Od(y)essa!

**It has slipped my mind if I have made it clear in past posts my reasons for this next section of my travels - the post-Turkey experience. I feel like I have alluded to it in the past but not actually explained myself and why I’m not going straight home now that my semester is over.

In short, whilst I was in Kiev in January, I drunkenly asked Peter and Vova (two of the three owners of Why Not? Hostel in Kiev) for a job. I knew that Euro would be going on this summer, and I figured they would be extra busy and need some extra help. Besides the obvious reason why I would prefer to work in Kiev rather than the US, my semester in Istanbul was to end several weeks after most American internships and summer jobs start. So my job options for the summer were limited at best.

Later, when I saw Peter in Georgia, I asked again. Being Peter, he gave me some runaround answer, but gave me hope at the same time. I eagerly awaited his final decision, which he insisted would need to be made after he had another talk with Vova. Shortly before I went to Krakow, Peter told me I could come work for them for Euro. Vova confirmed this decision in Stróźe. So, having secured a job that would pay me a living Ukrainian wage (next to nothing in the US, but enough to get by in Kiev), I planned to keep moving in Europe, instead of returning home. And since I had wanted to go to Odessa in January (and convinced not to by Peter, who insisted it was a summer city), I figured now, the summer, was as good a time as any to go take a gander at the southern Ukrainian city.**

***

I only spent a few days in Odessa, but I could have spent the whole summer. The city is not much to look at, but the beaches, the girls, and the nightlife are well worth the buildings’ mediocre facades.

Backing up a bit, though. First we need to get into (the) Ukraine itself.

I didn’t sleep my last night in Turkey. I went to the beach party on the Black Sea on Boğaziçi’s beachside campus, and when I got home, I spent the rest of the evening packing. My flight was at 9:30am, so there was no point in trying to sleep.

So I drunkenly (and, eventually, hungover-ly) packed up my tiny cell of a room and prepared to get a move on. I had said almost all my goodbyes to various friends I’ve made over the last few months, so all I had to worry about was saying goodbye to Turkey itself. That sounded really cheesy, but I don’t know a better way to write that.

I arrived at Ataturk with the huge backpack that I had arrived in this past January, my blue daypack/school bag, and a gigantic suitcase I had bought with Richardson and Lindsey a few days prior to carry all the souvenirs I’ve picked up over the last few months. I hadn’t expected to stay in Europe after Istanbul, so I had started accumulating - I had stepped out of backpacker mode.

I had to pay fees for the extra bag. It was expensive, but not exorbitant. They made me go from the ticket desk to a payment station with AeroSvit, Ukraine’s national airline, pay the money for my extra overweight bag and bring it back to the desk for my ticket.

At border control, the guard was asking me various questions in Turkish. He asked me, among others, where I went to school here. I told him Boğaziçi. He said he had also attended Boğaziçi. I’m not sure if that’s a commentary on the quality of the school, but it was a cool coincidence.

I took my time inside the airport. The plane wasn’t to depart for a while after I arrived, so I wasn’t too worried about missing it. Until I was in the bathroom and heard them call a final boarding call for my flight. I ran outside, stole one of those little push carts for pushing around carry-on luggage, and sprinted down towards my gate.

I approached the conveyor belts - the people-movers. It was decision time. I was staring at something that would make me go faster, but they had bars in front of the entrance to prevent carts from coming through. But I didn’t want to give up my cart. So I attempted to get on with the cart.

It fit perfectly. The cart squeezed past the two posts at the start of the people mover with maybe an inch to spare. I sprinted down the track, slowing down at the end where I would --

Find myself on the ground, covered in my carry-on luggage. My cart’s wheels had had an issue with the slight uphill that was the end of the track, and I had been thrown over it, and off of the belt. Fortunately, the rakı I had bought was ok, and I was relatively unscarred, physically at least. Oh, and it turns out the announcement for my flight was a first call, not a last call.

The plane was a breeze. Landed on time at 11 in Odessa - I slept the whole hour and a half.

Last time I arrived in the bread basket of Europe, it was on a train from Belarus with Jonas. The guards at the border were unaware that, as of a few months prior to our arrival, American’s did not need a visa to enter Ukraine for less than 30 days. This time was a little different. For one, I arrived by plane, not train. Additionally, UEFA Euro 2012 had begun just a few days prior and, since it is hosted this year by Poland and Ukraine, the border guards were a little more friendly and a little less, well, Ukrainian in their bureaucratic dealings.

That’s not to say I wasn’t stopped or profiled. No, I was pulled aside upon the in-country security check and asked to open my bags. This is not an easy task when you’re carrying approximately 70kg of bags whilst attempting to call yourself a “backpacker.”

Despite the relative friendliness of the border guards, the questions I was asked were quite, well, specific to the problems and issues of Ukraine.

“Are you married? Are you in a relationship? Did you bring any jewelry?”

My friend Amelia from Kiev often says, to paraphrase poorly, ‘nobody comes into Ukraine as a sex tourist, they just leave as one.’ Ukraine has major issues with the fact that their female population is so darn attractive and their male population is a bunch of ugly drunks. It might seem that I’m exaggerating, but when you see 7 men out of 10 stumbling down the street at 10:30 on an average morning, you begin to realize the severity of this issue.

Fortunately I wasn’t planning on seeking out my wife in Ukraine (though it wouldn’t be a bad place to look), but I was carrying two hookahs, two backgammon boards, turkish spices, a rug, several bottles of alcohol, a bunch of school books and an unreasonable amount of luggage. No worries, though, I made it through.

With sweat dripping from places I didn’t know could sweat in the absurd heat that is the combination of Ukraine in summer and the weight of the world on my back, I went outside to find a taxi.

The hostel I had booked told me the ride from the airport should be no more than 50UAH (5 Euro, $6.25). Of course, it’s not easy to A) negotiate in a language you don’t speak, B) have leverage when you’re toppling over in the sweltering sun. Nevertheless, I got a guy down to 60 with a little hydration left in me, and we went off to his car. He even offered to carry my bag for me! That is, the small blue bag that only holds a laptop and some plugs. I was left to drag the giant suitcase, my backpack, and the rakı to his car which was, by the way, a Lada, world-renowned for it’s terrible safety record and horrible construction.

It was a safe enough drive though, squished into the tiny excuse for a vehicle and surrounded by the drivers various religious icons. The only casualty was the side handle of my crappy Turkish suitcase, which snapped off when I tried to put it in the car. It was OK, though, because as of then I still had one handle on the top and the bar that would allow you to pull it on its wheels, which had already begun to splay under the great weight it was bearing.

I arrived at the Babushka Grand Hostel a little after noon. My bags were splayed on the street. I got buzzed in the first door, and dragged my bags in, one at a time, inside. Then again, one at a time, one flight upstairs to the hostel.

I got some weird looks for arriving in Odessa with 2 oversized monsters, but it was all good. The Babushka Grand itself was more than accommodating. The hostel is a converted apartment, and consists of a large living room/common room, a 10-bed dormitory, a private room or two, and a kitchen. It’s a very nice place, and the people there were equally nice.

Shortly after arrival and check-in, I met George, from London, Ben, from Brisbane, and John, the owner, from San Francisco. I also spent some time talking with two brazilian guys, one of whom turned out to be a big sleezebag. More on that in a little bit.

George and Ben and I spent a while talking, but before long I convinced them to join me at the beach, which we trekked down to after the mega-heat of the noon-time sun subsided a little bit.

It was only a 10 or 15 minute walk to the beach, and the last part was a huge set of stairs going down to the water.

The beach was crowded, but beautiful. And not just the Ukrainian women. The water, too, was inviting (though not terribly warm, or warm at all), and everyone was either eating, drinking, or smoking, while tanning. After a little lying in the sun, I convinced George to join me for a swim. Having been on the other side of the Black Sea earlier that same day, I felt it necessary to dip my feet again. This time, though, I completely submerged myself and took in the frigid water with open arms. I surveyed the beach, and it really started to feel like I was out of Turkey for real.

George went back to the hostel after the beach, but Ben and I went to the train station. He wanted to say goodbye to a friend he had made a few days earlier. Her name is Alexandra (aka Alex, aka Sasha).

This world is extraordinarily small. Apparently, after I left Peter, Lidka, Vova, and the rest of the people at the party outside Krakow, those three began their trek back to Kiev. On the bus L’viv they met a guy named Ben, from Brisbane, with whom they became friendly. Ben would go on to Kiev to spend some time at Why Not? Hostel, where I would start work in a few days. While in L’viv, however, he met Sasha, who lives in Kiev. She followed shortly after Ben’s departure to Kiev, and spent some time hanging out with Peter and the rest at Why Not.

As luck would have it, Ben and Sasha’s paths would cross again, in Odessa, when they both headed down there for different reasons. Sasha and my paths would cross again, too, because she would come by the hostel in Kiev many times over the next month.

This is where I met her, though, at the train station, where the first thing she said to either of us was, “Ben, can you bring my bag onto the train for me?” She is a modern Ukrainian princess. Men should be doing everything for her because she’s beautiful and she’s a woman. That’s all there is to it, for her. Ben, of course, obliged, and brought her bags on the train for her. Sasha was working for Euro 2012, where she would, as a friend would later put it, “stand around and watch the men do all the actual work,” but she made good money regardless. Sasha is a perfect example of one of the more prevalent cultural differences between Ukraine and most western countries. Chivalry doesn’t have to be dead, but at least in the West our women are a little less, well, princessy.

Ben and I walked back to the hostel then. I took a shower and we headed out for the evening. We got a couple cans of this stuff called Alco Energy, an alcoholic energy drink, to keep me awake as my many hours of wakefulness increased steadily. Ben and I also tried to find George at the hostel and then at a couple of places he might be, but couldn’t. We had dinner at a place called Captain Morgan instead of searching more. I had a bacon-wrapped steak. It felt good for bacon to be available again.

We went back to the hostel briefly, when we found out that John and a bunch of other people had gone to Captain Morgan’s for drinks! We turned on our heels and followed, but couldn’t find them there. We called John and found they were two blocks back toward the hostel.

Frustrated, I cracked open an Alco Energy and Ben and I, along with the two Brazilian sleezebags from the hostel, walked towards the new bar.

I had barely downed a quarter of my drink when we were stopped on the corner of Вулиця Єврейська and Вулиця Катерининська by two police officers. They informed me, one poorly-pronounced word at a time, that I was not supposed to have an open container on the street. They told the Brazilian guys and Ben to go home. The Brazilians left, but Ben stuck by me.

“You. No Alcohol.” They insisted.

“Ok, I’ll throw it out.” I moved to toss the can.

“Нет, Нет!” They wouldn’t let me throw it out. “Three days. Jail.”

This didn’t seem right, but I am well aware about how little power I have in the Ukraine and how much of a hell these guys could make my life. That’s not to say I submitted, though. I kept on insisting that I should just throw it out and walk away. Until they broke out the handcuffs, at which point Ben and I decided we should just go with them.

Ben and I walked with these officers a little ways down Вулиця Єврейська. They fumbled with a piece of paper and handed it to me, pointing at the bottom paragraph, it read, in essence:

“You are being detained under the Ukrainian constitution for violating the constitution. You have the right to know what you are being charged with. You have the right to see a judge regarding your charges. You have a right to appeal the charges and defend yourself in court.”

But this is Ukraine, and I realistically had none of these rights with a couple of cops on the streets of Odessa. Fortunately, I never had to find out what a Ukrainian police station looked like. One of the cops started whispering to the other one, and Ben and I turned to each other and realized what was about to happen.

“B-R-I-B-E?” I asked Ben, wary of the police officer’s English skills, but not their spelling skills.

“Definitely,” Ben responded.

The policemen separated at this point. One stood on the street, presumably watching for potential spoilers of their fun. The other dragged Ben, me, and my alcohol into a dark alleyway, where he proceeded to write on a sheet of paper: “30$.”

“I have no dollars, only Hryvna.” I responded, which was true.

“Ok, ok ok.” He said. A new number was written on the paper. “400Грн.” This didn’t seem right. The exchange rate is 8-1 for the dollar, 10-1 for the Euro. He had upped the bribe to 40€! I refused. I offered him 50 UAH. Yes, I began to haggle for my right to stay out of jail.

Ben helped me out a lot. He would pull his wallet out, making a whole show of handing over small amounts of cash. The officer kept saying “No money! No money!” in an attempt to make it seem to any potential eavesdroppers that he wasn’t taking a bribe. Ben kept his wallet out regardless.

In an intimidation move, right after the price dropped to 300UAH, the policeman asked for our names. I gladly gave mine to him, as did Ben, since all he asked for was a first name, and not an ID or anything. He can have my first name all he wants. He can’t do anything with it.

We kept knocking the price down, arguing for my freedom. Two girls walked by us on their way out of the alleyway. The cop, frustrated by our lack of ability to communicate, actually asked these girls if they spoke English, to see if they could help him get his bribe! They ignored him, preferring to not involve themselves in illegal police matters. They even yelled back, “No!” (Not ‘Нет’) When he pressed them for their English skills. Ben and I got the joke, I don’t think the cop did.

We ended up settling on 200UAH to keep me out of jail for three days. That’s about $25, and still exorbitant given the average cost of a bribe for the cops if you speak the language is 50UAH. But I got to keep my alcohol, and was even able to fold up the money in my hand and pass it over in a surreptitious handshake to the cop, which made me feel like I was in some sort of terrible spy movie.

On the way out of the alleyway, the policeman kept covering the authoritative epilets on his shoulders and insisted, “No police. No police.” As in, ‘we were never here.’ Sure, cop, sure you weren’t.

We did meet up with the people from the hostel after that, including the Brazilians, who had made it clear to the others that I was being arrested. John had a good laugh at my expense, having been in the same situation before. I just wanted a beer at that point.

I had my beer, Ben’s treat, and then we all headed towards True Man, a bar that John recommended.

True Man was a great place. It was on the 3rd and 4th floors of a building at Пушкuнская 75 (75a Pushkinskaya), seemingly far from many other bars. But inside was my kind of pub. The first level was just a bar, with tables and bartenders. The second was a dance floor. But the music was all 50s and 60s dance music, and thus classy as hell with actual dancing (as opposed to the poor excuse for dancing that more closely resembles a mating ritual one finds at most clubs these days).

From downstairs, there were two TVs that streamed video from the upstairs dance floor. It was on those that Ben and George and I watched one of the Brazilian guys, who doesn’t drink (which I only mention because, while its admirable for most people who choose not to drink to do so, he very clearly does it to have the upper hand at a bar, not for any noble reason), work his way through the dance floor in a borderline disturbing display of Brazilian macho-ness. He would later boast about his triumphs on the dance floor, but we had watched them, and they looked more like a jaguar hunting antelope. Sure, the antelope can run and even fight back briefly, but the jaguar is sober, adept at questionable Latin-American dancing maneuvers, and more persistent, until the antelope gives up for a minute before running downstairs to find her friends.

Ok, so it’s not a perfect metaphor.

We all had some fun at the bar, downed too many drinks (with the exception of that one Brazilian guy), and headed back to the Babushka Grand around 4am.

***

On the morning of June 10 we woke up and found that John was planning some sort of BBQ at a new hostel he was opening near the beach and Arcadia (a place for tons of clubs along the beach on the outskirts of town). We decided to go.

The hostel is in the middle of nowhere, also known as a residential neighborhood, but there was a tiny and sunny back yard, good chicken on the grill, and we got a look at the type of work one has to put into creating a hostel from scratch. It was really interesting.

Ben and I didn’t stay long. We wanted to do a walking tour at 4. Ben had met a cute girl at the bar the night before who said she did walking tours and would be at the top of the Potemkin Steps at 4, so we went to see if she’d be there, and at the very least see the city a little bit.

It was a less-than mediocre tour, and the girl was not the same as the night before. But there were only three of us on the tour itself, so it was intimate enough that we had some fun with it. It was just Ben and I, and Lindsey, whom we met there.

The tour lasted an hour. We saw some cool stuff, like the Opera House, a huge statue to Catherine the Great, the Steps of Odessa (AKA the Potemkin Steps, from the famous propaganda film Battleship Potemkin), and a middle-school symphony in a park, though the last item on that list was just good luck, because we passed it on the way to the tour offices, where the tour ended and we were awkwardly made to write messages about how much we loved the tour for their cork board.

Lindsey, Ben and I went to Пузата Хата for lunch, a cafeteria-style chain of Ukrainian food that was one of Jonas and my favorite places to eat while in Kiev in January, do the prices and the proximity to the hostel. I had beef with cheese and chicken Kiev.

The three of us went to get some shisha at a place called Shisha. We had a delicious combination of lemon and honey flavored tobacco smoked through milk.

I love Odessa, but I was eager to get to Kiev. I ran at 7:44 to get to the train station, leaving the two behind them.

I found the station, and inquired about their last train to Kiev of the night, 9:19. There was a single ticket left, and I bought it, for 85UAH (a little over $10.50). I texted Ben to hurry back to the hostel so he could help me with my bags, as he had offered to do.

I ran back to the hostel and frantically packed up my stuff. Ben got lost trying to find the hostel again, and arrived at the hostel at 8:55. We waved down a cab, negotiated quickly for 25UAH to get my bags to the train (it was only a few blocks, but my god my crap was heavy). We made it with 10 minutes to spare.

I boarded the train, with Ben’s help got my bags into the various compartments we could find for them, and stepped outside with him. We said our goodbyes, and I got back into the cattle car that would be my home for the next 17 hours.

The train left on time. The train car itself was not the usual second class cabin with 4 beds and a door. The entire car was filled with beds. Two bunks on either side of each section, and two more that lined the opposite window along the aisle. All-in-all, there must have been over 50 or 60 people in train car 15 (of 16). I had seat 17, a bottom bunk.

The top bunk was occupied by two cute Ukrainian university students. Ben made some crass comments about getting to know them on the train, but over the next 17 hours I did get to know them, through a Russian drunkard named Коля.

Коля (Kolya), short for Nicholai, sat down next to me within a few minutes of leaving. “America. Russia. Friends.” He kept on saying.

Having no English skills of his own, he used the girls above us as translators. He brought me beer, and we sat and talked about everything from the Soviet Union and why I think it collapsed to the fact that Коля thinks the girls should marry me and move out of Ukraine for the better opportunity. The girls, Оля and Люба, had no interest in leaving Ukraine. They are among the class of Ukrainians who believe in the opportunities presented by a fledgling democracy and want to work to better their lives at home, not run to another country to live more comfortably.

Kоля hates vodka, but I broke out the Zubrowka and, while complaining how much he hated it, the two of us killed the bottle.

I had more fun talking with the girls than with the drunk. Both study in Kiev. Oля is studying Economics and Люба is studying Japanese. They were very nice, and towards the end of my month in Kiev, I would spend quite a bit of time with Оля, and quite a bit of money, as per Ukrainian courting customs.

***

Upon our arrival in Kiev, on the morning of June 11, we all went our separate ways. I managed to rip apart the second handle to my giant bag while dragging it up the stairs from the platform to the station, and would have to life it step by step with my foot to get it to the top. The plastic p.o.s. was really falling apart on me.

I negotiated for a cab outside. From experience, I knew that I shouldn’t have to pay more than 30UAH for a cab, but I was once again at a disadvantage for negotiations, and ended up settling for 40UAH. But it was money well spent, because due to the hostel’s proximity to the Olympic Stadium, whose surrounding area was closed off for the game that night, Ukraine v. Sweden, the taxi couldn’t find a way through. I spent an hour in the cab, driving around Kiev, trying to find a way to Саксаганского 30. The closest he could get me was 2 blocks away, in the end, but I had a fun hour, rocking out to classic rock radio and relaxing from my sweaty endeavor to get my bags out of the train station.

My bag almost fell apart on the last leg of my journey to Why Not? Kiev. The bit of plastic that is meant to let me drag the bag on the wheels was giving, but I pushed it to its limits and got it to the door.

As soon as I walked inside, I was greeted by Nina, who had arrived a few days earlier. I moved my crap in and placed some in the common room, some into the basement, and took a much-deserved shower.

I had my first meal in Kiev at Капо Ді Монте, the pizza and sushi place across the street that was the first meal I had had in Kiev in January as well. Then some relaxation, then sushi with the whole hostel gang for dinner. Amelia, Vova, Peter, Nina and I had a fantastic meal on a large sushi boat. It cost 600 UAH for the 5 of us. Cheap for sushi, but not as cheap as the winter, because the go-to sushi place in the winter had closed right before Euro, possibly because of the mafia (either connections to or pressure from, we’re not sure). They had had a perpetual two-for-one deal at that place, which does not seem like a viable price point, but I digress.

We went to the Fanzone that evening to watch the Sweden v. Ukraine game. The Fanzone is a cordoned off section of the main street in Kiev, Khryshatik (Хришатик, I believe), that leads up to Independence Square. It’s lined with massive TVs and stands selling cheap beer for people to gather and drink and watch the games of Euro 2012, every night there is a game, which is every night from June 8-July 1, excluding a few rest days between rounds. Kiev itself would play host to 5 games. 3 regular round games, all of them with Sweden (luck of the draw), against Ukraine, England, and France, respectively. They would also host a quarterfinal match and then the final match itself.

Ukraine won, 2-1 against Sweden, with a Swedish goal at 52’ and Ukrainian goals at 55’ and 62’. The crowd went insane. It was quite a good welcome back to Kiev evening, and the kickoff to a great month.