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.

Wikitravel - The Moon

A friend introduced me to Wikitravel. It's Wiki's traveling arm of their Wikiempire. The first thing I did was search for "Moon" and was amazed to see the page actually exists. There are joke articles on Heaven and Hell, but the Moon article was legit. Until I got my hands on it. It's a bit rough, and it's not as if I went through a thorough editing process, so don't hold me to the fire if you're not on the floor (though I assure you, I was through much of it). Anyway, below is the copy/pasted article, before some tool edits out the good times. Obviously, there is still a lot of authentic content. Maybe you'll learn something!!!

LINK to Wikitravel/moon

The Moon (Luna) is the Earth's solitary satellite, roughly 385,000 kilometers away.

Get in

The Moon has had no visitors since the end of the Apollo program in 1972. America's NASA, the European Space Agency and the Chinese space program all have apparently serious plans to return, but none are in a hurry: NASA's target date for the next man on the moon is 2018, while both the ESA and the Chinese are aiming at 2024.

If you're content with just taking a closer look, Space Adventures and the Russian Space Agency have floated the idea of a flight around the moon for a cool US$100 million or so; see Space for details.

Get around

Conventional aircraft are useless on the Moon since there is no atmosphere to generate the aerodynamic lift they require to fly. The primary method of transportation has been lunar rovers, three of which are still stranded at Mons Hadley, the Descartes Highland and the Taurus-Littrow valley.

Gravity on the Moon's surface is only one-sixth of the Earth, which compensates in part for having to wear a bulky pressurized spacesuit. However, it will still make your ass look fat.

See

• Luna 2, Exact location unknown (Near Aristides, Archimedes, and Autolycus craters). The first man made object to reach the Moon

• Tranquility Base, Mare Tranquillitatis (Near Sabine and Ritter craters). The site of the first human landing on the Moon.

• Earth. Visible from only one side of the Moon

• Me. I'm over here!!!

Do

• Rock collecting is a popular export activity, but only for lab coats and losers wielding metal detectors. Don't we have enough rocks on Earth already?

• Play golf. There are no established golf courses available, but the moon does provide you with an excellent opportunity to practice your sand trap shots. One recent visitor drove a 3-iron off a practice tee 2,867,903 meters to establish a new Guinness World Record. Try and beat it!

Buy

Anyone with an eBay rating of 25 or above can easily air freight moon rocks back to Earth and dump them on unsuspecting Wikitravel readers looking for the "next big thing." DHL offers overnight delivery. No, really.

Eat

There are no restaurants or shops available on the Moon. Take all the food you need with you. However, McDonalds is in a bidding war with KFC for the rights to the Sea of Tranquility to open the Moon's first chain restaurant.

Drink

There is next to nothing to drink on the moon, bring your own bottled water from home.

It should be mentioned that in regions of lower pressure, it takes less alcohol to inhibit your ability to operate spacecrafts.

Sleep

The next phase of lunar exploration will probably involve the construction of permanent manned bases in the Moon's polar regions.

Camping is encouraged on the moon. However, there are no established campgrounds, so you will need to provide your own tent and fishing rod.

Stay safe

Due to the fact that there are no humans on the moon, there is also no crime problem.

The universe however is out to get you and this will become all to apparent once you leave the comforts of Earth. In addition to the obvious problems of freezing cold temperatures and the lack of a breathable atmosphere, in order to stay alive you will have to take precautions:

• Solar storms (there is no magnetic field to deflect these high energy particles)
• Meteor impacts (there is no atmosphere to burn them before they impact the surface)

Stay healthy

As there are no hospitals or emergency medical facilities on the Moon, you will need to provide your own snakebite kit. Be advised, there is also unlikely to be anyone to urinate on you, should you be stung by the indigenous species of jellyfish on the moon. Buzz was just as surprised as you will be.

Bring extra H2O.

Get out

• Earth
• While the gettin's good
  

More randomness

So, I could kick off an entry on my last month in Lviv, Ukraine (yes, it's already been a month). However, I feel inclined to insert more random commentary I've run into over the past few months that I found interesting. And by interesting, I mean hilarious and possibly hurtful. Who's with me!?!?!?

-Sitting on the beach in Croatia, I had a revelation. I have no problem laughing at fat kids. If you're fat at 9 years old, the only help you have is the shaming glances of thin beautiful people. That is, in recognizing the obvious parental neglect that led to this problem, as being an obvious void for more traditional corrective measures. That's where we (I and all of you) come in. We would be on the beach, looking thin, tan, and beautiful, and every time we see a fat child, we'll open a bag of chips. When he/she inevitably comes running over to ask for some, we will smear their belly with peanut butter and watch the seagulls taunt them as they run away screaming.

Think of the comprehensive service we'd be providing: the peanut butter (with it's oily outer layer) acts as sun screen, and a powerful exfoliant (I've heard). The running provides a good cardio workout, and the sobbing targets the midsection!! The shame will last forever. Child obesity: eradicated.

-The following is a conversation that actually took place between me and a guy from Ireland I met in Budapest:

Irish Douche: Hey, where is an Irish pub nearby?
Me: Dude, aren't you Irish?
ID: Yea, mate. And from Australia, but I live in Dublin again now.
Me: And isn't this Budapest?
ID: Eh, yea?
Me: Sooo.... don't they have Irish pubs in Dublin?
ID: Oh, the best, mate.
Me: I'm sure. So, what the fuck?
ID: I just want to find one and have a pint of Guinness, mate.
Me: Oh, I see what you mean. Yea. When I come to Budapest I, too, think to myself 'Gee, I wonder if I can find a shittier Irish pub than all the shitty Irish pubs I have access to back home.
ID: [look of astonishment]
Me: Seriously dude. Irish pubs are garbage. You need to get over your lame love of Guinness and evolve past kitchy brass railings and slobbering loud drunk Brit fucks. This is Budapest. Let's get a drink in some weird local joint.
ID: Ok, ok!! Can I get a bite at McDonalds first?
Me: You know what? I tried. You're on your own from here on out. Fucking kill yourself.

-Ukrainian men are like So You Think You Can Dance rejects, only they dress worse. I think Nino had a blog entry about how he's the best dressed man in Prague. Believe me, if you knew Nino, you'd know this was saying plenty. In New York, he dressed like a Staten Island Guido (hell, his name IS Nino, after all) with a better haircut and fewer necklaces, so you can imagine the state of things in Prague where he is.

Well, I've been to Prague. And I have to say, the fashion culture here in Ukraine is sublimely absurd, even in comparison. Herringbone suits with white shoes and belts (which, mind you, are hiked up near the navel), fake D&G everything, fake Gianfranco Ferre everything else, and NOTHING fits properly. It's like they all assume they'll gain 30 kilos by the time the next fake line of Armani hits the rack, so they buy everything three sizes too large, and walk around looking like scarecrows in sheets with bad stitching.

-My only complaint with the women is the preponderance of mismatched animal-print tops and bottoms with patten leather boots. Many women here know how to dress well, but there are still more than a few that insist on pushing the circa-1989 Fredericks of Hollywood motif.

-As for what they do when they're together (men and women, that is), they go on walking dates. Almost exclusively. I have a hard time discerning if this is done because the men are cheap, or the women like to show off their obscenely tight, tiny outfits on the catwalk --er, I mean Svobody Avenue-- in the hopes a better man may save her from her lame date-walker.

When they aren't walking around aimlessly, they are sitting at bars drinking water or tea (because apparently getting drunk on a first date is a no-no), lightly stroking each other's hair or shoulder. They never talk... whether walking or otherwise, there is never any talking. Doesn't sound so bad, actually... though I was nevertheless perplexed. But as a girl I met put it: "The reason they aren't talking is because she is too busy thinking about whether or not he is the right guy for her, and he is too busy thinking 'how can I fuck her?'"

Funny, seems things aren't much different here after all.

-There is also an overwhelming assumption that people travel here for "sex tourism." This isn't really true about Lviv at all. Perhaps moreso in Odessa (where marriage agencies are apparently prevalent) and Kiev (where marriage agencies are disguised as whore houses).

I met one 36 year old guy from Virgina who was here for the sole purpose of boning prostitutes. He made me understandably sick for the following reasons:

-his rants on "American bitches"
-his need for "Ukrainian pussy"
-his exuberant willingness to pay for it
-his disappointment that the only ones he can find are over 18 and cost $60US
-his general bad attitude towards everything
-sexual predators, while funny to talk about, are pretty sickening up close

Sorry, that stuff's not funny at all, and for once, I can't even think of a way to make his disgusting outlook on Ukraine (or life in general) even the slightest bit appealing. I hated this cunt with the fire of 10,000 suns. And if he were to be burned by such a fire, his death would still not be painful enough. I hope he gets AIDS. Too much? Ok, at least mouth-AIDS.

-So, I came to Ukraine with nothing but t-shirts. It's around 45-50F degrees here every day, so I've needed to buy some warmer clothing. Problem? You bet your sweet ass, it's a problem. Guess who's got a new (probably fake) Gianfranco Ferre jacket? Yep, this guy!!! It's not as offensive as it could be, as it doesn't have the big "GF" emblazoned across the chest (though you should see how many D's and how many G's are on the jackets of guys around here). But it still stands for the label-whoring that takes place in smaller cities, where people really have no idea what to put on their bodies. And as such, they walk around in labels they think are "cool", neverminding the fact that A) it looks stupid, B) it fits like shit, C) they're a walking fucking billboard, and D) no one outside of Staten Island or the Jersey shore would EVER be caught dead wearing that kind of shit, and I don't care if you bought it in a store called "Soho Style."

Maybe I've just dated too many people in fashion, and maybe New York has just turned me into a cunt when it comes to just about anything. But if any of you out there have dreams of becoming a "style consultant," you could dominate this market. I promise.

-As for pictures of Lviv, they will be up soon. As will a comprehensive review of my experience here so far. I'm planning a return trip to Krakow, and one to Kiev in the next couple weeks, along with about a week in Minsk (which requires I go through Kiev for a visa). Minsk should be cool because I recently learned that's where my father's side of the family originated (well, Belarus, more generally). I would have known this many years ago, had I not been the egocentric little cunt I was as an adolescent. I know you're all shocked.

Budapest - Sziget, kebabs, and narcolepsy

The awake, agreeable, and affable Jeff Jones and I landed in Budapest around 9am, and promptly bought day tickets to Sziget Festival to see Gogol Bordello and Laurent Garnier. I got tickets to see Tool, among others, for a day after Jones took off, knowing full well the perils that can take place at a festival when attending alone.

I don't think I mentioned this earlier, but I had lost my ATM card somewhere in that 36 hour clusterfuck in Croatia. I suppose it would have added more drama and tragedy to that time period, but with so much else going on, I neglected to bring it up. Or, maybe it was a subconscious decision to thinly spread my misfortune over many blog entries. Either way, the winner is: YOU!!! Schadenfreude!!!

In any case, I managed to get my ATM card back after two weeks of trying. It took this long because Citibank has fraud protection so secure, that I can't even endanger my own accounts despite really, Really, REALLY wanting to.

Despite the fact that I am obviously traveling, they can only send my card to my home in NYC. This I found to be retarded in such a way that is almost brilliant. Kind of like how Einstein didn't speak until he was nearly six years old, and everyone thought HE was retarded. Wait. That didn't make any sense. Now who's retarded? Who cares?? Customer service rage!!!!

The issue was resolved when I faxed a signed statement (complete with account numbers and all necessary data) to Citibank that read as follows:

Dear Lucy:
Please accept this statement as notification that my ATM card may be sent to Nino Tasca at the below address. This action need be taken as I lost my card, shortly before I lost my mind while on the phone with your department. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE send the card as we agreed, or I might kill myself. Thank you for your time and my utter frustration.

So I finally got my card back. That's the point I'm trying to make here. Jones and I arrive at the hotel, which he generously paid for with his reward points. While I was on the phone with Citibank at the internet cafe, I had arranged the reservation. Eh, for the wrong day. I seem to have a problem with dates and reservations and tickets, it seems. This is no less than the fourth time I have somehow screwed up a date for a ticket or a reservation in 2007, and it has cost me a good amount of money and grief. Thankfully, the patient, value-adding, if silently enraged Jeff Jones solved the problem adeptly.

Jones makes a good point as I consider laying down for a nap, that we hadn't been up that early since he arrived in Europe, and that we should take advantage of the day. Stupid schedules. I somewhat agree, and we head off to: where else? The castle!!! Never seen one of those before!!!

Once at the castle, I am completely exhausted. I look across the river at where a nice, comfortable hotel bed awaits, and I wince at the thought of hiking around ANOTHER castle all day. We begin the guideless tour and no less than 15 minutes into it, I NEED to sit down. About 0.07 seconds after my ass hits the unforgiving steel, I am in a coma. I am dreaming about featherbeds and pillows and big, fluffy dogs. After about 15 minutes, I come to and see the loyal, tender, and adequately uncomfortable Jeff Jones sitting by my side.

Quick aside: a year or so ago, Gregg and I hatched a theory that in order for Jones to be comfortable, he needs a certain level of discomfort. Read that again. Jones is not at home in any environment in which nothing is abrading him. It makes me wonder things about his upbringing like: What kind of mattress did he sleep on growing up? How long past their use would he wear a pair of shoes? Does he intentionally cut his fingernails just a little too close to the cuticle? Why does he work out so much?

I digress: the standing, walking, sitting, and sleeping pattern continues throughout the afternoon. Jones is to the point where he walks off, sees an entire wing of the castle/museum, and returns to find me sitting in a corner somewhere. I suppose all the partying, malnutrition, and viral infections finally caught up with me. And here I thought I was indestructible...

The next day, we headed off to the Turkish bath house. Hungary has hundreds of natural hot springs, and Budapest itself has more than a few. I'm not quite sure how these bath houses are situated in relation to these hot springs, but I was willing to give it a shot anyway. Simply put, the one we went to was wildly overrated. I went in there with expectations of miraculous healing, and came out with probably a half dozen communicable diseases.

Sure, it's relaxing. If you don't mind knowing that the water you're "relaxing" in is likely contaminated by the dirty, smelly, under-dressed Hungarian guys who frequent these places. In fact, I'm quite sure that half the men in Budapest use the hot springs as their only method of cleansing, and I damn sure didn't see anyone with a bottle of Dubbel Dusch.

That said, the baths were worth doing. Especially if you have Keith Richards' immune system. If not, stick to soap and a massage.

An interesting thing about Budapest is that the Danube bisects the city into two parts (Buda and Pest). I like this method. It's like using 23rd St, and naming downtown "New" and uptown "York." Get it? Because New is better, and York is for married couples dressed in Ralph Lauren Polo and Ann Taylor's Loft. Another example is, you could use Route 13 and call the eastern part of Smyrna "Smyr" and the western part "Na." Guess which one has the beautiful expanse of the Walmart distribution center? And guess what else? It doesn't matter!!! They both suck!!

In the interest of full disclosure, National Geographic Magazine did name Smyrna, DE one of the nation's top 50 small towns to live and play. Personally, I found this news simply astounding. I had always thought Smyrna would find itself on the list of "top 50 small towns if gruesome suicide is a short-term goal." But as my parents are quick to point out, Smyrna is "exploding." I think there was more, but I passed out mercifully from all the Xanax I'd already hungrily ingested.

I'm rambling. Ok, back to Budapest. Jones and I ventured off to Sziget, after a couple nights of shitty clubbing. Apparently, the whole city is out at this festival, and when we got there, we knew why.

First of all, after my experience at Open'er in Poland, I was skeptical of festivals in Eastern Europe. But after nary a glance at anything but my armband from the security officer, I felt a bit more at home. This was the kind of lackluster security I'd come to expect (and enjoy) from live music festivals.

Inside, it's set up like an amusement park for drunk adults. There is a zipline, a bungee jump, a foam tent, a foosball area, a karaoke tent, a poetry tent (interesting sorts in there), a tent for any one of a dozen political causes within which you could drunkenly soapbox, and... all the delicious food that 350,000 drunk Europeans could ever ask for.

The wide-eyed, surprised, and seductive Jeff Jones and I first took in Gogol Bordello. It was our first time seeing them, which is especially interesting considering we were in Budapest, and the band originated in the Lower East Side and has been playing in New York for some time. But they rocked. Seriously, if you have a pulse, you should see them. They're a mixture of gypsy punk metal and Ukrainian speed rock. Or something like that. Anyway, check em out.

Next we caught Laurent Garnier. I'd seen him at night in a throbbing mass of people at Open'er, and it was a great show. Admittedly, he was a bit weak on this day.

Then, it happened. We sampled the food. Well, I should say that on our way in, we stopped at literally the first food counter we saw, and choked down some of the worst pasta I'd had since our racist, drunk cook Steve was serving butter ziti and bacon back in college. However, when we ventured toward the food stands, we had our pick of more than 30 international cuisines, and they all looked delectable.

And they were. Everything I ate from that point forward was incredible. Serbian mixed grill, sausages, Mexican, etc etc. ESPECIALLY the donor kebabs. Wow. I may never eat another kebab again, because these were the best I'd had in my entire lifetime, and anyone who knows me, knows how much I love a kebab... even a bad one. These were so good, you'd think they were made of the most tender kitten meat in all of Europe.

The night stretches into daybreak at Sziget rather quickly, with a half dozen late-night DJ tents thumping till dawn. And the tireless, well-fed, and willful Jeff Jones and I took advantage of nearly every hour, before returning to the comfortable confines of Pest VII by way of a pirate cab. Duration: 20 minutes. Cost: $125US. We stormed out of his late-model Jetta after paying $75 and threatening to sleep in his back seat, though we hardly felt vindicated. Pirates, I'll soon learn, are everywhere.

Next night, we spent hanging out with a couple from Leeds we'd met at the end of dinner. They were a bit young, but overall very cool and I don't know how Jones felt, but it was nice to hang with some other people for a night. I think Jones felt the same way, actually. After all, he man-sarged the guy in the bathroom, and given his history of oddly-hetero man-sarging, the move to do so in the bathroom was aggressive, even by his standards.

Jones excitedly, expectantly, and unreluctantly left the following day. I think he missed the comfortless chaos of his apartment, and was looking forward to nearly a half day of travel, punctuated appropriately with the loss and eventual destruction of his luggage. Jones was right back in his comfort zone, and I couldn't have been happier for him.

I proceeded to log two more days at Sziget with a group from the hostel I was now staying in. I am really growing into this hostel traveling by this point. After engaging in very little socializing with Dr. Jones around, I was thrust right back into a thick social blanket, under which I felt warm and fuzzy, and a bit hungry. In a land of kebabs this yummy, I am always Hungary.

Whoa!!!! See what I did there?? "Hungary" instead of "hungry?!?!?" GOOOOD Times!!!!

The second day at Sziget, after seeing Sinead O'Connor (interesting and worthwhile) and Faithless (waaay more awesome than I thought they could ever be), I managed to extricate myself by about 1am and did my own thing (ie. stuff my face with three kebabs throughout the night) in a much happier, albeit more solitary mental space. If a kebab were a woman, I'd marry it on-the-fucking-spot. Then, we'd have little hebabs and shebabs, and I'd live happily ever after, surrounded by the pungent aroma of marinated grade-D lamb. And the younger they are, the more tender the meat. Right? Right???? Eh, where was I?

Right. The last night, I spent (solo) seeing Tool. Let me rephrase that. The last night, I spent surviving Tool. The fans of Tool are fucking insane. And not in a good way, but more in a gay way. There's a lot of forced, if nonviolent physical contact, and even more hysterical screams for Maynard. Having said all that, once I escaped the fear of imminent death (a theme seemingly omnipresent lately), Tool was a fucking sick show. Wow.

As mentioned before, going to a festival by yourself is not recommended. But I wasn't about to miss Tool, so I did it anyway. This is dangerous for several reasons: 1) with no one else to buy rounds, you double-fist while walking away from the bar, only to suck down the first drink as quickly as possible, because no one likes double-fisting, 2) however, this does not at all affect the rate at which you buy rounds, and thus, you drink twice as much, 3) and get belligerently drunk, by yourself, which leads to 4) no one intervening with the question "Do you really need a third kebab?"

After Tool, I got a kebab. Man, these things are good. I went off, danced around in a DJ tent or three and by about 5am, I decide I've had enough. Dancing and not-kebab-eating, that is. I head back to my favorite kebab stand, and proceed to put down another, my second in the night. I order another, and as I'm eating that one, I realize that if I'm going to have one more (3rd in a row, 4th on night), I'll need to get more money. One would think this would be a strong enough deterrent to call off the dogs on kebab #4, but instead, I determinedly march to the ATM (about a km away), withdraw more money, and head back for #4, all while eating #3. Gross. For those of you keeping score, that's two, three, and four kebabs in three nights at Sziget. And you know what? I didn't gain a pound. Bulimia!!!!!!

After that many kebabs, it was time to leave Budapest. I scheduled to leave the day after the festival was over, after spending the entire previous day in the train station, waiting on line for a ticket to Lviv, Ukraine. Only I lost my ticket. Awesome. $90 and a day of angst-ridden queuing, down the fucking drain. Only to face another day of the same. Good times!!!

But it was sort of a good thing, because I got to go out and see Budapest on a night when it wasn't vacant due to Sziget, and it was pretty live. I had a good night, and headed off to Lviv the following day. Though I'll admit, by then I fucking hated Budapest and just wanted to leave. And I managed to resist the ever-present urge to get one last kebab. I figured after my episode in Croatia, the last thing I needed was a serious digestive issue on a 12 hour train from Hungary to Ukraine. But part of me wishes I had anyway. And that part of me, is my yearning belly.
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I know it had been awhile since my last entry. I'm going to stop apologizing and instead pick up the pace on this thing a bit. Honestly, since getting to Ukraine, I've been a bit lazy with this thing. And you know what? I can do what I want!! I don't even hear from most of the people who read this thing, so if you're too lazy to send an email, you can hardly crucify me for taking a few days off from entertaining you cunts!!! Where's the symbiosis, man???

Kidding. It's not like I'm working. I'll be better about this going forward. Although, I have uploaded nearly all my pictures now, with accompanying captions. And you know, those captions aren't easy when it's been weeks and several liters of vodka between picture-snap and captioning. Enjoy my toil.

Bitches.