end of this week, but we all know about the best laid plans of mice and men . . . But, I digress. Some things which may never make their way into a post:

This winter isn’t as bad as last winter. But, I hate winter, for me this is like saying my sprained ankle isn’t as bad as a broken ankle.I really enjoy eggplant, and I have eaten a lot more eggplant in the last year than in the rest of my life combined.The lady at the post office has started letting me cut the line. And, she smiles when she sees me, and is helpful!I don’t understand why postcards are more expensive to mail than Christmas cards. It really boggles my mind, I cannot comprehend it.I love natural coffee. I’m drinking Dunkin Donuts coffee right now. I owe a debt of such immense gratitude to the people who have sent real coffee to me. I’m excited for the time in my life when I can go to a coffee shop and get a cup of tasty coffee for $3.00.I’ve never drank as much tea as I’ve been drinking this past 14 months.I’m shocked when I hear of people not in my immediate family that read or have read my blog. Thanks for reading, hopefully it’s worth and will continue to be worth your time.iTunes podcasts are incredible. I get some phenomenal information from podcasts, and they have really been key in keeping me up to date with current events, both news and opinion.I’ve started using the word phenomenal far too much. If you have any other words that will do its job appropriately, I’d love to heard them.I hate when I reread a post and notice a grammatical error. I hate even more when I have used the wrong there/their/they’re.I hate when my feat are cold. Right now my feet are cold.Whenever someone mentions going to the bazaar, the 90s song "How Bizarre" goes into my head, at least the chorus does. I'll always defend 90s music, to the chagrin of some of my friends here.Sometimes I take showers just to keep warm.I may have the best shower in Peace Corps Ukraine.My shower head hangs over the bathroom, and there is a drain in the floor, so when I take a shower my bathroom is pretty difficult to use for a couple of hours. This has caused me to make more informed decisions about my showering time.Continuing with the shower: I have learned not to shower when it’s cooking time in my apartment building. There isn’t enough gas to go around and the water never gets cold.My parents just sent me a winter hat, and I forgot how awesome it is to have warm head. Prior I was just wearing sweet earmuffs.I read a good amount here, but I frequently take much longer to read a book than I want to.Half the reason I read books is so people will think I’m more intelligent than I really am. That’s also the reason I put a list of books I’ve read on my blog. But, if you want to tell me how learned I am you can feel free.I have fallen in love with the Republic of Georgia. It has the best food ever, and its wine is pretty good, too. I try to go to Georgian restaurants whenever I can. I would go back there in a minute. I read an article in Foreign Policy magazine and it called this “Georgia Syndrome.”I have a camera but I often don’t take it with me, or take it out. I don’t know why, but I don’t really like taking pictures.I’ve gone mushroom picking a few times, and all the mushrooms I’ve picked have been poisonous . . . lame!I overuse the ellipsis.Ukraine has tasty chocolate. My favourite is Milka.I just typed favorite with a u. I didn’t change it because I feel I should be mocked for this.The Lead Specialist for TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) observed a lesson of mine last week, and told me she likes that I speak an almost British version of English. I was really unhappy with that statement.I don’t think Keno Davis should be fired (yet), but I think he needs to learn how to call a timeout. I’m really not thrilled with his coaching performance yesterday against Seton Hall. If your team has been down by 16 – 19 for most of the end of the first half, and most of the second half, your team shouldn’t have 4 timeouts left with 4 minutes to go.On weekends if I don’t have anything going on I have to make an effort to leave my apartment. Because of this, I don’t usually keep food in my apartment. I feel really useless when I haven’t left the apartment all day.I still don’t like cats, especially my sitemate’s cats.I think dogs are awesome, even if my brother still thinks I’m afraid of dogs.I don’t think the US should support dictators (Mubarak in Egypt).When I drink I like to talk about politics.I’m really impressed with people who can speak foreign languages fluently, or close to fluently.I don’t like to cook.I usually cook pasta and eggs. I sometimes go days without drinking water. I think it’s because I’m cheap.I am afraid I am going to go home and be supercheap. I really don’t want to be supercheap; that’s no fun for anybody.I’m happy that the Red Sea tourist resorts have been calm during the current unrest in Egypt.Getting a haircut here scares me. I am always afraid I’m going to wind up with a mullet.I heard the ProBowl was yesterday. Does anybody care about that?Many things in my life, and many trips I have taken revolve around American comfort/fast food. With the exception of my fourteen hour layover in London, I have eaten fast food in every country I have visited since coming to Ukraine. I also once took a train 4 hours just to go to TGI Friday’s. It was delicious.America is severely lacking in kebab and shwarma stands. Holubtsi, rice and ground pork in a tomato sauce wrapped by cabbage is delicious.My potato peeling skills are truly unremarkable. If it’s cold enough, I will wear a scarf. That is something I never thought I’d say.I still find males using scarves as indoor accessories unacceptable.Winter is much colder when you have to walk everywhere.Delivery pizza is something I miss.I like girls that wear Abercrombie & FitchIt upsets me that the lead singer of LFO is now dead. More than that, I am upset by how he died.Agent Johnny Utah always gets his man.Sometimes entire days slip away from me, and I have no idea where they have gone.The English language has waaaaaay to many verb tenses.Saying “I don’t understand,” is an awesome way to get out of situations I don’t want to be in, and out of conversations I am done with.I like trains.Trains would be better if people were not allowed to eat salted fish on them. However, I am frequently amazed by the type of meals people bring for the train rides.Coca-Cola tastes much better with sugar, not high fructose corn syrup.Recently there was a mouse in my apartment, and now when I see a shift in light, or something catches the corner of my eye, my first thought is that it could be a/the mouse.Ukrainian and Russian do not have articles. I’m glad English has articles. It makes it much easier to identify nouns, I think.Julian Assange should be punished severely.There is a Russian version of facebook called vkontakte. I don’t have an account yet, but I want to get one.Peanuts are my powersnack.I enjoy making up words, both in Ukrainian and in English.Would Pete Meegan be cooler if he were Don Draper? I think yes.Krakow is my favourite European city (I didn’t spell favorite like that on purpose). Lviv is my favorite Ukrainian city. Newport is my favorite American city.

That’s a bit for you, for now. Let me know if anything needs clarification, though I imagine this is all pretty straightforward. I’ll put a proper entry up in the near future.

Be good,

Pete

Dear Friends:

I have a post about my Christmas activities, and whereabouts. I do not want to enter it here, because it has some information I wish to control dissemination of. If you would like to read it, please email me at peter.meegan at gmail.com

Pete

Dear Friends, especially Rhode Islanders:

Please take a few minutes to read the inauguration address of our new governor, Lincoln Chafee. I, personally, am very proud of the history of our state, and the ideals for which it stands. "Rouge's Island," has never been a pejorative term in my opinion. It is indicative of the independent spirit that is symbolized on top of our state house in the "Independent Man" statue. The reading of this speech brought the Rhode Island pride oozing out of my pores, which was much needed after our Friars' disappointing loss on Tuesday night. I enjoy the concept of getting back to the principles espoused by our founder, Roger Williams. If I could take just one line from the speech I would take this: "Because good business is about treating people right, just as good government is."

The full text as given to the Associated Press, and appearing on the website of the Boston Globe is as follows:

Text of RI Gov. Lincoln Chafee's inaugural address

With deep humility, aware of the adversity we face but confident that, together, we will meet the challenge of our times, I am honored to stand before you as our state's 58th Governor.

I ask you to join with me in thanking Governor Carcieri for his service to Rhode Island over the past eight years.

F. Scott Fitzgerald once said that there are no second acts in America. Fortunately, he was not a political sage.

I believe a second chance begins at this very moment, not just for me, but for our wonderful state of Rhode Island and for each and every one of her citizens. Today, I humbly ask each Rhode Islander to join me in embarking on a new era of opportunity for Rhode Island.

I pledge to devote every ounce of energy I have to this task. Indeed, I will not rest until we reclaim the promise that lay in the heart of our founder Roger Williams some 375 years ago.

This magnificent building behind me is replete with symbols of that promise, from the great charter of 1663 that gave a king's blessing to our "lively experiment," to the flags that Rhode Islanders carried into battle against another king, in defense of our basic rights.

We were the first colony to stand up to the crown by signing the Declaration of Independence. And we were the last to ratify the Constitution as we prudently waited to be persuaded that America's standard of freedom was as high as our own.

Today, I ask all Rhode Islanders to join me in boldly reaffirming Roger Williams' vision of a "civil state," a vibrant, diverse community that is free of political, cultural and ethnic division. For if we rekindle the vision that created our heritage, there is nothing this state and her people cannot achieve.

Last November, we showed the nation what a civil state can mean. Angel Tavares was elected mayor of Providence. David Cicilline was elected to Congress, and Jim Langevin was re-elected. Each of these men have been bold pioneers in their own way, and are testimony to the open minds and hearts of Rhode Islanders.

Thank you for this vote of confidence; and most importantly thank you for your vote to embrace tolerance and individual freedom.

Our independence is written onto every page of Rhode Island history. When Roger Williams came to these beautiful shores in 1636, he instantly made this the most democratic place in America, simply by welcoming other dissenters, and by creating a new form of government that valued tolerance and consensus over orthodoxy and compulsion.

More than any settler of his time, he drew inspiration from the native peoples he found here, the original Rhode Islander, whom he admired for their self-government, their sense of justice, and their commitment to care for all members of their community.

A century earlier, the Italian explorer Verrazano had called attention to this place and its inhabitants, calling them "the most beautiful ... that have found on this voyage." He named this region "Refugio," an uncanny presaging of Rhode Island's destiny to become a refuge for those who think for themselves.

And over Roger Williams' long life, he set a lasting precedent for mutual respect, the very foundation of any civil society.

In his words, Rhode Island was like a ship of state, with many different types of passengers, free to worship and think as they pleased, but obligated to work to defend the ship from danger, and to follow a correct course to the right destination.

Today, I ask all Rhode Islanders, are we willing to re-embrace these principles as our guide in this second decade of the 21st century? I urge your answer to be a resounding "yes!" as we continue in an economy that forces many Rhode Islanders to face extraordinary adversity every day.More than most states, we have known hard times these past few years. We have suffered for reasons that are all too familiar to all of us.

Let me be very clear. Our present condition has not developed overnight. It has been decades in the making and it is the shared legacy of Democrats and Republicans, business and labor, liberals and conservatives. Finger pointing and blame will do nothing to alleviate our situation.

In every segment of our society, we have tolerated something that Roger Williams did not -- a refusal to do the work necessary to correct our course, and an acceptance of a fractious society that emphasizes division over common purpose.

In short, our politics have not lived up to our ideals. That must change. The time of irresponsibility has ended.

Let us begin an era of political collaboration, of cultural and ethnic acceptance, of shared sacrifice and, most importantly, of faith and trust in each other. If we do, Rhode Island will most certainly prosper once more.

And so I say today to every Rhode Islander, the only way we can move forward is to move forward together.

Tomorrow I will rescind the so-called E-verify executive order. However well intentioned it may have been, it has caused needless anxiety within our Latino community without demonstrating any progress on illegal immigration, an issue I strongly believe must be solved at the federal level.And I would hope that Rhode Island will catch up to her New England neighbors and pass a bill to establish marriage equality. I urge our General Assembly to quickly consider and adopt this legislation. When marriage equality is the law in Rhode Island, we honor our forefathers who risked their lives and fortune in the pursuit of human equality.

Rhode Island today must be as welcoming to all as Roger Williams intended it to be. Mark my words, these two actions will do more for economic growth in our state that any economic development loan.

Because good business is about treating people right, just as good government is.

Each part of our agenda is important unto itself. But our ultimate goal is to reclaim the vision of our founder. It is written in marble behind me: "To hold forth a lively experiment ... that a most flourishing civil state may stand."

Rhode Island has often led in reaching out to America's future, as defined by a sense of personal rights, or the economic opportunity represented by the new technology that fueled the Industrial Revolution. Today, we can lead again, reminding America what a civil state means:

-- A civil state means that personal freedoms are protected, different orientations are respected, and the dignity of all citizens is enshrined in both the law and in everyday practice.-- A civil state means a fair safety net to provide for basic human needs, swift and fair judicial proceedings, humane prisons, well-run police and fire departments, good roads and bridges, and customer service versus customer suffering at our state agencies and departments.-- A civil state means clean parks and athletic facilities, clean water and air, and proper stewardship of our amazing natural resources.-- A civil state means a public education system that challenges our students in the right way -- with inspiring teachers, clean and safe classrooms, up-to-date textbooks, and the chance to lead better lives than their parents did. The Rhode Island we all want starts there, in those classrooms, and while we all want improvement in education, we must not dismiss what has worked as we strive for progress.-- A civil state gives each able citizen an opportunity to work, build a career or launch a business. We must get Rhode Island working again and together we will.-- And, a civil state means that responsibility flows in both directions. As citizens, Rhode Islanders deserve honest, reliable government -- but as users of services taxpayers must give government the resources to do its job well.

Some may think these are unattainable goals, but I say again that a spirit of collaboration for the greater good, fueled by confidence in our abilities, will mean there is nothing we cannot achieve.We know who we are and the great tradition that has shaped us, the leap of faith that drove the settlers who came from around the world in search of a better life. They were people who were willing to take on any job to build a decent life for their families. All of their stories live on inside us. And the power of their example must sustain us for the task ahead.

Our state may be small, but our ambitions have never been. Our challenges are great, and our obstacles are many, but I promise you today that our great state will lead again.Rhode Island's best days are still ahead of us. Let us today begin that journey to a better future. Let's get this right. Because even if Fitzgerald was wrong about second chances, he was right that we only get one chance to live the life we are given. Our time here is so short. And Rhode Island is so extraordinary.

The founders of this lively experiment believed so much in optimism and human potential that they gave the State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations a very short motto: hope.But mindful of the Book of Hebrews, they also connected this hope to the more grounded symbol of the anchor, reflecting an essential strength and realism that has always guided us, even as our ship of state has sailed for daring new horizons.

I might imagine Roger Williams reading his bible as he conceived his lively experiment and coming across this passage from the Book of Hebrews: "we who have fled for refuge might have strong encouragement to seize the hope set before us. We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul."

With inspiration from our past, and confidence in our future, let us all walk together, with sure and steadfast steps, toward the promise of tomorrow.

Thank you.

As, I assume, is the case with the rest of Rhode Islanders, I am not happy with the current position of our state. We are not where we should be, and worse than that we are lagging behind our neighbors in New England. It's time to right the ship. Hopefully, our newly elected officials will help us to do that.

HOPE,

Pete

It is rare that I write these posts prior to typing and posting them. Presently (at the time of writing, not typing), I am on an elektrichka (an uncomfortable commuter train) making my way home from Kyiv. It's about 4:15 PM and it is already mostly dark. There is nothing I'd like to do right now but sleep, but I've lost my talent for sleeping on bumpy, abrupt rides; woe is me.

You may ask about my motivations for a day trip to Kyiv. Quite simply, I wanted to go to T.G.I. Friday's. Not only did I want to, I did go! I had a Jack Daniel's Burger. This was a large meat patty topped with cheese and bacon. Lettuce sat underneath the burger, and there was a bit of Jack Daniel's barbeque sauce served on the side. To say this was delicious would be an understatement. This phenomenal burger was served with all the western decadence the T.G.I. Friday's brand name implies. For such a large burger, I must have finished it in record time. Not only did I finish the burger, I did everything short of lick the plate to capitalize on all that delicious sauce. After such a meal, I may not be able to eat for the next couple of days . . . a Toby Keith song comes to mind; it's unfortunate, but I'm not as good as I once was.

It is Saturday today, and I'm pretty sure I will post this tonight, but I"m not positive. While at Friday's I was shamed by the cover story of Kyiv Post, the English-language newspaper of Kyiv. My burger cost 91 UAH. Converted that sum is equal to about $11.50. I will post a link to the cover story here: "Living on 30 Hryvnias [Ukrainian currency] A Day." The article discussed the Ukrainian national minimum wage which is currently 907 UAH. Five people were chosen as volunteers to try to live for one month on the minimum wage. It was almost impossible for them. Only 1 out of the 5 volunteers completed the challenge. Today I spent 4 times that 30 hryvnias per day amount on one meal, and transport to and from Kyiv. While I am fully sated, this article has been a bit of a buzzkill. Needless to say this isn't my proudest hour as a volunteer. But, I'll just say it was a Thanksgiving present to myself. For the record, it was 8 hours round trip for the T.G.I. Friday's trip, and I had no other business in Kyiv.

* * *

In terms of Thanksgiving, I hope yours was wonderful. Thanksgiving is a much different holiday when far from home. A lot of the joy is taken, but the importance of the day is by no means cheapened. Some things for which to give thanks have become even more apparent to me. I hope I am home for next Thanksgiving, but it was intriguing to celebrate the holiday away from home.

On Monday in English club we read, translated and sang “Over the River and Through the Woods.” We made hand-turkeys, fattening them up by naming Thanksgiving foods. As no turkey would be complete without the stuffing, we stuffed the turkeys with things that we are thankful for. This was followed by a pretty basic rendition of the story of the first Thanksgiving. One of the things I was/am thankful for was/is my friend Yana for translating the story for me so I wouldn’t have to bumble through my broken Ukrainian.

Tuesday and Wednesday passed by pretty unremarkably, especially Tuesday, when I stayed up to follow the score of the PC – LaSalle game online. I knew this would be a rebuilding year, but I didn’t expect Providence would be a scheduling, let alone losing to, a high school team (sorry A-10 fans, you know I can’t help these jabs).

That brings us to the day. Thursday started off a bit rough. While having my morning coffee I felt a sting of loneliness. My heart and mind were both somewhere around the northern suburbs of Chicago. This is the one holiday we generally spend with my dad’s side of the family. Because I don’t get to see that side often, I really value the time we spend together. But, around my final sip, I realized these were feelings and I stuffed them deep, deep down where they belong.

Peace Corps had granted us an unexpected holiday, but I elected not to use it, and went to school anyway. I spent most of the day singing “Over the River and Through the Woods.” The fourth formers were disappointed it wasn’t the “Hokey Pokey,” but they humored me and sang along; though I assume their thoughts weren’t on Grand Beach and football (of the American variety).

After school, it was time to start the celebration in earnest. My site mate and I met to decide how to go about our Thanksgiving party. The party was with our English club, and we actually had one of our best turn outs – 15 people. During our meeting we decided on turkey (turkey breast, not a full turkey), gravy, mashed potatoes, and krabovyni salat (which is a salad with crab sticks, corn, cucumbers, potatoes, hard-boiled eggs, and of course the ubiquitous mayonaisse). All of these things were homemade, as Mr. Quigley once said, “no instant mashed potatoes in the Meegan household.” I must say, I have a lot more appreciation for the Thanksgiving meals I enjoyed when I was younger after having to prepare this small-scale affair. The shopping took over an hour, which left us with about 3 hours to make the food. Unfortunately, my site mate had meetings all afternoon, so the preparations, and cooking fell largely on me.

I’ll admit that I probably did not have the turkey cooked enough. There was still a bit of pink inside, but it was tasty. I have no experience seasoning meat, or cooking anything other than eggs, pasta, potatoes, and onions, so I was pretty proud of the result (when I say it was undercooked, it wasn’t raw, it was in the oven for almost three hours, it just wasn’t dried out enough, nobody got sick, that I know of). In terms of seasoning, we used some mixed herbs, salt, black pepper, and paprika generously smeared over the buttered-up turkey skin. I really enjoyed it, and, afterwards was actually gnawing on the turkey bone getting the last scraps, though I probably should not publicly admit this.

We failed to procure any apple cider, and that was a bit disappointing, hopefully I can find a way to make some in the near future. But, we did have delicious fruit juices, none of which were homemade. When we got to English club, some of our members had brought food, as well. There was another batch of krabovyni salat, some chicken wings (very tasty), and a number of desserts. My site mate gave a short presentation on Thanksgiving (though, this New Englander, and Roman Catholic would argue some of her historical facts), and we ate.

Following English club, an American friend came to visit. We picked up some chips, and some beer, and came to my apartment. We chose not to stop by a café because the Patriots and the Lions were playing. Now, I was once a Barry Sanders fan, but that was because I liked Barry Sanders not the team he played for, and I think this was the first time I ever met a real live Lions fan. I thought they no longer existed. We turned the game on in the second quarter (streaming online) with Detroit leading. During the game, I learned that I am thankful for Alphonso Smith. I wish more teams had cornerbacks like that for Patriots to run around. In Smith’s defense he did take responsibility for how poorly he played: I just want to apologize to my teammates because they played so hard. I feel as if I was the catalyst for this loss. I also want to apologize to the this organization and the fans." I’m not sure apologies are going to help Detroit very much, though.

After the game, I was able to talk to my family on Skype. Usually, when I say my family it means my parents, or perhaps my brother or sister. This time I got the whole bag: aunts, uncles, cousins, parents, siblings, cousins’ children. It was a lot of fun. A half hour on Skype, and it was one of the best half hours I have had since being in Ukraine. Hearing from friends and family, especially those I haven’t talked to in some time exponentially improves my mood. So, if any in the Thanksgiving crowd read this, thank you for taking a few minutes to talk with the prodigal son, and humoring his self-imposed exile.

But, that’s about all I know for now. A reminder to my stateside friends: don’t forget to watch The November Christmas tonight at 9 on CBS. This year’s Hallmark Hall of Fame Presentation is based on a short story written by my uncle, Greg Coppa, and it is sure to be terrific. If the film presentation is half as good as the short story you won’t be disappointed.

Be good, and remember only 27 shopping days left until Christmas!

Pete

*Disclaimer* Please forgive my lack of eloquence. I haven't slept too well that last few days.

To my dear friends:

I spend a lot of time bitching. It’s just habit. I see things I don’t like, and I state the fact. Subtlety has not really ever been much of my thing. But, tonight, on the eve of Thanksgiving it is time I come to terms with the fact that I rarely state how lucky I am.

As you all know, I’ve spent the last 13 months in Ukraine. Ukraine is a European country, no doubt, but it also a country in rough shape. I generally call it a country of extremes. By simple accidents of chance and birth I was not born in Ukraine. I was born in the greatest country on God’s green Earth: the United States of America. For that reason, I am slightly homesick on this, of all nights; but also, I am ready to put into words some of the things I’m thankful for. Some of the things I write are unique to me. Some of the things I write are common to almost all Americans.

I am thankful for health and youth. These are, of course, fleeting. I’m currently reading The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, and he makes a point of expressing just how fleeting they are. But, while they are here I shall enjoy them.

I am thankful for my friends and family. I’m sitting in my apartment looking at a number of things that have been sent from home, or hand delivered. Books, coffee, snacks, clothes, and the list continues. I have already been visited by two friends, and by my parents and my sister. Truly incredible when you think of the cost and time it takes to travel this far around the world. Being halfway around the world has really put into perspective just how lucky I am. I am going to be in mourning tomorrow thinking of the family gathered together, I assume in Arlington Heights as usual. Hopefully I will get to speak with some. I’m often told that in Ukraine family is much more important than it is to we Americans. I think that anyone who says this should look at my family. Either side would challenge that statement to the core. Thought, I suppose, one example hardly makes a case.

I also realize how much I rely on my friends. Sitting at home on Friday and Saturday nights I recall, sometimes hazily nights in Newport. Going to wacky wings Wednesday at the Oak Hill Tavern. Stomping around Providence, Providence College and the surrounding areas. I think of all the people that have made the past 10 years of my life incredible. I am humbled by the actions of those close to me, and feel forever indebted; “Debts that no honest man could pay,” as Bruce once said in a song I’ve played on repeat a few times.

I’m thankful for the opportunities I’ve been given. I have been given an opportunity to travel the world. I have been given the opportunity for a wonderful college education. In short, most of the things on my plate have been put there with very little doing on my part. For many of these things I deserve as much credit as the guy in the buffet line scooping up the last of the chicken fingers.

On down the line, I’m thankful for America, and all the opportunities we’ve been given as Americans. Times may be tough now, but like every tough time before we will prevail, and be better for it. I’m thankful that I’m 12 months from Dave’s Market. I’m 12 months from my next visit to Updike’s Newtowne. 12 months until I go to my next PC basketball game. I’m thankful I have a place to call home, and look forward to as much as I am looking forward to my glorious return. It is a wonderful perspective I’ve been given, living abroad for the past year. Living abroad, especially in a less than affluent place can show how grateful we should be. We have received a gift. Let’s acknowledge how great it is, and stop and reflect on life long enough to remember that it’s pretty damn good for most of us.

Now, I don’t know much about a lot of things, but these are a few facts I know without any doubt. While I am deeply envious of all of you celebrating back home, I’m glad you will be. I’ll join the celebrations as soon as I can.

Happy Thanksgiving,

Pete

So, I was at school the other day looking out the window. I saw the other building of my school and its corrugated roof, and remembered that while the novelty has worn off for me, this is still new and different to anyone who may be reading, and as such I should try to document it. It is sometimes difficult to try to document without feeling as if I’m invading the privacy of my community, or acting a bit too much like a voyeur, but, as they say in Zhmerynka: “Whammy!”

Much has occurred since last I wrote. The last things I wrote were about a trip in early August which was two and a half months ago. Since then I have spent some time at a summer camp, celebrated Ukrainian Independence Day in Lviv, received a personal tour of a village close to mine, and the list goes on. So, what to talk about is a considerable challenge. Also, I’ve been home since I wrote last, spent a night in London, and a weekend in Kharkiv, the former capital of Soviet Ukraine. . . so, I’m not sure exactly what is of interest here. I’ll save the trip home for a different day, so I guess I’ll start from the beginning of school.

I think I’ll give you a quick crash course, and try to refocus my attentions on keeping this relatively updated. The beginning of school: The “Day of Knowledge” is the holiday that marks the first day of school on September 1st, every year. This is also called the “First Bell” ceremony. The First Bell is a shorter day than normal. It starts with the school assembling outside for a number of speeches, followed by the introduction of the new first graders. The ceremony ends with a first grader being carried on the shoulders of an eleventh or tenth (whichever class is the oldest at the school) grader. The first grader rings a ceremonial bell and this is, indeed, the “First Bell.” Following the ringing of the first bell the young first graders are led to their classrooms by the members of the oldest class, and the first lesson of the year occurs. The first lesson of the year is about the history and culture of Ukraine, specifically independent Ukraine. There is a party for teachers after the students go home, complete with cognac and wine, dancing and singing, and usually salted fish. I skipped out on the party this year, as I’m not a big fan of imbibing at school, but that’s just me.

The school year begins in earnest the day following the Day of Knowledge. This is the first day of classes in the majority of subjects. This period is a difficult period. The reason is that no set schedule has been made. It was not until the end of September that a real schedule had been created, a real schedule that would be as set in stone as things are here. I still haven’t found out the reason for such a delay in creating a schedule, then again, maybe it’s something man wasn’t meant to know.

The days at the end of September and the beginning of October were, and are, some of the coldest days for me. They are the days when fall is reaching her cold, clammy, gray hands on the country, and the body has not yet had time to adjust to the falling temperatures. This is exacerbated by the fact that heat is, for the most part, central, and does not come on until someone actively turns it on. This did not happen for me until October 15, when I had left site for awhile. It did, however, mean that I was wearing long underwear at the end of September. Luckily heat is now on throughout so I will not need long underwear for another few weeks, if the weather cooperates.

I think this will be a really brief post; we’ll call it a practice swing, a bit of a sound check, if you will.

The only other thing to report from this time is that I have moved again. This is the fourth place I’ve lived in Zhmerynka, and the third apartment. I did get it all set up with internet, though, so it’s in pretty good shape. I even have a refrigerator and a shower! The hot water in my shower here is better (at least temperature-wise) than the water back home, and there’s more of it! If you want to hear the story about how and why I moved, email me. It’s pretty funny, but I’d rather not post it here. If you’ve spoken with my dad recently there is a good chance you would have heard it.

I think I’ll sign off there. Next up: a trip to a bazaar and a castle. Maybe I’ll write that today, maybe not. Coming soon: my trip home.

That’s all I know for now. Be good,

Pete

View of the confluence of the rivers, and Mtskheta from the high church.

The church on top of the mountain, in Mtskheta. This was my favorite of the three.

The second, and least impressive, church in Mtskheta

Third church in Mtskheta

The third, and grandest, church in Mtskheta.

President George W. Bush Street: AWESOME!

Walking through Signaghi.

The wall encompassing Signaghi. Wine country.

At the cafe in Signaghi, probably about to provide a witty retort, or make a comment that identifies a deep understanding of the intricacies of our current topic of discussion (just speculating).

These ladies are preparing to send the wine to Ukraine. I'm hoping I come in contact with the fruits of their labor.

Preparing for our wine tasting.

At the table for our feast. The man standing gave the tour of the wine factory, and was our toastmaster.

Stalin Museum in Gori.

Statue of Stalin outside of his museum in Gori. The museum forgets to mention that Stalin was, to use the scientific term, an asshole.

Prayer rags outside of hilltop church in Borjomi (it was a tough climb).

Hiking in Borjomi Natural Park.

Me trying to be artsy with a Tbilisi by night picture. The golden glow is a church, and the white glow is the Avlabari Palace.

Peace Bridge at night. This is a pedestrian bridge crossing the river, it looks pretty cool in person.

Illegal picture of the Avlabari Palace in Tbilisi.

*For more photos, I have posted a plethora on facebook. Follow this link http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2104638&id=17600435&l=39f419e4b2 if you are interested in the remainder. You do not need to have a facebook account to view these photos.*

Welcome back. I hope you’re energized for a bit more rambling, and the last few days of the trip. Away we go:

As I mentioned, the ride back from the mountains was pretty painless. We arrived in Tbilisi around 1:00 PM, negotiated the metro system and made our way to our new hostel. The new hostel was not the Tbilisi Party Hostel; it was a quieter, low key place called Irina’s Guesthouse. We dropped our bags off and decided to make our plan of attack for the rest of the afternoon. We decided to head up to a town called Mtskheta, a quick trip.

Mtskheta has been a spiritual center in Georgia for thousands of years; a center, even, for pagan worship. Churches, of the Georgian Orthodox persuasion, are now the important drawing point for the town. It is a UNESCO World Heritage Site (at least the three churches are), was once the official seat of the Georgian Orthodox Church and was the home of the royal family many moons ago. My favorite of the churches was the rather small church on top of a mountain presiding over the town and the confluence of two rivers. The churches we visited in Georgia were a welcome reprieve for me from the ornate Orthodox churches all over Ukraine. I much prefer the simplistic style that the Georgian churches use. After a while, I think, gilded shiny iconostases become a distraction, and there seems to be icon worship, but that is not something I’ll get into here. I should say, though, that while the churches were simple they were not Spartan.

We spent the afternoon visiting the three churches in town. The church on the mountain, as I mentioned, was one of my favorites. There were a few trees near the church, and on the trees prayer rags had been tied. Prayer rags are little strips of fabric tied around the branches of a tree in supplication for some sort of assistance. From what I have read frequently this supplication is for fertility. The same type of prayer rags are used near the mosques in Turkmenistan, so I guess this was one step towards that failed objective. Similar to the Islam in Turkmenistan, in Georgia the Christianity is still splashed with hints of the prior paganism which was once so common in the region. This was evident in Mtskheta, but it more evident in the truly isolated mountain villages. I wonder if certain colors are more successful in getting the prayers answered. Perhaps that can be some anthropology student’s Ph.D. dissertation, but I digress.

We made our way back to Tbilisi. We decided that it was imperative to capture photographic evidence (which I have shared above) of President George W. Bush Street, complete with a picture of the firmly unsmiling ex-Commander in Chief. The trip to the billboard brought us back across the city via the metro. It also involved a bit of meandering, and hopeful turns, which is a nice way to get a feeling for a city. Once the photographic evidence was obtained (more difficult than you’d expect because there were many cars zooming passed obstructing the camera view), it was time to get back to the ranch. When I say getting back to the ranch I truly mean going down to Rustaveli and having a delicious blue raspberry slushie.

We decided to walk back to the hostel from the slushie store. We were ultimately successful, despite a wrong turn bringing us to a park overlooking the bridge we needed to cross with no way to reach the bridge. After backtracking, and crossing the river we stopped for some dinner at a little café. I, optimist that I am, ordered the pizza. I should have learned after being in Ukraine for almost a year now that pizza should not be ordered anywhere that used to be a Soviet Socialist Republic, I’ll try not to make that mistake again, but I’m ever the optimist with pizza, the fries were good, though. Trying to redeem my pizza fiasco we bought a watermelon for desert. The man at the convenience store decided he would get us a nice, fresh, small watermelon. There were only two of us, after all. He grabs a small watermelon from the cooler and hands it to me, all 10lbs. of it. Now I can eat almost anything. And I can eat almost anything voraciously, and quickly. But, after a few bites, my system went into watermelon overload. I’m not sure what is worse: the watermelon overload, or “come on, Meegan, man up.” That phrase has mysterious powers over me. So, I stayed at the table trying to finish my colossal piece of watermelon. I had to face my defeat. Lessons in humility are a good thing, of course. They help us mature, and if it is from a watermelon that we learn our failings and shortcomings, then so be it. To be honest, I didn’t finish the full piece of watermelon. There was still a thin layer of pink over the rind, when I finally gave my unconditional surrender, and tossed the remains. In my defense, I did try to conceal all evidence of my failure. It was a quiet night, though, and we were able to rest up for our day-trip into wine country.

Our excursion into wine country was probably the highlight of the trip. At least it was for me. We were picked up about 9:00AM outside of our hostel. The contingent consisted of me, the esteemed Sara (my translator), a Turkish couple, a Latvian businessman now living in Tbilisi, our Georgian guide, and a driver. Our journey to Kakheti took us to a part of the country we had not yet seen, which we would not have seen otherwise. The first stop came after about two hours. This stop was a small tourist town called Signaghi. We walked through the town which looked a bit nouveau-rustic, with some hotels, and cafes, and an ancient (looking) wall around the town. After walking through the cobblestone streets we stopped at a café. I had my first experience with Turkish coffee, and I was quite happy with it. It was thick and packed a punch. The café looked out from a hill over fields and over to the border with Azerbaijan, only 12 kilometers from where we were. After awhile we got back in the truck and continued on our way. The trip went on for another hour and a half or so. Finally we made arrived at the wine factory. The factory is the factory of the Joint-Stock Corporation Kindzmarauli in the city Kvareli. If you can find any of the wine they produce it is worth a try. They had the best wine I have drank in a long time (not much of an accomplishment based on what I can afford in town).

Once we arrived at the factory we were given a tour of the grounds. Before the tour we were given a primer on why this region on Kakheti was special, what type of grapes were most popular here, and what type of wines we would be trying. We were also told about the history of the factory, its start, its relocation during Soviet times, the destruction of some of the less common types of grapes and the general knowledge of viniculture (doesn’t that word make me look smart?).

We were first brought to the area where grapes are mashed and processed for the wine. I liked how they had both the new equipment and the old Soviet equipment standing next to each other in juxtaposition. The next aspect was the tanks in which the wine is held. Again, both old and new were standing under the same roof. The brand new ones were made of shiny stainless steel, and had cold, cold water streaming down the outside. Next we saw where the wine is bottled, and where the old bottles are stored. There was a large barrel of wine in the basement reserved for the American Embassy. That, among some other things, made me envious of the embassy personnel in Tbilisi.

The highlight of our time at the factory was far and away the tasting. The tasting included a quick explanation of proper degustation of the wines, and how there are different strategies depending on whether the wine in question was white or red. Remember to swirl the wine, check the scent, check the coloring, fill your mouth and swish the wine around and hold it long enough to get the proper taste. I was very good at determining the major characteristics of the wine: whether it was white or red. The glasses of wine were washed down by a combination of walnuts, cheese, bread and there were even black olives on the table, but we all know my anathema for olives of any shade. Also involved in our tasting was a glass of chacha, the Georgian liquor akin to grappa, or fire. The tasting wrapped up with a bit of Georgian brandy. The chacha and brandy were not great, but the wine certainly was. This wrapped up our agenda for the factory. There was a store front at the factory that acted as their main wine shop. We waited a bit while our group shopped around. During this time we met a few Peace Corps Volunteers from Georgia. It was funny how perfect we found their country, and while we talked they had many of the same complaints that we do about Ukraine. We decided, that they were incorrect, however, and that Georgia is by the far the best country for a Peace Corps stint. While talking, the factory tour guide, and one of the factory owners began speaking with us as well. He was excited when he found out we were Peace Corps Volunteers, because a few years ago, at the factory he had worked with a business development volunteer. I think a job thinking of the best way to promote a wine factory must be among greatest site placements ever. After our group had wrapped up their purchases we made our way to the next stop: a Georgian feast.

We drove to a village not very far from the factory. We pulled up at a house and unloaded. The house had been turned, basically, into a museum of folk culture, and viniculture. There were traditional instruments, and traditional ways of producing wine, the usual museum-ish stuff. We were given the full tour, and then we were able look around outside. This was a strategy for biding time for the table to be set. This was the table of my dreams. It was full of some of the most delicious food I have had since October 15, 2009. There were fresh vegetables of all kinds, meat including beef, there was not one beet on the table! Our glasses were kept full, and the toasts were more sincere than any I have ever heard. It was interesting, for me, being at the table with Turks, and Georgians. They have very long memories. One toast began speaking of the history of bad blood between Turks and Georgians and the former bellicose relationship between the two nations (nations as in ethnic groups not the political entities we currently have), but these antagonisms ended maybe as many as three or four hundred years ago. But, eating and talking, and getting lubricated made for a tremendously enjoyable day for me. The toasting, as I mentioned, was formal. Not super formal, like at a traditional Georgian feast, but more formal than we’re used to. At a traditional Georgian table, only the toastmaster is allowed to make the toasts. These toasts are not the simple obligatory two or three sentences, but they are long, thought out, sometimes ramble and are delivered with solemnity. There is a picture above of our feast, and instead of trying to further elaborate you can see how delicious it looked. After the feast and the wine, the ride home was perfect for a phenomenal nap.

We passed President George W. Bush Street coming back into Tbilisi. It was slightly different this time, though. The sign had been spray painted and the words “NO WAR” and “WALT WHITMAN” were now the prominent features of the sign. Coincidentally I had recently asked Sara her thoughts on Walt Whitman, and expressed my complete disdain for the man. In the immortal words of Homer Simpson “Leaves of Grass my ass.” I wanted to get a picture of the newly defaced sign but Tbilisi has a very efficient public works department; after two days the sign had been restored to its original glory. The decider had returned. I still have no idea who in Georgia knows anything about Walt Whitman and why that would have been spray painted on a sign, but that is neither here nor there, and we’ll roll on to Sunday.

On Sunday we rented a cab and had it take us to the national park Borjomi about two hours west of Tbilisi. We went to Borjomi by way of Gori, the birthplace, and childhood home of Stalin. We dripped into his museum. The museum was interesting, but it failed to mention some key facts about Stalin: he was an asshole; he murdered millions of people; he enjoyed forced deportations. Then again, when they make a Pete Meegan Museum I hope they only concentrate on the good things: my rugged good looks and rocking biceps.

The museum also included Stalin’s private train car. I was impressed with the simplicity of the car. It was not grandiose, or elaborate. It had very simple sleeping quarters, a kitchen, and large bathroom with a bathtub and a conference room. Such a powerful man could have easily had a far more lavish personal train car. So I’ll say fair play to him on that front. But that is the only thing I’ll give him. Stalin also looked like a hipster when he was young, and I’m not a big fan of hipsters, so he’s got a few strikes against him in my book. As an aside, I recently spoke with a friend that went to the museum, also. He had a tour guide when he was there, and the tour guide did allow that “Stalin possibly was a mass murderer.”

Gori was just a quick stop. The small home, train car, and cases of gifts for Stalin could not stop us from getting to Borjomi. Perhaps, in retrospect, it was a bad idea. We didn’t allow ourselves enough time to really see and do a lot of things, but we did take a little hike there, and also stopped for a very tasty meal of traditional Georgian food. Borjomi is a place famous throughout the former Soviet Union. From this town comes one of the USSR’s favorite mineral waters. I still cannot drink it, but it is definitely popular. It has a slightly salty flavor, and is just not as refreshing as I want my water to be, but those that imbibe regularly sing its praises. So, while I do not enjoy the mineral water, the place itself was impressive. It reminded me a bit of Maine, and Sara a bit of West Virginia. So, we spent a couple of hours here, in Borjomi, before heading back to the home base. One regret I have: there was a highway sign we passed, and I wish I had gotten a picture of it. On the sign the cities Tbilisi, Baku (capital of Azerbaijan), Yerevan (capital of Armenia), and Tehran were listed with the distances in kilometers. It was pretty crazy to see how close we were to all these places.

Monday was the day we wound down our trip. We stayed in Tbilisi on Monday, and bumbled about before heading the airport around 11:00PM. While bumbling around I lobbied to spend some time at a café called Caliban’s Coffeehouse, part of Prospero’s Books, an English-language book store in Tbilisi. This is a place I wish they had in Kyiv. We spent much of the afternoon here, I drinking coffee out of a French Press reading my book. The coffee was a bit expensive, but completely worth it. I really wanted to buy some more books while I was here, some on the history, and politics of Georgia, particularly the 2008 war with Russia, but all the interesting books were far more than I could afford. Sitting, drinking coffee, reading a book, and hearing alt-country playing lowly in a corner, I felt like I could have been sitting in a café, or Updike’s Newtowne, back home; it was hard to peel myself off my chair, to get on to walking the city.

As we continued we walked further around the city. We went down some streets we had not yet been down, by the river, and away from it. A great way to see a city is to wander aimlessly. Going in and out of different streets and hollows, you get a much better idea of what you’re dealing with, more so than if you remain on the main streets. This went on for a while, until we made our way to lunch. The place looked a bit tacky, with the menu on the door, but we were pleasantly surprised. It was good food, and a nice interior, it reminded me a bit of the Pagoda Inn, back in North Kingstown, only serving Georgian food, and Mom and Dad weren’t paying. I am currently trying to find where I can get Georgian food in Kyiv, it was phenomenal. I could live a very satiated life in that country.

Biding time until our flight we prolonged the wandering. Even going so far as to climb a really, really, really tall hill that overlooked the city. At first, I thought it was a joke, “let’s go climb the funicular route.” I didn’t imagine we would make our way that high above the city. It looked so close from the bottom, though. It’s just that the hill wouldn’t stop. Eventually decided we would have to make our way to the airport, and back to the land of kholodets and salo.

Arriving back in Ukraine, the land of no smiling, was difficult. We knew we were back as soon as we landed, and were thrown into a bus packed as tight as Rush Limbaugh in a suit. Sara must have seen my face because she just started laughing at me as soon as I saw the bus we had to ride into the terminal. Alas, we made it back safe and sound, ready to finish up the last two weeks of our summer break. I didn’t make it back to site for another 2 days, but I managed, and here I am.

Sorry for the length, but I hope you enjoy the pictures. Mark October 12th on your calendars, it is the date of my glorious ten-day return. Hope all is well in the Home of the Brave, and I’m glad Earl was all tuckered out by the time he reached your shores.

Be well and be good,

Pete

Looking down on Tbilisi from near the Narikala Citadel.

Also looking down on Tbilisi from near the Narikala Citadel.

Packed in on the marshrutka, and the back of my new haircut.

Start of the path the church is small on the left that big mountain is Kazbek.

Kazbek to my back.

Bell tower of the church, and Mount Kazbek in the background.Church of the Holy Trinity. This picture doesn't do it justice.Hanging out with some cows on our descent back into Gergeti/Kazbegi. (The Church of the Holy Trinity is in the background.)

View of the glacier. Mount Kazbek is on the right, with clouds covering the summit.

Certain things catch my eye, and certain things strike my fancy. I have no explanation as to why. For example, I think the tuxedo t-shirt is one of the premier inventions of all time, closely followed by the American Flag male speedo. Another example is the way I cannot get past the song “Summer Girls” by LFO. I don’t mean to make light of Georgia, or the Caucasus, but it falls into this group. At least it is a bit more socially respectable to be fascinated by an amalgamation of peoples, cultures, languages, religions, everything that comes together where Europe and Asia clash sending mountains soaring into the sky. It is strange though, that while I have always known where Armenia is, and Armenians, the country of their origin has never took hold of me. My interest in Georgia started when I first applied to Peace Corps. Georgia (and if you’re still unaware I’m writing about the Republic of Georgia, not the country in the American South that General Sherman gloriously marched through), is encompassed by the same Peace Corps region that Turkmenistan is a part of. I at this time did not know that the three countries of the Caucasus were there own Peace Corps sub-group, so I entertained the idea that perhaps I would be put into this intriguing locale. I think the first thing I saw was a picture of a church on a mountain, but it could have been a castle. To be honest, it could have even been a picture of the church I went to see, but I digress. I traditionally like to put unattainable ideas in my head, and use them as pipe dreams. Most recent examples of this would probably be my desire after college to go to Australia or Ireland and bum around playing rugby for a few years or a few months (though this idea was really only seriously considered when I was about 18). I thought Georgia would be like this. I didn’t know anybody who had been to Georgia, nor did I know anybody with any desire to go. I thought I’d probably have to take a seat and be an armchair traveler reading travelogues, and histories of this area. But, when I got to talking with some fellow Peace Corps friends, I found there was at least one person interested in going, and even two people interested in going. We started making tentative plans. Again those style plans that generally are not followed up on. This was further complicated by the fact that the person most interested in going to this area with me bailed on us, leaving sunny Crimea for sunny San Diego. But, it was still something I mentioned every now and then among various crowds. Around April or May, when I had mentioned this, a friend said “I’d definitely go,” or at least something similar, I didn’t record the conversation. Still these plans were in the probably not going to happen category. Until I received a call or text that said, “I just saw tickets from Kyiv to Tbilisi for $300 round trip.” This idea started to materialize. We started going over when we were free, and it was determined the second week of August would work. So, we had a potential date. But, I’ve had potential dates for a lot of things: a trip to Berlin during my sophomore year of college, a trip to San Diego during winter of 2008-09, a trip to watch Providence College play in the NCAA tournament (don’t laugh, a boy can dream) but frequently things just haven’t worked out, not always Tim Welsh’s fault. Next time I was in Kyiv, though, to watch the USA – England soccer game at an ex-pat pub, I called my friend said “should we get the tickets?” and we got the tickets. As they say, there are always a million reasons not to do something, you just need to find the reason to do it, so we said, “when will we ever go to Georgia in the future?” and followed through. It was the beginning of June when we finally made this official, and ticketed our travel. In the meantime I read a few books on the Caucasus, some about the history, some of travel through, and some were articles in magazines like The Economist, Foreign Affairs, and even some papers from the Brookings Institution. Steinbeck, and Paul Theroux also have written about trips through the area; Steinbeck in A Russian Journal, and Theroux in Ghost Train to the Eastern Star. These readings made me even more interested in the country, though I could hardly say I had an accurate picture of the countries of the Caucasus, then again anyone who says that they do may be lying to you. August 9th was go time. We had an evening flight out of Kyiv and arrived around 11 Tbilisi time at night. The plane and airport were where we had our first taste of Georgian hospitality, and friendliness. On the flight, we were sitting next to a pretty large guy. He seemed slightly jumpy at first, but nice enough. But, during the flight we got to talking. Luckily I was accompanied by my official Russian translator, so she was able to handle the interpretation. With a hand lovingly placed on my thigh the gentleman told us of his family in Tbilisi – he works in Kyiv – and about Georgia, in general. He also wanted me to drink cognac with him, lots and lots of cognac, but I decided I would prefer not to drink cognac, so I tried to get out of it, by ordering wine. This was able to bide me some time, but I was ultimately unsuccessful. Every time my glass was empty my neighbor rang for the stewardess to refill my glass until ultimately there was no more wine left on the plane. Since we had started, we were going to finish the bottle (just to be clear, it was a small little flask bottle, so there was not too much) which was about three quarters of the way gone by this point. I finished the flight in a warm bubble, and had to help my new friend tie his tie because he had done more of a job on the cognac than I had. I later found out that he was afraid of flying, it was from that fear that the bottle was finished; I couldn’t let a new friend drink alone. Upon arriving in Tbilisi we met our new friend’s brother and son, he had told us he would give us a ride to our hostel. It was determined that we would take a taxi to the hostel, which was fine. Unbeknownst to us however, his brother had paid for the taxi before we got in; our first taste of the famed Georgian hospitality. Our first two nights in Tbilisi were spent at the Tbilisi Hostel, the self-proclaimed “party hostel”. They lived up to their name the first night, breaking out the chacha Georgia’s liquor of choice, similar to grappa. To be honest, I hope I never taste chacha again. We got a bit of an unrealistic picture of the tourist crowd in Georgia from this hostel. The people staying were from Poland, South Africa, Australia, and some others from the states. It wasn’t until later that we, or at least, I found out that most of the tourists in Georgia come from Israel. Our first day in Tbilisi we were lucky. It was damn hot, but it was not humid, and the heat was not oppressive. We spent the day walking the city. From coffee on the beautiful Rustaveli Avenue, to the ancient Narikala Citadel, an ancient wall that protected the city a thousand years ago, we saw a large portion of the city which was remarkably walkable. After a bit of walking we made our way to bus station in order to buy tickets for a journey we would be undertaking on our second day up into the mountains. The buses turned out to be marshrutkas, and the marshrutkas, and bus station would make Ukraine proud. After learning that tickets are not sold for the trips to the mountains, we were told to come back the next day. Before heading back into the city we both chose to purchase some produce from the bazaar between the metro stop, and the bus station. The produce was being sold by the kilogram at the bar, with no prices for single items. After my friend was given a peach, at the stand she went to, I was energized to ask for a tomato, hoping maybe it too would be free, it was not to be, however, and I had to pay 20 tetri (about 10 cents) for my tomato. But, that’s just a random aside. Back downtown we made our way to a Thai restaurant for dinner. We both had pad thai, and I was pleasantly surprised that the “Thai” food, tasted just like the pad thai from 7 Moons back home, it was terrific. We did, however, leave the rest of Tbilisi for our return. Luckily I had an adventurous companion, and she had the idea that we spend two days in the mountains. So our second day we made our way up to Kazbegi a town in the High Caucasus Range, and the final outpost before the dreaded Russian Federation. The ride up to Kazbegi was quite scenic. Right outside of the city there were small mountains that looked similar to the mountains of Crimea. We also drove up along rivers for almost the entirety of the ride. About an hour and a half into the ride we ran into the high mountains, the going got much slower as we were in low gear navigating the switchbacks, and negotiation herds of cattle, goats, and sheep and probably any other livestock you could think of congregating in the middle of the road. We arrived in Kazbegi in the late afternoon. We had just enough time to find our hostel, drop off our things, and then take a little walk before a glorious feast for dinner. The feast consisted of stuffed peppers, soup, fantastic bread, salad and a dish that mixed meat, tomatoes, potatoes, eggplants and a I’m sure there was more. But, I will get to Kazbegi itself. Kazbegi was the town we arrived in, but we stayed in the village of Gergeti, which was a 7 or 8 minute walk from Kazbegi. The town is really unassuming when you arrive, until you look up and see Mount Kazbek, and its snowcap challenging you. The other thing you see is the ancient Church of the Holy Trinity which sits on a mountain above the town, but is not nearly as high as Kazbek. I found this church and its position awe-inspiring. It was too late our first night to do much here, so we hung in, reading, and getting acquainted with some of the other residents. The large majority of the residents were Israeli. Some sat and ate with us, but others were of a more orthodox nature, and had to bring their own cookware, and prepare all the food themselves to ensure it would be kosher. It seems like a difficult way to travel, and I don’t envy them. We got up relatively early the next morning, which was Thursday morning, and prepared for a hike into the mountains. These preparations meant nothing more than packing a big bottle of water in my bag, as well as a light jacket, just in case. I wore pants, also, because the temperature in the mountains must have been 20 degrees cooler than the temperature in Tbilisi. Our hostess provided us with a hearty breakfast before our journey, eggs and bread, and coffee, but not good coffee – it was Nescafe instant coffee, and God, do I hate instant coffee, though it did the job. We were also allowed to make some sandwiches before we left – true to Ukrainian form we made open-faced sandwiches, which if you don’t know means sandwiches with only one piece of bread. The hike was not very strenuous, but we tacitly decided to take it at a snail’s pace. Our first stop was the Church of the Holy Trinity. Once here we took a good fifteen minutes to sit, rest and, for me, I was able to refill my water bottle. The church gave us a good overlook of the town, but really, for me the church itself was phenomenal, and the thing that attracted most of my attention – scaffolding and all. After our brief respite we made our way further up the mountains. We had not illusions of climbing Mount Kazbek (that takes 4 days, motivation, and probably being in shape), but we wanted to see Mount Kazbek, and the glacier next to it. We hiked about an hour longer, before stopping in the middle of an alpine meadow and having our lunch. The lunch caused one of us to nap, and one of us to hike up to some random structure which looks like it was a basin of some sort, but really I have no idea what it was, even after a close examination. I went back down as a group of climbers descended (get it?) upon the hill we had stopped at. They were a group of Germans that had spent the last four days climbing Kazbek, and made for enjoyable company. They warned us, however, never to talk politics with Georgians – soon after their Georgian guide started discussing the literary merits of Mein Kampf, which solidified the wisdom of their suggestion. After brief conversation they assured us that the ridge where we could view Kazbek and the glacier was only another hours, so we decided to get on with it. The blame is on us, but we didn’t take into consideration that we were talking to Germans, and our efficiency just did not compare to theirs. After the foretold hour we were halfway up a path, so we decided to continue up. We didn’t expect that this peak was just a false ridge that led us nowhere other than to the next path up to a new ridge. We met another German here; she told us we would need another half hour to get to the ridge. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me. We were fooled twice. It ultimately took us another hour or so to get up to the top of this ridge. I will say, I thought it was worth the time, and had we been in any semblance of shape, we probably could have done this substantially faster. It was, ultimately a phenomenal vista, and I’m glad we saw it. There was only one slight disappointment: as soon as we arrived at the ridge a cloud covered the summit of Kazbek, luckily it was so tall that we had been able to see it for most of the time. The other cool thing about the hike was seeing more and more mountains come into view as our altitude increased. As we started seeing a larger panorama of the Caucasus we were also treated to more snowcapped mountains. True to my New England roots, the only snowy mountains I have seen are the ones we ski on. I’ve never seen the Rockies, the Alps, or any other magnificent mountains – sorry, New Hampshire, but the White Mountains just don’t do it for me. The mountains that were on the other side of Kazbegi were not as tall as Kazbek, but still pretty tall, and while we were on our hike up there was a huge cracking sound, similar to close thunder. When we looked over there was a huge dust cloud slowly working its way down the mountain slope, and rocks had fallen from the top, and began rolling down. The Germans told us that there were many rockslides in that area, and climbing there is not recommended. We took a bit of a break on the ridge, took some pictures, and then decided we should make our way back down. We were ready for a hearty dinner, and I was ready to fall asleep afterwards. Our walk down was much easier than the ascent. It was, however, a bit more perilous than I expected. I found the best way to get down these paths was to run down them until we reached relatively flat ground. While walking I seemed to slip and stumble a bit more than I did while I was running. Perhaps part of the reason for running was hunger. Dinner may be the only thing I am punctual for, I think it’s because I have priorities. It was surprising how much faster walking down was. My brother would have been in his glory. On our way down to where the church is we were in the middle of a heard of cattle. These cattle made me feel a bit inadequate because they were navigating the rocky slopes with such ease. One of the hazards of our journey down was trying to avoid the cow pies; they had peppered the trail with reckless abandon. Heading back into civilization we took a couple of unknown turns on our way to the homestay. These turns put us right into the middle of mountain neighborhoods seemingly unaffected by, and uninterested in tourists. There were children playing, mangy dogs, delicious smells emanating from windows, chickens strutting around, some pigs, we even saw a horse. We went down an alley to a new neighborhood and were quickly directed back to the tourist track, and it was necessarily done in the friendliest of manners. I cannot say I blame them, though, because there was really no reason for us to be there other than curiosity, and an inability to stay on the right path. Luckily, though we got back to our path and made it back in time for our dinner. It was hearty and delicious. After dinner there was not much to do, so it was early to bed. Upon waking this next morning we filed into a marshrutka and got ready for a crowded three hours back to Tbilisi. We were stopped a number of times on the way back. We had to make way for mountain cattle. A number of sheep decided to hang out in front of the van for awhile, as well. Ultimately, we did return successfully. It was actually significantly faster going on the return. I guess going down mountains is easier than climbing them, even for automobiles, who knew? At this point I will take a brief intermission. I didn’t expect this to be so long, so my apologies, and thank you if you are still reading.

The three of us in front of the Rodina Mat in Kyiv

At the Ukrainian Nationalist Restaurant Kriyvka in Lviv (Slava Ukraini!)

Train station in Krakow

Budapest and the Danube

Hungarian Parliament Building

It isn’t laziness that keeps me from writing, or documenting things, I think it is more embarrassment that I won’t be able to properly convey what I wish to. This is sometimes a problem for me. It is easy to set things out in a facts-only style but that takes the emotion out of them, and hence, I think, the importance. But, for what it’s worth, I’ll try here to reflect and to give proper credence to what I’m reflecting on. It’s also strange that this current post is not about anything life-threatening, or awe inspiring in any sort of traditional way. Simply, it is just my trip with friends around Eastern Europe. Pat and the One Man Party (Dan Moriarty) recently came to visit. This was a month and a half ago. We stayed in Kyiv a few nights, followed by a trip to Lviv, a border crossing into Poland to enjoy a few nights in Krakow before parting ways after Budapest (I will not separate Buda from Pest, they were unified as one city far too long ago for me to find that distinction still relevant). I have to say that a visit from friends is truly humbling. It is common that we, as men, have difficulty stating our true regard for those we are closest to. It is hard to refer to men as friends as opposed to buddies, pals, or the guys I have a beer with. But, there are some friendships which are far deeper than these descriptions imply. To have two people, not blood related fly over an entire ocean and continent to visit is flattering, but I as wrote earlier truly humbling. I have no desire to go into a discourse on friendship, and the values therein, but suffice it to say I truly appreciate having friends that are willing to brave 5,000 miles of travel to see me, and I hope I, abrasive as I can be, am worthy of having these types of relationships. Now that this has been touched on briefly, and hopefully I haven’t lost too many “man points,” let’s get back into the real reason for this; a reflection on our trip together, and my first exit from Ukraine. We did the general tour of Kyiv. Touched on things like the parliament, Verkhovna Rada, Marinsky Park, enjoyed a trip to an Irish pub – yeah, I take two Irish guys from New England to an Irish pub when they travel abroad, I have no shame. We also saw the Chernobyl Museum, which was far improved from my previous visit. We took a walk down Andriyvsky Uzviz, which is St. Andrew’s Descent, leading from behind St. Michael’s to Podil, we even went up the funicular the funicular, or course goes to Podil. We saw Kyiv’s Orthodox splendor by way of the golden domes of St. Volodomyr’s Cathedral, St. Sophia’s, and St. Michael’s. We went to the Cave Monastery, as well. Unfortunately, the first time we went to the caves, however, we missed being able to enter by about a half hour. We made a meandering way down a hill and serendipitously ran into a metro stop that brought us back into the main part of the city for dinner, and perhaps that was when Moriarty received an injection, at the Doctor’s Bar. We were able to make it the caves the next day, and enjoyed the slow march through the catacombs with the holy men of Russian Orthodoxy. After two and a half days in the capital we made our way west to the heart of Ukraine, at least Ukrainian Ukraine, the center of patriotism and Ukrainian culture, Lviv. Lviv is the city of Lions. It has been known as Lemberg while it was a part of the Austro-Hungarian Emprie, it has been known as Lwow when part of Poland, Lvov during Soviet times, and it is finally Lviv. All the positive things I said about Lviv in my last post continue to be true. It is still by far my favorite city in Ukraine. We really did not have much time in Lviv. Had I thought the trip out more, or had I been to Lviv before my parents came I would have cut out one of the nights in Kyiv for more to in Lviv, but alas it was not to be. Even still, the short amount of time we did have was more than enough to enjoy the city. As in the earlier post, we truly did get a Central European feel while in Lviv. It was a good way to acclimate myself for what was to come: a trip into the EU!!! We walked across the border from Ukraine into Poland, after a two hour marshrutka. If you have read previously you may remember what a marshrutka is, but in case you’re unaware just imagine a bus, and cram as many people as you can into that bus, and then cram more people into that bus, and then make it 96 ºF and then don’t allow anybody to open a window. Also, make sure nobody is smiling. You’ll have a bit of picture of a marshrutka, but it is still not enough to read about it. It is a must have experience. The border is about two hours from Lviv. It is pretty exciting walking across a border, it almost feels illicit, like I’m running from or escaping from something (don’t read into that statement). For me, there was a palpable difference as soon as I crossed from Ukrainian border control, into the Polish version. I attribute it to the European Union, but I’m not economist, psychologist, political scientist, or anyone else that would be able to put an accurate cause to the attitudinal difference. The border guard first smiled and when he saw my passport asked me in English what I was bringing with me. He searched my bag (Ukraine has really, really, really, really, really cheap tobacco so that is sometimes brought in undeclared), and then told me to enjoy my time in Poland. It was really incredible. The next person to talk to was the guard that checked and stamped the passport. She took my passport, and also smiled (which started to worry me), she then said “Peter,” and looked up, “Pan Peter,” (pan is a Polish title, similar to the way we use mister, but actually closer to sir) “Peter Pan!” She stamped my passport, gave it back and told me to enjoy my time in Poland, as well. It was really a great welcome to a country that I did not have high expectations for. There was a bus waiting to take us into a larger town where we would catch our train into Krakow. I was further impressed in this little town. Before we bought our tickets, we changed money. I was further impressed when the guy behind the counter noticed I didn’t understand what he was saying (in Polish), and switched into German. When he saw I still didn’t know he said he did not speak English, but when I said I knew Ukrainian he gave me perfect directions, in Ukrainian. This, keep in mind, was not Krakow, this was in a small town close the Ukrainian border. The train to Krakow was not the fastest, or the most comfortable, but it brought us in nonetheless and dumped us at a station with wonders I hadn’t seen in months. Things like Mountain Dew, and Dr. Pepper. The list goes on, but I’d rather stop there. Our hostel was a twenty, maybe thirty minute walk from the train station, but we found it no problem, got ourselves situated and headed out into the city to have some dinner, and do some looking around. Krakow far exceeded my expectations. As far as this trip went, it was my favorite of the places we visited. It was small scale, and damn old. The city is carved by the Vistula, and is the former stomping grounds of Pope John Paul II. We spent most of our time in the Old Town. A relatively small area dominated by a large square, towers, cathedrals, and anchored by the Wawel Castle. The Old Town was also partially enclosed by a wall, of which one gate is still remaining. The city felt vibrant. It is a city full of university students, and there is a certain energy and optimism one can feel there. There were coffee shops, and public bathrooms that wouldn’t take years off a human life. One of the highlights of this portion of the trip was a golf-cart tour of Krakow. This brought us through the Old Town, the Jewish Quarter and down to Schindler’s Factory. Unfortunately, our time in Krakow was brief. We did not have time to do the Salt Mines, or to visit Auschwitz, but I have decided that I would be remiss not to visit Auschwitz being that it is so close. Perhaps next summer, perhaps in winter, but I will do it. I feel that seeing something like Auschwitz is something that has to be done when there is sufficient time to digest it, and it probably would have been cheapened to do it on the run. I would be lying if I said I did not eat KFC in Krakow. It was deep fried, and disgustingly delish, the flavor only surpassed by the shame, and they didn’t even offer the Double Down. Next to the train station there is a mall. I have heard that there was once a nice square where this mall was, but as I have never experienced the square, I will say I enjoyed the mall, and did not begrudge it its place. The mall was full of western brands, and even had an English language bookstore with books about current events, foreign policy. It was all I could do not to spend far too much money there. There is an outdoor café which is part of a hotel next to this mall. We sat there waiting to catch our next train, and make our way to Budapest. This was the same time as the World Cup Final. It was disappointing, but we had to leave at halftime to catch our train, and were not able to see Spain emerge victorious. Perhaps this was better; I would have felt bad watching the Netherlands drop the ball yet again. I have a soft spot for the Low Countries, I don’t know why. We did, however, catch our train, and acquainted ourselves with some Danes in the next compartment over. These Danes disappointed me beyond words. I asked them if they considered Denmark Scandinavian, and they said yes. I have vehemently denied Danish Scandanvianism for months now. Last time I checked there were three countries in that peninsula, and Denmark wasn’t one of them. I’ve decided to let this one lie, I don’t think I can refudiate (that’s a word, right Mrs. Palin?) this one. It was disappointing to say the least, even more so because I hate admitting defeat, especially on such trifling matters. We arrived in Budapest the next morning, perhaps around ten perhaps I’m just not good at remembering. Maybe Pat will let me see his notes someday. He’s always been much more scientific in his observations. The train station in Budapest which most of the international trains come into and go out of is a big old station, and it is dirty, smelly, and busy. It was not an auspicious start to the city, but within 30 minutes we were in the heart of the beautiful area of the city. As we made our way closer to the Danube the more beautiful the city became. I must profess my ignorance, before I came to Ukraine I had not heard much about Budapest, especially Budapest as a travel destination. But, it is definitely a place to see. It is full of spires, and cathedrals, and castles, and a beautiful esplanade. It has parks, and bath houses. The gorgeous river, and the list goes on. The architecture of Budapest was unlike anything I have ever seen before. Not in total, but there were many, many spires, and actually upon reflection the tops of buildings were maybe most similar to some I saw in Tbilisi. We started our time in Budapest in a large touristy market. Full of traditional and authentic knickknacks, my companions were in their glory. And, cheap as I have become I was in shock at the amount of money changing hands all over the place. I decided to join in on the fun, though, and got a super touristy t-shirt, and a little drawing of the Hungarian Parliament building (if you have never seen the parliament building from Budapest you should look it up online, it is gorgeous). This short spell of knickknacking was followed by a lunch of traditional Hungarian food. To be clear, I’m not positive when Hungarian is appropriate, and when Magyar is appropriate. I know the language is called Magyar, but because I have no interest in being a cultural authority I will call everything else Hungarian. Hungarian food is quite tasty. For me, this meal consisted of a big ole leg of goose, some roasted potatoes, and a dish of tomatoes and garlic. If I remember correctly, Pat and Dan both got the goulash (which I didn’t know was Hungarian), and some sort of veal dish which may not have been mutually exclusive. After rinsing our mouths out with the juice of the barley we were ready to go do some exploring of the city. We decided on the Hop On – Hop Off bus. It was actually a much more thorough tour than I expected. It was even very informative. We had headphones plugged into the bus that told us what we were seeing. My only complaints with the recorded tour were the corny jokes at the end of the each explanation. But, I did learn some interesting tidbits. For once, did you know that the Budapest Zoo had one of the few zoos in the world where hippos mate? It’s the thermal waters from one of the bathhouses that are thought to put these hippos in such a romantic state. We spent some time in the Buda Castle, and underneath the castle we enjoyed a labyrinth. The labyrinth, had been redone to be an art exhibit, but it was quite cool. We got to carry lanterns, and go exploring underneath the castle. There was a wine fountain deep in the labyrinth, but this wine was supposedly not for drinking. There was also a modern art exhibit which mocked modern man, and its total focus on a comsumeristic society. The exhibit was in English and Magyar, and it claimed there is no longer art in the modern western world, nor is there any place for intellectual study or development, this was a little too hippy for me. We finished the labyrinth as the sun was setting, and were able to sit in a café overlooking the Danube watching evening descend on Budapest. It was pretty awe inspiring, especially the Parliament building lighting up. It is a majestic city, and I’m embarrassed I did not, and do not know more about its history, especially the times of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. I took the train back to Ukraine, and Pat and Dan flew back stateside from Budapest. There was a really difficult fifteen minutes I had, when we parted. I sat down at a Coffee Heaven drinking an iced coffee, and lamenting the fact that we were getting on two different time machines. They were going back in time 7 hours, and I was going back about 30 years. After that fifteen minutes finished I remembered that, as a man, I had to push those emotions deep, deep down where they belong, and get on with it. With my tail between my legs I made my way to the train station, and got ready to return to the land where salo reigns, and customer service is scarce. I was in a train compartment with a Russian guy living in Ukraine, and actually had an enjoyable time talking and hanging out with him. He insisted I help him with his beer, though there wasn’t much arm twisting necessary, but I did draw the line when he asked if I’d like to help him out with the hard stuff. I felt that would be a bad idea, especially being that we were avoiding topics that we knew we’d disagree about, though I won’t go into what those issues are in the interest of anyone non-American reading these words. Getting back into country was difficult. I’m no longer even talking about the emotional implications of getting on that train. At the border we stopped for 3 hours. The train tracks in the former Soviet Union are a different gauge than those in the rest of Europe, and so, not only did we have border control, we had to wait while every single one of the wheels on the train was changed. This happened around midnight, and caused the train to lurch, and go, and stop, and start and repeat. It was virtually impossible to sleep during this point, and I had no energy to get off the train, so I was left to stare at the ceiling and pretend I was asleep. But, I made it through, and back into Zhmerynka safe and sound. That’s all I know about this, but, when we return, sometime in the near future, I’ll go over my trip to Georgia (Republic of). Hope things are well. And, just keep the number 46 in mind. Be well, and be good. Pete

After a brief hiatus I am back again. My apologies for the long delay, I was running around for a bit of the time, lying down for part of it, and reading books throughout the remainder; oh, what a learned man I’ve become. So, today is the 26th of July, I’m not sure when I’ll post this, probably within the next day or two, but I’ll date it just in case it is longer. I’ll break the past month into a couple of posts; today will focus on my trip around Ukraine with my parents, and Celia (my sister). About three weeks ago, I saw my parents off from Boryspil International Airport. That means we all made it through in one piece, physically and emotionally. Ukraine is not the most tourist friendly place in the world, so I will admit that having my family here was a bit stressful. This is something I blame on Ukraine, and not on my family, to be clear. I say this because it is virtually impossible, to find any sort of English in the country, other than on menus in some of the restaurants. Before I go further, I should give a few thank yous. Of course, to my parents, I packed them down with an entire suitcase’s worth of things I had requested from books, to chili powder, and appreciate them lugging it over here for me. Also, to Mark at Updike’s Newtowne, a tremendous amount of good coffee came my way, which I cannot say how much I appreciate. I just finished the Papua New Guinea, and opened the Newtowne’s House bag this morning. Coffee is one of the best ways to bring myself home for a few minutes. On that note, thank you, also, to Mr. Eastman for making your coffee contribution – my morning’s give their regards. Also thank you to Diane Schaeffer, again your kindness is appreciating, and humbling. It is always nice to have a pair of flip-flops especially when the summer is as hot as it is here. Thank you to Auntie Sue for giving me a gummy-bear/various American candies fix, and to anyone I have forgotten it is not intentional, and my apologies. We started the trip in Kyiv (Kyiv is the same as Kiev, but it is the Ukrainian spelling, appropriate for a Ukrainian city, no?) and spent a few days in the city that begat the Kyivan Rus, the civilization that fathered modern Russia, Belarus, and Ukraine. We saw almost the entire city, and perhaps the total touristy area. While we were in Kyiv, our first day was low key – I did not want to push my jet-lagged family too far, too fast. However, we did get a nice tour of the city from our cab driver Ivan. He gave us a pretty decent rate, the only problem was that he refused to speak in Ukrainian to me. He answered every question I asked in Russian, which is a bit draining, because I don’t know Russian. This first night we ate at a river boat on the Dnipro. The restaurant was good, but it was a pain to get to. We had to walk about a mile from the metro stop, past countless other restaurants, to a place where there was no commerce, through a road-work zone, and then finally at the end of the road work zone we reached the restaurant. It served traditional Ukrainian dishes, they gave us a shot of horilka (Ukrainian word for vodka), and a piece of salo on bread. Salo is pig fat, and Ukrainians love it! But, we also had real meal food as well. I had some pork shashyk, which is pork cooked over an open fire on skewers, it is a great way to prepare pork, we had holuptsi, ground beef and rice rolled in a boiled cabbage leaf served usually in a tomato sauce. I’m sure Mom or Dad had some borsch, with a dollop of sour cream. We had pelmeni, little meat dumplings, and for dessert there was cherry-filled dumplings which were pretty enjoyable. Our second day we spent most of our time at the cave monastery, the Pecherska Lavra. Before getting to the monastery though, I managed to get us pretty lost, which was great fun, and not embarrassing at all. The Pecherska Lavra is a very holy site for the Russian Orthodox Church, it is linked to the Moscow patriarchate, not the Ukrainian patriachate. It is the traditional golden-domed cathedral, but on a much larger scale. It was taken over by the Soviets, and very little was destroyed during the Second World War, or by the Soviet atheism which has made a portion of the monastery a secular museum – museums, according to John Steinbeck in A Russian Journal were the churches of the Soviet Union. But, I digress. Our tour guide was very knowledgeable about the Lavra, and gave a nice tour. But, if I am being honest, I will say that it went a bit long for me. The big highlight of the cave monastery is the caves. In the caves many of the monks who have lived at the monastery are buried, and some have been naturally mummified. This was what I was very interested in, but it took us about 2 and a half hour to finally get through the tour and down to the caves. When we finally got to the caves it was a bit lackluster. Honest as we are we chose to do the “Excursion Route,” and not the “Prayer Route.” The Excursion Route was really quite short, we were in and out of the caves in about 10 minutes. This was a lesson I learned (with the help of a more knowledgeable friend, for the visit of Pat and Dan a week later). The second evening was a Saturday evening, and if you remember it was the Saturday evening in which our dear country’s national soccer team was beat by Ghana. Watching the game was very important to me. So, while the family enjoyed a truly culturally evening taking in a Tchaikovsky ballet at the National Opera, I went to an Irish Pub full of Americans to watch the game. About half time the ballet finished, and luckily it was only about a five minute walk from the pub I watched the game at. I collected the family and we watched as the American soccer team showed us the worst performance of the World Cup. I was a bit heartbroken by the result. Losing is not something I enjoy (though I am an avid Providence College basketball fan), so when I got back to the hostel I stayed at, I went to the CIA World Factbook and I looked up Ghana’s per capita GDP, and life expectancy, and I realized that ultimately, while Ghana, on Sunday morning would still be in the World Cup, that is about the only victory they have; it made me feel slightly better, even if it does sound bad to admit. Sunday was our third day together. We had a large part of the day in Kyiv, and then around 5 PM we packed into a train car for the 18 journey to the Autonomous Republic of the Crimea – Simferopol to be exact. But, before we did that we took a bit of a walking tour of the city. We went to St. Volodomyr’s Cathedral and then up to the National Opera House. After the Opera we went down to Saint Sophia’s. Saint Sophia’s is in a square that looks out upon the statue of Bohdan Khmelnitsky and then further down to Saint Michael’s Cathedral. My dad was particularly interested in Saint Sophia’s because it was said to be modeled on the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul (not Constantinople), but we were not able to see that. Saint Sophia’s also is no longer open as a place of worship, it was turned into a museum during Soviet times, and it has not been reconsecrated. Unfortunately, we were not able to see any part of the museum that looked like the Hagia Sophia, but it did have a really nice lawn. We headed up to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs building, and then down to Kreschatyk, one of the main commercial streets in the country. On the weekends Kreschatyk is closed to motor traffic, so we were able to walk right in the middle of this large thoroughfare and over to Independence Square. Independence Square was the site of the protests during the Orange Revolution of 2004, so may be familiar to those who were interested in international affairs 5 years back (I was more interested in college basketball back then). Independence Square is the home to a statue of Michael the Archangel, protector of Kyiv, and also of a large monument to a woman which was erected to celebrate, shockingly, independence. It was a pretty slow day, and we followed this up with a walk down to the train station. I am disgustingly cheap now, so I did not recommend a cab, or taking the metro, so unfortunately, my poor mother got a couple of blisters on her feet, having done the long walk in sandals. After our 18 hour train ride we arrived in Simferopol, found an apartment, and headed down to Bakhchisaray. This town is now the center of Crimean Tatar culture. The Tatars were deported from the Crimea to Uzbekistan by Stalin shortly after World War II, and just recently allowed to come back. When they left all of their land was taken, and much of the culture had been destroyed; as well as many of the people killed during transit. However, the Tatar people are making a renewed name for themselves, and this is a great example of their success. Bakhchisaray is the home to a phenomenal palace, the Khan’s Palace. A khan was the leader of a khanate, basically like a king, but more truly, from what I can tell more akin to a prince in a small principality if we are to use western Europe as our frame of reference. Khanates were traditionally in areas dominated by Islam – Crimea, Turkey, the Caucasus, Persia, Central Asia, and the like. The palace itself was great. It was full of fountains, and beautiful carpets, and includes a number of mosques, and a few minarets. After the Khan’s Palace we ate at a restaurant serving traditional Tatar food. We had beef, and lamb shashlyk, we had plov (which is basically rice pilaf), and the lavash-style bread. It was delicious, and the restaurant was open air and looked right over the palace. There are also some pretty extraordinary rock formations in this area of the country, so it was really a beautiful place to spend the day. The next day we grabbed a bus to Yalta. Yalta is where the famous peace conference was held at the end of World War II, with the Big Two, and Churchill, who somehow managed to convince Stalin, and Roosevelt he was significant, to the matter. Yalta is a city right on the Black Sea, and is one of the most popular tourist destinations in Ukraine, and in the entirety of the former Soviet Union, for that matter. It is famous for the Swallow’s Nest, a castle that sits on a cliff jutting out over the sea. We caught a cab out to the area of the Swallow’s Nest, and it was definitely a beautiful place to see. We also passed a summer house owned by Medvedev (president of the Russian Federation). It is too bad, but we did not have much time while we were in Yalta, and were unable to go to the beach, or jump into the sea, but it was a beautiful place to be. This brought us to back to the train station, and towards the west of the country. We made a quick pit-stop in my town, Zhmerynka, and had dinner with some friends in town, which was nice. We did not have much time in my area, so we took a bus to the local city, went to the park, quickly, and then made our way back for dinner. The real reason we went to the city was so I could show the area near me, which is beautiful in the summer. After this break we went to Lviv. Lviv is now my favorite city in Ukraine. It is in the west of the country, and it is the center of Ukrainian national identity, and patriotism. The other great thing about it is that people speak Ukrainian in Lviv, and they speak clear Ukrainian without using Russian words – it is wonderful. Lviv is much more Central European than Ukrainian in appearance. We spent most of our time in the old town, and I did not see one Soviet-style apartment block. For me the reason to be in Lviv was to relax and be in a nice city, that is beautiful, but we did end up going to a museum while we were there. The museum was in a top secret location on every map, but impossible to find. There were no signs on the street, and we had to go up tree-lined residential streets until we made our way through a forest. It was a really convenient location. One of the highlights for me was the restaurant we went to. I forget the name, but at the restaurant we had to knock on the door and give a password – Slava Ukraini (glory to Ukraine) heroam slava (glory to the heroes). When we entered we were met by a man in fatigues with a Kalishnikov. He wanted to make sure we were not moscals, an epithet for Russians, and Russian-speaking Ukrainians. After he was properly satisfied we were welcomed in and given a shot of cinnamon schnapps to warm us. We enjoyed our meal, including the half-meter sausage ordered by my dad. That was a hell of a lot of sausage. Our second day in Lviv was much the same as the first (the museum was actually on the second day), but we ended it at a café on the central square. The food was good, the price reasonable, and we were given the added bonus of being within earshot of an American bride-hunter and his newly betrothed. I find bride-hunters despicable in general, but this dude was out of hand. His topic of conversations were his motorcycle, followed by impressive combinations of profanity, complaints about Obama in which a certain n-bomb was dropped, back to his motorcycle. This guy disgusted, and infuriated me, and it is probably good that my mother was there so I kept my mouth shut, and did not cause a scene. It was really embarrassing though, that many people who have never met an American will see/hear this guy and think we are like that – here’s hoping he doesn’t wear his helmet on his next ride. We made or way back to Kyiv on a high-speed train that went through the night, and was about three hours faster than most trains on that route. This was our last day in Kyiv, as early the next morning the family was shipping out. We put our stuff in the hotel, and made our way out into the city. While getting tokens for the metro (the subway), I gave the woman exact change, and asked for four tokens. She gave me three, and then stared at me. So I told her to give me the fourth. She just stared at me blankly. So I looked at the money she had collected from me, counted it, and told her to give me the third token. She refused to give me the token. It took me yelling at her (don’t worry I addressed her with the formal you), and an increasing line before she would give the fourth token. It was incredibly infuriating, but I felt so much better after I yelled at her. It was really empowering, I should try that more often here. But, once we met up with friends we headed to Independence Square, followed by Marinksy Park, and Palace, where the president of Ukraine lives (usually, but not now because it is undergoing repairs). We then headed down to the museum for the great famines during Soviet times – it was dedicated to famines but focused mostly on the Great Famine – The Holodomor – of 1932-33. It was a pretty well done museum, simple, but very powerful, and it included books for all the oblasts of Ukraine and listed the numbers of people killed in various towns and villages, and names of many of the victims. The museum was built in the shape of a candle, and on the outside has a stork flying upwards in symbolism of the rebirth of the Ukrainian nation. Russian President Medvedev, has even visited, which is noteworthy, because Putin refused to recognize the famine as purposely created which was a source of conflict between former Ukrainian President Yushenko, and his Russian counterparts. Following the museum we went on to Tequila House, a Mexican restaurant in the Ukrainian capital. I had a big frozen margarita, and a burrito. Friends of mine from Zhmerynka came with us, and they had not had Mexican food in the past, so we decided it would be an appropriate stop. The burritos were good, too. It was too much food for me, which is a bit embarrassing, but it’s true. Afterwards, we made our way back to the hotel. Spain and Paraguay were playing in the World Cup, but we were too exhausted to do anything other than pack up and prepare to leave in the morning. So, on the Fourth of July, I sent the family home. Luckily they made it through the airport as the final group allowed on their plane before the gates were closed . . . it would have been a bit embarrassing if they had been unsuccessful. But, that is all I know about that trip – perhaps soon I will write about the journey to Krakow and Budapest, with Pat Mulligan, and Dan Moriarty, we shall see. Be good, and be well. Pete

There were a number of things I was planning on writing about since my last post . . . The Tchaikovsky museum (here is a picture of what is perhaps Swan Lake, but painfully beautiful regardless),

the indoctrination of some of my students at a Russian Orthodox convent (difficult to see for one who believes strongly in a separation of church and state), and a number of other things, but alas I am remiss in my documentation. By the way, I do have some new albums up on Facebook. The links are here:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2090843&id=17600435&l=080a13623e

You don’t need to be a Facebook member to see the pictures, just click on the link and you should be fine. What else has happened in the meantime? Well, one Ski Krieger, and I regret that he will not read this public denunciation, had decided that he would like to step out of my shadow (a shadow so big it encompasses all of Ukraine, or Україна, as they say here) and gone home to sunny Salt Lake City (I hear they have the best beer in Utah). I have lost my passport bidding young Ski adieu. I have watched the United States soccer team draw two matches (really, we can’t beat Slovenia, it’s hardly even an independent country). I have watched almost every other World Cup game. I have bought tickets to Georgia (Republic of, not state of) for an August vacation. I have bought tickets home to the land of the free in October for a 10 day visit. And finally, I have looked as Un-Ukrainian as humanly possible at a local bar, all the while counting down the days to the arrival of my parents and sister and then of course the arrival of the one we have affectionately called Bayside, and the One Man Party: Dan Moriarty. For those of you who have not yet planned to visit me, do not be alarmed you still have 17 months left, but don’t delay they go faster than you think. First, on to the departure of the young Ski: Good riddance, we don’t take kindly to intellectual folk like you, anyway. My only regret with Ski is that at no time did I make abundantly clear the level of absolute disdain I have for him, and his kind (smart Libertarians). But, in seriousness, I do regret Ski’s departure, however he moves on to greener pastures in the world of academe. The young scholar is however, required to make a trip back to Eurasia before I leave Ukraine, namely to the tumultuous Kyrgyz Republic. As I mentioned, it was in seeing Ski off (kind of) that I lost my passport. It is not a comfortable feeling to walk around without your passport, and have all the places you call not know where it is (or what you’re saying in a pidgin form of their language). It was unfortunate, but I resigned myself to getting a new passport, with the help of the embassy in Kyiv, and hoping for it to come prior to my trip to Krakow and Budapest. To see Ski off I went up to Kyiv, to meet up with him, and our friend Sam. We did many things in Kyiv, but most revolved around walking around the main sights Independence Square, and Kreschatyk, and then drinking beer. Unfortunately the bar was out of Guinness, and Newcastle just does not travel well. When it was time to leave, we decided that we all might as well go back to where I live, so really it was an anti-climactic farewell. So, we jumped on a trail at 11:30 PM, after a classy meal of McDonalds and wine near the train station. We stumbled into my town (because of sleepiness, not the oil of conversation), at about 4:30 in the morning, and anyone that tells me how peaceful the sunrise is, is a liar! It didn’t make the walk any nicer, or shorter. The following day we headed to a town a bit southeast of us, called Haisyn (or Gaisyn if you prefer Russian), to keep another male volunteer company as his wife hosted a girls’ night/Mary Kay party/ baking party. We, or at least I, had a good time, with good people. The ride to town was through more of the Ukrainian countryside which is now full of storks. These birds are phenomenally large, and must scare the hell out of the babies they are delivering, unless the babies are asleep. The image on my grandparents’ Ensign (sailboat) of the stork and baby did not do justice to the size of these things . . . I was shocked. I’ll include a picture of one of the storks I have seen here, but I don’t know that it will do justice. In terms of the passport, as I mentioned above, it was terrifying being without it. Ukrainian police, have the ability to ask any one for their documents at any time. Furthermore, they have the authority to detain anybody for 72 hours without charges. (I don’t mean this as a criticism, simply by means of explaining my apprehension.) The reason for this is in an attempt to curb the amount of undocumented workers in Ukraine, and it is a legitimate police mission. But, being without the passport I just saw myself getting stopped in Kyiv, stumbling over my clumsy Ukrainian and starting an international incident of sorts. I was not relieved when, after calling the bank we had been to, and the restaurant we had eaten at there was still not sign of my passport. So, throwing caution to the wind, I decided to go to Kyiv to watch the USA – England game last weekend. As soon as I got to Kyiv, and went to the Peace Corps office, the guard told me they had my passport . . . and they did; Turkmenistan visa, and all. Really, the Turkmenistan visa was my biggest cause of concern, I kind of like having it. It is pretty cool, and a good conversation starter. Kyiv was unbearably hot last weekend. I took a cool shower at the office, and by the time I was upstairs again I was unsure of whether I was damp from the shower, or the sweat. I did not have much to do, so I decided to spend the day watching World Cup games at an Irish pub. I had fried calamari rings, a beer or two, and an Irish coffee here. It was incredible, like a taste of being home (with the calamari) and a reminder of the trip to the Jameson Distillery with my brother, and my dad (with the Irish coffee). The only issue is that those two items alone cost what I am paid for two days. I saw Korea win 2 – 0 over Greece, and Argentina give a disappointing 1 – 0 victory over Nigeria. I will say here, that prior to Thursday night I had been completely underwhelmed by this World Cup. The goals per game average was at a mediocre 1.6 or so. But, Switzerland has beat Spain, Serbia beat Germany, and the matches became a littler more exciting. As a soccer fan, I appreciate games that are tight defensive affairs, but sloppy soccer, and no goals is no fun for anyone, even a soccer fan. However, we are getting into the nitty-gritty and these games are going to start getting fun (case in point the US – Slovenia game last night, and even the scoreless England – Algeria game was great to watch). After the first two games, I decided to head back to the Peace Corps office for a bit. I took advantage of the internet to buy my tickets to Georgia (I’m really excited about this, the Caucasus was where I initially wanted to go, other than Central Asia). On my way out for the next game I met up with two other volunteers who had just seen a ballet. We went to the other Irish pub in Kyiv to watch the game. This was phenomenal it was full of expat Americans and Limey Brits (I know, I know, Englishman). We were a few minutes late, but came in just in time for that ridiculous goal by Gerrard. I was in so much shock I couldn’t even ask the waitress for a table. I was just staring at the television like a child who has just seen that the Mickey Mouse at DisneyWorld is only an actor. You would have thought my dog, if I had a dog, had died. Ultimately, one of my less distraught companions was able to acquire a table in the front corner of the basement, right in front of a huge TV. When Clint Dempsey scored perhaps the funniest goal I’ve ever seen, there was an aura of disbelief in the entire pub. The Americans almost immediately started celebrating the equalizer, though. To say we were happy with the draw would be a lie, but we weren’t too upset. This brings us to the beginning of the week that just passed. I spent Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday at school. We were helping the 9th grade students prepare for their state examination. When I say preparing them, they were indoctrinating them. The teacher basically wanted me to write 6 sentences about the topics, and the students to memorize exactly what I wrote. It is something I know I should take a stand on, but I can’t bring myself to start this conflict right before summer vacation. There are only so many walls you can beat your head against before you get a concussion. Picking my battles has been a tough decision. Luckily, after these sessions I have been able to use the sedative effects of international soccer, and watch the games. Getting caught up in the games is enough to keep my mind off the systemic things I am not happy about. Wednesday, however, was pretty irredeemable. I went school for the exam, corrected all of the exams as the other teachers just sat around doing nothing, and then was told after that they needed me to go home to get a book and bring it back to school that day. On my way home I stopped by the market to pick up something for lunch. I wanted some pre-sliced salami. It was in the cooler, and I grabbed it. When I brought the package to the check-out girl she had trouble scanning it. So, she looked at the package, and clearly saw the price. Did she say: “It costs 10.99 UAH.”? No, she said, you cannot buy this. All the red Irish ire rushed to my face and I said a bunch of really angry bad English words, but luckily, I’m improving my self control and was able to say them under my breath. But, this really killed the rest of my day. I was so angry, and in fact even writing about it now it still infuriates me. It was the type of day in which I wanted to punch ever single person I saw between the market, and my apartment. However, punching host-country nationals out of frustration does not fulfill any of the three parts of the Peace Corps mission, so I refrained. After the annoying day, my friends in town took me out to pick mushrooms. This was really the saving grace of the day. The country here, as I have said again and again, I know, is just absolutely beautiful. And, even though the only mushrooms I located were poisonous and would have killed us, it was still a nice break from the every day. But, I also mentioned I was able to make myself the most Un-Ukrainian looking person ever at a local bar. I should preface with the fact that my Ukrainian friends have told me that I will never look like a Ukrainian. An American, they say, is obvious from the hope and confidence gleaming for their eyes. This may be an accurate description. But last night after spending time with my friends I returned to the pub where I watched the US – Slovenia game. I had ordered a couple of beers while watching the US game, because I don’t want people to start questioning my manhood, but they of course knew I was American when I started cheering loudly for the US goals, especially the equalizer. I, of course, apologized for my boisterous behavior, but they seemed to enjoy the spectacle, they being the bar staff, as I was the only person in the pub. I wanted to watch the England – Slovenia game, as well. So, when I went back at sat at the bar. First thing I did is take the book I’m reading out of my back pocket. Anywhere I go this is met with amusement, but it was almost shocking here. After settling in the barman came over, and said “Zibert nul pyat?” (Zibert (type of beer) half liter?” to which I responded with a no, thanks, but I’ll have a Fanta orange soda. Now, I don’t know if any man over the age of 12 has ever ordered an orange soda at this bar, but the people next to me started staring at me. Further they were shocked that I was at the bar, and not smoking cigarettes. They ultimately must have found me relatively harmless because they started talking, and figuring I was an English speaker decided to practice their English, which was nice for me. But they made some comments about my lack of beer for the second game. So, when I got up to leave, and they said “come on, one beer,” I decided to oblige. The conversation then came around to the usual topics. Do you know our language? To which I always ask which language they mean by theirs, and then tell them I don’t know Russian, but I know a little Ukrainian. Do you know our history? Sure, I do. Name the hetmans (Cossack leaders). So I go through the litany of the names on my money. What about our girls? They are very pretty, I respond. Do you have a wife? No, I’m far too young for that, I say. Do you want one? Not yet, my answer. Okay, you be careful, then, many girls here want to go the America (I had already figured this one out, though). It frequently ends with why is America so powerful, and why isn’t Ukraine. This is always the most difficult question, because I have to be diplomatic in the answer. The disdain and disgust with communism isn’t s common here. I have to try to say what I mean without saying how the Ukrainian country has been raped by Russia, or Soviet Russia for the past three hundred years, and is just now becoming an independent state. Part of the problem, is that frequently, the opinion is that the Soviet partnership was beneficial, even though I think it clearly was not. It usually ends with me expressing my hope for the future of this country as young people become the leaders. And especially with me imploring the people I am talking with to hold their leaders accountable. Not trusting government and doing nothing to improve it leaves you in the same position, I tell them. And I mention how distrustful (for better or worse) we are of government in the US, and tell them that is how to improve. But, then again, I’m only a barstool politician. So, I’ll leave this argument to the pundits. That’s all I’ve got for now though. Coming soon, an update of my full Ukrainian tour with OPB, Gen with a G, and my lovely sister. . . Be good and be well, Pete

Good evening, friends.  I wasn’t planning on writing tonight, so my apologies, as this is sure to be one of my most haphazard yet . . . always set high expectations!  It’s 10:30-ish Tuesday night.  This will most likely be posted tomorrow (Wednesday, the 2nd).  So, not too many new developments since we left each other last.  However, I should write a bit about my birthday.  I had a great birthday, it was May 21.  I’m now 24 years young, well on my way to being able to rent a car, so I got that going for me, which is nice.   I have always found birthdays a silly holiday to celebrate, or at least my birthday.  My grandmother says that all we men are the same.  We never want to let people have fun by spoiling us, and making a big deal over little things.  I wouldn’t necessarily agree, we all like to be spoiled, but I think we like feeling that we deserve the praise and the credit, even if it too lavish.  So, feel free to praise me for anything, just the praise for being born thing is difficult to understand.    But, anyway, I should say that I had a wonderful birthday, I already did say that, but I guess I wanted to reiterate, put some real emphasis on the fact.  (If my writing style is a bit choppy and strange, my apologies, I started reading some Samuel Beckett, and he is confusing the hell out of me, and I’m hoping his bad habits are not seeping into my subconscious.)  For the birthday itself I went to school.  I walked into my classroom to be sang “Happy Birsday” by one of my 6th grade classes.  The “th” sound is virtual impossible, I think, for Ukrainians and Russians because there is no similar sound in their alphabet(s) (I’ll give the plural, though the alphabet is hardly different).  But, it was nice, and sweet of them.  I was given a box of chocolates, and then also three carnations.  They were white carnations with pink stripes – the carnations, not the students, so don’t you go calling my students pinkos.  The day ended after a few classes, and I went home to clean.   For the evening my friends in town, Yana, Seriosha, their daughter Masha, and Ira, came over for dinner.  We were joined by a Peace Corps Volunteer-friend.  Seriosha prepared a pizza, for our dining pleasure.  He, in a style that would make my dad proud, is fond of the Chicago-style deep dish pizza.  And, the pizza is the best pizza I have had while in Ukraine.  We had a Greek salad minus the things I don’t like (feta, and olives), and then desserted on the box of Chocolates, and some truly decadent western chocolates, those Ferraro Roche chocolates, they were phenomenal.    The gifts I got were great also.  Ira gave me a towel that says “Honey Bear,” one of those show towels, that I’m sure my mother will be proud to know I now possess.  It is even already hung over the handle of the stove.  This is an appropriate gift, both because, as we all know I am a Papa-Bear, and also, I have a strange affinity for gummy bears of the Haribo persuasion.  I’ve never done the empirical analysis to determine whether my consumption of gummy bears amounts to cannibalism or not, but I think it doesn’t, I’ll give me the benefit of the doubt.  Also, I received a commemorative coin.  The coin is a 5 hryvnia face-value, and it is a memorial to the genocide of the Ukrainian people.  This genocide was, of course, the Great Famine or holodomor engineered by Josef Stalin.  It is a very somber reminder, and an appropriate memorial to such a tragic event.  (I wanted to see what other special coins have been minted by the National Bank of Ukraine, so I looked at the list online.  I once heard my Uncle Mike (Meegan) describe his dad, my grandfather, as a man who thought “if some is good, more is better.”  Unfortunately, the Ukrainian mint agrees with this.  I say this because, while the coin commemorating the Great Famine is an appropriate reminder, there have been coins minted to commemorate just about anything that has ever happened in Ukrainian history.  This includes a coin celebrating the coins of Ukraine.  On the back of the coin are the images of the 1, 2, 5, 10, and 50 kopek coins, as well as the 1 hryvnia coin.  At the risk of sounding culturally insensitive, I would say its absurd to have coins commemorating half of the things they have coins commemorating.  There are special minted coins (which are legal tender, not just souvenirs) for the animals of the Chinese Calendar, for the different astrological signs, and a variety of other un-memorable things.  I don’t say this to diminish the coin I was given at all, because I found it very cool, and a really interesting gift.  I will attach an image here:

)   So, that takes the day itself off the table.  On the 22nd, a Saturday, with my PCVolunteer-friend I went to see Wehrwolf, this name may not mean anything to you, but it is the name of Hitler’s eastern front bunker.  It is about and hour and a half from where I currently live, in a suburb outside of the local big city.  I was really exited to go here, even though the guidebook mentioned that it is not all that awe-inspiring.  This bunker was said to be state of the art when it was “in business.”  Supposedly it went seven stories under the ground with the latest communication devices (of the time, of course).  There was an underground train depot, and it was rumored to be either a kilometer, or half a kilometer wide – either way pretty substantial, if you ask me, which I’m not sure you would.  This is all true, but I will also say that Hitler only came to the bunker twice, because the Eastern Front was pretty tough.  While I am happy I went, and we got a great walk in, in the area, it was pretty nondescript.  If you did not know it was the Wehrwolf bunker, you would think it was just a random field with some large concrete slabs in the middle.  It is interesting to be able to walk on an area like that, and be in the midst of history, and even stranger, when you are able to walk on an area like that which should generate emotions of some sort, and feel like it is nothing of importance.  I suppose that is what happens, though, when there is no memorial, and no real designation of the place.  It is simply a field that once had a different use, and that is that.   After Wehrwolf, we went to a park in Vinnitsia, and hang out for an hour or so, just sitting, relaxing (and at least on my end, hoping my feet would feel better).  In the park there were pony rides, and a senior-citizen concert and dance.  This was especially surprising, because there are not really events for specialized groups here, especially not groups which may otherwise be isolated.  It was strange, for me, to see older people here that looked like they were happy, and enjoying themselves.  I’d have to say the day hit its zenith right before we left to go back to Zhmerynka.  We stopped by a grocery store, and were treated to Guinness, in cans.  I was like a little kid at Christmas, or a college student on St. Patrick’s Day.  I couldn’t believe I was seeing such a wonderful, and welcoming sight, and, because it was my birthday weekend, I decided to treat myself (though, had it not been my birthday weekend, I would have found a different excuse to treat myself).  Some argue about the bad aspects of globalization, but if I can have McDonalds and Guinness in the same day, well, that’s enough to get me through another week, perhaps even longer.   My birthday weekend also had a Sunday and a Monday (it was a three-day weekend here), but those were pretty uneventful days, and not in need of documentation.  Sunday we went to a park in town, and ate pizza-place pizza.  Monday I was by my lonesome and downloaded 20 hours worth of podcasts (I have some good ones if you’re interested).  I really enjoyed myself, though.  The birthday, and the weekend were great.  This is a beautiful country when the weather is on our side, and I’m trying to take advantage of it while I can.   That is all I know for now . . . maybe for good, but that’s all you’ll get.   Be well and be good,   Pete 

We meet again, so soon, and the pleasure is all mine, I’m sure. When last I left you I was in Kyiv, and was trying to figure out how to spend my day. I had my meeting which was fine, and everything is on the up and up. But, the most enjoyable part of the day in Kyiv, was the train ride home. Grabbing my ticket on the Kyiv-Odessa line I met a couple guys on their way to Odessa for a vacation. These guys were police officers from Siberia. They were from Lake Baikal, which is one of the largest fresh water lakes in the world. They also, kindly, have given me an open invitation to visit the lake. An invitation which I very well may take up after service is over . . . Every now and then the Trans-Siberian Railroad calls my name, but only every now and then. As Siberians, these guys spoke Russian. I learned, poorly, Ukrainian. So, I was communicating to them in the most broken of Russian, but ultimately I was relatively successful, which I was a bit proud of. However, luckily, in the dining car on the train we met a man, Sasha (Sasha is a nickname for Olecksander, the Russian/Ukrainian version of Alexander), who spoke fluent Russian, English, and Spanish, and he became our friend and translator. Sasha, himself, was a pretty interesting guy. He was born in the Ural Mountains (in Russia), lived for a few years in Cuba, and now is a resident of Odessa. Also, he was drinking a water glass full of cognac, and I don’t know how but it didn’t seem to affect him in any way. I still don’t know why cognac is so popular here, but it is such awful stuff, in my opinion. But, it is pretty common here to share what you have in terms of food and drink with those on the train with you. So, my Siberian friends decided to share their duty-free gin with me. . . And it seemed more of a requirement, than a suggestion. If you decide not to drink with someone here, especially if you are a man, it is frequently thought that you do not respect the person. Not wanting to be culturally insensitive, I, of course, chose to imbibe with my new found friends. Because I did not have anything to offer, it was determined that I would pay for the mixer, and a snack in the dining car. I bought a bottle of juice, one orange, and one bottle of Bojormi (special Georgian mineral water) for the hefty sum of 75 hryvnias. In converted terms this is just under $10.00, but in real terms here, this could buy me three pizzas at the local pizza place in town, it could buy me three meals at McDonalds (these are expensive options), this could buy me groceries for 3 days . . . needless to go further, it was usurious. Those cross-cultural experiences, however, are priceless (not the good kind of priceless which actually has value, but priceless like a mother’s love). The Siberians, as I mentioned, were policeman, but they also seemed pretty typical of what I now picture as Siberia. One was ethnically Russian, the other was ethnically Asian, he had the appearance of a Kazakh (the real kind, not the Borat kind). They were also outdoorsmen. Baikal is one of the largest lakes in the world (I believe it is second behind Lake Superior, but don’t quote me) and it is also the deepest lake in the world. It seems like a pretty wild place. I use wild here in the same way we describe the “Wild West.” I think it is appropriate to note to my American audience that Siberia is not a snowbound wonderland. It actually does have seasons, and warm summers. But, as we know, winter is brutally cold there. They showed me some pictures of the area, and some videos on a cell phone, and it looks beautiful. A bit like what I picture in Montana, or the Canadian Rockies, minus the mountains. The video showed them hunting. And, you should have seen the elk they took down, it was phenomenally large. The end of the video was eating the liver raw and having a round of drinks, I assume vodka. That part was unappetizing, but it was pretty cool to see. The conversation became much easier when Sasha appeared. There was a lot less gesturing, and then actually talking. Being that we were relatively close to Victory Day, that became a pretty animated topic of discussion. They wanted to know what we, as Americans, thought of Victory Day, and of course how we viewed the Soviet Union’s contribution to the war effort. I think, and I may not be representative, that our complete anathema towards communism and socialism, and its deleterious effect on the human spirit and independence leads us to undervalue the role of the Soviet Union in the Allied victory. I said that, as well. It should be mentioned that there is not generally the same view towards communism and socialism here, as there is at home. There are some people who even look back to those as the “good ole days.” I often wonder if they just forgot about the brutality of the purges, or if they just chose to remember the good times, but I don’t understand that view. However, we did agree, that the fact that American troops were invited to march in Red Square, Moscow for the Victory Day parade is definitely a step in the right direction for U.S. – Russian relations. Hopefully they continue to improve, and someday I can go to Russia without paying way too much for a visa. My favorite part of our discussion was when the Siberians asked “well, why does he live in Zhmerynka?” They couldn’t understand why an American would leave America to live in a small town in Ukraine (not just Ukraine, but anywhere). Instead of asking me, Sasha decided to explain, and I feel pretty well my motivation. He answered “why did Captain Cook sail to Australia? Why did the Russian explorers go to Alaska, and California? Why did they go through the deserts of Central Asia? The Russians and the Anglo-Saxons (don’t tell my Irish, and Italian ancestry) are great peoples. Why did they go? Are they crazy? Maybe, yes, but they are great peoples. They want to see the world, because it is there.” I really liked that answer, too. Other than being called an Anglo-Saxon, I thought it was pretty valid answer. Of course, I think he was considering Anglo-Saxon Anglo-American, or perhaps just American, but I’ll take it. If you’re going to call me a great person, I’ll always take it. It really was a petty phenomenal train ride. I enjoyed myself greatly. I meant to post this sooner, but got pretty busy school-wise, and then came the birthday. I will probably write more about that at a later date. We will see. But, in other news, I will be going to the Tchaikovsky museum on Monday. It is about 20 minutes from my town, and it is one of the great composer’s residences. It was here that most of Swan Lake was written, so I will give you my impressions, and maybe even some pictures, as well.

That's all I know for now,

Peter P-B Meegan (notice an Irish, not an Anglo-Saxon surname)

As I mentioned, when last we met, this is a country of extremes. I meant this in terms of the change in weather between winter and spring (and truly it is completely opposite in spring, it is not yet summer). I suppose this can also be seen in other aspects as well, but I would prefer to only discuss the setting of our story During winter, among other things, I was new to my surroundings; the weather was always bad; I was always cold, regardless of where I was; and it was just generally I will admit I was unhappy. I mean this as in actively unhappy, not simply a lack of happiness, but the state of being completely not happy. There are, of course, other reasons for this, than simply the weather, including the usurpation of my independence, by way of the usurpation of my own apartment. I was then sent to live with a family, and that was interesting. Living with a family that is not your own is a difficult task, and I challenge anyone who disagrees with my statement. But, like during my teens, I am engaged in a landscape full of mood swings. This is with both the population, and the land itself. I am now full engrossed in a joyous time of, as the cliché we use when describing Spring in English class states, the world is full of new life. The country literally bursts out from the doldrums of winter in which a permanent state of gray encompasses the entirety of the country, even Kyiv (which I think is a phenomenal city), to a country full of deep blue skies, and deep green forests. The flag of Ukraine is a line of rich sky blue over a line of a bright yellow – this symbolizes the rich fields of grain under the big blue sky – and I have not yet seen these fields, but I am looking forward to it with bated breath. But, what I have seen is, as I mentioned earlier, the deep green of fertile fields which are beginning to sprout, trees thick with new leaves, and sunny weather. When I mention the landscape of winter, I should say that at times even it is beautiful. But even these times are fleeting. As with any place, under a fresh coat of snow the country is gorgeous and I would even say inviting. But, that fresh snow soon gives way to the dirty slush caused from cars, and walking, and the ice makes even the slowest walking, and shortest walks a challenge. At night it will glimmer in the moon like the laughing eyes of a bully, just ready to put you down, and mock you while you are there. However around the middle of April the weather started to do an about-face. I started going once a week to Vinnitsia, which is the closest “big” city to me, I will readily admit a major drawing point was the availability of McDonalds. But one of the best aspects of this trip was travelling through the country. The city itself literally sprouts out of nowhere . . . it goes farm land, farm land, farm land, big city, farm land, farm land, farm land on all sides. Going every weekend I was able to see the transformation of winter to spring in a really dramatic fashion. I did not think about it at the time, as such, but really it was a veritable saving grace when I wasn’t happy with my living situation, and I wasn’t happy with my surroundings. But, suffice it to say, this has changed with time and the season. I think a good description of the landscape in my neck of the woods would be to picture the area of farmland between western Massachusetts and Connecticut out to Ohio. I’m speaking from the perspective of Interstate 80 or 90, I don’t recall which we used to take on our road trips out to the Chicago area. But, that is definitely what I was reminded of. Perhaps it is just because they are both farm areas, but even the terrain seems to be similar. I’m no botanist, so I cannot tell you whether or not the flora is exactly similar. I know one of the main crops here is wheat. Also, I’m not familiar yet with the fauna of Central Ukraine, so I cannot speak of those similarities either. I do know there are many wild pigs, I won’t say boars, because they are pretty small. There are deer, but mercifully, a negligible amount of Lyme (’s?) Disease. Also, I saw a snake the other day when I went fishing, it was relatively small, and I did not get a good look at it. We also have, thankfully, mosquitoes. I couldn’t imagine what I would do without mosquitoes for two years. When I tell people here I love spring they immediately ask when my birthday is, and when I tell them they say “you must love spring.” I don’t understand this. I, furthermore, do not understand the Ukrainian love-affair with the birthday. I do not understand the importance of a birthday, and why I should be congratulated for being born. When it comes down to it, I literally did nothing to be born. Then again, I’m probably just a party-pooper, and this has no bearing on the point at hand. So, what have I done since the weather has improved? Well, as I mentioned last I have spent 2 days playing soccer, and then spent some time at our softball weekend. I have gone picking wild garlic. It is pretty delicious, and we made a salad of wild garlic, hard-boiled eggs, and mayonnaise. It might not sound good, but it really is; mayonnaise is put on almost every salad here. We have also gone shashlyking (basically barbequing) twice. Once was with chicken wings, and in a local forest. The other time was while we were fishing. The fishing here is a bit different than what I’m used to at home. At home, of course, it is casting, reeling in, and casting again. Here the fishing is what is called “cane pole” fishing. We literally cast the line, and then just hang out and watch it. When the bobber goes under we have a fish, and we swing in the line. It was different, but still a good time. Shashlyking seems to be, at least with other volunteers, the best of the Ukrainian traditions. It is delicious, it is fun, and it is done outdoors during the nice weather. I’m hoping, for my birthday, to shashlyk. It is probably my favorite food in Ukraine, either that or holuptsi which are cabbage leaves stuffed with a combination of rice, and ground beef. Luckily, being that May is the month of long weekends, and holidays I will have a nice three day weekend in honor of my birthday. This holiday is Trinity Sunday, I don’t know the history, or real purpose of the celebration, other, of course, than the fact that it celebrates the Holy Trinity. In more disconcerting news, I read an article today about Texas’ Education Board. The evangelicals, and conservatives in that most reasonable of states is not happy with the liberal bias in current history and social studies text books. As such, they are planning to rework history a little bit to make sure the minds of Texan youths are not poisoned. I will not go into their points, but it is a very interesting article and you can find it on The Guardian, the British newspaper’s, website. I’m curious to see what anyone else has to say about this. (As an example they wish to paint Thomas Jefferson, and his separation of church and state as a minor figure in American history. . . and I should mention, they think that the separation of church and state is a myth.) I wish I had another emotion other than puzzled bemusement, but I don’t. But I will leave you with the fact that as this is being posted I am in Kyiv. I have a meeting, but the time of that meeting is flexible, so I’m not sure what I will do. I have found a fantastic Irish pub in Kyiv, and I may go there. Kind of a birthday treat, though it is bad luck to celebrate your birthday before it occurs here. We’ll see. I have trouble rationalizing spending 150 hryvnias (about $20) on lunch . . . even if it is fantastic, and comes with Guinness. I may also go to either Maidan Nezalezhnosti (Independence Square) or Kreshchatyk, two main centers in Kyiv which are very nice. The options are unlimited, and luckily I have flexibility in my return trips, because there are many trains that stop in my town. So, that’s all I’ve got. Be good, Pete

So, here we are. It is the eve of Victory Day; Victory in Europe, of course. I am sitting in my apartment (it is 10:30 PM) and listening to fireworks being let off on the town square, which is about two blocks away. This evening I attended Zhmerynka’s Victory Day parade. Unfortunately, when I heard we were going to the parade, I expected it to be similar to the 4th of July parade, or any other parade back home, where I could sit on the side of the street talk and watch. But, I had to jump in, and walk with the parade, I will not say march, to the park in our town. Our parade was met by a lovely torrential downpour, and I was drenched to the bone. The distance we walked could not have been more than a mile or so. Our parade reached its end at the foot of my town’s monument to the Great Patriotic War (1941-1945) which is flanked by a tank monument to its left. We then listened to a number of speeches and patriotic songs. Some was in Ukrainian, and some was in Russian, and I understood very little of it. I will admit, I preferred my school’s celebration for Victory Day, which took place yesterday. Victory Day is a very serious holiday here. We have a three day weekend, as well to celebrate. World War II literally took place across this country; Hitler’s eastern front bunker was in a town about 40 km from where I live now. The fascists, as they are called here (only fascists, rarely Germans, and never Nazis, or my favorite German National Socialists), literally overran the towns throughout Ukraine, Zhmerynka, and my former town Kaharlyk included. I must admit I enjoy the way this is celebrated in Ukraine. Such a formidable and important feat deserves recognition. For Victory Day, Soviet history, and Ukrainian history are one and the same. The holiday honors, now, the defeat of the Germans, but is not used to glorify “the cause.” As I become more entrenched in my Ukrainian life, I am interested to see the intersection between Ukrainian and Soviet history. (As an aside, a large city in Ukraine just put up a large monument to Stalin – read a little about Ukrainian history to understand the implications of this. I’d say it is similar to Liberia putting up a statue of Jefferson Davis.) On to some less subjective new, let’s catch up a bit. I’m, as I said, sitting in my apartment, and yes that means I now have my own apartment. It is a palace. And it is all mine! Most of the apartments in town were put up during the years of Soviet Ukraine, and are all pretty stock, but this one is from tsarist times (that is the same as czarist, and means back when the Russian czars still ruled), and just oozes the decadence of a non-communist society. I have “Little Ole Wine Drinker, Me” by the late, great Dean Martin, and am enjoying a mug (the only thing I have to drink with) of Moldavian wine – it is deathly sweet, and I do not mean that in a good way. Last weekend, I was travelling, and I read The Sun Also Rises. Hemingway has made it okay for me, as a man, to drink wine – of course, only if it is a red, strong wine. But, on to last weekend: For me, last weekend started, in earnest, on Thursday. On Thursday I went up to the Special Olympics football tournament in Vinnitsia. We played football, and by football I mean soccer, with the Special Olympians for Thursday, and Friday, and it was a blast. Two of the best days I’ve had in Ukraine, I would say. The Special Olympics here, however, is a bit different than it is back home. Back home the Special Olympics is for people with special needs. Here, there were some people with special needs, but it was more of a “special circumstances” qualification. I mean this because some teams were full of able-bodied kids, but kids from an orphanage. One of these teams, I’d wager could have beat my high school team – then again when I say my high school team I mean the junior varsity team, because I got cut from varsity senior year, and I suppose every year before that, too (not that I’m still bitter, or anything). I do not have much contact with special needs kids in my school, and by much I mean any. It was enjoyable to do a little work, and I should hardly call it work because it was a lot of fun for me, with them. I know Special Ed. has a high burnout rate, because it is exhausting, and demanding, but it seems that it must be incredibly rewarding, too. My volunteer-friend, and I jumped on to a team from Kremenchuk, a city across the Dnipro, in the Poltava oblast. We have been invited for a visit, and I hope we do at some point. I had a great time with them. And, for those of you that are facebook friends with me, you can see a picture of me with a Kremenchuk representative, Sveta, on the fbook. Sveta may have been the best juggler at the Special Olympics tournament – juggling in the soccer sense. I would have to say, however, that the most memorable experience was Friday evening, when I was officially “Ukrained”. There is no official definition for the state of being “Ukrained,” but when it happens to you, you know. Friday morning we went to the bus station. It was softball weekend in Kirovograd, and we wanted to make sure we would get a bus ticket there. I should preface this by saying that people in ticket booths, and cashiers in this country, and I suppose the entire service industry are famously, and sometimes it seems, go out of their way to be, unhelpful. “Service with a smile” does not exist here. But, anyway, we went to the ticket counter to get a ticket to Kirovograd, and when you read Kirovograd, don’t read how it sounds just read “big black hole in the middle of nowhere.” When we asked for our ticket the woman said something really fast, and then told us to come back at 21:00 (9PM), and we could buy tickets on the bus. But, they would not be able to sell us a ticket in advance it would have to be on the bus. So, we went back to the bus station that evening to get tickets on that 9 PM bus . . . and when we asked for that bus the lady looked at us as if we had offended her honor. There was no 9PM bus, how could we even imagine that there would be! So, after, a bit of arguing, and “what are you talking about, the woman told us to come back and get a ticket for this bus” we decided to get tickets for the next morning at 7:30. The real issue with this, was not, of course, the failure to get a ticket. We were able to get a ticket the next morning. The issue is the fact that this caused us three hours worth of unnecessary travel time, and it also prevented us from spending time in Vinnitsia with the other volunteers up for the Special Olympics. But, it happened, I made it through, and perhaps now I’m even stronger for it . . . which, if you’re keeping score at home means I’m wicked f-ing strong. We did, ultimately, make our way to our destination. The reason? The reason is because I’m a Meegan, and that means I don’t do things half way. But really, the reason was because we found another bus the next morning. This meant we had to wake up at 6:00 AM on a Saturday, in order to take a train to the city, in order to take a taxi to the bus station (by way of McDonald’s, and a McBreakfast) and to the bus station. The bus is an interesting trip always . . . regardless of how far you are planning to travel. Our total journey was about 350 km but for some reason it took 9 hours to reach our destination. This equals about 40 km an hour, which is close to 25 mph. Nobody has ever called the buses here efficient. The trip, however, was a beautiful one. This, as I heard a seasoned volunteer explain, is a country of extremes. From the extreme depression of winter, and endless snow and gray, and clouds comes a spring which explodes in phenomenal colors. Full of life, and wonder, so that even a cynical Papa-Bear, like myself is impressed, and rejuvenated. Unfortunately, once we got to Kirovograd, we were unable to find the softball field. It was pretty late in the afternoon, anyway, so we decided to grab a pizza, the juice of the barley, and wait until our friends called. We were pleasantly surprised when our friends made their way to the pizza place we were at, though I’m sure the employees were not all that happy. We, as Americans, have a habit of talking, and talking too loud, not to mention, talking in that damned English language. The pizza was good, and I have been able to say that very, very, very few times about pizza here in Ukraine. After the pizza we made our way to the city center. The city center has a mixture of Soviet-style (read bland), and pre-Soviet buildings, and is not quite beautiful, and not quite ugly, but I don’t know if I would call it anything in between, either. We spent most of Saturday night in the city center at beer tents. Beer tents are, I imagine, somewhat like beer gardens are in Germany. They are not the famous Oktoberfest tents, that Pat Mulligan, One Man Party Dan Moriarty, and myself once enjoyed, but they are really just large party tents with open sides and tables and chairs underneath. We were not waited on by servers, but there were a number of kiosks selling different beers from the area, and we were able to ask for the poison of our choice, and to get on with the enjoyment of it. We ended the night at a club in Kirovograd. I cannot tell you the name of it, but I can tell you that I had my dancing shoes on. I can also tell you that the gas station close by did not have Pringles, but it did have the ability to get me lost in a strange city for 2 hours. But, as is usually the case when I am reveling, I was able to find my way home unscathed. (I like reveling, it is one of my favorite euphemisms – I expect that you all understand what this means, if you do not, you will when you are older.) The next day, I woke up feeling like a million drummers had beat on my head all night. But we had softball to play, and after dragging myself out of bed we were able to make our way to the field. I have never been very good at baseball, or anything that requires good hand-eye coordination, and this was no exception. I managed to swing on the first pitch every at bat I had, and did not get on base once. I also managed to fall in a hilarious manner while trying to field a ground ball. Luckily, I fell in front of the ball and was able to get it into the infield from my backside, but it wasn’t my greatest athletic achievement. Between games, I was also interviewed by a Ukrainian journalist. He asked a number of things in regards to victory day. One was what we, as Americans, knew about the Soviet Union, and their importance as an ally in our victory over fascism. The other important question was whether we celebrate Victory Day, on May 9th. Of course, we do not, at least not in North Kingstown, or Rhode Island. After the softball, and an embarrassing defeat to the Ukrainian team, we went to an orphanage next to the field. The point of the weekend was to raise money for the orphanage, and we were given a performance. There was dance numbers put on by the girls, and by the younger boys, and there were feats of strength, including an international push-up contest. I was selected for the international push-up contest, but unfortunately the director saw the fire in my eyes, and called it off before I could bring home the gold for the good ol’ US of A. There were also a number of relay races, and other such activities. Tug of war became a true battle, as well. This was capped off by a game of soccer. It was an intense game from the first whistle. The Americans lost 3-2. I take full responsibility for the loss. I was completely unable to find goal. I put 5 or 6 balls off my head, and within 6 inches of goal. But, alas, each one of those missed, and the weight of defeat fell upon my shoulders. It was, and is, unfortunate, but hopefully I will be able to get through this latest painful chapter in my relationship with soccer. I should mention, that last weekend was International Labor Day. We had both Monday, and Tuesday the first, and second of May off. That was why I was able to make such a trip. May is a wonderful month here, because we have three long weekends. The first weekend of May, the second weekend, of May, and the fourth weekend of May are all long weekends. It is a nice way to enjoy the good weather. After this winter, there is nothing I love more than the sun on my skin. Though after last weekend my face was about as burnt as it ever has been, but it was just, damn nice to be in the sunshine. In other news, yesterday at the café in town I was reading For Whom the Bell Tolls (it tolls for thee, by the way, John Donne told me). I spent about two hours there, and had my evening meal there. About an hour later the girl behind the counter came over to my table and I’m not sure, because she only speaks to me in Russian, not Ukrainian, but she asked about the book, and I told her a few mumbled words, then she said something I completely did not understand. In about five minutes she came out with a drink for me. It was a pina colada, and it was on the house. It was pretty awesome, and I really appreciated the gesture. Maybe it was the “valued-customer special,” but at any rate it was pretty cool. That is all I know for now, though. Also, while it is Victory Day here, it is Mother’s Day back home. So, Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers I know, thank you for all you do, and all you put up with from thankless, exhausting children like myself, and my siblings. Be good, Pete.

I really want to update my blog right now . . . but I'm trying to decide what to write about. So, I think I will give you some filler for now. I have been reading a bit since I've gotten to Ukraine, and I came across the following two quotes which I feel very strongly about. Two quotes I think I can truly stand behind. One is from Teddy Roosevelt, and the other is from Lt. Thomas Meehan, a pilot killed during World War II.

First, from ol' TR: "We all look forward to the day when there shall be a nearer approxmation than there has ever been to the brotherhood of man and the peace of the world. More and more we are learning that to love one's country above all others is in no way incompatible with respecting and wishing well to all others, and that, as between man and man, so between nation and nation, there should live the great law of right. No ability, to strength and force, no power of intellect or power of wealth, shall avail us, if we have not the root of right living in us."

I'm just going to drop these here, I will not give a commentary, but let me know what you think. Lt. Meehan's was from a letter to his wife before he died:

"We're fortunate in being Americans. At least we don't step on the underdog. I wonder if that's because there are no 'Americans' - only a stew of immigrants - or it's because the earth from which we exist has been so kind to us and our forefathers; or if it's because the 'American' is the offspring of the logical European who hated oppression and loved freedom beyond life? Those great mountains the tall timber; the cool deep lakes and braod rivers; the green valleys and white farmhouses; the air, the sea and wind; the plains and great cities; the smell of living - all must be the cause of it.

"And yet, with all that, we can't get away from the rest. For every one of our millions who has that treasure in his hand ther's another million crying for that victory of life. And for each of us who wants to live in happiness and give happiness, ther's another different sort of person wanting to take it away.

"Those people always manage to have their say, and Mars is always close at hand. We know how to win wars. We must learn now to win peace. Make the world accept peace whether they damn well like it or not. Here is the dove, and here is the bayonet. If we ever have a son, I won't want him to go through this again, but I want him powerful enough that no one will be fool enough to touch him. He and America should be strong as hell and kind as Christ."

I enjoy, and agree with both of these greatly. I'll try to get something else interesting for you

Best,

Pete

My Dear Friends, and Confidants: First, a word regarding my April Fool’s joke . . . WHAMMY! I am aware there was concern for my mental health, and safety, and I do appreciate your concern. However, with something as serious and personal as a mental breakdown I would not publish it in such a nonchalant fashion, especially on Facebook. This would be a little too gauche, even for me. Secondly, for all those who realized it was, indeed, an April Fool’s joke, my thanks for not blowing the whistle, though I did have delete a number of comments. I will end this portion by stating that as a Meegan, I am unable to do things half-way, I am as stubborn as my father. For that reason, I will not be leaving before my time is up. So, November 2011 – here I come! I would next like to send some thanks. I have sent a few letters, but seeing the current state of Rhode Island, I would imagine they are probably floating somewhere around the food court of the Warwick Mall. I should, of course, have sent emails primarily. The first group I would have to thank is the Family Services department at Tuition Management Systems. At the beginning of March I received a package from my colleagues. Its contents were month-changing. It was full of Haribo gummy bears (the absolute best gummy bears on earth), honey mustard, both from Wendy’s and from Stop & Shop. Two jars of Folgers instant coffee – better than Jacobs (pronounced yakobs here, because we don’t have a ‘j’ in our alphatbet). And, of course, the venerated University of Rhode Island Rams “Let’s Go Rhody!” athletic towel. And, to rub salt in the wound, Pedro informed me it was from the game in which the Rams beat my Friars this season. . . Needless to say, based on the other contents I have forgiven Pedro. But, I do truly give my thanks to my co-workers. It was very kind of you, and I truly appreciate it. Secondly, my thanks go to Mr. Frazier. I hope by now the letter I sent would have arrived, but our postal system is not as expedient as one would like it to be. From Mr. Frazier I received a bobble-head doll of Marvin “Bad News” Barnes. Coincidentally this arrived on a Wednesday. The weekend before I received the bobble-head, I had been talking college basketball with a fellow volunteer, and Marvin Barnes was one of our central topics of discussion. My volunteer-friend is an old fan of the ABA and the team from Louisville, so was familiar with Marvin Barnes, as well as Ernie D. But, the funnier aspect of my receipt of the bobble-head was the response of the family I live with. They looked at it, and said (in Ukrainian): “very nice . . . is that Obama?” I had a hard time stifling my laugh at that statement. The bobble-head, for the record, is wearing a basketball uniform, and not a presidential-looking suit. Thirdly, and finally, I must send my thanks to Diane Schaefer. I, this week, received a parcel which included a very nice collared-shirt, an Easter-appropriate light bluish-green, and the book Invictus. The book is what inspired the movie that has recently come out. I have seen the movie, but the book has the benefit of being able to clearly illustrate the back-story that set’s the stage for the Springboks improbable run to the Rugby World Cup title. I am hoping to finish the book by the end of the weekend, or if not, by the end of the week. Stories like this, are very thought-provoking for me. I remember in college, even as sports fan, thinking how silly it was that people would make a living as a sport’s commentator. I remember thinking “can’t these people do something productive with their lives?” Stories like this, Invictus, and the movie Invincible – the movie about the local boy that starts playing for the Eagles – can show the power of sport on a community, or a country, in the Invictus case. As I have learned here, people need diversion, and they need entertainment. Thankfully sport is available for that. It can help us forget about slugging through the day-to-day and that is a valuable thing. There is not much that can cross ethnic, language, political, and religious barriers as much sport. So, as adidas says: “Long live sport.” The other side of the coin that a book like Invictus illuminates is in regards to, at least in my case, my own personal convictions. Sitting and reading the book while it discusses the people that look like me is an interesting practice. The author asks “whether the average citizen of the United States, Canada, or Australia, had he or she been born in apartheid South Africa, would they have behaved much differently?” It is an interesting thought. It is very easy to have our convictions based on our history, but would I be bold enough to stand for my convictions in this case? Would I have the strength of character to stop talking about it, and start acting? To be honest, I do not know whether or not I would have the scruples to take the stand. I hope I would, but hoping and doing are much different things, as I have learned here in Ukraine. My most common complaint is that people here talk about things getting better without acting on the fact. A friend from high school has a tattoo “Acta non Verba” on his arm – Actions not words. I am trying to make this a foundation of my own worldview. Perhaps that is what Peace Corps is for me . . . but I suppose, like my father, what I do may never be enough to satisfy the demon I call Catholic guilt. Easter, of course, is an appropriate time to think about these issues. So, my apologies for taking this opportunity to wax philosophic . . . In other news, last night I went to the “Polish Catholic” (read Roman Catholic) church for Easter mass. The mass here is a practice in concentration and a test of my mental strength. I had to stand the entire two and a half hours, except for the times when I was able to kneel on the cold, hard, uneven, wet floor. At one point while we were kneeling I think the priests sung the name of every saint ever canonized. Also, because there was so much I could not understand, and the traditions within the mass are a bit different from our own, I was not aware I had to push and shove to gain position (like everywhere else in Ukraine) for communion. Unfortunately, last night I did not received the Eucharist, so I won’t even have the check mark next to my name up in heaven . . . I hope St. Pete will let me in. Of course, I am interesting in celebrating the resurrection, so tonight with some friends in town we will go to a nightclub in Vinnitsia. I have not yet been to a nightclub in Ukraine, so it should be interesting. But, today is a joyful day, so we might as well end it with a party. I’ll update the blog regarding that, as long as it is appropriate. That’s about all I have for now. I will admit my displeasure in seeing Duke in the Final Four championship game, however, and here’s hoping for the Butler Bulldogs. Thanks for reading, enjoy time with your families today, whether you celebrate Easter, or not. Just enjoy your time. Go Friars, and Христос Воскрес (Christ has Risen), Pete

So, I have failed to update in about a month and a half. But, in my defense, it was a short month, and March does have 31 days, so it isn't all that long. This brings us to the point of why I do not update more regularly. First of all I am busy. I figured, when I came here, that I would have my classes and maybe an extra hour or so a week of English clubs. This has turned out not to be the case. My class load is not all that difficult. It is 18 classes a week. This, however, is coupled with a plethora of English clubs, both at school and outside of school. These clubs increase my output to another at least 7 hours a week, and sometimes more. These are, of course, classroom hours, and do not include planning time. I also have a Ukrainian language tutor, and I end up going to his apartment usually 3 or 4 times a week, though I don't necessarily study Ukrainian every time I go.

But, I'm aware that some people may, in fact, be interested with what I have to say. So, full of self-importance I will humor you. Perhaps, another thing I should write, is that if you regular read, please become a follower on the blog. A larger number of people there will motivate me to update this on a more regular basis. I have written a few times that I do not edit these posts before I publish them. This is still the case, and part of the reason I have not been updating regularly. Because, though I do not edit, I also have difficulty half-assing (I think that is the scientific term) these, because I know they will be read by at least some people. So I have been given a list of potential topics by a friend, and will try to hit on those within the next few weeks to months. We'll see how it goes. First things first, I am in good shape, relatively healthy, in relatively good spirits, and still committed to my service; so I've got that going for me, which is nice.

I should probably give a general description of my town. I do not think I have yet given one of an adequate nature, just a few sentences here, and there. First, if you are interested in seeing the pictures please go to the following links. I have put these here myself, and they are not viruses. I have pictures of Kaharlyk, my first town here: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2084642&id=17600435&l=b3c382b84d This includes my house there, the family I lived with, and some of the people in my cluster.

I have pictures of Kyiv, the capital of Ukraine, and a beautiful city: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2084546&id=17600435&l=b1bcb1a759

And finally an album of pictures from Zhmerynka, my new home town. These include some students, my first apartment, where I no longer live, my favorite graffiti in town, and also some pictures of Yulia Tymoshenko from the politically rally she had in my town: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2085177&id=17600435&l=639854595a

But, in my time here I have been on a number of trains. To Kyiv a few times, and I will be going again tomorrow. To Vinnitsa, the largest city in my close proximity, and to Ivano-Frankivsk, a city in western Ukraine where I had a meeting. It frequently seems that I'm riding through a watercolor, or a north country American town about 90 years ago or more. Full of snow, tin roofs, and wells, and outhouses. Outhouses are more prominent in the smaller villages, I have not seen them in my town. And, luckily I have not had to use one yet. I have even seen a number of horses, and horse drawn carts in smaller villages. They look like the one the Tinker in Ireland had (Matt and Dad would remember that, and I'm sure a few of you have seen the picture). But, seeing the horse carts does always remind me of the Guinness Storehouse (for the record, a great beer, but a poor museum).

My town, during the depths of winter looks like I imagine the North Pole would if it were truly the North Pole of the children's books which depict Santa's village. With the snow ubiquitous throughout the winter (it recently made a hiatus, but has returned this weekend) and Christmas/New Year's lights throughout the town the duration of winter, including light-up stars, lights in the shape of trees. And, in the back roads of the town, the snow was never taken off the roads, and they would be solid with snow, with small houses close together on either side of the road. Much different from what would be seen in an American town, but a bit fascinating to see. I even saw someone navigating through town on cross-country skis this winter. I had to do a double take. I could not believe that on one of the main roads in the town center someone would be able to go on cross-country skis, but I was pretty happy that person could.

I think the pictures would do a better job describing my town than I can. But, the town has a residential area, and a center. The center is large, and has a square which is anchored by an Orthodox Church on one end, and the Town Rada (town hall) on the other. There are a number of shops, and stores in town. Some large, some small. We have a large supermarket, in the center, and a number of bars and cafes. The town, is size-wise a good deal smaller than North Kingstown, but has a higher population. It is organized differently, though. In North Kingstown we have Wickford, and then long Post Road as the base of our commerce. It would be difficult to do everything necessary by walking, but here the center has everything we need, and it is entirely walkable. Everything is much more centralized in the town. Like in my previous town, there are a tremendous amount of dogs, and many of them are street dogs, including one that likes to chase after me and snap at me when I'm on my way to school.

As you will see, if you look at the pictures, the town is dominated by a number of boxy Soviet-style apartment buildings, as well. The apartment buildings are the biggest difference I notice with my town, and a town of a similar size back in the states. There are just so many apartment buildings, while at home they are pretty much solely in larger cities. But, just look at the pictures. I am getting tired. So I'll sign off here. I'll try to be quicker to update in the future, if there are any topics you are curious about please let me know. My email address is peter.meegan@gmail.com

That's all I know for now. Go Friars (next year)

Pete

Hello again, and my apologies for not updating sooner. I planned on it, but I am a busy man. This last post has been in my notebook for a little more than three weeks now waiting for me to get motivated enough to type up and post. This documents one of my darkest experiences in Ukraine, literally, and as it has already been written, I am transcribing it verbatim, and not changing tenses because we are three weeks past the point: It is Saturday morning (January 8th) 11:30. I have been without power for the last 22 hours. The reason? There is none I can think of. It is only my building and the small shop next to us which are without power. I have, since last night, gone to my window many times to look enviously at all the other buildings with their bright lights shining through the mist. Perhaps they are lighted just to spite me. The trouble is my difficulty deciding what to do. Last night I went to the internet café. I was able to download my favorite NPR shows. I was also able to download a plethora of interesting articles from Foreign Policy and the Economist. I was expecting perhaps a few hours without power, but it had to be back on by 10:00 PM, right? Needless to say I was sorely disappointed. I am still sitting here completely powered off. Again, for a second time I am pre-writing by hand. Again it is unplanned. When I am finished at the internet café I listen and read what I have downloaded back at home, on my computer. Unfortunately my computer battery has been completely and totally exhausted. To make matters worse my cell phone has no juice, my short-wave radio is out of gas, and I have maybe 5-10 more minutes until I am in complete silence with just my thoughts – a scary proposition. I would easily be able to survive without these luxuries, don’t get me wrong. But, when usually I can use them, and then I have expansive periods where I can see them just not use them: oh, woe is me. So this leaves me in a “what do I do?” state. I could go to the internet café, but I really do not enjoy spending time there with kids I may soon teach playing killing games, it is disconcerting, and as a true American I don’t like the lack of privacy. I could walk through town, but a gray mist is thick in the air, and I can no longer see more than 10 or 20 yards out of my window, plus the ground is covered with a filthy gray slush that drenches the bottom of the legs on my pants, and gets in my shoes, too. I can’t go to a café and sit and drink coffee, because its all instant coffee here, so that would be just awful. Bars are not an option either. Not only is it considered inappropriate for a teacher to be in a bar here, but bars are a bit different. There is not a bar-scene where people go for a drink. To go to a bar means an attempt at erasing the previous week from memory, so it is really a poor look for me, especially in my town. This is where I stopped writing. I started reading by flashlight which was okay, but I didn’t even really enjoy the book. It turned out to be an entire 2 and a half days without power. And there was just no reason for it! No big storm, or anything of that sort. But I did learn the importance of keeping cell phone, iPod, and short-wave radio completely charged in case I go through this again. The minute the lights turned on, was however pretty amazing, especially considering how long I had been without. It was just about the time that I would have to start using the flashlight as well. In discussing this with a fellow “Turkmen Reject” (the name we have so affectionately given ourselves; if you ever feel bad about anything just think about the fact that Turkmenistan decided I wasn’t good enough for it; that should put any self-doubts into perspective.) we were talking about how embarrassing it was to be complaining about this as a Peace Corps Volunteer. Especially as a PCV that was prepared to go to Turkmenistan. The difference, however, is that at least if we were in a more rustic country we would be well prepared for this sort of situation. We would have such outlandish things as candles, and camping lanterns, and things like that. Needless to say I am not looking forward to rolling black-outs if, and I have heard it is more accurately when, they come. But, I suppose we all have our crosses to bear, and mine was a prolonged period without power. It would have been a lot better if I hadn’t had to read a bad book during the meantime. I did, however, make it through, and maybe I’m even better for it, but I sincerely doubt that. I know it has been three weeks since my last post, and I do have plenty to write about so look for a few updates this week. That’s all I know about this, for now, though. Goodnight, and Go Friars, Pete

From 4,500 miles away I am still basking in our win over St. John's. In a little apartment in Zhmerynka any news, especially such good news is welcomed readily (this was written before the Louisville game, but who really expected a win against Louisville?). Today, at the internet cafe I was scolded for watching highlights of the game, and told I am not permitted to stream video – this is probably a safeguard against what those who frequent an internet cafe might watch.

As I write this – for the first time I am pre-writing by hand – I am sitting on the Electrichka, the electric, or local train on my way to eat a Christmas Eve dinner with my counterpart, and her family. Hopefully, in my memory years from now this will outshine the December 24th/25th Christmas Eve/Christmas I had . . . remember, holidays are no time to spend alone.

I was planning on reading from one of the last books I have remaining, Once there was a War by Steinbeck, on this shorty voyage, but for some reason felt the urge to write. I opted against journaling this because I feel journals, too are written to be read by others, and I just wish to remove the false sense of privacy around it. In my opinion, there is no reason to write if not for posterity, or at least for current relations. Perhaps I am just cynical about intentions, but I'll make no bones about the fact that I enjoy people reading my rambling, jumbled, sometimes barely half-thought out judgments, observations and insights. It gives me a false sense of self-importance the selfsame (one of my new favorite words) sense of self-importance for which I generally don't like bloggers. I heard somewhere, sometime that we all become (perhaps eventually) what we either hate, or pretend to be. I should start writing down the proverbs I hear, because sometimes I mix and match, this might be an example.

However, after that long and mostly unnecessary explanation I will get to the point. I really just want to gloat about the fact that I was able to negotiate the train station, getting a ticket, and getting on the right train all by myself. Aren't I cool? I also expect everyone that reads this to be extremely impressed. I have not yet become totally inconspicuous here, thought, and I just blew my cover answering my cell-phone and speaking English. But, maybe I will never have cover as the only person here that wears khaki pants, and one of the few people with a beard. Someday I will get a pair of black, shiny pin-striped pants, a big furry hat, and jeans with a million zippers, and then I'll really fit in. I have a buddy here that says all I need is a jacket with a fur-lined hood, and I'll have an invisibility cloak I just can't make that jump yet, those jackets still look too “hood” for my taste.

I must admit, I wish our time was not 7 hours ahead. I am really looking forward to seeing how our Friars fare against Ricky P's Louisville boys. Two wins in a row would drive me crazy, after embarking on my self-imposed exile for the two rebuilding years the P.C. program will have (only another year and a half of rebuilding). Luckily we have Rutgers coming into town this weekend, and we get DePaul next week. I will wait with bated breath until I am able to wake up in the morning and get the news. (For the record, I am aware we lost to Louisville by 22. This was written before the game. However, once the team knows they can play with some of the best, in a big name program even if just for a half, eventually they will be able to do it for the full game. I'm sorry, I am a born and raised Friar fan I have always been an optimist.) But, as I mentioned earlier, it is the little things that get me through the day.

On a completely unrelated note: someday I hope to have a few gold teeth, or really at least one. I don't know why, but I really enjoy them. Although, I feel they give a sly cunning tint to one's appearance (sly and cunning here are not seen as derogatory terms here, as they are in the States). But, who knows? A boy can certainly dream. They are like the foreign version of a grill (the kind a rapper wears, not the Weber you cook burgers on). It is one of my smaller aspirations. I don't ask for much.

In case anybody cares, or is wondering, which I'm sure is relatively unlikely the two songs of the week are “Smith Hill,” the same Smith Hill on which I spent my college days, by Deer Tick, and also “If You Want to Make Me Happy” by Alan Jackson. It is a wonderful song about cathartic heart break. It is the country song from the jokes, about being left by a woman, but luckily she didn't take his dog, or truck, just his heart. I'm not sure if I have written previously, but my music taste has shifted far more to the folky-bluegrassy-country end of the spectrum. The songs that I feel are uniquely American, which don't really have equivalents here.

In other news, I read much, and listen to music much when I am not at school. The first term has not ended yet so I do not have my own classes to plan and prepare for yet. I am looking forward to getting into the nitty-gritty of teaching. So right now I am pretty much biding time, helping do what I can, but not having the full control of a classroom that I would like. As I mentioned at the beginning I am reading Once There Was a War by Steinbeck. These are articles that Steinbeck wrote as a war correspondent for the New York Herald Tribune, he wrote these articles during World War II. Part of the reason I decided to write instead of read, is that I know how this book ends. Pretty similar to the feeling I had when I read through the Bible in college and high school. It is a very good book though. It does not describe the action scenes of a war, those are best represented through Hollywood dramatization. Instead he, similar to how he worked with his novels, he tells the stories of the ordinary every day reality, the unspectacular aspects of war and of soldiers. Not the unspectacular aspects of soldiers as individuals, but the unspectacular aspects of their duties, changing the oil of an airplane, for example. It is not war reporting that one would recognize as much as it is reporting about the people who are at war. And, perhaps Geraldo could take note of this, he does not mention troop positions, and he censors himself for the most part. . . journalistic responsibility who wouldda thought it?

When I'm not reading, or listening to music, or at the internet cafe checking my email, and checking out my Friars, I have been listening to NPR news. Morning Edition, All Things Considered, The Writer's Almanac and also StoryCorps. It is very comforting to hear news from home. The same news I listened to on my drive to work every morning. It is very comforting, but it is also can be very disconcerting. Sometimes we can forget that the world goes on as normal even when we are away from home. I forget that my friends still go out and have fun, without me, my family still has the same parties for Christmas, for football games, still go to P.C. basketball games, and generally the world keeps turning. And this is true on the international level as well. Just because I'm not home does not mean that there are still terrorists in the world, and there are still very real threats to American security and well-being. To be honest, it is a bit humbling.

This is all I have for now. I still have some news that I want to hear, and I want to do some reading. Soon, I will write a better description of my town for anyone that cares to read. I will humbly attempt to give my best Steinbeck impression and paint a picture in your head. But, I still refuse to edit or proofread, so whammy.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch, (oh yeah, and Go Friars!)

Pete

So, as we are all aware, I now live in Zhmerynka, in the Vinnitska Oblast of Ukraine. I have been here for about two and a half weeks now. My new town is a a huge skating rink, covered with snow and ice. I always thought that the North Pole was an apocryphal place existing mostly in our most ethereal fantasias. However, I now know that Zhmerynka is the concept of the North Pole materialized. We have a large square in the middle of town. At one end lies the home of the Rada, which is what the town administration is called here. At the other end sits an Orthodox church. This church is complete with the golden domes that make Orthodox churches so phenomenal and recognizable. In the large area between these two buildings, really a very long rectangle, not a square, there is not a bit of ground to be seen. It is entirely covered with a mix of snow with the threatening gleam of ice which I slip on every few feet.

I have been almost horizontal a few times on my brisk walks to school. And knock on wood, I have not yet fallen. So I've got that going for me, which is nice. There has not been a real Christmas / New Year's break in my town. I did not have to go to school on New Year's Eve, or New Year's Day, but I was back in school today. Also, I was in school on December 25th, our Christmas. In my town December 25th is referred to as “Polish Christmas,” because only the Catholic Poles celebrate Christmas on December 25th. For the Orthodox Church Christmas is January 7th. For all those curious, and remember that curiosity killed the cat, the Orthodox Church never recognized the legitimacy of the Gregorian calendar (the calendar we now use). They still use the Julian calendar, the same calendar created by Julius Caesar. There is really not much of a difference, but when the Russian Empire officially adopted the Gregorian calendar the church did not follow suit. I will be celebrating Orthodox Christmas with my counterpart and her family. I am not sure if I will be going to a service or not, but will be interested if that is the case. I'll understand probably the same portion as I understand at the Catholic church (God, son, Him, love, peace, thanks, and I think that about sums up the total) so it won't be much different. Plus, our churches technically are in communion, though the Eastern Orthodox do not recognize the Pope as their leader, or even as first among equals. They see him as simply the Bishop of Rome. This again, is another over-simplification.

So, in terms of what is new at school, not too much. The students in my classes like to run up to me and say “hello” or “good morning.” They say good morning regardless of the time of day, which I like. An interesting anecdote. My first day in the classroom here I read an article to the students about what is needed to start a newspaper. It was a pretty simple article, though something a bit unessential in terms of learning English, and pretty uninteresting. But, at the end of the article there were comprehension questions. So, I asked the students “what is necessary to run a newspaper?” The first answer I received was redactors. It was pretty difficult for me to stifle my laugh. I thought “maybe this is just a cultural difference in journalism.” In the students defense the Ukrainian word for editor is “редактор” and this is pronounced the same was as the English word redactor, but it was still funny.

Before the two days off for New Years, we had a New Years Carnival. This was pretty interesting, and enjoyable to watch. I even was grabbed out of my chair by the teachers to join in a sort of circle dancing which involves more holding hands and walking in a circle than dancing, but it was funny nonetheless. All of the classes from 1 – 7 gave some sort of presentation at this pageant, whether it was singing or dancing as a class, and some students sang individually. One of my students is in the 6th grade. He is likes to talk to me, and ask me the same questions every time I see him. He will not ask in English, but everyday he asks sometimes in Ukrainian, sometimes in Russian how old I am, if I am married, where do I live, how long I will live in Ukraine, and what type of music I like. Of course, my well thought-out comprehensive answers must be memorable, but that is neither here nor there. This student break dances – and does it well. In front of a large portion of the school, and most teachers he was break dancing, and doing flips to Johnny B. Goode, perhaps the greatest rock song of all time. I had difficulty remaining in my chair and not giving a karaoke performance, but I was able to stay reserved, luckily. After this was over two 6th grade girls ran over to me, took a deep breath, and in concert shouted “Happy New Year” in English. I thanked them, and they ran away giggling to themselves, and I was left sitting in my chair wondering what happened.

Today, January 5th, I had the privilege of attending a rally from one of the leading candidates in the race for President of Ukraine. The election will be on January 17th. This candidate, current prime-minster Yulia Timoshenko, came to speak to my town, which was surprising for me. Our town only has about 37,000 people. And it is about an hour away from the capital of the oblast (state/province). As a Peace Corps Volunteer, I am a member of a apolitical organization, so cannot give publicly any impressions, accolades, or agreements, but the speech, from what I understood of it, was fairly interesting. Timoshenko spoke of the election as being for the honor of Ukraine. Her speech was totally in Ukrainian, and the rally itself was totally in Ukrainian. In Ukraine the Russian language is also frequently used, and the other leading candidate, Yanukovich, is in favor of re-establishing the Russian language as the state language in Ukraine over Ukrainian. In a recent article I read: he [Yanukovich] mocked Timoshenko's upbeat appraisals of the economy, he sarcastically switched into Ukrainian from Russian, drawing laughs from the crowd of about 2,000 supporters.

Switching back into Russian, he said, "I'm tired of hearing five years of this gibberish. . ."

granted his audience was in the pro-Russian Autonomous Republic of the Crimea, but it is interesting to me that a candidate is running for president of Ukraine with a plank in his platform being to end the use of the Ukrainian language.

It was, however, a bit exciting to watch a politically rally so close to a presidential election. I must say, that it was much different from what we would have seen in America. I mean this in terms of everything from the actual program to the security, and the audience. I imagine a rally of this sort in the States would draw a few thousand at the very least, and this crowd must have been closer to a thousand, if that. But, it was an enjoyable way to spend the night. There were also two singers with the prime-minister, and they made it more fun to watch.

For the record, my Providence College Friars were victorious in their second Big East game against the Red Storm of St. John's. I must admit the news of that victory for this team made my day on Monday when I read about it. I think the Big East wins will be rare this year, so we should enjoy them when we are lucky enough to get them. (And yes, I unabashedly use “we” as if I were a member of the team. I bleed black and white during basketball season, sorry.)

That is all I know for now. Good night, Go Friars, and keep warm.

Пітер Майкл Міган

(Peter Michael Meegan – but g is not generally used in Ukrainian so it is pronounced Meehon)

On Friday, we reattempted our trip to site. Our bus, this time, left at 2:00 PM, and our trains were scheduled for the exact same times. We got to the station without a hitch, and were able to begin our new time at site. Even more exciting, for me, was a double cheeseburger and a brewed cup of coffee at a McDonald's next to the train station. It was a delicious taste of Western excess and I loved every second of it. If I knew Ukrainian better, I would have even asked for Mac sauce on the double cheeseburger, and been back home for a few minutes.

Once back in the station I was able to find the Kyiv Post, and The Economist at a newsstand. The Kyiv Post is probably the best English language paper in Ukraine, it is a weekly. The Economist, was about a month old, and cost 25 UAH, but I have not had any time to read commentary of world news, so I was incredibly excited to find it, and gladly made the purchase. We spent our time waiting for the train again shooting the breeze, followed by a game called Bananagrams, which I had never played, but was pretty fun. I know my mother enjoys it. I was the champion of the final round, and made sure everyone knew.

The ride to Zhmerinka was four hours on the train. Another volunteer was on the same train, but she got off about two hours before me. Her exit was a bit more stressful than mine. My stop was the end of the line, so I had all the time in the world to get my bags off, and their were not many people still on the train by that point. By comparison the other volunteer had only a two minute stop to get all her gear off. I helped throw the bags off for her, but it ended up that we rushed for no reason, because the train ended up stopped there for a while.

Once we got to Zhmerinka, we were met by my counterpart's daughter, and son-in-law. They helped with my bags, and hailed a cab from the station for us. The cab brought us to my new apartment, on the 5th floor of a rather large building. I will take, and send pictures some time soon. I was showed my room, the kitchen, how the stove works, how the hot water works (only between 9:00 AM – 10:00 PM, though). Who thought my first ever apartment would be in a sleepy town in central Ukraine? I know I didn't.

I was also shown around town the next day, Saturday. I went to the supermarket, I was shown the Catholic Church, and various stores around town. My apartment is about a 10 minute walk from the town center, and about 20 minutes from my school. I even have a gas station near me that sells Pringles! Unfortunately a can costs 27 UAH, which is more than I pay for two days worth of groceries. So, maybe one day I'll feel the need for Pringles, but as of now I do not.

I had a few days to settle in, before school started for me, on Wednesday, the 23rd. I enjoyed my first class with the new students. It was funny, we had a reading about newspapers, and for one of the answers to what we need when there is a story, a student responded “redactors.” I had trouble not laughing, but in his defense, the Ukrainian word for editor, sounds like redactor. It was just funny to hear in a country with a relatively new free press.

The kids like to say “Good Morning” to me. This is regardless of the time of day. They are also interested in America, and where I come from. Mostly, because Rhode Island is only 3 hours away from New York. I was asked if I had children back in the states, or a wife, which is funny to hear as a 23 year-old American, but at this age here, I would most likely be married and have started a family.

I will continue with more later, but I am getting a bit tired. I will also take some photographs, but I will wait for tomorrow. We are having a snow-storm right now, and I want to wait until the gray, disgusting slushy snow is covered by new fresh coating of white.

Also, for the record, I am cooking for myself, everyday. Also, I found a place that sells hot dogs, which is a nice taste of home every now and then.

Goodbye, and Go Friars,

Pete

This brings us to our Swearing-In Retreat in Kyiv. The retreat lasted from Monday the 14th until Thursday the 17th, when we were sworn in by the United States Ambassador to Ukraine, John F. Teftt.

The Swearing-In Retreat was full of meetings about everything imaginable. We were first given our regions where we will be living for the next two years. As I mentioned in my last post, my new home is Zhmerinka, a town of about 37,000 in central Ukraine. It is home to a very large train station, and has lines that go to Kyiv, Lviv, Odessa, and Simferopol, the cities I most want to visit while I am here. I am only 4 hours from Kyiv. Lviv and Odessa are between 6 and 7 hours, and Simferopol is far, but it is nice that it is accessible from here. My region of Ukraine is called Region 3. It includes the oblasts (Ukrainian districts similar to states or provinces), Kyivska, Vinnistka, Khelmitska, and there may be one more, but I am not sure.

The retreat was a great place to catch up with some old friends, and make some new ones. I was able to reconnect with all the Turkmenistan rejects which was a nice thing. I was also able to make new friends, I hope I'm able to keep in touch with even though we've been placed around the country. I went to my first cafe in Ukraine. It was basically a party tent with windows and a door, a bar, and a space heater. It was enjoyable people watching as well. The only regrettable aspect was that we had to be back in our dorm, and on our floor by 11:00 PM or we would be locked out.

The second day of our retreat we met our new counterparts. Our counterpart is a Ukrainian partner that we work closely with. Mine is an English teacher at School # 3, here in Zhmerinka.

We were able to spend some time together as well. This was followed by more and more meetings, about what I can't remember at this time.

Wednesday our time was spent undergoing PEPFAR training. PEPFAR is the United States President's Emergency Plan For AIDS Relief. Quite possibly President Bush's greatest achievement during his term of office (though my friend Sam said there wasn't much to compare it to). This was designed to educate volunteers about HIV/AIDS and teach us some strategies about how to work in lessons on this topic. HIV/AIDS is a big problem in Ukraine. Ukraine has the highest infection rate outside of Africa. It is going to be an important part of service to help bring this to light, and avoidance topics.

Thursday, however, was the big day. It was the day of our official Swearing-In Ceremony. The ceremony was only about an hour long. Unfortunately, it was at 12:00 PM. Thus, my host-family from Kaharlyk was unable to attend, which was a bit sad. It was however, a very enjoyable ceremony. It was done in both English and Ukrainian. And, to be honest, I am extremely impressed with the translator's skills. Some of the speakers made long, complex thoughts before pausing to allow her time to translate but she was very good. The culmination of this ceremony was being given the Volunteer Oath. This was directed by the Ambassador. In complete honesty, and not a bit of irony, it brought my close to tears; taking an oath to support and defend the Constitution of the United States of America. The full text is as follows:

“I, Peter Michael Meegan, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same, that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion, and that I will well and faithfully discharge my duties in the Peace Corps of the United States of America, serving Ukraine to the best my abilities and demonstrating the respect and consideration due its people. So help me God.”

This was followed by a round of applause and hugs/handshakes from our counterparts. It is common practice in Ukraine that men only shake hands with men, and women do not shake hands, so there were more hugs than handshakes. An oath to the United States of America is a humbling experience for me. I have such faith in the ideal of America that it was hard not to get choked up in the process of swearing my support and defense.

The Swearing-In Ceremony was followed by a short reception. We had to load our buses by 4:00 PM, though, so I only stayed for a little bit, and then got ready to load the bus and say goodbye to friends. There was a large snow-storm that hit Ukraine the day of our ceremony. It was snowing very hard in Kyiv, as well. After loading the bus, and pulling away from our dorm around 4:30 PM, we ended up stuck in traffic for two and a half hours. A large bus full of volunteers missed all of their respective trains. This sent us back to the dorm for one more night.

We decided to celebrate by eating Chinese food from a restaurant across the street from where we were. It was funny to have so many Americans in one place, trying to speak broken Ukrainian/Russian. One of my friends, knew Mandarin, so he was trying to speak Mandarin, and then finally the waiter attempted English, it was funny, delicious, and also more expensive than we expected. About $5.00 – 7.00 USD which is rather high amount here. After dinner we ended up back at the dorm, and sat around talking, shooting the breeze, listening to music, and having a beer.

And that's all I have to say about that!

Pete

Good afternoon, good evening, and good night! After a long delay I am back at it: recording my innermost thoughts for the sake of posterity. It is, today, Wednesday, December 22. Happy Birthday Pat Mulligan, you are one step closer to that big three zero, thirty, for those not mathematically aware. I am in a new town named Zhmerinka in the Vinnystka Oblast of central Ukraine. But, before I write about where I am, let me write about where I've been . . . isn't nostalgia terrific?

Since I left you last a lot has occurred. We will start with my last week in Kaharlyk. This was a whirl-wind week. My group had a meeting with the English teachers of School Number 3 where we had been teaching, the Director (Principal), and local media representatives. We were treated to tea, coffee, buterbrod, which is basically an open-faced sandwich, and delicious tsukerkies, delicious candies usually chocolates which are bountiful in this country. During this meeting, we started by thanking the teachers for allowing us their classrooms, students, and sharing with us their experience in teaching the English. As we all know, or should, teaching a language is a lot more difficult than speaking it. This followed with a poem from the Director. At some point I will send home a translation, and a copy of the article that appeared in the local paper, but for those of you familiar with my native North Kingstown School Department, the Director of our school was very similar to Mr. Merkle at vice-principal at Wickford Middle School. Around the same height, he also had the same very confident, under-control stature that was so intimidating to the 6th, 7th, and 8th grader I was. But, as with Mr. Merkle, the Director was a very kind, helpful, and capable administrator. Assisted by the rhyming case endings of the Ukrainian language, the poem, “Parting,” surprised, and was a very accurate account of the stages of our integration, and our sad parting with Kaharlyk.

This was,luckily, the first time I was able to enjoy a Ukrainian birthday party. My host mother had her birthday, which here in Ukraine is a very big deal. She spen the entire day before preparing fantastic food, chicken cutlets (which are like chicken nuggets, only better) holuptsi, which are rice and meat wrapped in a boiled cabbage leaf, also delicious. Various salads, all heavy with mayo. A million dishes, that there was barely room for our plates, and shot glasses.Of course, it is important to toast, and drink vodka for a birthday. We went around the table giving our toasts. I got to practice in Ukrainian "I wish you a year of happiness, peace, and love." And, even better, the Ukrainians loved our old toast from college "I'm never above you, never below you, but always besides you." My host sister, Valeriya translated this for me, because it was a little more complex than I knew the words for, but they were very impressed. The last thing we did was enjoy the famous Kyivski Tort. This is a very popular cake here in Ukraine. While enjoying the cake and talking, I found out that during Soviet times this cake costs 3.50UAH. it is now a 70 UAH cake (UAH is Hryvnia the Ukrainian currency). But, the point, is that it is basically unaffordable now. And only on the most special occasions do people eat this cake.

This was followed by much studying for our LPI, language proficiency interview. This interview is the culmination of training, and the way our language skills are evaluated. From this interview we are scored on a chart based on our competency. Coming to Ukraine three weeks after the rest of my group, scoring Intermediate Low was not too disappointing for me. Of course I would have preferred to do better, I have nothing but time to improve. This studying took up long expanses of time for the rest of the week, until we finally had our interview on Thursday the 10th. This should have been the end of our work, but on Friday we had to perform a seminar for the English teachers of the Kaharlyk region.

Unbeknownst to us, our seminar for the teachers of the region, became an add-on to a course of study in which young teachers observe lessons of more experienced English teachers in the region. My host-mother, the English Language Methodologist for the region was also in attendance. We first observed a lesson which was, in all actuality, a production to impress the methodologist. The lesson was clearly something that had been practiced for a long time, and only the best and brightest pupils were in this class, making a little more difficult to see how the activities would work for an average class. But, after this lesson we were able to give our seminar. We had expected a big crowd, but we only ended up with 6 young teachers in attendance, it turned out that even the teachers we had worked with at School Number 3 had not known when this final seminar would take place, and it was during the school day so they would not have been able to attend. The seminar was designed to give teachers strategies for teaching without textbooks. This is something that had to be dealt with, here in Ukraine. There is no guarantees that textbooks will arrive on time, or even that an entire class will all have the same textbook. The seminar focused on activities that would help the students with their communication, and be easy to perform with no textbooks. We used activities like “Taboo” and various others. This, too, was a learning experience. We did the seminar completely in English, thinking, that as English teachers the audience would be completely fluent. This, however, was not the case. We should have simplified our language, and spent more time on the activities less time explaining them. Once finished with this seminar we were again treated to tea, buterbrod, tsukerkies, and the like. It was quite a spread, one which I have been given frequently, and enjoyed every time.

Our time in Kaharlyk officially ended, on Monday morning, December 14. First, however we had a little appreciation dinner for our host families. It turned out that the two men in our group proved our domestic streak. We prepared deruny, or potato pancakes, home made apple sauce, and Aidan also prepared a fritatta-like dish, with a bit more bread. It was an enjoyable night. The end of this, our language instructor asked the host-families the funniest thing that happened while we were living with them. My host mother told a story of when she had called me to pick up matches. She asked in English, and of course, I was more than happy to oblige. I forgot that I didn't know the word for matches in Ukrainian. A group-mate remembered, and told me. I asked the lady at the cash desk for matches, sirniky, but she had no clue what I was talking about (I later found out that almost exclusively use the Russian word, speechkey). Being a little nervous, hurried, and embarrassed it was taking so long I started asking for malenkey pozhezha, then pointing at cigarettes. After a while the clerk understood, but she had trouble initially, because I was asking her for a small conflagration, something which made no sense.

This was the end of Kaharlyk, and on Monday morning December 14th , we were picked up by a bus and made our way to Kyiv to our Swearing-In Retreat.

That's what I'm saying!

Pete

Today, Saturday, December 5th, our cluster took a tour of the museum in our little town, Kaharlyk. The first weekend I arrived in Kaharlyk my host mother promised we would see it at some point, and this was something I looked forward to. I pass this building on my walk into the center of town everyday. It is not, and has never seemed, like much to look at. The building in the museum is a very nondescript and unassuming . . . and, to be honest, I did not expect much from this museum in the small town an hour or so outside of Kyiv.

We, or at least two of us, but I assume all, were shocked when we saw the museum, and its contents. None of us had expected anything out of the ordinary, just some minor artifacts, of important thigs in town history . . . More than answering questions, the museum showed us where Kaharlyk stood in the sense of world history . . . and opened up many more questions.

In terms of the building: In the mid-1700s (or so, I am doing this by memory, so don't get all uppity if the date is off) Catherine the Great decided she would take a vacation on the Black Sea in Crimea. To get there, she would travel down the Dnipro. One of her stops along the way was Kaharlyk. The building in which the museum now resides was used as a rest house for the servants of Catherine on their way down to Crimea. She brought some crazy number with here around one thousand, and three thousand . . . something absurd. The building after this was used as a post office, a guard house, a rest house, and a Jewish synagogue. I'm sure there are other roles that I have failed to remember, but that's what I can recall.

We started in the small foyer of the museum. This foyer was decorated with beautiful bucolic scenes; the natural beauty of rural Ukraine. These paintings were of both pastures, and the river front (the river is the Dnipro, or Dnierper). Under these painints were birds preserved by taxidermy. There were two sections, one for birds by the river, other for birds of the fields. These were very impressive, and included ducks, a sea-gull, a plethora of small birds, and one of the largest crows I have ever seen. It was massive to the point I cannot describe. What was more impressive about these birds, is that they truly were gathered within the region, by two young boys from the town. In this foyer, there was also two figures, and typical "babusiya" and "dideuce" dressed in traditional Ukrainian designs. They were very impressive as well. . . and had typical tools of the trade, a spinning wheel, and a tool for gathering and beating wheat.

The next scene was a map of our park . . . It was impressive to see the smaller version of it, with the pond mapped out, the hills, the bridge (which we will come back to), and the monuments all clearly defined. We also found out, that right where some of the main monuments stand now there was once a beautiful mansion. This mansion was destroyed by the Germans during World War II. The park was designed to show everything of natural beauty in the world. There was water, for the ocean, hills to signify mountains, a field, many trees, and it is still a beautiful park.

This brought us to the next exhibit. The next exhibit was more paraphanalia of Kaharlyk's past, and also and explanation of the name. Kaharlyk is a Mongul, not Ukrainian name. The name comes from Kaha, the name of a high ranking mongul, and Arlyk which was the name for a deed of ownership. This was shortened to Kaharlyk. There were also artifacts from Kyivan Rus a kindom that started around the 10th or 11th century. (There is a monument in town that claims 1185 as the founding date of the town).

Skipping over an exhibit of peasant dress, the next period I'll discuss is communist times. Our guide, the curator of the museum (who, though she has two higher educations still only recieves a very modest salary) said that though many bad things happened during communist times, it is a part of our history, and we will remember it, because it happened. She mentioned at one of the exhibits that during the late 80s she had showed an American around the museum. The man was not very interested, until coming to the portion which showed communist times. One thing that he asked our guide was about the great famine. In the 1930s 5 million people in Ukraine, and 7 million people in the entired Soviet Union died because of forced rationing of grains. This, in some textbooks is equated with Margaret Thatcher's bitter pill - a necessary evil of collectivization - but, especially more recently it has become more clear that this was a false famine caused to weaken the people that the Soviet Union governed, and, as indicated by the numbers above, the majority of the suffering occurred in Ukraine. Our guide, and keep in mind this was while the Soviet Union was still in existence, told the American when he asked that she definitely believed it was a false famine. He asked her how she could be so bold to say such a thing. He asked not because he did not agree with her, but because she could be put in prison for saying something like this; before democray, before independence. She agreed, because she had documentation to support these facts, and truly a brave soul, she would not refute facts she knew to be true. A documentary was made by this American, it is a documentary I would love to see.

Our final section was based around the Second World War. This room was full of the slogan "Nobody forgotten - nothing forgotten". There were pictures of Ukrainian heroes of the Great Patriotic War, as well as medals that would have been given out by the USSR to soldiers, for achievement and bravery. This room was full of the propanganda posters created by Moscow which were also provocative. We also learned that Nazis (they are usually referred to as fascists here) occupied this part of Ukraine, including Kaharlyk for around two years. They were responsible for the destruction of the mansion. As I mentioned before, in our park there is a beautiful bridge, that leads over a shallow ravine. During World War II, over 700 people in Kaharlyk were killed by the nazis. They were forced to strip off their clothes, stand on the bridge naked, and they were shot, killed, and dumped into the ravine. This was especially chilling. Something I, for one, had no idea of. I think this is, however, an example of how interconnected simple places in Europe are with history.

And this, friends, is where my little story ends. I did not expect it to be so long, so my apologies, but goodnight, and Go Friars.

Life During Pre-Service Training

Contrary to what I tell people, I am not actually a Peace Corps Volunteer. I will not be a Peace Corps Volunteer until December 17. This is two weeks away from me (I am writing on Wednesday, December 2). Training life, from what I hear is different from the life of a regular volunteer. It is busy, it is stressful, and the work seems to be almost endless. Luckily, at this point, I have taught my last lesson of Training, so I will have some semblance of enough time in the average day. The past two weeks I have gotten a full night's sleep only once or twice. The rest of the time has been sent lesson planning, preparing materials for lessons, studying Ukrainian, Ukrainian class, watching my clustermates teach, and doing a lot of work on a Community Involvement Project we have organized . . . a conference for English teachers about teaching English without textbooks, and providing some activites which may be effective for their classes.

Sunday is our only free day each week. However, even on this free "Reflection day" I usually have two or three hours of work to do. My patience, work-ethic and sanity have definitey been tested during the past month and a half. Personally, my situation has been compounded by the fact that I arrived three weeks after the rest of the class, so I constantly am behind and trying to catch up. Luckily, though, the members of my cluster have been very helpful and accomadating for me. I hope the other Turkmenistan rejects have been treated as well.

Overall I am happy and in good spirits. However, the past month and half, for me, has been a study in the polarity of human emotion. I have incredible days in which nothing goes wrong, and then I have days when I just can't bring myself to do work. It is interesting how light my bad feels on my 20 - 30 minute walk on the good days, to how heavy it feels on the same walk on the tough days. I am sure it is a common part of adjusting to a new culture and community to sometimes feel isolation. It can be difficult knowing that my friends and family are a continent and ocean away.

One of my salvations has been my good old American music. I have been listening to a lot of country music since I've been here, and all the bluegrass that I have. Ryan Bingham, and Sam Bush have been on an almost constant loop lately, and Eric Church and Dierks Bentley are frequently thrown in the mix. Pop music sounds like pop music anywhere, as does the rock/alternative . . . it is country music that brings me home, and reminds me of America. It has truly been a saving grace. I just love songs about open doors, trains and leaving, I always have. . . Perhaps that is what sent me so many miles from home.

In my limited free time I have been reading. The last book I read was The Great Railway Bazaar by Paul Theroux. It is the story of a train trip which started in London, and went southeast through Europe to Turkey and around Asia. I am now reading Ghost Train to the Eastern Star a book in which Theroux revisits his inital journey thirty three years later. They are fascinating books, and I have really enjoyed them. It is comforting to read the stories of someone else out of their comfort zone, and out of their comfort zone by choice. Interacting and observing the way people in the world live. It is also funny, that in describing travellers he has very nearly pin-pointed some of my characteristics, or perhaps character flaws is a better word. Particularly the vanity, and self-indulgence travel like mine allows. Even only a month and a half into my stay I am positive this has been much more real an experience than any study abroad program which bases itself in a big city at an open-minded university. I am in a small village in Ukraine (read the REAL UKRAINE). It is true, I think, that even many travellers do not truly see the places to which they travel. Staying in resorts, and in big cities gives us a sterialized, and commercialized version of the particular places we want to see. And, while this version is undoubtably enjoyable, it is not the truth . . . but, then again, tourism as a business is generally one big smoke-screen. An effort to make a good first impression. A city doing the same thing a person does when they meet someone new.

My apologies for the inconsistency in these posts, and in the inconsistencies of the topics I write about therein. Everything in a post is somewhat related, albeit perhaps very, very loosely. But, I refuse to proofread these, and will not edit what comes out to start with, that is a warning I gave at the beginning. Whammy. This is about all I know for now, and if you have the patience to read all of this, and all of these posts, then God bless you, because I sure as hell wouldn't . . . except while I was still waiting to leave, trying to learn what it was like.

All the Best, and as always Go Friars!

Pete

Because I do not have regular internet access, I have decided to write these posts while working off-line, prior to actually posting them to my all-important blog. So, please forgive me if I indicate I am writing on a day on a, say Tuesday, and the entry is not posted until Saturday or Sunday. I’m sure you feel as I do: minor details like this just do not matter. Let’s focus on the big picture, not the minutiae.

I am not sure if anyone is reading these posts, nor do I care much, to be honest. These are being written just as much for me as for anyone in my intended audience. Tonight, it is Tuesday, November 17, 2009, I have sat down to write an entry. Not much has changed in my life since the last post. I am still overwhelmingly busy, I still have no time, and I still really want to see some sun (though I’m not sure I mentioned this last post). For ease of reading, and some sense of organization I have decided to take a thematic approach to these entries. If anything of import that is worth chronicling in and of itself occurs, I will, of course, document the event. But, if you are reading just to see what is happening in my head, or how I’m doing here, I’ll lay down a thematic guide to my thought process.

I have not checked comments, if there are any, or emails in a while. However, before I left I was frequently asked why I decided to apply, and then join the Peace Corps. This is a question to which a short answer is difficult. And, if I can tell correctly most people asking did not want my life story, or too deep an answer, it was generally more of a question made out of polite curiosity. I am, I think, pretty straight forward, but also can be a bit guarded in answers to questions like this – especially with people I do not know very well. However, the benefit of the written, and in our case typed, word, is that it does not require actually looking at a person, telling them, and then gleaning their opinions from body language, and how quickly they may change the subject. Needless to say, when I was posed the question, and answered “I’m joining the Peace Corps to pick up chicks,” I was not being forthcoming; though, if that is a side effect, I am not opposed to it.

This question for any volunteer/trainee, at least the ones I have spoken with, is generally complex. I do feel, however, that my answer is a bit different from most of my fellow trainees/volunteers. It is not a secret that I love America. I use love here in the truest sense of the word. I am immensely proud of the country and the ideals for which it stands, and strives, albeit sometimes a bit circuitously. While there are clearly great embarrassments, and tragedies of word and deed in the history of our country, it is, in my opinion truly the “beacon on the hill” and a place of great opportunity. These words are sometimes tough to say, but as a student of history, it is not difficult to find a heartening story or anecdote in the annals of our past. And, according to Eisenhower, nothing is as strong as an aroused Democracy. I suppose you can tell: I do not subscribe to the reform-school historians’ theories. I feel it is time for the educated intelligentsia to bring back the “right kind of patriotism.” This is not the xenophobic sort common in the south, and among our ultra-conservative constituents. It is the patriotism that realizes how great a nation the United States of America is, and how great it can continue to be. It is a patriotism that understands our transgressions of the past, and strives to right them. It is a patriotism that welcomes new groups, both of thought, and ethnicity, and welcomes the contributions these groups can make to our mosaic.

I wish it wasn’t so late, or I’m sure this would be a bit more coherent, and worded more clearly and concisely. I could wax philosophic on this for pages and hours but I will stop. Needless to say, I am deeply proud of America. Through this devotion I became a proponent of national service. It is something I feel should be a requirement for all American citizens. For me, the Peace Corps was the perfect place for me to fill that desire to serve America. I much prefer the ability to act as an ambassador of goodwill to the people of a receptive country, than I would to be a member of our Armed Services, perhaps because I would have to shave, and wear a military haircut, I believe high and tight is the phrase.

Service seems to be a calling of both the Meegan and Coppa families. I am humbled to be able to continue this tradition. Perhaps this is a little clearer on the Meegan side. I am the grandson of Joseph B. Meegan, co-founder of The Back of the Yards Neighborhood Council. This is by and large the most prominent example of service among members of the amalgamated Meegan and Coppa families, but it is by no means the only example. I am also the grandson of the first Italian-American Eagle Scout in Rhode Island; man that was a corpsman (read doctor/medic for those unfamiliar with the terminology) with the United States Navy/Marines. These are, of course, only brief and pointed examples.

I am also the son of a Rotarian and a teacher. On the Rotarian side, I have a legacy of service that is also difficult to match. This includes living, while in college, at the Big Brother’s house, an orphanage for kids to sending boxes of clothes, and supplies to the Philippines to support yet another orphanage in an extraordinarily impoverished country.

The legacy of service also includes aunts, and uncles, and cousins. It includes siblings. The Meegan-Coppa amalgamation has served in AmeriCorps, the Army, the Navy, the Merchant Marines, and has worked with and for the United States State Department. It includes service on the community level through organizations such as scouting, as well.

Another aspect is that good, old Irish Catholic guilt. We all have it, it is just a bit more prominent in some. This cannot be discounted as a motivating factor in committing to Peace Corps service. Thought, it was concertedly secular Peace Corps service I decided upon, as I am not comfortable with evangelization and proselytizing, event after eight years of Catholic school. Perhaps it is just part of that whole “actions speak louder than words” thing, or perhaps because evangelization, to me, seems to employ a forced “Westernization” approach (I’m sure, of course, this comment will draw contention).

However, I should also admit, that my intentions have never been entirely altruistic. I am extraordinarily curious about this big beautiful world we live in, and I want the opportunity to explore it. Peace Corps service is allowing me this opportunity to see the world, not as it appears, but as it is, as T.S. Eliot wrote, “. . . the first condition of understanding a foreign country is to smell it….” Wanderlust can strike deep, and is not satisfied just be listening to Hank Williams sing “Ramblin’ Man,” or reading travelogues. At some point, while in college, it became necessary for me to join “the legion of the lost ones, the cohort of the damned,/ the brethren in their sorrow overseas,” though this is an entirely too dramatic example.

So, perhaps I have cleared things up, and perhaps I have just further obfuscated your understand of me, and my motivations. Either way, I don’t know, because, as I mentioned previously, I have no time or patience to proofread these, so I’m going with my rough draft.

All the Best, and as always Go Friars,

Peter Davidovich Meegan

It is Thursday evening, November 12, 2009. I am still in Kaharlyk, Ukraine doing my PST. PST is Pre-Service Training. It comprises of an extremely intensive Ukrainian language course, as well as technical (read: teacher) training. Our language classes are four hours per day. This is supplemented by usually around 2 or more hours of homework. Trainees are given one extra hour of tutoring per week. Because I came to Ukraine three weeks late, for me it is an extra session three times a week. This extra session lasts around an hour and a half. And, while I very much appreciate the extra support, extra attention, and extra help, it is very difficult, and I find myself remarkably drained at the end of every day.

With my host family, I do not have internet access. To access the internet I have to invite myself over to a fellow trainee’s host family’s house. Thus, I only get online once every week or two. This is the biggest reason I have neglected to compose any earth-shattering blog posts on my cross-cultural observations, and about how much I will change the world once I am fluent in Ukrainian (read: in a very, very, very long time). I finally came up with the idea of writing my blog post as a Word document (I am using the brand new Microsoft Word, and I hate it, for the record), and then copying and pasting once I am able to go online. Aren’t I just a clever and industrious one?

Because I have been very brief in all of my emails to family and friends, if I have answered at all, let me first describe my town. The town has about 15,000 people. There is a relatively busy town center, complete with a supermarket called ΦΟΡΑ, this is pronounced “for-a”. At ΦΟΡΑ I generally buy a two liter bottle of water, or two a day. Unbeknownst to me, the brand I buy has kept me a slave to the Coca-Cola Corporation. I learned this after finally reading the label. There are also many smaller kiosks, and Mahazines. Mahazines are small stores that can sell anything from food and drink to clothes, to hardware. Our town also has a wonderful and large park, with two monuments to The Great Patriotic War, and the veterans of said war. The Great Patriotic War is the portion of World War II in which Germany attacked the Soviet Union. This was 1941 and on.

Our town center is looked after by two additional monuments. One is the Lenin statue, Vladimir, not John – John’s last name is Lennon! Lenin is looking stern, and pensive, but fatherly. He is sitting down. Further on there is a tank. Tank is the same word in both Ukrainian and English. We foreign language studiers call it a cognate. The tank has the barrel of its cannon staring down the main street, and the monument states (paraphrased) Honor Defenders of the Motherland. Even in post-Soviet Ukraine the veterans of the Great Patriotic War are still honored, and respected – as they should be. Our town also has a bust of the ubiquitous Taras Shevchenko. Shevchenko is a Ukrainian national folk-hero; a politician through poetry, and one of the most outspoken proponents for an independent Ukraine when Ukraine was under Czarist Russia. His famous work is Kobzar it is taught throughout schools, and I have the goal of reading it, and understanding it entirely in Ukrainian. Finally there is statue honoring one of the first mayors of Soviet Kaharlyk. His name escapes me.

The center is at the top of a hill. A hill I walk up every day. I walk almost everywhere, just about always. Generally it takes me about 20 minutes to get into town. Close to the park is a new church currently under construction. It is a gorgeous building with the famous golden domes; I believe they are called “onion-top”. It is a nice sight to see the just the golden top above the rest of the town on my walk every morning. My walk takes me down the dirt-road (it is not as rustic as it sounds) that I live on, one right, and one left turn bring me to a more central road. This road, it is, indeed, paved, brings me down a hill. From here I turn right onto one of the main arteries in an out of Kaharlyk. I walk past a large pond, crossing the pond over a road bridge, and then go up one more hill to hit the Center. I must say, on mornings in which I am not rushed, the walk is a pleasant way to start my day.

The architecture in town is very square, and boxy. The most impressive building is the Kaharlyk Region Administration building. It stands above the town like a sentinel, or perhaps impenetrable fortress would be a better description, and I imagine would be spooky in the dead of night. Along the main drag there is also a police station. Police here are called the militsiya, which always makes me think of the Minutemen of Massachusetts for a second when they are mentioned. There is also a smaller Kaharlyk town administration building – the differences between town and region are just what the words imply.

Close to our center we also have a bazaar. This, I think, will be the subject of a different post sometime in the near future. It is a very lively open air market that is rather interesting to see. Merchants sell their wares from different booths, and kiosks, most of which look like wooden shacks, and can be closed up, and left where they are. . . now that I think about it, this describes the bazaar perfectly, just imagine a large area very crowded similar to the Haymarket in Boston.

We also have a plethora of crows in Kaharlyk. They are a bit disconcerting. Like a scene out of the Hitchcock classic there will be groups of tremendous numbers of the birds flying all together like a swarm. I have yet to figure out a purpose for this, and ultimately one watches and waits, and prays to God bird-shit doesn’t drop down from the heavens (Sorry for the language, Mom, but the other descriptive words for feces do not seem to do justice to the emotion). These groups, though, will fly all about the town, and I can see them whether I’m in the Center, or near the home in which I live.

Temperature and weather are, of course, favorites for small talk. When I first got here, October 17th was my first day in town, we were already in the depths of autumn. Leaves had changed, but the temperature was still relatively warm. Since then, almost four weeks later, while we are definitely still in autumn, and not the dreaded winter, the temperature, and the weather has most-definitely changed. The temperature has been much lower, as of late. Averaging probably around 5 – 12 ° C – a far cry from the 70° F days I have heard of recently in Rhode Island. The issue, for me, however isn’t with the chilly weather. It is chilly, but not cold. The issue is thus: When I first get outside I am cold. I need a jacket, and ear-muffs, and gloves. I am also wearing autumny-wintery clothes. The walk, however, is usually at a brisk pace, and involves some large hills. By the time I get to class I am sweating. This is compounded by the fact that the heat is generally put on very high in most places, which makes it difficult to cool down even after I arrive.

Other than the temperature regulation issues, the weather has been very dreary lately. There have been many grey days, misty mornings, foggy afternoons, and flat-out rainy days. There are not many things I would like better than a string of sunny days. Even if they were sunny and cold, I wouldn’t mind, just so long as they were sunny.

But, the important things are that I am happy, and healthy. I am overwhelmed with work, but that’s never killed anyone (except John Henry, he was a steel driving man, Lord, Lord). I have been well-fed, and well-looked after. If I were placed here in Kaharlyk for my entire 26 months I would not have any complaints, but alas, that is not going to be the case, as this town does not have the need of wherever ever else we are ultimately sent.

If anyone gets through all of this, God bless you. I appreciate your time going through my mental meanderings, which I am not sure are all that coherent. With such a large, all-consuming change, it is hard to describe specific aspects succinctly without getting into a million things, but I hope I have been somewhat concise. If there are any questions you have for me, I would love to hear them, and will answer as soon as possible. My email address is . Also, if you would like to write me a real letter, I would definitely love that, too. Also, on the off chance anyone reading is thinking of sending a package, I am not able to receive packages until I am out of training and have been put in a permanent site. This will be around December 17. My address is:

U.S. Peace Corps/Ukraine Peace Corps Trainee (PCT) PeterMeegan

111A Saksohanskoho St. Kyiv, Ukraine 01032

Please, as a matter of courtesy that I would NOT extend to you, do not judge my grammar, and general mistakes herein. I have done this in a very short period of time, I am tired, and I will not proofread. I don’t have the energy.

All the Best, and as always Go Friars,

Pete

Well, as I mentioned in my last post: "We were told that we are now a priority for the office. As a credit to the Peace Corps, many of my fellow group members have now been given new assignments." Less than an hour after that was posted I was called by Amanda at the Placement Office. I was told, and I am paraphrasing here: "We have a spot available in Ukraine. There is a possibility that you can go to Azerbaijan, but that would not be a definite." After weighing some options in my head (given that I only had about two minutes to make my final decision), I elected to take the placement in Ukraine. I am very excited about it as well. Much praise should be given to the Peace Corps for following through on a commitment they made. I was placed about 49 hours after finding out Turkmenistan did not want us.

Luckily, for me, I was too lazy to set up this blog in the time leading up to Turkmenistan. I will save you some of the asinine history of that country, and give a little about the Ukraine. Still staying in the former Soviet Union, the current CIS (Commonwealth of Independent States), the history still has more than it's share of tragedy. My brief historical snap-shot will be largely (and by largely I mean completely) borrowed from Culture Smart! Ukraine: The Essential Guide to Customs & Culture by Anna Schevchenko. This is also done completely without permission of the author, whammy!

The word ukraina means "borderland". Borderland, of course, implies that Ukraine is/was a frontier, of sorts. Ukrainians, at least ethnic Ukranians, are a Slavic people, and the region, which is now the country, was considered the frontier of the Kyivan Rus empire. . . and still, today it remains a sort of borderland. A country that separates the "Western world" from it's insolent step-brother, Russia.

Ukraine is the geographic center of Europe. It is was the "breadbasket of the Soviet Union," and is now the "breadbasket of Europe." It is home to a particular type of soil, called chornozem, which makes the country remarkably fertile. Such fertility is presumably why Ukraine (and, for the record it is proper to write, and say Ukraine, not "The Ukraine") was so victimized by foreign nations. It has been under Russian control most recently, and prior to Russian control various parts of the country were under the control of Lithuania, and Poland, as well as portions which were, even at that time controlled by Russia.

Ukranian independence was gained by the Cossacks, fierce, and brave warriors famous for their horsemanship, endurance, and drinking ability, not to mention their extraordinary tolerance for pain. It was under the Cossacks that Russia began annexing more and more of Ukraine, naming it Malorossiya, or "Little Russia. This was in the mid-17th century. The country was veritably under Russian hands until the collapse of the Soviet Union. And, while there are numerous tragedies, and important aspects that occurred while under Soviet control, in the interest of some sort of brevity, my focus will go to post-Soviet Ukraine.

Ukrainian nationalism, and desire for independence began in tragedy. Ukraine is home to Chornobyl, the greatest nuclear disaster in history. (I would prefer this not lead into an argument regarding Truman's use of the atomic bomb.) What this tragedy did for the Ukranians was expose the Soviets. The people saw the "blatant lies, and secretive behavior" of Soviet officials, and knew that this was bigger than said official were admitting to. While Independence was still five years away, it took until December of 1991, when the people of Ukraine voted overwhelmingly in favor of becoming their own country.

This brings us into the modern era, the post-Cold War world. The iron curtain, however, lifts slowly. And, even twenty years later the country is still working to establish itself as an independent democracy, with free, and fair elections. Ukrainians proved this to the world, during the "Orange Revolution" of 2004.

During the presidential election of 2004, thousands of protesters took the streets. The election, they claimed, had been rigged. This rigged election led to the defeat of the pro-Western candidate: Viktor Yushenko. The colorful revolution lasted ten days, after which the Supreme Court of Ukraine declared the results invalid, and order a new election. During this "re-do" Yushenko was elected, defeating a Russian-supported candidate, named Yanukovich, narrowly. This proved the country's commitment to the democratic principles we Westerners hold so dearly.

It is to this fledgling country I will be going. I am excited to go to Ukraine to teach English. In my egotism, I feel it an important service for Ukraine's international commercial development. This adventure is scheduled to commence around Tuesday, or Wednesday of next week.

I decided I would leave work on September 18. I spent the final days packing, getting the rest of my necessary provisions, and saying good-byes. Eating all my favorite foods, drinking as much beer as I could, and having three straight going away parties. It was a great week, and weekend.

I left Tuesday morning. I got to the Providence airport, and got right through security, and check in and prepared to take my flight to Philadephia. I arrived in the City of Brotherly Love and got a cab to the Holiday Inn in the Historic District. It was exciting to finally get staging taken care of, and get started on the two and a half year adventure.

So, after meeting some fantastic people, 47 to be exact, plus three members of the Peace Corps staff I was excited when the regional director of the Eastern Europe, Mediterranean, and Asia came in to speak to us. The news that came was absolutely shocking. Long story short is, that after signing us in as official Peace Corps Trainees we were put into a status of "Interrupted Service". This means:

A Volunteer may be separated with interrupted service status if the Country Director determines that circumstances beyond the control of the Volunteer make it necessary for the Volunteer to leave his or her present assignment.

The government of Turkmenistan, with no notice, or reason, had decided that they would not be accepting the volunteers of my group.

People in my group had sold homes, left good jobs, and put careers on hold. Not to mention the expense of application, and final preparations (this is in terms of medical tests, appointments, purchasing necessary provisions, and the like). People had broken up with boyfriends/girlfriends, given pets away, and said their tearful goodbyes. There were many emotions in the room: shock, anger, disbelief, and just absolute dejection.

So, as it stands, we wait for new assignments. We were told that we are now a priority for the office. As a credit to the Peace Corps, many of my fellow group memebers have now been given new assignments. As for me, I am sitting, waiting, wishing, and probably contacting the office way more than I should.

I have decided to start a blog. Generally I hate bloggers, mostly because of the sense of self importance said bloggers feel their words have, just because they are written. Here is my attempt at a blog. I make no promises with how often it will be updated, but will attempt to update whenever possible.

Here is my Peace Corps Timeline:

My application, while done by May of 2008, was not ultimately submitted until mid-September of 2008.

From there my application was reviewed, and I was interviewed on Friday, November 21. I interviewed with January Zuk, a recruiter in the Boston office, and was confident that the interview went well.

From here, however, there was a long time before I was ultimately granted a nomination. My nomination, to a teaching program in Central Asia leaving in September 2009, was received on December 29, 2008.

From here it was time for my medical and legal clearance. After getting all my medical tests done, including an orthopedic exam of my shoulder, and a personal statement about ADD because I had been tested for that as I child I sat and waited as the medical review was done. The medical tests are long, annoying, and complex, and the review can take as many as four months (at least as of April of 2009). From the day my medical tests were sent in to the day I was granted my final clearance it was only 16 days. I was thrilled at the expedience with which this was handled, and hoped I was on my way for an invitation.

I was called on May 16 and told that I would, indeed, be a good fit for the program in Central Asia. However, the placement officer was not able to tell me over the phone the country in which I would be placed. I received the invitation in the mail on May 19. After getting the assignment, finding out that Turkmenistan was a real place, and checking out what I could, I ultimately accepted the invitation on May 21, my 23rd birthday.

The program was scheduled to have a Staging event in Philadelphia leaving on September 28, and arriving in Turkmenistan on October 1 . . . All was good in Meeganland.