Turkey - A Social Experiment

After a couple weeks of what was all too familiar back in New York, I flew into Istanbul ready to engage in a full-frontal assault on the rest of my trip. It was good to see everyone, but it was time to move on and see some brown people in their natural habitat. You know what I mean…

The first things you notice as you take a ride through Sultanhamed (pretty much the tourist center), are two of the biggest houses of worship fucking ever. The Blue Mosque and the Sophia Mosque are situated opposite one another like two prize heavyweights in opposing corners pre-bell. Holy Muhammed these things are enormous.

Until this point, I’d never before seen a Muslim-world mosque. Upon seeing these though, my first thought was “Jesus is gay.” Clearly, the Muslims in old-world Constantinople really love Muhammed. That guy gets serious love in the form of huge domes and tall, piercing and majestic minarets.

On the way inside, most Muslims wash their feet under small spigots outside. I still do not know the reason for this, considering the rest of their bodies are typically in dire need of this level of attention. Once inside, you realize the grand exterior is masking the fact that it’s more or less just a big cavity, with areas of worship and next to them, areas to watch, point, and stare.

After leaving the second mosque, I was approached by a man who claimed to want to show me “real Turkish hospitality.” I was up for that. I went with him to his family’s carpet shop, where I drank black tea (the kind with the most caffeine) and nodded approvingly at the many carpets he and his cronies insisted on showing me. I made sure to show a bit of added excitement when the double-knot numbers were higher, and when materials such as silk or cashmere were involved. But inasmuch as I had no intention of buying anything, I was really just trying to hide my utter amusement.

This gave me an idea. I decided to go on a carpet store tour. I walked around, and anytime anyone suggested I come into their shop (this happened with alarming frequency), I would emphatically agree. A typical exchange would be the following:

Antagonist (them): Yes, sir. Excuse me. We have wonderful carpets, sir. Please come.

Protagonist (me): Yes. Absolutely!

A: Would you like some tea? Black tea?

P: Of course!

(many dozens of carpets later)

A: Which one will you buy?

P: None.

A: Why none? This one here is beautiful.

P: That seems rather subjective.

A: Excuse me, would you like to see some more?

P: Absolutely not.

A: Why you not buy?

P: I like tea, but I don’t like carpets.

This occurred probably 10 times over the next two days. I was practically resonating with caffeine on a daily basis in Istanbul. Which is a good thing, because café americanos cost about $5US in Istanbul. And Turkish coffee, in my opinion, is trash. So, I was able to entertain myself endlessly while staying caffeinated and saving money. Big win for me. I liken it to being at a strip club, and engaging Bambi in enough conversation to get her to give you a dance for free under the assumption you’ll buy a bottle of champagne. Then after the dance, informing her that you don’t drink and don’t plan to watch her drink either. The looks of disappointment I’m sure are congruent. My satisfaction in this case though, lasted considerably more than 3 minutes, and didn’t leave me with blue balls.

While in Istanbul, I went to a Turkish hamam (bath). Real good stuff. First of all, the men have the common decency to cover their schlongs with a lightweight wrap, so the prevalence of cock is effectively marginalized. Which, I don’t need to tell you, really enhances the experience.

There is no steam room in a hamam, though. Instead, there is a heated marble stone in the center of a room on which everyone lays. Then, at the point at which you’re most comfortable, you are summoned for your actual bath, which consists of a large, hairy Turkish man with a scrubber mitt and a bowl of soapy water rubbing on you for 30 minutes.

This sounds worse than it is. In fact, it’s quite relaxing. What isn’t relaxing however, is when you see the astonishing mass of dead skin being ripped from your body. You feel no pain, but your eyes wince at the sight of the large worm of dead skin collecting underneath your bather’s mitt. It’s positively nasty.

At some point in Istanbul (which was crawling with tourists), I was sharing my Middle East itinerary with some others, all of whom had already decided to gravitate north to Romania. Later that night, one of the girls (a 27 year-old from Singapore) suggested she come along with me, since she’d spent some time in a kibbutz in Israel and thought it would be cool if she went back for the holidays.

I wasn’t thrilled with this, but I generally agree to any suggestions made by pretty much anyone, especially a mildly attractive girl, so before I know it we are traversing western and southern Turkey together. The first stop was Ephesus, which was incredible. The ruins were beautiful and generally well preserved (see pictures when I’m able to upload), and was striking in it’s grandeur and expanse. Interestingly, of all the sights in (the ancient) town, there are no signs. Except one. For the brothel. Nice.

Additionally, there was the ruins and tomb of St. John the Baptist, which were quite nice, but paled in comparison to Ephesus. Finally, we saw the resting place of Mary Magdalene, which pales in comparison to my Credit Suisse cubicle. It’s a building the size of an average restaurant bathroom, with one small tomb with a few candles and a picture of Mary hung overhead. Mary must be pretty pissed when she considers the dumpy quarters she’s laid to rest in. I’d certainly be upset, and I certainly haven’t sired any symbols of hope at this point in my life. Yet, bitches. I got time….

But who cares? This story is about a social experiment.

The girl and I split off for much of the day and explore the ruins on our own, which I’m completely in favor of. Later that night, we’re getting drunk on vodka and having some laughs and eventually decide to call it a day. Selcuk, after all, is hardly a nightlife epicenter. While quietly enjoying a cigarette and a peaceful walk back to where we’re staying, I suddenly find myself on the receiving end of a spastic punching fit that ordinarily I’d only expect from an angry retard. For one thing, she’s a tiny girl, so none of it hurt. Even for a pussy like me. But she was punching as hard as she could, and with absolutely no reason for it other than the vodka. And perhaps her latent psychosis. Which may have turned me on when I was around nine years old and was just excited when a girl would touch me. At 31 however, it was cause for alarm.

The following morning, after our 10^th consecutive absolute-cheapest-meal-in-town (all at her behest), we went to Pamukkale for the day to see a mountain of calcium deposits formed from a natural hot spring, which is all positioned beneath the ruins of Heiropolis. Really an incredible place. The water is the temperature of a warm bath, despite the frigid air outside, and the misleading appearance of ski slope surroundings. Even the pictures hardly do it justice.

In any event, this day included more separated exploration, which was actually rather preferred. After all, I’m never anxious to hang out with someone the day after a beatdown. And as someone who has so far preferred to travel alone, this is right up my lonely alley. Although her “look at me go” attitude I’m beginning to find quite abrading.

We agree to meet for lunch, and I realize that as she’s discussing our next two weeks together, and aside from the fact that the idea of spending two more hours with her is up in the air in my mind, she has us moving no further than northern Syria. And considering my plan was to make it to Jerusalem for Christmas and Tel Aviv for New Years, this was quickly becoming a malignant situation, and I could feel my blood clotting as she spoke about how much fun it would be to cross the border to Syria together.

Later that afternoon, we head to Antalya as a jumping-off spot for Olympos. During that bus ride, I decided I needed to remove this girl before her cancerous impact on my Turkey experience spread to any surrounding countries. This was going to take some delicate and perhaps painful surgery.

I elect for a more invasive procedure. I decide to ditch the charm and affability that landed me in this situation, and instead opt for a passive-aggressive offensiveness, hopefully leading to an eventuation of her unmitigated withdrawal. Recognizing this as perhaps the least direct path, I accept it as being the most enjoyable.

As we are entering our second hour of waiting for a cross-town bus (in lieu of a $12 taxi) to the departure point for Olympos, after a combined four minutes of enjoyable discourse, I launch into a series of admittedly shocking questions:

Me: So, you’ve told me only about 47 times that you spent time in a kibbutz. You really think they want you back?

Her: [confused stare]

Me: I imagine your rampant frugality fits right in in Israel. Is that why you want to go back?

Her: [disgusted glare]

Me: You think we’ll have sex at any point in this adventure of ours, or am I going to have to remain intellectually and sexually frustrated?

Her: [horrified] Are you serious?

Me: Sorry, I must have mistook that violent fit of yours the other night as kinky foreplay.

Her: [understandably appalled] Yea. Must’ve.

Me: Does your idea of traveling the world consist primarily of loitering at street-side bus stations to save five dollars an hour, or do you at some point have any interest in focusing on more stimulating locales?

Her: [long pause…. it’s working!!!!] Uh, I just don’t have that much money.

Me: I’m going across the street to buy some booze. I need to get drunk to make this interesting. You want anything?

Her: You’re serious?

Me: Yes, I need to make this interesting somehow. You have a better idea?

Her: [long pause with prolonged head shake] You can take a taxi if you want and I can meet you in Olympos.

Me: [look of obviously feigned disappointment] Yea? Oh, ok. See you there (we hadn’t even discussed where we’d be staying).

Her: Yea, ok.

Me: [grabbing my bag with determined efficiency and wide grin] Cool. Good luck.

Who says passive-aggressiveness is a bad thing? The sense of accomplishment one feels when a plan comes together so neatly like this is something I haven’t felt since I rocked my first MS Excel pivot table. The sun shined brighter, the birds sang a sweeter tune, and the wind caressed my patchy hairline with the tenderness of an asian masseuse. Which, interestingly, is all a lot more value than this girl was ever able to afford me all along.

I arrived in Olympos in about three hours, after hitching a ride from a guy that just happened to own the “treehouse” community that Lonely Planet lauded the most. The “town” of Olympos is basically one big glorified campground, with some bigger hotels lining the areas beyond the beach. Now finally alone, I was bedding down into what amounts to an average-sized log cabin room with a fantastically comfortable bed. Things are continually looking up at this point.

I meet a less-than-attractive late-30s marine biologist from Syndey and we decide to hike the ruins the next day. Which are completely overgrown and requires quite a few hacks through the underbrush to see mosaic floors and ancient Roman baths. It’s cool to see some ruins that seem a lot less discovered than those at Ephesus or Heiropolis.

Next day we hiked up a small mountain to see Chimaera, where there are rocks on fire. I’m serious. As someone who has always loved fire, including experiments such as diving head-first through bonfires in college and compost heap arson in high school, this was going to be amazing. And it was.

At the near top of an 800 meter peak, there is a large mostly-horizontal rock face with pockets of fire blazing from underneath. Apparently, an undetermined gas is released from within the earth’s crust, and once it makes contact with air; ignites. The pictures will show you how the flames have eventually worn away rather impressive amounts of pure rock, which gives you some indication of the amount of time and heat these things have been burning. Fucking cool shit.

During the walk back from Chimaera, we pass a group of four people walking along the beach. Three are walking in front, laughing and having a good time. Four paces behind them trudges a pensive, somewhat depressing girl walking with a fair amount of dissatisfaction in every deliberate step. Closer inspection proves my first impulse: this was the girl I left back in Antalya. Her demeanor proves the validity of my earlier detachment, and my face broadens widely as I turn my gaze away from her towards an ancient fortress up on a cliff. It looks so good I want to fuck it. Or at least give it a good 9^th grade dry-humping…

From Olimpos I went to Cappadocia, specifically the town of Göreme. Day one I meet a guy from the UK who has been hitchhiking for the past four months. We are nine hours from the nearest border exiting Turkey, he is carrying six Turkish Lira ($1.20), and he’s planning on making it last. I realized immediately that in the world of backpackers/travelers, I am a huge pussy.

I spend the first day getting lost in the Rose and Red Valleys among the fairy chimneys. These are ancient lava deposits carved out by massive floods and earthquakes to leave behind towering structures which all look like a soft-serve ice-cream cones with cherries on top. In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, a civilization of people (I forget exactly who) came in and carved out multi-level houses from the inside to form ancient jungle gyms of complicated labyrinths within. There are also a large number of ornate churches and strange cave markings. The entire day, I was so lost that the only other human I saw all day was a local guy hunting wolf and fox (of which I saw several) with a shotgun that looked as though I’d be safe if he drew on me from across a dinner table. Hearing the Muslim prayers echoing off the canyons as I sat alone on the top of one of the many peaks is an experience I’ll never forget.

Nearby there are also a fair amount of underground cities, which are the kind of places where if I was 11 years old, I’d have the time of my life. As an adult however, and after seeing the 92^nd room that looked exactly like the previous 91, and with temperatures plummeting the further underground I went, I was over the underground cities within 15 short minutes.

Anyway, the day of exploring the underground cities and some churches was spent with a Belgian girl I’d met that morning at breakfast. She was a laid back, tall yet average-looking language teacher who offered some intelligent conversation and her disclosure of her conversational knowledge of Turkish quickly rung loudly in my head as someone who could (for once) add me some value.

We hung out for the day, and the following day hiked the highest peak in the region as the sunset, and while I could tell she was somewhat insinuating that she wanted me to make a move to complete the romanticism of the moment, I take a pass so as not to complicate what can be an otherwise friction-free traverse across the remainder of Turkey on our way to Syria (where she was heading anyway). Turns out, I’d need her help at the border anyway, which is a story I’m half done with, and will post next, hopefully sometime later this week.

This was an especially long entry, and I give that credit to the fact that Turkey is incredible. Whereas in Eastern Europe, it’s easy to glance over the sights as being somewhat benign in contrast with the social landscape, it’s impossible to overlook the breathtaking sights and scenery of Turkey. I spent a little over two weeks there, and if you’ll notice, Istanbul isn’t even what I found to be close to the most impressive (though it certainly was). I need to go back there and explore some more. Really, it’s an amazing place.

Right now, my update is I’m in Sharm el-Sheikh, Egypt, and yesterday finished my scuba certification. I saw a moray eel on my final dive, and that shit is just fucking cool. I felt like I was watching Discovery Channel/BBC’s Planet Earth documentary series. I’ll be here for a few more days (and a few more dives) before I launch for Cairo and start digging into the pyramids a bit.

I’m starting to feel like I’m finally running out of time, so I’m trying to move forward, but with places like Sharm being the undisputed best scuba in the world, and the pyramids and Nile valley upcoming, I feel inclined to give Egypt it’s due. Plus, the partying in Sharm is quite impressive and the Egyptian people, of all the people I’ve met along the way, get perhaps the highest marks. I’ll get into that in my Egypt entry.

In the meantime, those of you who have been asking can expect me back in the States around mid/late May. I've been a bit absent on email lately what with running around Israel like a madman and spending my days in Sharm underwater the whole time, and my nights spent in thumping discotheques. I'm expecting my online presence to fade considerably until I reach South Africa, but I'll still be writing and trying to get stuff posted more regularly. Till then...

Over the Top

I found this sticker on the toilet of a men’s stall in a Jerusalem restaurant. I went back to my room and got my camera; that’s how good it was. This sticker invoked the following conclusions:
- Those who wear their hats backwards, have small balls.

- And no arms

- It doesn’t matter how you wear your hat. In Israel, your anal beads go up the shaft of your cock.

- Guys with their hats backwards are too dumb to lift the seat.

- If a toilet bowl is transparent, go ahead and put your cock in there. Your shaft beads will tell you how deep the water is.

- With that many beads up the shaft of your dick, it’s a lot harder to sit and relax with your elbows on your knees, the way most people do it. Look at how tense that guy is!

- I pissed on the wall. I wasn’t wearing a hat.

What's Awesome, and What Isn't; Part Dva

I’m picking up where I left off a couple months ago with the food & music review; despite the fact that all of you thought I’d forgotten. Your faith in me is both underwhelming and to some degree, accurate.

After a reluctant exit from Slovenia, I made my way down through Croatia for a couple weeks. Having a long, rocky coastline that snakes nearly all the way down the Adriatic, I naturally gravitated towards seafood for much of my stay here. Any whole fish I ordered was typically prepared minimally with some lemon, light olive oil, and garlic, and was of predictable freshness. No complaints there, and if Croatia weren’t located along the coast of a large body of water, I’d say the fish was all very good. Seeing as how it does indeed have a prominent coastline, it was pretty average. Make sense? Sort of like when you spot a hot girl on the street in Herald Square, you’re liable to slip a disc at the sight of such a rarity. However, if you’re partying on the island of Hvar and see one, you’re more likely to yawn and order another beer. And then maybe jerk off. In that order.

That was the fish. The grilled calamari, on the other hand (if it didn’t react horribly with my digestive system), was outstanding. They serve it with the guts (is there another word for this?) still inside, and the portions you receive are definitely more than is necessary. I contend that calamari, be it grilled, broiled, or fried (yuck), makes for a great appetizer, but is a bit too heavy and briny for a main dish. This is especially true in Croatia, where the seawater is extra salty and is evermore present in the seafood.

Besides that, the baby squid was incredible. If you can get over the fact that you’re eating 5-7 once-living organisms in each bite, the baby squid I had in Croatia was as tender and light as it was mild. Simply brilliant. Pair that with the octopus salad, which was little more than a delectably tender octopus ceviche, and you have a nice contrast of sharp and mild flavors. Kind of like what I imagine the vagina of a 20 year-old virgin to taste like. Wait… too much? Come on, like there’s such a thing as a “virgin” anymore…” Either way, the octopus ceviche was good stuff.

Another thing Croatia does very well is the pizza. In fact, I am tempted to say that although I’ve never been to Italy, it may have the best pizza in the world outside of New York City. The dough is light and fluffy and crisped up nice underneath a fresh, tomatoey sauce that takes on more of an active role in the overall flavor of the pie than it does back home. The cheese is fresh and laden in just the right ratio to the dough beneath. There isn’t nearly the emphasis on garlic here, and any toppings you get will be a nice, never-frozen addition to an already delicious meal. We made pizza a pretty major component of our diet, right after anything served in a 0.75L bottle. Yea, we get drunk!!! Woo-hoo!!!

One thing I did learn while in Croatia is that there is virtually no difference between cuttlefish and squid by the time it lands on your plate. Cuttlefish risotto and squid ink risotto is EXACTLY the same thing. Don’t let some slick waiter with an overbite tell you anything different. Fuck that guy, it all tastes like shit after the third bite.

Having watched a Discovery Channel special on cuttlefish over Thanksgiving, I have since learned that cuttlefish are among the most intelligent of all underwater living things. And… since then, I have been left feeling more than a little guilty for eating these super-intelligent little critters. Especially since they taste the same as a dumb old squid.

It’s like how you can nickname someone a “squid” and you know that kid is a fucking douchebag. But if you nickname someone “cuttlefish” it’s more likely to be someone on the other end of a Dawson’s Creek friends-that-will-never-amount-to-more relationship. Either way, Dawson was a fag. That shit is scientific.

Moving on. I don’t need to go into much detail on the kebabs in Budapest after the way I lauded them a few months ago. Granted, nine-tenths of my meals there were under heavy alcohol and “philosophic” influence, but the kebabs were amazing. The rest of the food there was usually eaten with the homesick, humorous, and horny Jeff Jones, and tended to be of mixed European fare. I had some decent beef on occasion, but nothing particularly noteworthy. Anything else seemed to be rather nondescript. Either that, or my memory of Budapest suffers greatly from a three-month binge on cheap (and delicious) vodka in Ukraine. Or maybe it’s equally likely that I’m making excuses for my weakness for (good) kebabs. Fuck those things are good.

Before I get to that though the music from Sziget (in Budapest, if you need reminding) was from all different genres, and it all sounds great when you have a fistful of marinated lamb meat oozing with love and devotion. Gogol Bordello though, as I think I’ve mentioned, is a speed/punk/gypsy act from the Lower East Side in New York who I hadn’t seen prior to Sziget, and was absurdly energetic and as much of a show as it was a great concert. Plus, I think the playful, pipe-hitting, pocket-pooling Jeff Jones and I fell in love with the two bass drummers who dance and prance around the stage like tempting little vixen tinkerbells. Oi. The virile, ferocious, and voracious Jeff Jones even had me concerned with his date-rape stare.

Seeing Sinead O’Connor was definitely a cool and (perhaps once-in-a-lifetime) experience. Her voice is completely enveloping, soft and somehow powerful, and all coming from this tiny little Irish chick (who has gained a bit of weight since burning the pope’s picture years ago – that’ll teach her to mess with fucking GOD…). But the whole time, you got the sense you were watching an icon. She’s not in anyone’s consciousness much anymore (at least not back in the states), but when you see her on stage, you get the sense anyone within arms length may start crying. And you’d be more apt to hug them than call them a queer.

Tool was sick.

That really needed it’s own paragraph. Once I escaped the cauldron of death (ie. the mosh pit), and was able to somewhat safely enjoy the show, I immediately understood why Tool fans have a huge boner for Maynard. Huge. The guy is just fucking cool. He’s the kind of performer I’d expect David Beckham to be if he could sing, dance, and convince me to get an abortion. Wait… what???

I expect most people who know even a little about Tool know that Maynard never shows his face. On this occasion, he was wearing dark sunglasses and a cowboy hat, and faced the back of the stage the whole time, with his silhouette broadcast on the white screen in front of him. Which makes me think that silhouette porn is probably the only frontier porn has yet to explore. And honestly, wouldn’t it also be the cheapest? Though probably also the least fruitful, from a consumer’s perspective. Whatever. Nevermind.

His air of mystique definitely pervades throughout the show as the crowd grows into more and more of a vibrating hormonal asexual orgy until some song like Schism gives everyone the opportunity for some weird emotional and energetic release, thankfully devoid of any actual ejaculations. At least as far as I could tell. And believe me, I was looking.

Anyway, I was a Tool fan (one who would buy the occasional album because I respected Maynard’s “vision” for the album so much), but never one to wear a t-shirt or pierce anything. Now, I’m quite sure I’ll never miss another show if they trip through New York.

Faithless is a jazzy-pop-electronic group from the U.K. that was about 5,000,000 times better than I thought they’d be. Granted, five million times zero is still zero, but whatever. I went in there expecting to shout “I told you so” to my hostel-mates over the top of some shitty pop track, as I made my way for a third kebab. On the contrary though, I thought they (Faithless, not my dumbass hostel-mates) brought an immense amount of energy, and that’s not just because they had the biggest crowd of any other band I saw at Sziget. Simply… they bring it. The crowd was a throbbing hoard of heaving kinesis the whole time, and every song raised the bar a bit further than the one prior until finally at the end, I needed a cigarette, a shower, and a good cry.

Pink played too. Yes, that stupid-ass Pink. I dropped by to validate how bad I thought she’d be, and even I was surprised at how brutally horrendous she was. It was like taking home a girl you KNOW is regrettable to begin with, and then finding out she can’t even fuck. I opted for a kebab instead of sitting through a third Pink song. Interestingly, a kebab is exactly what I’d be passing on in the event a sub-par girl happens past my apartment threshold.

I saw Deep Dish too. Ask me if I remember a damn thing about it. That’s how good they were. Definitely won’t miss them when next they’re in New York. I wish I could say more, but I’d have to download or Google something, and at that point, I become much less of a lame blogger, and a lot more of a lame journalist. Either way, we’re all losers.

I saw a shitload of other electronic music while there, most of it spent by myself or with the adventurous, transcontinental, and occasionally transgender Jeff Jones, and all of it is one big blur. That should give you some indication as to how good Sziget is as a festival. Simply one of the top three festivals I’ve ever been to, and probably in no small part due to the fact that I wasn’t sleeping on mud, wood chips, the back seat of a Hyundai, or linoleum.

After Budapest I went to Lviv, and spent three months in Ukraine. I remember I was so fed up with mistaking the map for which area was Center for the first two days that I ate McDonalds three times in two days. Let me tell you, it’s no less disgusting in Ukraine. In fact, it transforms from food to remorse in less time than it takes to chase each filthy bite with cola.

After the first two days, I began moving to greener pastures and delved into cuisines from Georgian, Armenian, Lebanese, and of course Ukrainian. Let me start by saying Georgian food is perhaps the most tasty and flavorful cuisine I may have ever had. For one thing, starting a meal with harcho is a must. Harcho is a soup made from beef stock, with chilies, onions, tomato and chunks of beef making for a spicy and hearty opener. I’ve tried many other Georgian soups, and they simply don’t stack up against everything the harcho delivers.

Next, you can snack on their sweet and spicy sauces paired with flat grilled bread, and then move onto any number of perfectly grilled meats, prepared over direct heat on a skewer over a wood fire. Excellent, and exactly the way it should be.

Armenian food is quite similar to Georgian food, though their meats tended (in my experience) to be cooked over coal and that just isn’t the same. It was kind of like sex with a condom, frankly. Still good, but not nearly as satisfying.

I ate quite a bit of Lebanese food while in Lviv, only because a friend of mine owned a Lebanese restaurant nearby Ivano Franko University, so the food and the slut parade often paired to a fabulous start to my day. Not to mention, my friend made the best ayran I’ve ever tasted.

Ayran is a garlic-yogurt drink with a dash of cayenne, and not only is it healthy and satisfying, it’s also the surest way to increase your own personal greenhouse gases. Simply, it's the middle east's answer to Mexican food.

Ukrainian food is rather bland in all respects. There is an emphasis on pork (for women) and more pork (for men). This comes in many forms, including sala, which is a spiced raw pig fat, which should really be served with a bowl full of Lipitor.

There is also a multitude of sausage options, and their bacon totally ruined the erection I'd typically have after ordering it, as it would normally show up raw. Their soups can tend to be rather heavy, which is fine when it's busecca, which is a delicious tripe soup served with a garlic cream. Goooooooood shiiiiiiiiiit.....

Produce in Ukraine is of the best quality I've ever had. Especially the tomatoes. Interestingly, there is no appetite for salads in this country. Which is totally disappointing, especially after a dinner of raw pig and busecca. It's sort of like waking up with a regrettable girl next to you, knowing you need a shower, and finding out there's no hot water. Crushing.

Caviar in Ukraine is top notch, as you'd expect, and even though the bread products are typically nothing more than decent, you can find a decent selection of cheeses to pair with it, though definitely no wines (that don't taste like cat urine) to complete the triumvirate.

As for music, I did see De Phazz while in Lviv, which was sponsored by Nemiroff, or else they never would have come. They're a very cool, lively, diverse jazz/funk act from Germany, with a male lead singer on some songs, and a female lead on others. They played to a half-full house of about 400, since most Ukrainians can't afford a $40US ticket. Even so, they brought a lot of energy and played not one, but THREE encores. That was a pretty nice touch.

I also saw some other new-age jazz act whose name I can't remember, but it doesn't really matter because they sounded a lot like how Michael Bolton probably wishes he sounded, and that's still not very good. But seeing them for $2US, I would hardly complain much. Though it does probably explain the crappy suits the performers were wearing.

As for me, I’ve been through Turkey, a quick fly through Syria (with some issues at the border, but nothing serious), a night in Amman, and have been in Israel now for about two weeks. I’m in Jerusalem now and heading south to the Sinai Peninsula within a couple days. From there I move to Egypt after a quick jump back out to Jordan to see Petra and Wadi Rum.

I’ve been incommunicado in general lately, if only because I’ve been on the move a lot since leaving New York. I’ll be settling down someplace in Africa for a bit to relax and catch up with everything. Unfortunately for all of you, I haven’t been drinking as much the past five weeks or so, so there isn’t quite as many opportunities for me to get into any trouble. I’ll work on that.

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.