Sunday, December 23, 2007

Kiev - Not for the Weak

Before returning to New York, I engaged in an all-night Lviv finale that concluded about 75 minutes before my flight to Kiev. I was feeling more than a little battled and bruised as I arrived into Kiev on no sleep at all save for what I was able to steal on my 80 minute flight. It was Friday morning when I landed. It was going to be a long weekend.

Upon touchdown, the first order of business is sleep. Unfortunately it’s only 9:30am and I can’t check into my hostel until 11am. Awesome timing. To kill time I schlep my weary ass into a wireless net café and order some awful excuse for a salad (until this point, I had no idea how badly a house salad could be fucked up) that consisted of nothing more than a few feta cubes, even fewer olives, and some decayed lettuce. Cost = 33 UAH (almost $7). Clearly I am far from the familiar and fiscal comforts I’d become accustomed to in Lviv. And just as clearly, this dish is not going to provide me with nearly the necessary nutrients it will take to sustain me for another 85 minutes.

Know what will, though? Beer.

The waitress shoots me a completely justified curious glance as my one open eye gives her just barely enough assurance that I won’t fall asleep somewhere in her section. Shortly thereafter, a tall half-liter Chernivitsky glistens in front of me in all of it's invigorating splendor, while my salad retreats to the back of my table like a frightened rattlesnake: It is actually more scared of me than I am of it.

I go to the bathroom a handful of times, alternatively to dry-heave and keep my blood moving to remain awake. Time elapsed: not enough.

Finally I check into my hostel and promptly pass out until 5:30 that afternoon. Feeling about half as refreshed as I’m feeling filthy and cracked-out, I start putting together my plans for the evening while I fend for the good Ukrainian people against the bigoted owner of the hostel.

He’s a beady-eyed short, balding man with cropped, graying hair, who’s wearing a white t-shirt and gray sweatpants. He’s got a midsection as bloated as his pregnant Ukrainian wife, and a voice like Speedy Gonzales, if Speedy spoke English with a Norwegian accent.

He’s pontificating endlessly about the Ukrainian work ethic and how dumb and worthless they all are. I repeat: they ALL are. When challenged, he won’t relent that there may be even one Ukrainian in the entire country of above-average intelligence. One wonders why a guy like this would A) run a business here, B) marry a Ukrainian woman, and C) knock her up. Wouldn’t his child then have to be half Ukrainian? Thus making him/her half stupid and half asshole? Who wants to raise Keanu Reeves, anyway?

Feeling inspired, if only by the knowledge that I could never be that ignorant, I step out for a night of fine dining on good Ukrainian beef. In a restaurant called SoHo Steak. Which reminds me; does everything have to have a New York theme? I’m shocked with the prevailing New Yorkness of anything that encourages someone to spend money. Mind you, this New Yorkness is always in name only.

This gives me an idea. From now on, I’m going to give pet names to any girl I date. Like Tânia, Larissa, Gabriela, or Leila. They’re the top four Brazilian girl names of 1986. In other words, the cover is the only part of the book worth reading, as far as I'm concerned.

The steak was average steakhouse fare, the price definitely above average, and the ambience was something a dead person might call sleepy. Hardly the jump-start I was looking for. In a restaurant that probably seats around 300 at capacity, I was one of five people dining that night. The other four were all cougars perched at the table across from me, who would intermittently turn around and giggle in my direction. Flattering? Maybe. Though definitely not enough to induce an erection.

Let me just interject for a moment and say that I am writing this from a fucking frigid “hotel room” in Aleppo, Syria. And let me also say that I’ve never used the term “hotel room” quite so liberally. Pictures wouldn’t even do this justice. I say this at this moment (during a Kiev story) because my thoughts are having a hard time straying from my numbing appendages. If I could read Arabic, I’d be staying in the hotel I actually booked. Instead however, I was worn and weary from an arduous day of bus travel (five in all), four hours spent waiting for my visa at the border, followed by easily the most harrowing taxi ride I’ve ever had in my life. And that includes the tuk tuks in Bangkok. And all that led to me dropping into this shitbox for the night. And all it really amounts to is a moment of fucking amusement for you cunts. Which gets me exactly nothing but maybe a mild case of frostbite on my cock. I hope you’re all happy.

Moving along, it was snowing/sleeting/annoying outside in Kiev after dinner, as I decided to walk in some direction towards what I thought was Center while working off some of the kilo of red meat in my gut and texting a few people I thought could give me some decent advice for nightspots. I finally land at a place called Arena, which was aptly named given its four floors of sports pub, casino, nightclub, and strip club. I opt for the pub downstairs to log my first fistful of vodka, as at least then I’ll have the TVs to keep me busy till the club gets going upstairs.

Around my twenty-fifth deciliter of vodka, some old drunk German spills his beer down my back and then looks at me as if my prolonged stasis somehow provoked him. I tell him to “fuck off” in English, then Spanish (my default language when English fails), then some other language that I made up on the spot that incorporated a lot of German-sounding cha’s and eich’s. After about ten minutes of this, his friend (a tall, late-20s Dutch guy) drags him away and buys me a beer. Ten minutes after that, the drunk German cunt takes off, and Dutch Guy and I are devising a plan of how to attack the club upstairs. After of course, my shirt dries. My purpose in reminding him of this is to elicit not only guilt, but more free drinks. Goal: achieved.

When we get inside the club, we are immediately dazed by the sheer unbridled energy inside. Not only are there lasers and all kinds of other euro-gimmicks, but there are an obscene amount of gyrating women on the dance floor, and gawking Ukrainian men leaning on anything out of the mirror ball’s reach.

Dutch Guy and I quickly decode the forlorn glance from any woman loitering near the bar without a drink as being an invitation to buy them a Blue Balls Breezer (Dutch Guy loved that one, which got me another free drink -- finally my humor is paying dividends). Eventually, we retreat to the bullpen, aka the same place all the other guys are.

Any time one of us goes to get a drink, we are each aggressively approached by women. For about an hour, we are amazed at how forward and confident they all are. And by “they” I mean prostitutes.

But these aren’t just ordinary prostitutes. These are expert conversationalists and genuine salespeople. It starts with light conversation about why I’m in Kiev, and they seem honestly surprised when I show off some of my Sesame Street Ukrainian. Typically, this would make me think I was just being my normal charming self. In this case however, I was feeling a bit like a guy walking into a Thai massage parlor with a hard dick and a fistful of fifties. In other words, I’m feeling like a mark, despite my flimsy cock and flaccid wallet.

It made me wonder how it was that I stood out in a crowd of Ukrainians. For one thing, I’m half Belarussian and half other white-bred European (I think it’s a German/Welsh/Scottish/Belgian mi,x or something like that). So, by looks alone, my complexion isn’t at all what is giving me away. Then I remembered the fact that Ukrainian men dress like castoffs from Staten Survivor Island. For the first time in my life, I’m seeing the value in dressing in Dolce & Gabbana. Even if it’s real. At least it would have thrown the sharks off the scent.

Dutch Guy suggests we hit the dance floor if only to avoid the onslaught of temptation. Good plan. As we approach, I realize immediately that we soon will be the only men out from under the cover of darkness. If you’re a believer in peacock theory (sorry, could not find a decent link), then this would be a move in the right direction. Besides, our confidence was collectively lubricated with a minimum of one liter of vodka coursing through our veins, so what could go wrong?

I’ll fucking tell you what can go wrong. Dutch Guy got tired of being rejected by “nice girls” and bailed for a freelancer who’d hooked him earlier. Meanwhile, I was left on the dance floor with a bleeding thump in my brain that had nothing at all to do with the “Comfortably Numb” remix I was listening to for the 2,786,311th time within Ukraine’s borders.

See, typically if I’m at a club by myself, I’ll take it a little easy on the booze so I can remain somewhat cogent in the event I find myself in a situation with some hair on it. However, I let my guard down as Dutch Guy was pumping tall Nemiroffs into my hand as they’d quickly snake down my gullet moments later. At this point, I was seriously considering calling my married friend Olga (from Lviv who was in Kiev for her brother’s birthday) if only to extricate myself from a dizzying array of stimuli.

Quick side story: Olga is in love with me. Yes, she’s married (with a two-year old daughter, whose birthday party I attended along with nothing but family and only two other friends of theirs), and yes, I’m also good friends with her husband. Olga is strikingly beautiful and extremely sexual. It’s a trap a mile deep, quite frankly (in times of crisis, I revert back to the customary system). But for the sake of making this story much more entertaining, let’s say she’s a fat chick with oodles of acne. So, maintain that image as we proceed…

She’d told me only a few hours before I left to get my flight to Kiev that she was in love with me; this after about two months of purely platonic friendship. Her husband is quite influential in Lviv, and is not someone to piss off, given his connections to what I can only assume is a bevy of contract killers and body smugglers. Any late-night phone call is a cry out loud for a certain beat-down.

I resist the urge. Remarkably. Truth is, I have a rather super-human ability to resist the drunk-dial. Some people are good at sports, and some people can fart really quietly. This is my gift, I suppose. For some reason, no matter how drunk I am, I understand its utter uselessness. Especially when the girl is a fat cow like Olga. However, this is not to say it never happens, but I’m just saying it happens very seldom, and I’m usually conscious of it’s (usually unfortunate) outcome. This skill served me very well in this case.

Just as I’m heading to the bar for what I’m predetermining is my last drink of the night, I get scooped up by a random girl and her friend in a conversation about where I’m from. I realize once more that I really need to pick up some D&G gear if I’m going to retain any level of anonymity in this environment.

Feeling a bit more comfortable in the fact that hoes don’t normally work in pairs, I entertain their conversation and give the 2,700th wide-eyed response to the “Do You Know ‘Sex In The City’” question. Idle conversation leads to an invitation back to the dance floor, which I reluctantly agree to after the punishing last bite of my Nemiroff (no drinks on the dance floor, asshole!!!).

After some time, one of the friends flakes off, and I’m left in the clutches of a gorgeous Ukrainian, and yada yada yada, she ends up quoting me what would normally be considered an extraordinary value for my U.S. dollar. I opt instead to drop $200 on black on the roulette wheel on my way out, lose, curse the Dutch Guy to a life of eternal damnation as I pass a church nearby, and go to bed.

===================================================================
Next night, I am invited to Olga’s brother’s birthday party. And of course I go. Like a damn fool.


Unlike other times I’ve hung out with Olga, the last time I saw her, she was not with her husband, and so she was really open about a lot of things. Such as what she thought I’d be like as a husband, what she thought I’d be like in bed, and what she thought I’d be like as a partner for “the whole of her life.” Her English is so formal it almost makes me reticent that it’s my first language. Except for the fact that it’s the language of the rich, and Ukrainians don’t have shit.

Knowing what I know from two nights earlier, I walk into a party with all of Olga’s friends and family. It’s a closed party, and thus, no place to hide. It’s a new restaurant, in a brightly lit room, with a long U-shaped table arrangement lining all walls, with the fourth wall being a dance floor area. She is dancing with her daughter and her husband Sergei (Olga and Sergei, it’s almost TOO fucking cliché, isn’t it?) calls me over to a chair near him as he’s already pouring us shots of vodka. For fuck’s sake, I’m drunk already, and this is how he’s going to kick off my arrival?

Sergei and I don’t move for about two hours while we pound away at what amounts to nearly an entire bottle of vodka. We’re having a great time, and now I’m shitfaced. Unfortunately, I don’t slur when I’m drunk, so usually it’s only me who can tell how drunk I am. On this occasion I’m afraid, I’m wearing my inebriation like an iron veil. Olga can smell it, and I’m fucking terrified.

Olga sits down on my side, and I notice quickly that she and Sergei aren’t talking. Each time he gets up, she touches me under the table or makes some other overt advance that I’m REALLY not comfortable with. When he’s around, they don’t even acknowledge one another. I mention this, and she tells me they have “no more passion.” For fuck's sake!! Just what I need. She’s obviously someone who seeks an inordinate amount of passion (not to mention food, with a caboose as wide as Shevchenko Avenue), and Sergei ain’t delivering. I’m genuinely fearing for my life.

More than once her brother catches Olga holding my hand (I can only pull away so often in a weakened mental state such as the one Sergei himself put me in), or at least reaching for it. I turn down her offer to dance more than once, and at some point Sergei invites me to his 30th birthday party next year (I’d already been to his 29th in October). I’d recently (finally) watched all three of The Godfather movies, and the line “keep your friends close and your enemies closer” is echoing in my vacant head. I’m going to die.

Finally, Olga makes a casual pass at me while we are smoking a cigarette (I can’t remember it now, but it probably had something to do with smoking my cock), which I reject with a smile and a joke (the only way I can deal with any uncomfortable situation), and Sergei joins us as Olga leaves without looking at him. Seeing this as my best escape route, I tell Sergei I’m going to hail a cab and he wishes me well. Two days later, I was on a flight to New York, so I think I’m going to live. At least long enough to entertain you fucks a bit longer.

Since then, I’ve gotten a fair share of forlorn emails from each Olga and Sergei (they both miss me immensely, or so they say…). I’m not sure though, that a return to Ukraine is in the best interest of my well being, however.

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

A Not-So-Apologetic Quick Update

I realize it's been about two weeks since my last entry, and trust me when I say I have a couple entires about half done, which will be posted quickly following completion. But as for what I've been up to the past couple weeks, I've been moving around A LOT in order to rush my way down to Jerusalem for Christmas.

Those towns include, Istanbul, Selcuk (site of Ephesus), Pammukale, Olimpos, Antalya, and Goreme (where I am now). Lots of cool shit, and some much more interesting observations of Turks and a very pointed opinion regarding travel partners.

I've posted a few more pictures, so if you're bored at work (or looking to over-bill a client), then take a stroll through those. I haven't added captions for all the Kiev pictures yet, so maybe you can do me the favor of holding off on those until I can present them to you in at least a mildly entertaining format. Otherwise, they're just pictures of some place you've never been, may never go, and don't care to see. And I thank you in advance for your open-mindedness.

Keep checking back here, as the first chance I get I'll post my tale of Kiev, and Part II of the food review. When I get some time to breath, I'll kick out a story on Turkey too, but that needs careful consideration. Consideration, I might add, that their teeth sorely need.

Working is for pussies. Never forget that.

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

A Lesson in Popularity

I've been back in New York for a couple weeks, with an arduous week in Delaware thrown in for good measure. I say arduous only because Delaware is what it is, and although relaxing (more a function of a stimulus vacuum than a serene landscape), it was nice to return to the energy and organized chaos of New York City.

One thing I've learned in the past few weeks is that if ever you feel as though your popularity is flagging, all you need to do is disappear for six months, and then reappear with tales of adventure. It makes me wonder if Alan Johnston is also enjoying gratis lunches and rounds of Patron shots in honor of nothing more than his arrival back in the UK.

I'm sure he probably is, and I guess I can lay my head down at night knowing that he and I have more in common than just a retreating hairline and night terrors. [secretly hoping to get abducted by Islamic fundamentalists].

Also a function of popularity is the shortened return. The fact that my return to New York is of a finite duration, only adds to my appeal. If I were back for good, I'm sure I'd find myself with a lot more unreturned voicemails and as a result, a lot fewer friends to carry forward into 2008. I should probably consider that before I sign up for a cell plan when I get back.

The final, and probably most important function of my sudden spike in popularity, seems to be my exposure to ill-prepared seafood and Ukrainian cock. And given this revelation, I rest easy knowing that even if I die alone (as several exes have sworn), then at least I'll have more hits on my blog than all you married fags. If you want proof, then read Nino's blog and see if you don't have "qwerty" across your forehead when you finally come to.

With just a couple weeks being spent here in New York, people were forced to appreciate me (for once!!!). Although I'll footnote that last sentence with the fact that no matter how much love people show me, I'll always feel as though the people near me appreciate me far less than I appreciate myself. After all, I'm rewarding myself with 6+ months of vacation. A free lunch somewhat pales in comparison. (all those wishing to contribute to 6 more months can paypal me at my gmail account. you can feel free to send insider trading tips and NFL "locks of the week" as well).

In all seriousness, thanks to all who hunted me down (I admittedly didn't do much to go out of my way to "announce" my return to everyone in my address book) and showed me some love. In return for your collective generosity, I'll get back to work on this blog thing (once my head clears from a far-too-taxing weekend) and try to adhere to the once-weekly minimum I've been trying to set for myself. Although I guess I can blame those of you who kept me out until 5-6am the past few nights, I suppose I should take responsibility for the 16 hour binge my friend Brian and I logged on Saturday.

Actually, fuck that. Brunch at Extra Virgin was his idea.

I'll say that the brunch = ok, the bacon = delicious, the bloody mary's = frequent and generally unnecessary, and the hangover = epic.

I think you can probably gauge a hangover by the number of words you speak before dark the following day. Let's just say that Brian and I hung out in his apartment the entire day on Sunday, and spoke a total of 12 different words to each other. They were seven variations of the sentence "I feel _____" peppered with the occasional "I feel like killing myself." Good times.

Updates on Kiev, Lviv, and New York coming soon. I've got a long flight to Istanbul, so I'm hoping to get some catching up done then, when I'm once again outside the clutches of the familiar. Patience my pretties....

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Back on Solid Ground

I'm back in New York for the next couple of weeks to log some parent time and reaffirm my belief that New York is easily the best city ever. Mostly because I'm in it.

I'm looking forward to eating at my old haunts, catching up with people and not saying words like "haunt" ever again.

I'll kick something out there over the weekend, which reminds me: Have a great Thanksgiving all.

Monday, November 5, 2007

A Trip to the Banya

My friend Ed suggested one day recently that we go to the banya. Bath houses had always intrigued me since the days of living on East 10th St., a block from the Russian and Turkish bath house in the East Village, and so the chance to check out an old-school Russian banya was met with enthusiasm. After all, with as much as I've been drinking so far in 2007, I could use a good opportunity to sweat out some toxins.

Ed tells me to grab a towel and flip flops, as well as some basic toiletries. I ask him if I should bring a bathing suit, and he responds with open laughter. Nice. Should be an interesting day.

Ed's friend Guy also joins us. Guy is somewhat of a resident expert on the banya, and as he's someone who spent 20 years in a monastery before coming to Lviv, I'm immediately wondering why he's taken so much interest in anything not involving women, booze, or an online porn membership. He is carrying a bag full of tree branch bundles, and I write this off as more of his crazy god-stuff. Not that god is crazy, or that believing in an all-powerful being like him/her/my cock necessarily is, but carrying a bag full of kindling definitely borders on erratic behavior.

Once we arrive at the banya, I see some crusty old ladies out front selling the same bundles at 5 UAH each. For some reason, this gives me a little more faith in Guy's sanity, and yet a little less faith in my own. If Guy and these old ladies born in the late 1830s know something that I don't, then I seriously need to reassess the avenues I use to gain information, because clearly some things are slipping through the cracks.

Already self-conscious, we pay our way in, and Guy leads us up to the locker room. The door opens to reveal a long, slender room, with two long rows of poorly-kept dark blue lockers lining the walls. There are wooden benches running parallel, and a light gray floor in between. Sounds like any other locker room, doesn't it? Perhaps. Until you account for the overabundance of nude Ukrainian men.

Now, to this point in my life, I've seen probably about 20-30 cocks (including my own), and in most places outside of San Francisco, Chelsea, and my friend Brian's apartment, some would say thats about 19-29 too many. That figure quickly doubled in a matter of seconds.

In most locker rooms, you see men in various stages of undress, but the nice thing is, they are rarely naked for long. Somewhere between shedding their towel and replacing their underwear, you may happen around a corner and be met with an eyeful of rod, but in those extraordinary cases, you can usually erase such a damaging image with a decent lap dance at Scores after your acid bath. However, in this particular locker room, I am immediately met with about 20-30 wiggling weenies dancing beneath the overlapped waistlines of Ukrainian men ranging in age from their late 30s to early 200s. I've never been further from going gay in my life.

Upon this sight, Ed tells me the following:
"In the banya, there is only one rule. Don't make eye contact with anyone getting rooted from behind."

I don't necessarily fall for his joke, but regardless, I'm already concentrating my gaze around the room at roughly a meter above eye-level. I'm issued a key for a locker, and the disrobing begins. Now, as someone who is immensely comfortable with my sexuality, I'm nevertheless having a hard time ignoring the fact that I am undoubtedly the best looking man in the room. Granted, there are not many rooms of 30+ men in which I am able to say this, though this has never bothered me. On the contrary. At this particular moment, I am wishing this moment never took place. Or alternatively, this moment instead took place at a raving sex party in Brazil.

Quick aside: I have always said that if I'd ever go gay, it would be with myself. Ultimately, only I would ever be able to put up with me for the rest of our lives, and so if I were to ever meet me, I'd go so gay it would make Perez Hilton look embarrassingly hetero. And then we'd marry and have little baby Brians and drown any that lacked our searing wit and contempt for douchebags. In fact, meeting myself may be my only chance at true love.

Unfortunately, there were no smiling faces in this dreary room. Only sneering douchebags (I can only assume), probably upset that their abdomen has enveloped 30% of what used to be their already below-average cock. All that sala (raw pig fat) really has its consequences. And I know from experience, if yaknowhatimean.

I finally shed my layers and inhibitions and calmly hand my key back to the dungeonmaster. Carrying only a bar of soap and an ass pad (supplied by Guy, which is a questionable source at best), I march faux-confidently into the iniquitous nether regions of Ukraine's bastion of not-exactly-gayness. But a little-gayness will no doubt be present.

What I am met with is an orgy of prancing hairballs with disproportionate dangling light switches. There is no direction I can turn to that doesn't contain an eyeful of penis. I pause, but only enough to take a deep breath and plunge forward.

Have you noticed the use of imagery in this passage is almost entirely duplicitous? You can make an innuendo out of almost any sentence I've written. Play along at home! Or alternatively, don't.

I head towards the steam room, which is a tri-level wooden wet sauna (as opposed to dry - big difference), with the steam so thick, I can barely see a meter in front of me. This is definitely not a place where I would want to attempt the arms-outstretched-feeling technique of getting around. Lord knows what I'd wind up with a handful of. Probably boyfriend.

In any case, Guy hands me a wad of tree and I finally have the courage to ask what it's for. Apparently, the venik is meant to be lightly beaten on the body, by either yourself or a partner (the use of the word "partner" in this environment makes me more than a little squeamish). It is used to promote blood circulation, cleanse the skin (and hair) and release pleasant smells to aid your respiratory system. They are either of birch or oak, and I learn that mine is birch. Apparently, since my skin is normal (as opposed to dry or oily), birch is perfect for me. I'm touched that Guy would be so keen as to know my skin type ahead of time. Creeeeeeeeepy.......

The steam room is waaay hotter than any sauna I've ever been in. I'm sure the embers and coals were probably about the same temperature that I'm typically used to, but with all that exposed rod giving off heat as well, my unscientific best guestimate put the temperature at somewhere around 700 degrees Celsius hotter than your everyday average cockless sauna.

After about five minutes, my pores are exploding with as-yet unprocessed alcohol, and consequently, I am giving absolutely no thought to the men around me. Conversation is minimal, as even breathing is rather difficult, to say nothing of the energy it would take to actually lift my head. Ten minutes after that, and I am dragging my weary (yet still virgin) ass out of there completely spent. I leave for two reasons: A) I am unable to tolerate any more heat and B) I am physically incapable of fending off any frisky Ukrainians.

The next step is to wait a minute or two, and then dunk yourself in the ice pool. I wrote earlier how Jones and I had tried out the Turkish baths in Budapest, and how disappointing they were. The cold pools there were akin to a chilly shower, and the hot springs were not much more than your average shower on a cold day. Here at the banya, however, the ice pool is F.U.C.K.-I.N.G. C.O.L.D.!!!!! I would say that if people weren't continually dipping in and out of there, that the water would freeze solid in under an hour. It must have been at least 10% freon. And 80% river water from Pluto.

So, I enter the pool. Never in my life have I felt anything quite like the rapid retreat of my testicles into my greater abdomen. In under one second, I get the sensation that I may never have children, coupled with the much more pressing concern that I may never again experience an orgasm. It strikes me as odd that I'd be concerned with orgasms while in a pool of naked men, but I dismiss it as ball-chilling hysteria.

Frantically massaging the place my nuts used to be (also a curious action to engage in here), I get my first honest chance to peer around the room. Lining two walls are shower stalls, with soapy men lathering every crack and crevice. Not much unlike a locker room, and at this point, I'm becoming more comfortable with the sight of cock everywhere. Until, that is, I take note of the massage tables. YIKES.

There are four massage tables along the wall nearest the entrance (thus why I missed them on the way in), where naked men are on the receiving end of rather rigorous massages by... other naked men. The "masseuses" (aka fluffers) can only have their ages determined through the use of carbon dating. Their old withered hands are rubbing any and everywhere there may be a muscle, or at least where there is something that is commonly mistaken for one.

My question: why do THESE guys have to be naked??? No one has given me a satisfactory answer to this question as yet. Double YIKES.

At this point, I see Guy exiting the wet sauna heading to the ice pool. He's at about 9/9:30 with excitement, and for the first time, I think I understood how tough it must have been to live in a monastery for 20 years. Merely the sight of skin probably gets his roger up. This also explains why he's so knowledgeable about the banya in the first place. Now I'm officially uncomfortable.

However, knowing that the ice pool will cure his "problem" lickety-split, I rest easy. The ice pool by now is a calming reprieve from the heat of the sauna, and if you're able to ignore how many sweaty guys have dropped in and out of there, it's actually quite refreshing. Needless to say, a humble man the ice pool makes.

I repeat the procedure several times (hot/cold/hot/cold), giving my gonads time to recover each time the ice pool sent them packing for my lower intestine. Jesus, is that where they go?? Who knows? Who cares? Please come back!!!!

And let me say that the venik beating is indeed a powerful piece of the equation. With every whip to my back/thigh/chest/everywhere but my terrified genitals, I could feel a hot rush of blood to the surface, and a strange energy boost. Sort of like a Red Bull with the life cycle of a nitrous-oxide hit.

Once I call it quits, I walk back into the locker room with the confident stroll I wish I'd had earlier. Not because I'd conquered the banya, but more because with my genitals shrunken to a size that would make a Ken doll blush, I knew beyond any doubt that there was nothing sexual about the place whatsoever. Not that I ever thought there was, but with that much cock around, sometimes you just can't be sure.

Later that night, I was completely spent. The banya absolutely wipes you out for the rest of the day. It's a great workout for your heart, as I felt like I ran about 10 miles. Away from a starving cheetah.

By the way, I vehemently promise there will be a LOT less cock talk (does that rhyme?) in the next entry. Given the subject matter, I don't feel compelled to apologize, but I do feel compelled to download some porn. Lesbian porn.

Wednesday, October 31, 2007

A Day in the Life of a Ukrainian Male

7:07am: My father wakes me up with the tortured coughs and gags of a dry-heaving fit.

7:37am: I am again awakened, this time by my rupturing large intestine, painfully suggesting its need to expel only a small percentage of the hot dog and sausage meat I've been eating for the past 27 years.

7:40am: Stomach stops convulsing. Expulsion: complete.

7:42am: My ass is bleeding uncontrollably due to overuse of 30 grit toilet paper. I am crying.

7:45am: Back to bed, amid curses in Russian.

8:18am: Alarm sounds. I turn it off because I have no job, and Mom gets pissed when I abuse the snooze, and I am in no position to deal with that bitch right now.

10:41am: Wake up to the sounds of horny cats exchanging mating calls in the courtyard outside.

10:42am: Urinate. Emit audible sigh. Chernigivske feels a lot better on the way out.

10:43am: Resist impulse to shower.

10:44am: Exit bathroom without pausing at the sink to consider washing my hands or teeth. Not as if there's soap or toothpaste to use anyway.

10:55am: Devour a sausage and eggs breakfast, while desperately trying to ignore my father's rant on how Tymoshenko fucked the last election for everybody. I'm also trying to ignore the bits of food reflecting off his last remaining incisor.

11:04am: Return to my bedroom, and play my favorite shitty Ukrainian pop song for the 6,429th time this week while I…

11:05am: …Put on my fake Gianfranco Ferre Shirt o' the Day, fake D&G Jeans o' the Day, and Fake Leather Pointed Loafers o' the Day.

11:08am: Inspect self in mirror. Adjust shrinking groin area. Gesticulate a gunfiring motion to falsify confidence.

11:10am: Gel hair forward. Remove dandruff flakes from bang area. Give no thought to the possibility they may exist elsewhere.

11:11am: Crowd onto the marshutka towards town center. Driver is wearing a "Fuck You You Fucking Fuck" t-shirt. I give him a hi-five. I hope everyone saw me do that.

11:12am: Terrify the blazing-hot girl seated underneath my outstretched arm with a combination of my rancid body funk and date rape vibe I'm exuding.

11:21am: Exit marshutka onto Svobody Avenue and promptly buy a 0.5L beer at news kiosk.

11:34am: Finish beer #1 as my friend Roman shows up to loiter at Shevchenko monument. I can't believe he also wore his black fake Gianfranco Ferre shirt today. I punch him in the face, knowing full well that fake Gianfranco Ferre shirts come in only one color.

11:36am: I am approached by a policeman who had witnessed said act of aggression.

11:39am: I have 20 less UAH ($4US) to spend on beer and cigarettes. My teeth and gums thank the officer sincerely.

11:44am: Buy another beer. Resume position in front of Shevchenko monument.

11:58am: Finish beer #2. Shampoo effect kicking in nicely. Time for a cigarette.

11:58:25am: Cigarette: gone.

11:59am: Yell at some passing girl in tight black capris adorned with gold buckles and buttons.

11:59:05am: Shudder when she turns around and flashes teeth worse than mine.

12:03pm: Commit to buying more than one beer at a time. Clearly, today is no different from yesterday.

12:06pm: Spend my last 15 UAH ($3) on three more beers. Kiosk attendant gives knowing glance.

12:11pm: Remember I have to meet my girlfriend Olga for a date at 12:30. Shit.

12:13pm: Finish beer #3.

12:17pm: Finish beer #4.

12:21pm: Finish beer #5.

12:21pm: Borrow 5UAH ($1) from Roman.

12:23pm: Buy beer at kiosk.

12:27pm: Finish beer #6. Fully lathered now.

12:29pm: Borrow 5UAH more from Roman.

12:30pm: Buy beer at kiosk. Attendant unphased.

12:38pm: Arrive at Opera House to meet Olga. She looks great. I look like a Cinco de Mayo piñata.

12:39pm: Olga rolls her eyes. I'm drunk again.

12:43pm: I roll my ankle. I'm drunk again.

12:44pm: Olga comments that our walking date has become a limping date. I love her sense of humor, but I'm sensitive to criticism so I berate her as part of a public spectacle to exhibit my waning dominance.

12:47pm: Continue our walking date. She window shops while I smoke cigarettes relentlessly in anticipation of my next beer.

12:58pm: Olga takes pity on me, and buys me a beer. My excuse that I left my ATM card at home is met with more eye rolling.

12:59pm: Nearly half an hour after my last beer, the first sip tastes so good. It's warm, but it's getting the job done. Olga can say whatever the fuck she wants. I'm not even listening.

1:24pm: It occurs to me that since Olga bought me the beer, not a word has been spoken. It similarly occurs to me that for once in my life, this ridiculous hand-holding over her shoulder (around her neck) finally proves useful. I have a beer-buying human crutch for a girlfriend. My limp is negligible, and all is right with the world.

1:31pm: I am essentially dry-humping Olga as we walk past storefront windows containing items neither of us can possibly afford.

1:35pm: Quietly rummage through Olga's purse with my off-hand for some Hrivna with which to buy my next beer. I could ask, but I just don't feel like talking.

1:41pm: Olga is in the McDonald's bathroom. I am outside, perched underneath a full bottle of beer, hoping to finish before she finds out who bought it.

1:44pm: Olga returns, and suggests we eat at McDonald's. What does she think? I'm made of fucking money?!?!?!?

1:48pm: Oh yea, she's buying. Again. Score!! Supersize.

1:50pm: The only smell worse than the stench of a McTasty is whatever is being secreted by my underarm glands. Man, I'm hungry.

1:58pm: Done eating, Olga needs to get back to her job at the bank. I need to get to Shevchenko monument before Roman finds something better to do. An unlikely scenario, but the beer has me acting a bit paranoid.

2:02pm: Suggest we get together to bone later that night. She says something about something, and I nearly pass out from the energy it took just to listen.

2:14pm: Back at the monument, drinking one of Roman's beers. Lose count of how many beers I've had, but understand that there are at least 15 of my elders nearby who are a lot more drunk than I am.

2:32pm: Laugh at the expense of a local guy in goggles who is trying to push against a moving delivery truck, and is sliding backwards on the cobblestones as the truck driver accelerates. Life expectancy: 17 seconds.

2:32:14pm: The local guy in goggles takes two swift overhand rights to the face and neck from said truck driver. Roman and I are on the ground bawling. This is the best day of our lives.

2:39pm: Pick ourselves off the ground. We need to celebrate. We need to do something amazing. Begin brainstorming.

2:53pm: Park ourselves at Adam Mickewiecz monument 80 meters away, and resume drinking beer.

6:01pm: Wake up. I’m still at Adam Mickewiecz monument, and Roman is gone. How long have I been asleep? Where is my beer?

6:03pm: Collecting my thoughts, I smoke a cigarette, and contemplate a lifestyle change.

6:07pm: I need beer. I kick in the door of the kiosk. Lifestyle: changed.

6:11pm: Halfway through my next beer, decide to go to the Ringworm Window and order a nasty hot dog with all the fixins (mayo, corn, peppers, mayo, lettuce, mayo, and mayo).

6:14pm: I’m dry heaving. Man, that was good.

6:41pm: Go to a convenience store nearby, sit on milk crate inside. Text Olga and Roman. Where the fuck are they?

7:07pm: Roman calls me. He’s at Shevchenko monument, drinking. For some reason, this surprises me.

7:13pm: Watch a young boy get hit by a car. I’d stop to see if he’s ok, but Roman said he only had one beer left, and that I’d better hurry. I’m sure the kid is fine.

7:16pm: Genuflect as I pass the Virgin Mary statue. It’s a good thing I haven’t sinned today.

8:14pm: Three beers later, decide to go to Club Metro later.

8:24pm: Go to ATM and withdraw 80 UAH ($16). It’s going to be a big night.

8:28pm: Olga calls. I tell her I have a lot of work to do, and can’t see her tonight. Roman laughs audibly in background.

8:41pm: Engage in a very in-depth political conversation with Roman on the merits of westernization versus assimilation with Russia.

8:44pm: Tire of politics and begin discussing girls’ asses as they walk by.

8:53pm: Roman calls a foreigner “George Bush.” I fall over in hysterics and almost spill my beer. Man, that was a good one.

9:14pm: I can barely breathe after my 34th cigarette. Finally I feel as though I’ve accomplished something.

9:19pm: Gasp about how much I want to fuck Tymoshenko. Roman has heard this all before.

9:41pm: Throw empty bottles at the stray dogs in the square, while narrowly missing passers-by.

9:44pm: A policeman approaches me about the throwing of bottles. I promise to stop.

9:45pm: He asks me about a kiosk robbery. I promise to stop that too.

9:46pm: Bribe policeman with 10UAH ($2). Fuck, that was an expensive conversation.

10:07pm: Pile into Roman's 1974 Broke-Ass Mobile, (BAM!!!) each through the driver's side door.

10:08pm: Ask if he’s too drunk to drive, to which he assures me he certainly is.

10:09pm: Laugh hysterically.

10:10pm: Back over a homeless person.

10:11pm: Laugh maniacally.

10:29pm: Park the BAM on the sidewalk around the corner from Metro.

10:41pm: Balk at the 30UAH entry fee, even though we knew damn well it would cost this much when we hatched the idea.

10:46pm: Head straight for the bar and quickly down four shots of vodka. Each. Purpose: to manufacture confidence.

10:52pm: Dance like epileptics in need of attention. Girls around us look horrified. We call them bitches.

11:22pm: Two more shots of vodka while Roman is in the bathroom, and I’m now belligerently shitfaced.

11:24pm: Tell Roman that tonight I’ll either A) fuck or B) fuck someone up.

11:31pm: See a foreigner hitting on a Ukrainian girl we know from somewhere. We are in disbelief that she can possibly find him attractive given his good hygiene, keen fashion sense, and gainful employment. She must be wasted too.

12:14am: Finish smoking a shisha and run away before we’re asked to pay for it.

12:22am: Slobber on some girl about how she should marry me. She shockingly rejects me.

12:25am: Have three more shots of vodka. That shit will never reject me.

1:35am: I haven’t seen Roman in hours. I don’t care. I’m dancing spastically in the center of the dance floor, sweating and trying desperately to make eye contact with an available female for purposes of mating.

2:22am: I think I’m in the bathroom, but it’s hard to tell with all the people in there making out. I have no idea where I am, nor do I know where my phone is.

2:41am: Back on the dance floor, I somehow manage to find a girl that can best be described as being of questionable quality and character. The line I used: "Vodka?"

2:55am: Engaging in full-stage foreplay in a banquette while wishing Roman could see what a stud I am. At the same time, I hope Olga’s friends aren’t here.

3:01am: Olga’s friend Olga points and screams at me about being a bad man.

3:02am: Girl leaves, Olga’s friend leaves, I consider sleeping in banquette.

3:07am: Spend my last 12 UAH on a taxi ride home at the behest of club security. Not without a fight, mind you.

3:12am: Jerk off

7:05am: My father wakes me up with the tortured gags of a dry heaving fit. I have no memories of anything past that awful hot dog.

7:17am: On the shitter again. Another day...


FYI - I've uploaded a bunch of pictures of Lviv to Flickr if you want to check them out. Happy Halloween, all. My favorite holiday ever, and I still don't have a costume 4 hrs before the party starts. We'll see what I come up with.

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

The Perfect Crime

The night began at my apartment with me and my two (American) friends Eytan and Matt (not from Krakow) polishing off a 1L bottle of Perlova. This, to most, may sound excessive. And in any ordinary place, I'd tend to agree with you. However in Ukraine, this is commonplace, encouraged, and even lauded.

One of the many things Lviv is lacking, is a decent pre-game lounge to get things started. Sure, there are bars, and plenty of them. But unless you feel like bumping elbows with a slouched old war veteran that smells like a sulfur leak (who insists on spitting slurred Ukrainian at you no matter how many shrugs and English words you respond with), then you may as well drink at home.

So Eytan, as is his custom, went home afterwards, as he gets all the stimulation he needs in an evening by questioning the merits of religion and retelling the same stories over and over again. Plus, he's the most self-assured cheap fuck I've ever met in my life. I've never met someone who takes so much pleasure in being the cheapest motherfucker in the room. And yet, somehow, I don't mind buying him a meal and a few drinks here and there. I don't know how he did it, but now that I'm thinking about it, I'm beginning to get pretty fucking pissed. Since when am I in the business of rewarding people with a free meal in lieu of torturing me with itemizing a bill? I clearly need to revisit the drawing board on this one.

Where was I? Oh yea, Eytan and his air-tight fucking wallet go home, as Matt and I head out to the best club in town: Millennium. It's a Thursday night, so it's ladies night. Presumably, that means it'll be OUR night, if yaknowwhatimsayin (wink wink, nudge nudge). Once inside, Matt and I order a bottle of Perlova and some mixers (cost: $14US) while trying to avoid slipping a disc as we swivel our heads to eyefuck each prancing pinup.

Before I continue, I need to tell you about this adorable little kitten that plays in my neighbor's yard. Irrelevant!!!!! It's black and white, and can't weight more than a pound. It's always hanging out by their fence and meows each time I walk by. I could swear it knows I want to pet it, but it insists on sitting inside the fence, where I can't get at it. Fucking ball tease!!!! Actually, I guess luring it with a ball isn't such a bad idea. I'll try that tomorrow. I hope kittens love puns as much as I do.

I've given it a name. It's Cunt. I liked it as an allusion to pussy(cat), plus it captures not only it's bad fucking attitude, but my teeth-gritting frustration. Fuck that cat. I tell it to fuck off every time I try to get it to join me on my side of the fence and fail. Although I'll quickly forgive it if I ever get to rub it's tiny head. "That's a good Cunt. Goooooooood Cuuuuunt..."

Speaking of cunt, I have to say that the women of Ukraine are far and away the most amazing women (by nation) I've ever seen. Millennium, on a typical night, would look like any Las Vegas strip club if you inserted vertical stainless steel poles, and charged about $600 more per bottle of vodka.

Getting back to the story (by the way, the last few paragraphs are probably very close to the conversation Matt and I were having at the time), we are borderline mental by around 2:30am. At this point, the only thing standing between us and a full-on disorder is a prescription for Lithium. Matt in fact, clearly is in need of 24 hour surveillance.

But that doesn't stop him from storming the dance floor, with me shortly behind. We see a couple of strong candidates fend off a drooling and frighteningly aggressive Ukrainian guy, after which Matt moves in for arguably, an equally creepy swoop. The four of us engage in small-talk, and somehow I'm dancing with one of the girls, and Matt disappears with the other. It seems our night is only improving.

My girl is laughing a bunch (duh!! I'm fuckin' funny!), and I assume Matt is having as much luck as I am. Things are definitely looking promising, when Matt comes up and tells me that his girl isn't giving him any love. My girl (no, I don't remember anyone's name) collects her friend, and I see her talking to a sizable crew of guys. This strikes me as odd, because I hadn't previously gotten any indication that they were with anyone there. Then again, Lviv is a very small city, and everyone here seems to know one another. Plus, I bring my decision making into question because the only thing I'm entirely sure of is that my last five cocktails were completely unnecessary.

As the lights come on, after the customary closing prom dance slow numbers (clubs here INSIST on slow dances to close a night down), Matt and I head outside. Given my excessive inebriation, I am only looking forward to passing out. My girl types her number into my phone, and the subject of continuing the evening fails to come up (to my relief). Somehow, I lose Matt, and consciously wait patiently outside for him to reappear (the buddy system is rather important in this country, even for guys). Don't ever leave me!!!!

After some time, he shows up out of nowhere and informs me that the girls want to come back to my apartment. Mildly disappointed, I call my pseudo-roommate, who frequently crashes on my couch, to see if he is interested in A) waking the fuck up and B) entertaining guests, from whom he will absolutely derive no value. He wisely declines, as he'd been sick for much of the week, and I find that perfectly acceptable.

The girls, however, are decidedly less accepting of this development. My explanation for their overt disappointment is that my game really is that damn tight. I'm also looking for explanation as to how Matt has managed to turn his girl around so successfully. Being the team player I am, I suggest we go to another bar, and the girls suggest some restaurant/bar thing nearby. Food, at this point, is the only thing that can possibly keep me standing upright.

The bar of choice is a rather dingy, well-lit pub with worn wooden tables and chairs, with exactly the type of clientele you'd expect in a Ukrainian pub at 5am on a Friday morning. We choose a table upstairs, and as the waitress approaches, my girl orders some things in Ukrainian. I sputter something, and she stops me and says "I order for all our group." Perfect. One less thing to try and accomplish with my awful Ukrainian. After all, it's hard enough just trying to decipher my date's English.

What arrives at our table is a 1L bottle of some kind of vodka I'd never seen before, and four plates of awful schnitzel and chips. If I had one wish granted that night, it would have been a picture of the look on the faces of Matt and I as this fallic death cock was placed on our table along with four shot glasses. I don't think I've ever been so terrified.

Well, that's not true. But recognize that AT THE TIME, I'd never felt so terrified. And thank you very much for not invalidating my feelings (asshole).

Amid "budmo" chants (which is a toast that symbolizes a shot of vodka is quickly approaching), I am feverishly inhaling cold chicken schnitzel in the hopes that it will keep me from achieving liver failure. My girl, seemingly sensing my ability to only focus on one thing at a time, that being eating, is instead matchmaking her friend and Matt. She's asking such things as "why don't you kiss her," which I learned in high school, always proves to be nothing short of paralyzingly irritating to the question receiver. Matt goes in for a kiss, and is met with a cheek. He instead dives in for the back of the neck, and as a result my food is beginning to sneak back up my esophagus and tickle my uvula.

Drunken mauling-out is the leading cause of gag reflex activation. It's true. Look it up.

Next, I am waking up in my bed, on top of the covers, fully clothed with jacket and shoes on at 11am. I strip my clothes off, drunkenly brush the taste of cigarettes and salmonella from my mouth, and go back to sleep. I don't A) know how I got home, B) know where Matt is or how he got home, C) know who took that bite out of the raw potato on the kitchen counter or D) care about A, B, or C.

My phone rings at 3pm. Apparently, Matt got robbed the night before (or more accurately, early that morning). He wound up being ushered into a car by four rough-looking dudes, who took him for about $200US and who kept going through his pockets in search of his passport. Luckily, he didn't have it on him (I never carry mine). His next memory was waking up in a restaurant bathroom (in town center) with a black eye and a chipped tooth.

He doesn't know how he got there, and his memory of the night is about as good as mine is, but after a quick check, I realize I have no money either. Although to be fair, I don't remember having much on me to start the night, so for all I knew, I had spent it all. Who knows how much a shit schnitzel costs at 6am anyway?

We devise a plan to at least make a police report of the incident, but to do that, we need to know where the fuck we were that morning. I call the girl I was with and find that her number doesn't work. In Ukraine, no one pays for voicemail, and if you're underground, or your phone is turned off, an automated message typically tells you to try again later. This was good for me, because I needed about nine more days of sleep anyway.

When I wake up three hours later however, the phone number still doesn't work. Odd. With my head a bit clearer, I recalled seeing a table of undesirables on my way to the bathroom in the late-night joint, and thinking to myself "don't speak English" while simultaneously writing that thought off to my drunken paranoia. I'm oscillating like Mozart's pendulum on quaaludes.

Now, it's two weeks later, and the phone number STILL doesn't work. I'm even more thankful that I wasn't more persistent in needling my friend to wake up and help me entertain. I'm now sure that if they had come to my apartment, they not only would have stolen my money, they'd have taken my passport, my computer, my kidney, and my rapidly depreciating dignity.

I still have no idea how Matt and I got separated. You know, saying that kind of reminds me of an ex-girlfriend, actually. Speaking of cunts!!! Heeeey!!!!!

Later in the week, Matt went to a dentist and got a cap on his tooth and a cleaning for $62US. Total bill for the story: $262. I told Matt that his story is worth at least twice that much. I'd trade places with him for $500 easy.

Eytan has this bad habit of telling stories in the third person, and I told him that if he wants to retain my interest in his banal tales, he'll have to supplant himself in the place of the protagonist. Not surprisingly, I feel similarly about this story. Imagine how much more you'd enjoy this story if I was the one with the black eye and backseat narrative. It's not even close. Schadenfreude, evidently, is most effective when the unfortunate loser is someone you know.

It does bear mentioning that the two broads obviously set us up. I guess my game wasn't quite that tight after all. Of course, It also bears mentioning that choosing us as victims isn't even sport considering our states of imbibed stupidity. You'd think any self-respecting thief would at least have a fistful of roofies and their cross-hairs squared on some douchey drunken Brit or something. Definitely not on two nice, affable, open-hearted dudes like Matt and me. That's like hunting kittens in a pet store, for christ sake.

Friday, October 19, 2007

Lviv rhymes with "can't leave"

For those of you who don't know, or can't tell by my trending infrequency in blog posts, I've found a place I feel entirely too comfortable in: Lviv, Ukraine.

How to begin? This town is insane. There is a terrible (terribly AWESOME) amount of access to sinful stimuli, despite all of its genuflecting god-fearers. And the best part? You get all this at a budget-seeker's price point.

For example, 0.5L beers in the market = $0.60US. And they're good beers. Well, most of them, anyway. And beer is not even considered alcohol here. Seriously. Open containers are not only permitted, but consumed relentlessly at any one of the monuments at which people sit, drink, get drunk and presumably, fuck.

Which leads me to: women in this town dress positively SCANDALOUSLY. Take a stroll down Svobody Avenue, and it's like you're watching a walk-off for a spot in a Warrant video. And if you follow a woman for long enough (no comments with regards to creepiness necessary), you'll learn she A) loves to shop, B) loves to try on everything and buy nothing, and C) works less than I do. It’s absolutely inspiring. And the icing is: the cost of learning this information plus a pack of cigarettes = $1. Not bad for a lifetime of good memories.

Additionally, women here are either devoutly religious, or completely uninhibited sexually. Or both. If they’re not genuflecting in front of some Virgin Mary statue, then they’re scissor-locking their boyfriends on a park bench with his hand down her crack.

Read that last sentence again. I had a real hard time with subject-verb agreement there. I could have put “their” hand down “their crack,” but then that would get confusing, and ultimately, you’d be wondering just how many genuflects it would take to expunge the sinful disappearance of the second knuckle beyond the anal seal. Right? Right???? Backpedaling!!!!!

Wow. That was one hell of a diversion.

This is a town with a very old-school feel. All the roads are cobblestone, and in fact, they recently tore up one of the main roads, only to lay it with new cobblestone. I guess they're trying to preserve the quaint rustic feel of the town, rather than lay down nasty asphalt. But this is especially important, as women in this city only wear stilettos. Again, think Warrant videos. And then think of them walking in these stripper stilts along a glacial ridge, which is pretty much the planar equivalent of the streets of Lviv.

The truly interesting thing is that this phenomenon has spawned an entire industry of heel repairmen. Sure, those guys exist in New York too, but when every corner has a sign outside with heels pasted on it, you’re reminded of Plinko, and that game is fucking awesome.

You may remember my experience in Krakow, and how much I loved it there. This is largely considered what Krakow was five years ago, before the bourgeois Euros and bad street musicians showed up. In fact, you can wander the streets here for days and wonder if there are any tourists here at all. This is mostly a product of the fact that most tourists here are either Ukrainian or Polish.

That’s probably the coolest thing about Lviv, actually. It has always been a city of contentious positioning, at separate times in recent history falling under Austrian rule, Polish rule, Russian rule, and now is considered by many in western Ukraine to be “the true capital of Ukraine.” And all of these cultures are omnipresent in the form of architecture and art, but interestingly, not food. They shun pretty much anything Polish here, and even blindly declare hatred of Poles. It’s nice to know someone knows how useless those people really are. It reminds me of the south. Racism rules!!!!!

I just love the use of “those people” in sentences. It really puts forth a hate doctrine much more pointedly, I think. And for the sake of my parents’ complete misunderstanding of my apparently overly subtle sarcasm, I don’t hate Poles. But I fucking hate southerners.

Oops! Got’cha ‘gin!!!

Police in this city are either 17 year-old fuckwits with uniforms that fit like magnums on their tiny cocks, or they’re drunk old cunts looking for their next vodka fix. Example: my friends and I left dinner the other night, after having exactly one beer between the three of us (at least SOMEONE was representing), we left the restaurant, and presumably were speaking English to one another. Two older policecunts came over and asked us for our documents, which I personally never carry with me for this exact reason. Once they had procured the passports of my two friends (an Aussie with a Swiss passport and an American), they began telling us we were drunk (in Ukrainian) and we had to pay a drunk and disorderly fine. For ONCE, we actually were NOT drunk, and NOW we were getting in trouble. I almost wet myself due to the staggering irony.

In any case, we were no more than 50m from the restaurant, where we’re well known by the staff, and despite our insistence that we could show them the bill, they refused and repeated their “fine” requirement.

When we were asked to exhale into their faces, the irony went off the charts. The last time I remember living something this ironic was when I saw a homeless guy panhandling while leaning on a bright red Ferrari on 2nd Avenue... These cops were WASTED. As they were smelling OUR breath, THEIR breath smelled as if the 2nd Avenue homeless guy had been drowning in a lake of Bankers Club earlier that day. I was openly laughing at this point, which admittedly, wasn't doing a whole lot to solve our problem. Insulting!!!!!!

At first, the “fine” had been quoted at 330 UAH (about $66) each. After some wild gesticulating and emphatic “Nie”s (Ukrainian for “no”) from the three of us (not to mention a call to my friend’s lawyer), we walked away paying 50 UAH for ALL THREE of us. So, all that, and we paid less than $4 each in “bribes.” Wallet-whip!!!!

Stray dogs are also rather prevalent here. I have an apartment in the center (that's right, bitch), and on my block I have one particular stray dog that looks like a fucking lion. He kicks ass, and his balls drag like a prostitute’s labia. Man, that’s a dually disgusting visual. But with stray dogs come… stray dog shit. It’s not as much of a problem here as you’d think, but you definitely need to watch where you’re setting down your stiletto, or you’ll end up with a smelly street gasket that will inevitably end up in your shag carpeting, and then you’ll never get the smell out, and you’ll be left wondering if it’s really better than smelling Igor’s vomit from three Fridays ago. Wait. What???

I’ve also seen three stray dogs gang up on a stray cat here. I thought cats and dogs only hated each other in cartoons, but I was proven horribly wrong. Instead, it dawned on me that in captivity, all animals are pussies.

The most popular restaurant in town is a sushi restaurant. Now, if you haven’t seen a map of Ukraine, then understand that Lviv is completely landlocked. The nearest port is Odessa (or maybe Gdynia), and each is a serious hike from here. Fact is, the quality isn’t awful, and actually satisfies my cravings rather adeptly. But, I don’t necessarily go there for the food. Instead, I go there to watch all the Ukrainians eat with trainer-chopsticks. It’s fucking amazing. No less than 80% of the patrons in the most popular (and one of the most expensive) restaurants in town use the rubber-banded chopsticks that we laugh at children for in America. Snobbery!!!!!

Seriously, it is a testament to the people here that they’re willing to try new things, even if they look POSITIVELY RIDICULOUS while doing it. But good for them. I guess.

But the best part. The absolute best fucking part of Ukraine, is the way the men dress and dance. It’s like dressing up a bonobo ape in a tan suit and white pointed loafers, and then watching it juggle Asian babies. Or even better yet, a bonobo threesome, if you’re into that.

First of all, the men in the clubs here dance like spastic electroshock patients going through heroin withdrawal. I have not yet been able to detect anything even slightly resembling a rhythmic gyration from one Ukrainian man after two months in this country. It simply does not exist. They flail their appendages in all directions (being careful not to dislodge their sunglasses), smell like anything between an Adidas perfume counter at Strawberries and a dumpster, and somehow manage to sweat through their fake D&G (in huge fucking letters across their back) t-shirts in 4 degree (C) temperatures.

On Sundays, the Rynok Square becomes a promenade of married couples strutting their stuff. I’m telling you, everything in this town has at least a modicum of facejocking. Whether it’s the women showing off their fantabulexcellent outfits, or it’s the men showing off their women in their fantabulexcellent outifits, someone is showing off something. But if I have to see another tan suit (four sizes too large) with white shoes and a white belt --just ONE MORE-- I may have to continue silently mocking the man wearing it. Judgmental!!!!

I have a theory that the men getting married assume they are going to grow up and get fat, and probably cheat on their wife (infidelity is as popular as shitty pop music here), so they need to get buy a suit big enough to accommodate them when their wife finally leaves them. Fat frugality!!!!!!

Another thing that is popular here, is older men dating younger women. I’m not trying to pass judgment or anything (for once), but I’m not sure what a man in his mid-30s could possibly have to talk about with a 16 year-old (this is honestly not uncommon). I guess I could say that it’s one way for men to assure themselves of dominance in the relationship, but then I guess I could say that the swirly-faced child-fucker just REALLY liked teaching English outside the classroom.

And on that note, I’ll mercifully conclude this edition of Lviv. There is more to my time here in Lviv, obviously, but I’ll also split this one up. I have been horribly lazy lately, and for that I can only continue to promise that I do have a couple of pretty good stories lined up for the next entry. Which, with any luck, will be later this week. I’ll also try and get up some pictures. I know some of you are more than a little curious about Lviv, so I’ll get on that too.

In other news, there's a near certainty that I'll be back in New York for a couple weeks before Thanksgiving. I either need to A) get some warm clothes, B) move south, or C) contract hay fever. I'm opting for warm clothes. And a hamburger.

Sunday, September 30, 2007

What's Awesome, and What Isn't [Part 1]

In my last entry, I hatched the idea to clue everyone in on the various foods I’ve run across after four months in eastern Europe. Well, I think I’ll expand that to include booze and music as well, and we’ll call this a lesson in What’s Awesome, as well as What Isn’t. I'd love to post a picture of some food for this, but sadly, I still can't upload a photo in these internet cafes, and Ukraine takes WEEKS to get internet into an apartment. Good times.

Let me say from the top that I’m not entirely sure how funny this will be, nor am I sure this will add even an ounce of value to any of the lives of people not intending to A) visit Eastern Europe, B) do drugs, C) do drugs in Eastern Europe. Because as we’re all too aware, music and food and drugs are pretty much like bread and peanut butter and jelly, only it tastes better. I suppose this’ll be an adventure for all of us, so… here goes.
It’s easier for me if we travel throughout Eastern Europe according to my rather inefficient itinerary to this point, so if you’ll allow me this luxury, I’ll forgive all of you who said you’d visit, and then never did. Sound fair? Yea, I think so too.

First, the food in Czech Republic was largely average. And let me say that it took me some hunting around just to consistently eat at a very pedestrian level. Highlights include the pork knee (or knuckle), which is exactly what it sounds like, is baked and served on a spit, hovering above a dollop of mustard and another of horseradish. The skin is crisped nicely, safely trapping inside all the juices that make a pig so much more delicious than it is cute. It’s one hell of a meal, so don’t bother ordering a side (my mistake was usually coupling this beast with an order of croquettes – which tend to be a nice french fry substitute). It has a pretty obscene amount of fat betwixt (man, I love that word) the meat pockets, but the surgery is a small price to pay. It was easily my favorite meal in CZ.

Beyond that, I would suggest avoiding anything beef in CZ. As Nino discovered after exploring the “meatloaf”, it’s all trash. On the plus side, the pizzas are surprisingly above average. They’re rather uniform throughout Prague, and consist of a crispy thin crust, with a pretty solid cheese-to-dough ratio. My only complaints about the pizza are a rather high coefficient of grease, and the lack of parmesan accoutrements.

One thing of note in CZ, is the ice-cafes. Coffee, with a scoop of vanilla ice-cream, some whipped cream, a straw, and a glimpse of heaven. I had one after every meal; it’s impossible not to.
Czech food largely centers on the pig, as does most other countries in the region I’ve endeavored to. I had some pretty astounding bacon, and on other occasions, some pretty bad bacon. And fuck if I don’t love bacon. But as with any country, “meat platters” tended to be way overcooked and rife with fat and bones, and the potatoes, including the delightful little croquettes, were pretty ordinary. I don’t care what anyone says, there really isn’t much inventing left to be done with the potato. Kind of like how sex is generally very nice, but it takes a pretty special “potato” to blow your socks off. As such, I feel like I’m years away from fucking a new potato. Wait. Where did that analogy go wrong?

In Poland, I fell into a “daily borscht.” The borscht in Poland is a beetroot broth, with about 3-4 meat tortellinis (I’m sure they have their own name for these, but I never bothered or cared to find out) floating tauntingly within. It’s a nice, light (despite the oily pustules lining the bowl) start to any meal. Even breakfast. Poland has its version of the schnitzel, which I will go on record as saying is EXACTLY like it is anywhere else. Question: How can you fuck up pan-frying a pounded chicken/veal/pork something? Answer: You can’t. Every country thinks they have the best schnitzel, and it’s insane. It’s like someone telling me that Grey’s Papaya has the best hot dogs in Manhattan. They don’t. They all taste like shit, and Grey’s Papaya just has a bigger sign.

Poland does have, however, this beefy eggroll thing, laden in beefy sauce. Fuck I wish I knew what this was called, because they’re fantastic. Leave a little bit of borscht, and drizzle it on top of this thing, and your pants might come off. I swear. Mine did. Then again, that could be a function of the women of Poland, but I’ll try and stay focused on food here. But it wasn’t easy.

Moreso than anything, Poland has a FUCKLOAD of ice-cream. I was on a daily ice-cream, because Poland FORCES you to. Matt (from Krakow) and I had a running joke anytime we needed directions somewhere: “oh, M bar? Yea, go three ice-cream shops down to the ice-cream shop, take a left till you see the ice-cream shop, then turn right and you’ll see an ice-cream shop. M bar is two ice-cream shops past the ice-cream shop, across from the ice-cream shop.” They were honestly that prevalent.

And they should be. It’s perhaps the creamiest, most flavorful ice-cream I’ve ever had. So, for those of you counting at home, in Poland, I was coming off a daily ice-café, and coming into a daily borscht and ice-cream. Some may say I’m a creature of habit. I like to think I just know a good thing when I see it. Like the women of Poland. --FUCK!!! You’d think my penis is a touch-typer.

I know what will calm down my loins; I tried a hamburger in Poland. I asked a few people where I could get the best hamburger in Krakow, and they all recommended a place called Rooster. Once inside, I could tell that it was nothing more than a Hooters rip-off. The Texas license plates and other paraphernalia, waitresses in boy-shorts and cutoffs, and a menu full of American pub fare. A “Rooster,” however, is a cock. “Hooters,” as we all know, is a euphemism for titties. So it would seem, the good people of Rooster took entirely the wrong meaning from “Hooters” and drew the bird parallel. As the City of Titties, I assure you that Prague would have NEVER made this mistake. If this same restaurant were to open in Prague, it’d surely be called Knockers or Melons. I’m still amused though, that the bird name they chose in Poland, happened to be the ONLY one they could possibly pick while drawing a tangential reference to a penis. Real bad call.

Meanwhile, feeling as adventurous as I was ravenous for some ground up cow, I ordered the Rooster Burger. Patiently waiting, I was already feeling expectantly regretful, and gave considerable thought to running away and back to Babci Maliny for the third time that week. Given how low my expectations were, you’d probably be as surprised as I was to find that they weren’t NEARLY low enough. What arrived in front of me was the biggest, most disgusting saucer of overcooked, coagulated animal products I’ve ever had the misfortune of eyeballing. Visually, it was disgusting. Once I took a bite, my most empassioned fears were confirmed, and my throat cavity began convulsing as my gag reflex promptly stamped Bite #1 “Return to Sender” as it landed back on my plate. This was THE WORST bite of food I’ve had since my parents served me broccoli pancakes when I was six (true story). Lesson learned: No beef in Poland. Ever. And you can ask my parents; I haven’t had a bite of broccoli in 25 years. I can be incredibly willful when it comes to food.

As for music, at Open’er, I do feel inclined to recommend a few notables. For one thing, I’m going to assume everyone is familiar with Bjork, Beastie Boys, Sonic Youth, Groove Armada, and LCD Soundsystem. So in the interest of brevity, I’m going to keep my recommendations to those acts I found off the main stage. For example, The Strike Boys absolutely KILLED the late-night DJ set in the tent. They’re a high-energy Goa-type (with spots of ambient house) DJ tandem from god-knows-where, and were definitely a damn good reason to stay up until 6am. Especially if you were sleeping on a rubber car mat that seved to thinly layer frozen linoleum.

On the lighter side, The Bassisters Orchestra was a really cool compilation progressive jazz act, that I’m not sure even has an album. They consisted of a sax, trumpet, bass (string, not guitar), and keyboard, and had some really inventive sounds, I thought. Poland has a very vibrant jazz scene, and if you’re into that kind of thing, definitely give it a listen.

Smolik is a producer/DJ that has a lot of cool remixes of Polish acts, including Novika. Novika has the sultry voice of the Zero 7 lead, to go along with a similar supporting cast, minus the additional vocalists. She’s really good lounge fare, and perhaps my favorite side stage act at Open’er. You can steal some of her stuff off Limewire the way I did, and judge for yourself.

Next I returned to CZ, and moved to Vienna. Vienna also has some amazing ice-cream, as now I was clearly dependent upon a daily calcium/sugar quotient. Their schnitzels, as I’ve mentioned already, are the same fucking schnitzels any asshole’s ever had. BIG FUCKING DEAL. What I was surprised by however, was the overwhelmingly fabulous plate of baby back ribs I had. The sign said “best ribs in Vienna,” and being the skeptic I am, I thought I’d try them so I could complain about it to all of you later. I have to give them credit, though. They were damn good. They weren’t Salt Lick or anything close, but still probably the best ribs I’ve had in 2007. And that includes R.U.B. and Blue Smoke. They didn’t quite fall off the bone, but were tender, low on fat, and were laden in a deliciously smoky mustard sauce. Good shit.

Slovenia ALSO loves their ice-cream, though theirs is a lighter, less creamy variety. And although you’d think this would make it easier to resist, it simply wasn’t. I was still rocking the daily, and by this point I could eat a cone without needing the use of a napkin. For some of you, maybe you like to hang your hats on a flawless Partners Capital Statement or VB macro. For me, it was a carbon-neutral cone, and my prideful decline of paper products I thought exemplified my liberal excellence. Had you seen it, you would no doubt agree.

Slovenia is what introduced me to cevabcici, and I know I’ve mentioned them before. They are delicious little beer-battered beef sausages, with onion and some other shit in there that makes them taste like they came straight off Jesus' barbecue (was he Kosher??). They’re served with a red pepper paste that offers a nice sweet contrast to the salty goodness of the sausage, and visually completes the perfect dinner picture.

The sausages of the entire region are pretty unvaried. If you take the nastiest part of any pig, wrap it in a membrane and put it on an open flame for 15 minutes, douse it in mustard and offer a piece of bread, it’s going to be as disgusting as it is remorsefully satisfying no matter where you are.

Inasmuch as Ljubljana is a pretty well developed international city, I began branching out a bit more to satisfy some hankerings for tastes I was familiar with back home. I tried Mexican food, and it was predictably average. I tried some really disappointing pizza, and some average, if overpriced pasta. The salads however, were quite good. If there’s one thing I have to say about all of Eastern Europe (and Ukraine in particular), is their produce is of a very high quality. Maybe it’s because they aren’t juiced with chemicals the way they are in the US, and maybe it’s the soil and climate. But overall, the tomatoes, onions, rocket (arugula), cucumbers, and other vegetables are as delicious as they are colorful and crisp.

This topic is going longer than I anticipated. As such, I’m going to end this one with the proverbial “to be continued” and split it into two, possibly three parts. I may be a poor planner, but at least I’m a thoughtful scribe.

PS - To all of you at Credit Suisse, I've been missing Lenny's A LOT lately. Someone order the C2 on a kaiser and tell me how good it is...

A Ukrainian Dinner

Those of you who have taken the valuable 14 seconds out of your boring, mundane lives to email me know that I’ve been in Lviv, Ukraine for over a month. I have an apartment here, though I still don't have internet, and the internet cafes in this city leave MUCH to be desired. In fact, this is my third time trying to upload this story, and it still won't let me attach a picture for some reason. In any case, I love this city, and I’ve been having a hard time deciding how to adequately do this city justice in a blog entry that should be both informative and entertaining. Well, last Saturday night, I think I figured it out.

My friend Roman, who lives in Kiev, but is in Lviv on business quite often, invited me to a restaurant opening. I’d dropped in to the space earlier in the week while it was being renovated, and I knew it was at least different and the place would be more than a little cool. I would be quite surprised by just how cool, however.

Roman was given a key, an actual key, to present at the door to be allowed inside. We arrive at the address, where no sign and no light indicate the passageway off the Rynok Square one must follow to find the door. As we approach the door, and knock (!!!), a small, trapezoidal-shaped window opens where on the other side, a man awaits in a well-lit room. Roman says some Ukrainian words, and the door opens to reveal an armed guard (gun not loaded, but real WWII Russian issue), who again says some Ukrainian. Then, he pours us three shots of medovuha (explained later), and we all toast the republic before he opens a wall disguised as a shelf, revealing a staircase leading downstairs.

We enter the dining room, which is comprised of two rooms, each with about six large, square, unfinished wood tables, captured underground in what can only be described as a stone bunker, built to withstand pretty much any bomb attack I could fathom. The waitstaff is clad in authentic Ukrainian army uniforms, each with a different firearm either holstered to their belt, or slung over their shoulder. More guns are being passed around for each diner’s desired inspection. My skepticism that they are loaded with blanks increases parabolically with every shot of medovuha, despite the 9 year-old at our table firing off blank rounds towards the ceiling every time he feels neglected.

Next to me is seated Yuri. He is a General Partner of Ukraine’s 4th largest bank, which just got bought out, and the terms of which locked him up in a one-year noncompete clause. So, he’s just drinking and spending money now. It’s pretty much “the dream.”

And my dream? Yuri’s hand-feeding me all kinds of mysterious food items from the table. I’m not going to lie; it was quite nice to have an MD kowtowing to me for a change.

The food he’s giving me, on the other hand, fell quite short of the cherries and chocolate-dipped strawberries that would have fulfilled the fantasy. Not in a gay way, you fucking perverts!! It was more akin to an “I really care about you and your happiness” kind of fantasy.

Instead, there was “pork, no meat,” which is… you guessed it! Fat!!! It’s a spread comprised solely of the congealed grease left behind in the pan when smoked bacon is cooked. I’m serious. It was pretty foul. I think my facial expression when Yuri (my MD date) fed it to me may have made him think I was snobby. And I am SOOOO not like that, my GOD!!!

So, to make up for it, I pretended to really like the pig fat (uncooked fat part of our traditional bacon, seasoned with cayenne pepper). It wasn’t bad, but after about three slabs of this stuff, I had to pretend to take a phone call. I think Yuri was on to me, because after all, we were about five meters underground in a bomb shelter. There is no way anyone believed I had service down there… Nevertheless, I hoped Yuri still liked me. And really, if he can’t understand my needs, maybe he’s just not the right MD for me. [sigh]

As for what was good, the borscht at this place was the best I’ve had in Lviv. Many places insist on seasoning their borscht with parsley or dill, neither of which really fits when paired with the oily, salty sweetness of the beetroot. However, here they lightly sprinkled some chive onions, which made all the difference in the world. Having said that though, I still prefer the Polish borscht. And no, I don’t plan on saying that out loud anytime soon. (It is very common to hate anything Polish here. Or Russian too, for that matter). Other than that, the baked pork knee was great, but I still prefer the Czech pork knee, as it seems to be baked at a higher temperature (leaving the skin nice and crispy and locking in the moisture) and is served traditionally with horseradish. I’m starting to think I should put together a food entry all on its own. If anyone wants that, let me know. Ok, I’ll move on.

While I’m explaining things however, medovuha (pronounced Med-EE-ov-ka) is a honey infused vodka, but with the slightly syrupy texture of a more viscous schnapps. Here at this restaurant, they brew it to order. It comes out steaming hot in clay pitchers, and smells delicious. The other people at my table (well, the only ones speaking English anyway) warn me that medovuha “clears your head, but destroys your feet.” I’m told to wait until I stand up next, and I’ll know what they’re talking about. Nervous!!!!

Meanwhile, the conversation meanders to 9/11 conspiracy theories. Naturally, I think these theories to be absurd, but in light of my 9th, 10th, and 15th shot of medovuha, I’m prepared to entertain virtually any cockamamie idea someone throws at me. Colonizing the moon? Sure… Great idea! Israel the 51st state? Awesome! Makes perfect sense!! Drop-kicking babies for sport? Awesome!! I tried it once in high school and LOVED it!!!

At one point, I take a look around the rather large table (seated for about 10-12 people). There is NOT ONE non-alcoholic beverage anywhere on the table. We’d been sitting there eating an enormous meal, drinking a ton, and no one thought to order a coke or a water. Well, I was about to be the first. Let Yuri think I’m a pussy; I don’t care. I order a water, and I turn my head away from Yuri to avoid his disappointed stare.

Sure enough, I stand up to walk to the bathroom at some point. Roman and I are completely shitfaced, as is pretty much everyone else at the table. The time = 11pm. Two more pitchers of medovuha have been ordered. The look on my face is a cross between terror and utter confusion. My feet aren’t cooperating at all with my desire to traverse the dining room on my way to the bathroom. However, I make it there eventually, and after catching myself from swaying my stream away from the bowl, I try to operate the rather confusing contraption hovering over the sink emitting water. Somehow, I break it, and cast iron pieces clash on the tile floor, no doubt signaling to everyone in the restaurant that I’ve had an “incident.” Still not embarrassed!!!!

However, I emerge from the bathroom, and I see exactly no one remaining in the first dining room. Could it be I imagined there were people to avoid on my way to the bathroom? Or could it be I spent an hour in the bathroom picking up the pieces to this mysterious water-spitting device over the sink? I stop trying to understand anything, as I back go to our table to continue doing shots of whatever is put in front of me. I don’t want another shot AT ALL, but I’m not about to punk out and not represent. In over my head!!!!!

I lose some time. My next memory is this guy Andre (who is the grandson of the founder of the Ukrainian nationalist movement) handing me a gun that looked exactly like a Chicago gangster-style Tommy gun. I’m too drunk to know what to do with this thing. Hand me a water, a burrito, or a taxi. Definitely not a gun. Give it to the 9 year-old.

I end up going out to the disco, and having a great night to finish, although no one at dinner came with me. Which is just as well. Though I am going to dinner again tonight with a couple people from that night, and I’m understandably apprehensive. The last thing I need is another 750 mL of booze. Turning over a new leaf!!!!!!

Other than that, I took an apartment in Center so I could clean up my act a bit. I should have internet access over the weekend, for those of you who have noticed I’ve been a bit more absent online lately. If you’re reading between the lines, you may have guess that it looks as though I’ll be staying in Lviv for some time. Updates on that are around the corner. As are more pictures.

Sadly, I don’t have pictures of A) Independence Day, B) Temoshenko’s political rally, or C) Yevchenko’s political rally. Too bad too, really cool stuff, leading up to the election on Sept. 30.
Beyond that, I should mention (especially before my luck changes) that I made a run to the casino here for a couple nights a few weeks ago. Night one = $900US cash money. Night two = $1700US cash motherfuckin’ money. Sadly, half that money went to buy warm clothing (all I had when I arrived in Ukraine was short-sleeved shirts) and the other half to a month plus realtor fees for this apartment. Good times.

Even though I’ll be staying in Lviv for the next few months, I will obviously still be logging some travel to neighboring cities. I am already planning a return to Krakow, a run to Minsk, and at least a weekend (probably more) in Kiev. Clearly, updates on each will follow, along with more on Lviv. Sit tight bitches.