UA - Bila Tserkva

After some more potato-stuffed varenyky with fried onions as well as another brownie with ice cream, we headed out the door for a walk around town. Oksana, her daughter, Svitlana, Anastasia, and I all headed toward the river and into a park that followed along the river’s course. This park is reportedly larger than Sofiyivka Park in Uman’, albeit without the fountains and without the crowds.

As with Sofiyivka, however, I could clearly tell that we were past its prime – August just isn’t the time one goes strolling through gardens and parks. Despite the lack of flowers, it was still a pretty stroll among the trees. I can’t quite recall ever seeing a country that still has so many willow trees – perhaps my most favorite of all trees. When I think of place names like “Willow Grove” back in PA, I can’t help but wonder if Western civilization has waged a de facto war on willow trees. I grew up with one in the backyard of my grandmother’s house, in Philadelphia, and always loved the look of it and the sound of it as wind swept through its branches and leaves.

After several hours in the park, we emerged into the more urban parts of Bila Tserkva and wondered about a little bit more. Returning to the apartment, I sat down in the living room and chatted with Svitlana’s mother – using Anastasia as an intermediary translator. It was fun fielding various questions, of which I thought one was interesting: what is considered to be a prestigious profession in America?

I responded that generally wealthy and well-liked would include doctors, though wealthy and despised could include lawyers. To the former, I was intrigued to learn that doctors aren’t particularly respected here – really just your typical middle-class. Rather, in Ukraine, the prestigious role goes to people who own their own business. I’m not quite sure if that meant your business had to be successful or not. Surely a successful entrepreneur would be well-regarded in nearly any country, but sometimes even a struggling business owner may be highly regarded just for the individual’s will and determination.

After thanks and farewells, we departed to catch the marshrutka back to Kyiv. Our seats were above the rear wheel wells, which was initially a bit uncomfortable but once I got my leg up – I recalled why I always loved sitting above the wheel well back when I rode the school bus. The well basically functions as a footrest and can actually help one get quite comfortable (provided they’re a bit flexible). The overhead vent was right beside me and was open much of the trip, providing the perfect ventilation to maintain a perfect temperature. What a fine ride it was.

This was our last night in the Kyiv apartment. …Ever. Not only were we leaving the next night for the rest of the month, but Svitlana was moving to a new apartment the next day. As I said several days ago, the lease on the apartment here in Kyiv ends toward the end of August. Svitlana’s roommate, Veronica, apparently found a new place while we were down in Bila Tserkva. So tomorrow was going to be moving day. For tonight, however, we were still here.

I met the last roommate, Roman – making a total of five people in this little apartment. If I understand it all correctly, I believe the new apartment will just be Veronica and Russlan in one room, and Svitlana sharing a room with one of Veronica’s friends – I think her name was Yula? I haven’t met her, so I can’t say much else about her.

It is amazing what technology can do to reduce noise. Exhaust systems, engines, tires, pavement materials, and even building insulation. With the windows and doors open in this apartment, there is a cacophony of noise emanating from the major highway down below. When the doors and windows closed, however, the building’s insulation renders it a nice and quiet volume. The catch is: it quickly becomes stiflingly hot. I brought along my pajama pants as a courtesy to my hosts, but this night I finally slept in my more natural attire: just my boxers. Whereas I’d constantly wake up in a sweat on previous nights in Kyiv, this time I’d sleep and be a fine temperature all night long.

UA - Bila Tserkva, Uman'

It was an early morning, with Svitlana’s Dad waking us up by calling for us from the door. Svitlana seemed a bit startled when she got up and both Anastasia and I hadn’t moved at all. Apparently she was afraid the shashlyk we ate last night wasn’t cooked enough and we died – I couldn’t help but find that funny. Especially because every time I moved in my bed, it made loud creaking sounds; and since I’m like a rotisserie when I sleep, I creaked all throughout the night. Here I thought I’d have been keeping them up all night with my creaking.

For breakfast I had Svitlana’s borsch. When we finally sat down to eat the previous night, I was a bit confused not to see Svitlana’s borsch on the table. As we were cooking the shashlyk, she asked Anastasia and myself twice whether or not we wanted any borsch. As it’s a more appropriate Western custom to wait until everyone and everything is ready to go, I responded that I’ll wait until we were ready to eat everything. Apparently Svitlana interpreted this as our refusal to have borsch at all, which this morning I discovered was a bit aggravating for her. I tried to explain what I meant when I finally did eat it – and it was quite tasty.

We were soon on the road to Uman’, which is the location of Sofiyivka Park. The drive there passed by more sunflowers than I think I’ve ever seen in my life. I cannot recall ever seeing a sunflower farm other than in pictures; usually I spot sunflowers individually planted in gardens. Alas, the sunflowers were in bloom several weeks ago and were not nearly as dazzling a sight as I’m sure there were in their prime; but they were still pretty even in their faded glory.

As for Sofiyivka Park: I suppose you could call it Ukraine’s Versailles, albeit without the palace. I could see how it’d be lovely in spring and autumn, as Svitlana described to be her favorite times to visit, but in the middle of summer: it was really just a bunch of trees. The rose garden was pretty, but the rest of the park was past bloom. It nonetheless made for a pleasant stroll among the trees.

Returning to Bila Tserkva, we headed toward the dacha but turned just a little bit earlier. We visited Svitlana’s god-family (which also has the god-daughter of Svitlana’s parents). This whole family seemed to speak English pretty well. They run a family business which deals in office supplies, and combined with some American connections through their church: they’ve had the opportunity to use English on a relatively consistent basis. The young man about my age – Victor – learned English in school, as is true for many students today. However, many students don’t have the chances to use their English as Victor does, and hence it’s difficult to speak with many people; but with these people it was a breeze.

In addition to Victor, I met his sister Yelena, father Anatoly, and mother Valentina. Then there was the 14 year old German Shepherd (which I should mention is my absolute favorite breed of dog) named Нюхлен, which I can best translate as Nuke-len (a literal translation would be Nyukh-lien), meaning “sniffing dog”. Thinking back to Anastasia’s name for her cat, Koshka, meaning “cat”, I am quickly earning a fondness for their names for pets here… exactly the kind of names I’d use.

Their house was lovely – albeit not a dacha; they lived hear year-round. Victor took us out in his boat, as was our hope the previous day. First we went up to the dam, where we pulled ashore and got out to walk along the dam. It was built solely to provide the reservoir; not for power generation or flood control (though I’m sure the latter is certainly utilized as a secondary benefit).

Next we stopped by the house again to grab oars, as our petrol supply seemed to be running low. We then continued the other way, where we started having some trouble with the outboard just a little short of the small island we were heading to. Svitlana took to the oars and rowed the rest of the way.

We stood about the island for a couple minutes before heading back to the boat. Victor adjusted the fuel lines and got us going again, but soon we ran out of fuel and Victor manned the oars back to the house. I have to admit, I wouldn’t have minded doing a bit of rowing – it’s been awhile since I’ve had oars in my hands, and I realized then that I dearly missed that sensation.

A short meal and chat later, we were bidding farewell & returning to the dacha. We packed our bags and made our way back into Bila Tserkva proper, where we’d be spending the night at Svitlana’s apartment. As with Anastasia’s place, the apartment was located in what a Westerner would right-away consider your typical Soviet-style tower. Inside, the elevator was broken and as we climbed the stairs, several of the levels were not lit.

Before leaving the United States, everyone had me a bit worried about Russia and Ukraine. I really had no idea what to expect. I had the emails from Anastasia and Svitlana making it all sound so rustic, I had my friends whose families emigrated from the Soviet Union telling me all the reasons their families left to begin wth, I had my guidebooks telling me to fear the police and bureaucracy more than anything else, my pool’s lifeguard Victoria was telling me that if somebody doesn’t like somebody else for any reason: they’ll just have that person shot, and then the four Kaliningrad girls seemed to confirm all of the above.

Climbing up the many flights of stairs, I was contemplating just how I’d react if Svitlana’s place were anything like the stereotypes of the former Eastern Bloc. When we entered, however, I immediately recognized that, once again, my worries were completely unfounded. I was looking into a spacious apartment with nice furnishings, and smiling faces all about – Svitlana’s mom and dad to my left; sister and niece straight ahead.

I keep finding myself thinking at how “Western” everything feels. It just isn’t correct to consider this “Eastern” Europe – it’s Europe; that’s it. It is certainly a bit less wealthy: the infrastructure and common areas aren’t in the best repair, ever-popular cafes are replaced by ever-popular portable snack stalls, and the former Eastern Bloc’s native cars aren’t exactly BMWs, Lamborghinis, or Renaults; but the people are the same, the palaces are the same, the parks are the same, and even the cities tend to, by and large, feel the same. Europe always tends to feel like Europe, no matter where you are.

If anything, areas like Ukraine may have a leg up over the West – for now, at least – as in places like Hoverla: you can look out and see nothing; just trees and mountains. There is a certain charm to being in the Alps and seeing the landscape dotted with little towns among a patchwork of farms and forests, but at Hoverla is was 99% forest; and that brings a charm all of its own.

I by and large spent the evening sorting photos on my laptop, though I did join the kitchen for a bit to eat some borsch as well as varenyky stuffed with potatoes and seasoned with fried onions. This was perhaps the tastiest thing I’ve eaten yet. Well, apart from the Ghiardelli brownies I brought along from America which were cooked up tonight for dessert. Served fresh out of the oven with vanilla ice cream on top, there are just very few things that can compete with that.

In the kitchen, I was introduced to Svitlana’s grandfather, NAME, whom is 85 years old and previously worked as an interior constructor (much like Svitlana’s roommate, Russlan). Her grandfather’s persona and appearance reminded me a lot of my former suitemate James: a rather slumber look with mildly unkempt hair, and even the same calm albeit opinionated manner of speaking.

Sleeping arrangements were handled in the living room, where I took a fold-out chair and the girls took the fold-out sofa. I once again was confounded by the blankets and sheets, which is a common issue for me whilst in Europe. On the train from Kyiv to Lviv, I tried to use the mattress as a blanket. Here I figured that since the bed itself (the bench seat) was soft, why would I have a mattress?

Well, another problem I have is that I can never identify the sheet I’m supposed to wrap around the mattress (our equivalent would be a fitted sheet) and the sheet I’m supposed to use as a sheet. I guess the mattress sheets are supposed to have pockets that you can tuck around the ends of the mattress – just like some pillowcases. However, these pockets and sheets never seem to fit the mattress right; whereas the sheet does. So I end up using the mattress sheet as my sheet.

Then there are the comforters, which always seem to consist of a Happy Meal worth of other goodies inside. I’ve never really opened one up to see what all is in there – mostly for fear that I’d never get it back in – but comforters always seem to have a side that is opened up so you can see a whole bunch of other blankets within. I don’t know, maybe you’re supposed to take all these blankets out? Me, I just like the weight of a full comforter.

I made my best with the bed; quite sure I had the two sheets reversed – and keeping the contents of my comforter intact. While working on my laptop, Svitlana’s grandfather came in and sat down on the sofa to try and talk to me. He didn’t speak a word of English, and I quickly got the feeling that he didn’t realize that I didn’t speak a word of Ukrainian or Russian. Oksana soon appeared to try and explain the language barrier, but the best I could interpolate from their not-in-my-language discussion was that he didn’t quite realize I was American, but rather thought that we were talking about Americans; and with history lingering on in the minds of the older – I don’t quite think he was particularly fond of Americans.

I later inquired about him and Svitlana said that he tends to ramble on with stories, and sometimes he can be pretty rude. Well, that seems to describe pretty much any older person, and dagnabit I’m sure I’ll be the same way in a couple more decades (I’m already halfway there now). Personally, those excuses were the exact reasons I would want to have had a discussion with him. However, instead Oksana escorted him out of the room and that pretty much concluded my night.

UA - Bila Tserkva (dacha)

We caught a marshrutka southward from Kyiv. It was quite comfy: we occupied the first row, so I had room to stretch my legs beside the driver’s seat; and the front windows were open – sending plenty of fresh air my way. Go figure that at a little over an hour, this was a “short” marshrutka ride.

During the trip, we watched a Soviet movie named Kavzkaya Plennica which Svitlana described as the favorite of 90% of the former Eastern Bloc. It’s a bit dated and seemed on the same level as many American movies at the time – clean humor, simple jokes, and use of fast-forward to make the actor’s motions funnier. There was a trio of guys which right-away reminded me of the Three Stooges. They weren’t as slapstick or rude to eachother, but if you saw this trio: you’d understand what I mean.

If the Carpathians felt like Appalachia, then the areas south of Kyiv feel like New Jersey. Now saying something like that certainly comes with bad connotations to any Americans reading this, but I say it as someone who has a little bit of Jersey blood in me and can see its good parts. I’m not quite sure why I think this, though… it didn’t smell bad like north Jersey does, but it just felt pretty flat with these little rural towns all about – all connected by major highways.

Arriving Bila Tserkva, we approached a maroon car and next thing I knew, I was being introduced to Svitlana’s dad, Mykola, a doctor specializing with larynxes. He’s certainly fit and full of energy, and I could tell he was dearly wished to speak with me; but the language barrier was an ever-present issue. Throughout our time together, our discussions felt like a game of charades – often ending with a call for Svitlana. He took French back in his school days, but I later learned that he doesn’t remember much more of French than I know… bonjour, merci beaucoup, si vous plais, omelette du fromagge, and so forth.

After a stop by a supermarket, we continued on to the dacha just west of town where I was introduced to Svitlana’s older sister, Oksana. Oksana is very pretty and tall enough that I can look her eye-to-eye, and she bears a striking resemblance to a girl I used to work with back at Penn State. Oksana works as a psychologist, albeit on maternity leave to care for her daughter Anastasia – now a toddler and absolutely adorable. I understand that Oksana had taken English classes back in her school days, but had since forgotten almost all of it. She was excited when I said something and she recognized what I had said.

Svitlana’s mom, Liudmila, works as a physical trainer as well as a fitness class instructor. Just as with Svitlana’s father, her mom is in great shape and certainly does not look like a grandparent at all. She speaks German, which was fun to try and use as an intermediary language. Unfortunately, while I can certainly use German for getting myself around and doing what I need to do – and I can read it well enough if I take a little time on some of the words – my conversational German is not quite the best.

After Anastasia’s (my host; not the toddler) dacha outside of Moscow, Svitlana had gotten me worried that her dacha would be a little trailer on wheels with mosquito netting for walls; and that’d be the only building all around. I must admit that if that’s what it turned out to be, I wouldn’t have minded a little adventure. For example, the train ride from Moscow to St. Petersburg – as lousy a night as it was for sleep and comfort – was a good night just for the experience; and it really makes you appreciate it when you have a train cabin like those we’ve had in Ukraine.

However, the dacha was right on the same level as Anastasia’s place. There was a garden with a cornucopia of fruits, vegetables, and flowers; an outhouse across the way; and a house that felt more than comfortable inside its two rooms. Technically, the house was indeed a trailer – as Svitlana had warned me about earlier; but you’d never even notice it was a trailer unless you really got down low to look beneath the structure.

We could glimpse the nearby stream from the dacha. In getting ready to go, everyone was inside, so I figured I’d head around the corner of the house and change into my swimsuit outside. Almost immediately, I heard the sound of people exiting; so I refastened my belt. I was directed inside to change, but was a bit confounded to find Svitlana’s parents sleeping in the one room. There wasn’t really any sort of separation between the kitchen and the bedroom, so I positioned myself to try and get as much coverage as possible; albeit this kept me in plain view through the front door. I very very quickly dropped my pants & pulled on the swimsuit. Privacy is not a luxury to be found here.

After some eating and greeting, the girls and I left out the back of the garden and walked down a path toward the stream. This path was shared with cows, once again bringing back memories of the paths about Switzerland. We wound about a bit for a minute until emerging at a grassy hill. We laid down to catch some sun, with the river only a couple meters downhill.

As we arrived, two girls had just stripped down to their underwear and began swimming about in the water – which made me hesitate when I went to start taking pictures right as we arrived on the hill. I’m sure some of my male friends would hate me for this hesitation, as I ultimately took the photos after they left. There was seriously no appropriate way to pull off photos of the lovely landscape (by which I refer to the stream & surrounding land) without drawing question from my hosts or indeed the girls themselves.

I keep referring to the river as a lake, and I suppose I’m not entirely off. A dam was built nearby about 30 years ago, causing what used to be a quarry to fill up to form a reservoir for the city of Bila Tserkva. So I suppose I could technically call it a reservoir, as I’m not quite sure when a “river” becomes a “lake”. There wasn’t any noticeable current and while it was cold when we first got in; it felt fine once you were under the water for just a couple seconds.

Here I suppose is another correlation that could be drawn with New Jersey. I wouldn’t say the river was polluted in the sense that if I went in, I’d emerge with a third arm… if that were the case, I certainly wouldn’t have gone in. After dipping my feet into the Chesapeake Bay a month or two ago and having funky-feeling feet for the next couple days, I’ve certainly become a bit more mindful of water pollution as it relates to swimming.

This river wasn’t polluted like the Bay or like the water closer to the major cities of Ukraine, but it was polluted enough that when I got in: my hands would disappear from sight about a foot beneath the surface. That’s comparable to New Jersey back in the 90’s, though today I can fortunately see my hands about 2 feet beneath the surface of the Atlantic. This river did have far fewer suds and bubbles than the Atlantic coastline, though. That’s certainly a victory for Ukraine and a loss for my beloved Jersey.

I was the first to get in all the way, with Anastasia soon followed my lead. Svitlana dawdled about with only her toes in, then her feet in, and then a long delay. It wasn’t long after I mocked her that she moved deeper – my mocking having noted that when she was my lifeguard back in Maryland, she used to laugh at how I’d very slowly get myself into the pool bit-by-bit. Now our roles were reversed.

Our urge to swim satisfied, we returned to bask in the sun. Svitlana was first to leave so that she may further socialize with her family as well as get started with cooking her borsch – something she’d been pining to do the whole trip (indeed, she’s been telling me that I need to taste her borsch ever since summer 2006). Anastasia and I stuck around until the sun got nearer to the horizon (which was a bit higher with the low hills and trees) and also until some clouds moved in and blocked the sun, anyway. On our way back, we were faced with a wall of bovine: we decided to walk around the front of the cow which was blocking our path. Ahh, it once again made me miss cow-dodging in Switzerland.

I kept my swimsuit past sunset, as I had been expecting that we’d head back out to paddle about the river. When I learned the trip got nixed, I went inside to change out of my swimsuit and back into my pants. Svitlana’s family had left around dusk, so there was now some chance to get just enough privacy to change. Er, if you disregard the window that gives a clear view into pretty much every part of the bedroom.

I went inside to change, and just as I untied my swimsuit’s knot the girls both came inside. OK, so I went outside. I thought about using the corner I tried to use earlier, when I was getting into my swimsuit; but a bright incandescent illuminated this whole nook. Just beyond, however, was pure darkness. I continued a couple meters further and made the switch – pulling up my pants just as the girls exiting from the house. What timing these two have! I walked toward them and emerged from the shadows whilst refastening my belt.

Now I’m actually pretty free about my body – I could care less if anyone sees me in my underwear or even if I’m buck naked; but somehow I just don’t think it’d be the most comfortable situation for my hosts if they were to catch me in the buff. Memories of that first night in the banya are often in my head… why do my social faux-pas situations always involve personal nudity?

Anastasia and I got to work on a fire to cook shashlyk (Ukrainian shish kabobs). At first I thought we’d actually cook them over the fire, so I tended to it in my usual way: get a good fire going with a tripod of large blocks towering over the small ones; then when the tower collapses, lay some large blocks flat across to keep a low fire going. When you get a good foundation built up again, you pile up another tripod tower, and so on. Doing this helps conserve your wood, which when Anastasia was around the first several minutes: we were rapidly burning through.

When Anastasia returned after having left me to tend to the fire for several minutes, she explained that we actually wanted to use all our wood before cooking; I needn’t conserve it. Apparently shashlyk is cooked over hot embers; not over fire. So with that in mind, I let my pyro side have a little more input… more liberally using up wood to get a “wicked cool” inferno (albeit safely within the confines of the fire pit.

Once our wood had been converted into hot embers, Anastasia placed the shashlyk skewers across the top level of the metal bars. I recommended using the lower level to move them closer to the embers, but she advised that the top level is preferable for a slower, more thorough cook. About an hour and a half later, Svitlana arrived and did just what I recommended: moving them to the lower level. Over another hour and a half, we had to chop some more wood and burn some more embers to finish cooking the meat – a total 3-hour ordeal. Once again: a bit inconvenient; but certainly an experience.

UA - Kyiv

One might call this a waste of a day, but I’d say it’s a day that needed to happen – especially after all the hiking and walking I’ve been doing the past two weeks. After our 7-o’clock hour arrival into Kyiv, we made our way to the apartment with a brief stop-over at the farmer’s market right at our Metro station. The remainder of the day and evening was spent in the apartment, catching up on organizing my photos as well as writing in this here journal.

Officially, my excuse was that I needed to do laundry, but the two wash bins were full with the guys’ clothes. However, I learned I could just take care of my laundry the following day, leading me to select two shirts that didn’t smell too bad. So my official excuse became moot and then my real excuse became the more prevalent: it was bloody hot out and my legs – while fine by day – were restless at night from all the hiking & walking. It was also, admittedly, a bit nice to see the visitor that was there much of the morning and early afternoon – a cute blonde stewardess with AeroSvit whom eventually left for work.

Svitlana’s excuse was that she needed to track down a new apartment. With amazing timing to go on holiday, her apartment’s lease expires the last week of August and she needed to both pack for a couple days in Bila Tserkva, locate a new apartment, and then pack her entire life for the move to a new residence. I’m not entirely sure she made much progress on many of those fronts (just as I didn’t make much progress on my “gotta do laundry” excuse).

I am not quite sure what Anastasia’s plans were – if indeed she had any – but I knew that with the heat, she wasn’t too enthusiastic about heading outdoors, either. She had soon fallen asleep, which took up the major portion of her day. In the evening, the girls, along with Russlan and myself, sat around the computer and watched Big Stan. I’m not a particular fan of Ron Schneider, other than when he’s just a supporting castmember to Adam Sandler; but I have to admit that this movie was among his more tolerable roles. Then again, I was also watching it in Russian. There were quite a couple bits I felt were overdone, but overall it was actually a watchable movie. Whether I’d still be saying that if I saw it in English; that’s another question entirely.

UA - Lviv

I rolled over and greeted Svitlana with “Dobry utra,” which means “good morning.”

“Yes,” was the response. I’m starting to get the impression that Svitlana is not much of a morning person.

Another early morning, we caught a marshrutka to Ivano-Frankivsk followed by a bus to Lviv. We were finally back and it was now about 15:00 – plenty of time to explore the city before our train at about 22:45. However, I’ll admit that it was stifling hot. Both bus rides were brutal, with ventilation virtually non-existent.

At Lviv’s train station, however, the girls refused to go out into the city until it cooled down. Personally, I can think of no reason that would delay me from exploration. If it’s hot, I’ll drink more water. If it’s cold, I’ll wear more clothes. If it’s raining, I’ll wear my hat, use an umbrella, or just get wet. If there are floods, I’ll bring a swimsuit. If there is famine, I’ll pack a lunch. If there are riots, I’ll bring a torch. If there is war, I’ll wear camo. What’s always important, however, is that you bring a towel; and don’t panic.

I left on my own, which again suits my tastes perfectly. The weather played perfect alibi to my desire to go forth and do what I want at my own pace. I went down vul Chernivetska and onto vul Horodotska – the latter of which was closed down right in the core for some major road reconstruction. That’s a perfect attraction for someone in my line of work. Indeed, much of the city’s infrastructure was being reconstructed – roads, tramways; it was a lovely destination for a civil engineer.

At the Transfiguration Church, I was a bit annoyed when they forbade anyone from entering so that they could, as best I could tell, wash the front steps. The Armenian Cathedral was kind of neat, mostly in the same fashion as how the Orthodox churches were all new to me – so it was interesting to see the architecture and interior design. Pl Rynok – the central square – was lovely for the central town hall and the surrounding buildings. The buildings fronting the square are almost all of uniform dimensions, mostly owing to a tax on more than 3 windows at the time.

I continued east to the Uspenska Church and then caught a service at the St. Mary Carmelite Monastery. I believe the latter is a part of the Uniate Church, which is a mix of Orthodox and Catholic practices and officially pays allegiance to the Vatican. I moved on along the last remaining segment of the city walls to the Bernardine Church & Monastery, where I caught another service at yet another Uniate church.

I meandered about the streets east – first down vul Ivana Franka, then onto vul Levytskoho, then onto a couple assorted streets northward until I got onto vul Pekarska, which ultimately took me to the Lychakivsky Cemetery. This cemetery was absolutely beautiful: it felt overgrown and unkempt, but at the same time well cared for. While many people may not think of a cemetery as any particular attraction, this is certainly a must-see in Lviv in the same vein as Arlington is for visitors to Washington, D.C.; albeit not nearly as manicured as Arlington.

With the sun becoming lower in the sky, I left the cemetery and went north to vul Lychakivska. I turned west along this roadway and, since street name signs seemed to be a rarity, I started heading northward when the time felt right. I think I turned north onto vul Lysenka – surprisingly the exact road I was hoping to turn onto. However, it didn’t feel like the correct road when I was on it, so I didn’t turn right again when I should’ve; ultimately negating the whole reason I wanted to be there in the first place – to cut the corner & reduce the time needed to reach my next destination: the High Castle.

I turned right onto vul Vynnychenka and up the hill then left onto vul Kryvonosa. As I walked along this street, it really didn’t feel like I was on the right path. Specifically, the map in my Lonely Planet guide didn’t appear to correspond to the actual street layout. Oddly, considering a map is provided, in the description accompanying the High Castle info it describes how to get there. I sort of seemed to be on the right track; sort of didn’t… but I think I eventually found where the book’s directions linked up with the path I took.

Regardless, I made it to the High Castle, which spirals around and around itself until you reach the peak. Here, you get an excellent panoramic over the city. I stopped on briefly to catch photos because, looking west, I spotted lightning bolts off in the distance. When that storm hit, I was hoping to be surrounded by really tall buildings; or ideally back at the train station. Lightning was my bigger concern, and the buildings could absorb that well enough. Getting wet was secondary, since I really don’t mind it all that much.

I arrived at the central square soon enough and began taking some evening photos, albeit without my tripod. For some reason, I didn’t really think I’d need it. I figured that catching a train in the 10pm hour would give me little time for night shots, anyway… when in fact I should have known that I’d have plenty of time. Oh well, the city’s lights let me get away with a short enough exposure time that I was more-or-less able to keep a steady shot.

I had just grabbed a couple photos when I spotted a girl just in front of me with long brown hair. I thought of how familiar she seemed to look, until I realized it was Svitlana. Following the direction of the camera, I soon spotted Anastasia, too. Reunited by happenstance, we went about the square getting some more photos before ending up at a nearby café for some cake and coffee (though I replaced the latter with apple juice).

It managed to take about 25 minutes to prepare this, making it a good thing I didn’t go ahead with my original plans for a meal and milkshake – both of which were quoted as taking 20 minutes to prepare, though I now suspect likely much longer. The place wasn’t even busy, either.

With about half an hour before we had to be on our train to Kyiv, we walked west to Prospekt Svobody and hailed a taxi. A 15 minute ride later and we were at the station and picking up our backpacks. I went to get some juice, which seemed an easy enough task. The price was 14 hryvnia, so I gave 54 – expecting 40 in change. The clerk became aggravated and was asking something back, until eventually giving me 16 hryvnia in change.

I’ve taken classes in calculus and differential equations – sometimes a couple times – and I didn’t need that matheducation to know that that wasn’t the right amount of change. She kept saying something and I had no idea what, and I kept looking over my shoulder trying to spot the girls whom had, seconds prior, been right beside me. Unable to make any progress, I pushed the change back toward the clerk & placed the juice back into the fridge. She gave me my 54 hryvnia back and I turned to leave. Would you know it, the girls were now standing near me again.

So with translators by my side, we gave it another attempt. I handed just the 50 to Svitlana, whom passed it onto the clerk. I got my juice and the appropriate change without any issue, so I have absolutely no idea what the problem was the first time around.

Our cabin was shared with a petite girl. It was otherwise almost the same as on the train that got us here – we even took the same seat assignments. This time around, however, I certainly did need the allergy-inducing blanket: the AC seemed to be at half-mast throughout the whole trip. It wasn’t too bad, though. Cool enough to get to sleep and warm enough to keep me passed out. The train seemed noisier than last time, waking me up in the middle of the night.

I had a weird dream that I can only remember was of the three of us playing some game which was a combination of Mario Kart’s Battle Mode, albeit in a pool in inner tubes; and I had a needle to pop people’s tubes. I dearly wish I could remember more.

UA - Vorokhta, Hoverla

The next day began too early. Most of the town agreed, as the local market was only just beginning to set up, the taxis hadn’t even taken position at the stand, and the sun was lighting the sky but had yet to clear the mountains. That point about the taxis, however, was the sticking point. We had hoped to catch a taxi down the road to Hoverla, the highest peak in Ukraine.

I wish I could turn the need for a taxi into an interesting tale, but we actually just waved down a taxi that approached along the main roadway about 10 minutes into our wait. He took us 9 km to the entrance to the park, and then another 12 km to the base of Hoverla. Here we disembarked and were on our way hiking up the mountain.

We made fantastic time: clearing the tree line with only one break. Generally the hike within the forest area is, to me, wasted energy. There’s nothing to look at but bark and undergrowth. However, this was an exception: the trail was cleared with a good width and the roots formed your footholds. The pattern of roots along the pitched terrain was pretty in its own right, but the path traveled alongside mountain streams and small waterfalls: further complementing the beauty of the hike.

The mountain was quiet so early in the morning: we saw only one other family leaving a picnic table just as we were approaching to take our break. Above the tree line – but still among the shrubs – we caught up to and passed this family. We moved through the shrubs pretty quickly with only a few intermittent breaks of a couple seconds each.

Our pace slowed when we rose above the shrubs and were surrounded by only rocks and grasses. Generally, this is when I move my fastest; but I welcomed the periodic breaks to stick with Anastasia. We’d both pause – for her to catch her breath; and for the wind to cool the sweat off of me. I was surprised by Svitlana’s ability to keep moving forward, motivated by her own excitement to finally be on Hoverla in good weather.

We spotted an apparently lone hiker on the summit as we were approaching. We had pondered whether we’d be the first for the day, but it appeared that someone had already taken that claim. It doesn’t matter how early you get up or how tirelessly you climb: there will always be someone who gets up earlier and moves faster; and usually that person is Swedish.

So when we reached the summit, we took solace in believing that maybe, just maybe, we were the second set of people to reach the peak that day. Within minutes, a lone backpacker arrived via another trail. Soon the family we passed arrived – the young daughter being carried, but their tiny yip-dog still on all fours. Then one of the lone backpacker’s buddies arrived. Soon a whole squadron of backpackers came. Next thing we know, the entire peak is covered with people. We looked over the edge and saw a string of people ascending up the mountain – it again reminded me of the crowds in Switzerland. If you want a peaceful hike, you need to start early.

After lingering around for a bit, we descended down toward the shrubline – prior to which we stopped to eat lunch. Lunch consisted of sausages, bread, and tomatoes; as well as some cracker/cookie things that only I ate (the same snacks as the dessert from my AeroSvit flight). During this time I opened up my second 2-liter bottle of water. I was amused when, during our ascent, Svitlana pointed out that the more I drink; the more I sweat. All I could think of was “that’s the point”. Sweat may feel icky, but there’s no denying that when the wind hits you: it feels bloody good. It’s a natural bodily function fulfilling exact what it’s supposed to do; and I’m well aware that you’re supposed to drink as much as you excrete. If you feel thirsty, you’re already dehydrated.

During our descent, I did spot something that I did not see back in the Alps. That is, here, hiking fashion for women can apparently consist of bikinis or even just bras. That lent a new appreciation for hiking in Eastern Europe.

Continuing our descent, we cut right when the path to our left consisted of a narrow ditch which would have been tricky to navigate when traveling downwards. When we realized that this new path appeared to go off in its own direction, I offered to use a somewhat worn cut-through back to our path – delineated by red-on-white markings. Some nearby hikers indicated that our current alignment brought us back to where we wanted to go, so we kept going.

Just as we passed some backpackers heading upwards, the girls began to have doubts that we were on the right way. To be honest, the same thing was running through my head, too, but a leader must never show a second’s hesitation. I continued forward and espied some green-on-white markings. It was certainly a trail, but the girls didn’t take to the fact that it wasn’t our red trail. We turned back to head uphill again.

Right where we passed the ascending backpackers from that last paragraph, we now passed some descending backpacks; and the girls again asked if this trail reconnected to the base. These backpackers confirmed it did. Now with that, I could’ve really cared less which of the two trails we took. The girls debated amongst themselves about it while I stood several meters further up. They also debated about a third trail, which I was rather doubtful was even a trail. I certainly couldn’t see anything, and even if there was one: it only served to take us further away from the red trail that we were hoping to reconnect with.

I grew fearful that they’d opt for this supposed third trail. I’ve since come to trust that their sense of direction is not the best, so I attempted to interject that we only have two options. Their third option takes us the wrong way, if it goes anywhere at all; downhill may reconnect; and uphill we know reconnects. Out of the two reasonable options, I thought of my mantra that even a bad decision is better than no decision; and I worried that we’d sit here half an hour trying to decide what to do. Despite the additional effort of going a short distance back uphill, we ultimately went with that surefire option and returned to the very cut-through I’d offered to use during our initial descent.

The rest of the descent was a breeze, but the additional 12 km hike to the park exit was starting to get a bit taxing by the end. Along the way, I converted my hat and shirt into a headdress inspired by Middle Eastern attire – I must say that they work wonders. It helped keep my sunburns to a minimum (though my shoulders still got torched) and I felt relatively comfy, considering the temperatures and humidity, throughout the hike. Fortunately, a marshrutka was passing through just as we reached the park’s exit – saving us an additional 9 km of walking back to town.

Back at town, few words can express the glee of taking off your hiking boots after a day of journeying. Next came a traditional remedy which was certainly new to me. Back in Moscow, I tried this sour milk which is common to drink around here. It’s not spoiled milk; it’s not sour cream; it’s milk that kind of tastes like sour cream. Since sour cream is in pretty much every dish here, it’s no wonder that people enjoy the taste of this. However, since my experience with sour cream usually involves nachos or maybe dip for my potato chips, I can’t say I quite have the same fancy for it.

Now came the alternate use for sour milk: an aid for sunburns. Looking back, though, I’m not so confident it worked. I can’t think of any time I’ve ever actually felt pain from a sunburn – including last year’s trip when I actually blistered from one. Now, after having this supposed relieving ointment, of sorts, I can say that this sunburn downright hurts whenever I move. That aside, it was amusing watching the girls smear this sour milk on each other’s shoulders and faces; and there is no denying that it felt unbelievably good having Svitlana rub it onto my shoulders, too. However, I suspect this may have had more to do with the feminine touch rather than any effects of sour milk.

One by one we took our showers. Usually I like to shower just before bed, but this time I relented. Getting the temperature right was a bit of a trick, though. Not because of the shower, but because my feet cried for the loving warmth of hot water; whereas my sun-kissed shoulders appreciated the cold water more. I bit my lip and took the punch of the hot water until I didn’t feel any pain anymore, and from then on all I felt was the relief of happy happy feet.

We ate dinner at a restaurant just across from the train station, where I tried some local Hutsul cuisine (extremely tasty). Afterward, we returned to our rooms and retired to an early evening.

UA - Ivano-Frankivsk, Yaremcha, Vorokhta

After several mornings of sleeping in, I learned the hard way that this train arrived not long after dawn. Svitlana’s voice said something along the lines of “We arrive in 15 minutes”. That got me out of bed & moving… that and the fact that the turned on the blazingly-bright white cabin light.

Arriving in Lviv, we initially planned to spend several hours exploring the city. However, when we learned a bus was leaving soon for Ivano-Frankivsk – one step closer to our day’s final destination in the Carpathian Mountains – we hopped on board and got situated for a 3-hr or so bus ride.

Once in Ivano-Frankivsk, we did a quick walking tour about town – with me leading the way. We paused at a fountain, located downtown, to sit in the shade & to bask in the air cooled by the water. We were soon presented with a show, as a man who was clearly not-all-there began enjoying the water. He took off his shirt and would cup his hands to splash water over his body and face. The way he would get splash himself was the best part: he would wave his hands about in the water to get some good turbulence built up – almost like revving an engine – and then VROOM he’d go into splash mode. He’d soak himself, soak the ground, dampen those in the splash zone, and generate a good mist for everyone a bit further. The look on his face after he was done was priceless – this splashing appeared to be almost orgasmic for the man. After a break of several seconds, he’d return to the same spot and do it again. It was a fun show, capable of giving Shamu a good run.

I led the way back toward the train station, but each time one of the girls would hop in front and lead off to some other attraction. I went to go east; they’d go north. I went to go south; then they’d go east. Each time I’d relent and let them go their way, assuming they had a destination. When I finally confirmed that they wanted to go to the train station, I took full control and led the way.

As we were undoing all the wrong moves they had made, we repeated many of the same paths we were just on minutes ago – prompting Svitlana to frequently ask for directions. Maybe it’s not an issue here, but in America: when you have a guide (especially a guy), it is extremely rude to ask for directions. I just laughed inside each time the people would point us in the very direction I was already going. The girls were thoroughly impressed when we arrived at the train station – not one wrong move made along the way. I don’t get lost.

We boarded a minibus to Yaremcha, which dropped us off about an hour or two later at what most certainly did not feel like a town. Yaremcha is rather sparsely populated along the length of the main road, which we continued to walk along. The town is reportedly best known for two things: waterfalls and souvenirs. How a town can be known for souvenirs: I’m not quite sure. Are there souvenirs that honor the art of souvenir-making? Like little souvenirs depicting souvenirs.

After about 10 minutes of walking, we came up to one of Yaremcha’s main attractions: a whole market of nothing but souvenir stalls. I was quite confused by this, as it really seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. I was leased to soon learn that they were all centered around the other main attraction: the waterfalls. The waterfalls really weren’t anything spectacular – certainly not Niagara; really just some rocks that the water was tumbling down. A bridge was built above the water and on both sides, large rocks permitted people to rest their feet in the stream or to take a swim.

Our feet were relieved by a dip in the water, which combined with photo ops lasted about 20 minutes or so. We spent another 20 minutes, approximately, staring at the souvenir stalls. Anastasia asked why I appeared to have so little interest in souvenirs. Basically, it’s because these souvenirs were not much different from any other souvenirs: they could be found anywhere, except here they had words like “Yaremcha” and “Ukraine”, albeit written in Cyrillic.

Now I will say that some of the stalls had more traditional Hutsul folk clothing. This clothing was very neat and pretty, except what use would I have for female garments; and how often would I seriously wear any male garments? Hey I’m all for wearing folk clothing, but I only wear the clothing of my own folk. Give me something traditional to my own heritage, and I’m all for it. This entire trip I’ve been pining for my kilt, and seeing these clothes only furthered my consternation that I chose to leave it in America.

We caught a marshrutka to Vorokhta, located a bit further down the main road – further into the Carpathians. This was one cramped van: I barely made it on & found myself standing in the stairwell. My footing was horrible, so I found myself getting a good workout along every curve, as my arms had to bear all the forces of my body and backpack mass as it was accelerated around the curves. The leftward curves were the worst, as I really did not want to risk putting any weight at all on the van’s door. As it was the only door, each stop meant we had to shuffle about; and the first two stops I exited completely only to hop back on & close the door as the van had already begun moving away. Eventually the driver rather angrily directed me to sit down on the console beside the driver’s seat, where I spent the rest of the ride.

Our drop-off point felt like some tiny tiny town, and that’s exactly what it was. Just as Yaremcha surprised me, Vorokhta was another town devoid of Soviet skyscrapers. I had wondered if such places even existed. I’d say this town could be transplanted right into the Appalachians without it seeming at all out-of-place; apart from the presence of a functioning train station and a lot of mongrel dogs. The dogs were quite kind as well as intelligent – they even stayed on sidewalks or would yield to cars when crossing the street.

The first task was to acquire lodging. The only accommodation in my Lonely Planet had a fax number but no phone number. While I’m sure it would have been easy to find the address (and surely the taxi drivers across the street could direct us the right way), we instead opted to walked toward the train station and check for rooms there.

In Ukraine (indeed, I think it’s common throughout the former Eastern Bloc), many train stations have a couple rooms for rent. These rooms came at an amazing price – I believe 35 hryvna each. That’s like $7 per person: even the cheapest hostels located in some community college dormitories would be hard-pressed to rival that price. The room seemed perfect: three single beds in the room and a sink. The bathroom was shared, but I’ve gone through most of Europe with shared bathrooms and that didn’t bother me in the least. The room even had a small black and white TV. Sure it relied on rabbit ears, but it got a couple channels – which is a couple more than I would have expected way out here.

After unloading our gear, I was eager to explore the town before the sun set behind the mountains. We went back toward the main road and continued past it, down toward the stream. We crossed over the bridge and wrapped around an unpaved roadway leading passed various dacha and farms. Coming upon a opening in the fence and a worn footpath leading upward, we followed it up to the top of a hill and got a great view over the town. I was excited: memories of Switzerland came flooding back – the nature; the scenery; the mountains!

We came back down as the sun was setting and grabbed some food at a local restaurant. Returning to our rooms, it soon became apparent why the rent was so low. Firstly, there were a couple holes in the floor. Not holes like you can stare into and try to deliver messages to China; but just cracked wood in the hardwood floor; exposing the foundation inches below. Some of these holes were covered beneath the rugs, making it feel like a funhouse as I walked about. I think I even started a new hole when I stepped on what felt like sturdy floor beneath the rug, but gave way when I shifted my weight. As I was brushing my teeth at the time, I got a nice white minty smear across the side of my face.

Holes in the floor is one thing – they really didn’t bother me at all. The bathroom was a whole new ballpark. The girls took showers earlier, back when we first dropped off our backpacks. Some time had passed for the other tenants to use the bathroom. So it had been thoroughly used by the time I arrived. I opened the door and found the floor to be like a kiddie pool: about an inch of water, albeit thankfully not disturbingly warm. Fortunately, I was wearing my flip-flops; but still: I found myself dumbfounded at how some people don’t dry themselves off while they’re in the shower stall.

As there was no toilet paper, I held off doing something I had been intending to do. Using the toilet to fulfill the other, more frequent, of functions: I soon came to realize that there was no flusher. There was also no lid on top of the tank. Flushing was accomplished by pulling a little hook that had been attached to the plunger within the tank. Fair enough: I’ve been to houses in PA which have Rube Goldberg toilets and a deficient supply of TP.

I entered into the shower stall and went to close the doors behind me. The stall was in the corner and had curved plastic doors, which when closed would form an arc around you. The one door gave me some trouble, and I soon realized that it wasn’t even on the track anymore: I was holding it completely upright with my hands. OK, so I picked it up and placed it to its “closed” position. The next door stayed on the tracks, but I still had to wiggle it about to get it into place. Its magnetic edge sensed its buddy when it got close, forming a good seal.

Shower doors in place, I then spotted that the one side panel had a nice hole in it. However, it wasn’t necessarily a gaping hole – not the kind of hole that could explain the sheet of water on the floor. It was just big enough that maybe a small puddle would form within that vicinity; but certainly no flooding of Biblical proportions.

I took my shower the usual way. There was a thingy higher up where I could put the shower nozzle, since hand-held nozzles are more a European novelty than they are American. The temperature was fine, but the pressure was horrid. This whole time I had been spoiled by great pressure – Anastasia’s apartment being particularly nice. Now I was stuck with water just sort of dribbling out, unless I held the nozzle at about waist high & at a certain angle: then the pressure was pretty good. No deal. I had short hair, so I didn’t have to worry about that “humid day” sort of look that comes along with low pressure showers.

The low pressure further reinforced how the hole in the panels was not the likely culprit behind the water on the floor. I was trying to give people the benefit of the doubt, but more and more it seemed like people were just making a mess. So I opened it up & dried myself within the stall – practicing what I preach.

Next was the sink to shave and brush my teeth. I had shaved off my goatee two shaves ago (so I guess that’s about 4 days ago), and the girls reacted with uniform support. This includes feedback from four girls. Back in America, whenever I shave off the goatee: I often receive similar input from my female co-workers and friends to keep it off. Each time it comes back. Why? I don’t know: men and their facial hair.

This prompted a discussion back when I first shaved it off: men just simply like their facial hair. It’s not that we necessarily think women like it; it’s that we like it. Similarly, men often tout that they prefer women without makeup; but yet women insist on covering themselves with it. At the time, this was particularly relevant because I had been ranting about how Russian girls wear far too much makeup. Now I’ll concede that makeup can be used to cover up some minor things here and there; or for blondes: it helps to make their eyelashes visible; but generally many men just aren’t interested in a woman that’s covered in paint. Er, unless that’s the whole focus of the evening – in the name of art, of course.

So I shaved off my stubble as well as the hint of goatee when I shaved around it 2 days prior. Next up: brush my teeth. Brush brush brush… you know how it’s done. Then just as I reached to turn off the water, I heard a sound not unlike that of a small creek. The sound of a little bit of water dribbling down onto some more water below. That’s when I discovered the culprit: Noah’s sink.

I checked out the plumbing just behind the free-standing sink and noted that one of the pipes had separated from the wall a bit. I reached to reconnect it, and suddenly the entire elbow joint came loose; and all the water stored within the elbow’s tank emptied onto the floor. I tried to reconnect it all together, but found that to get a good fit: one of the pipes was about a good 2 inches too short. No wonder it kept falling apart on people: the overlap between the pipes was so small that I can barely think of a measurement to describe how small it was.

Realizing that fixing it required more supplies than I had available, I decided to introduce Lennon to Noah and let it be. I went to the door, which I had to lock by key – it didn’t even shut unless you locked it. I turned the key and… nothing. I turned and turned and turned. I turned the other way and turned some more. Beads of sweat formed on my head and I thought of Ralph’s narrating of his thoughts from A Christmas Story. Actually, I often do narrate my own thoughts, but now my voice was even the same as the voice of Jean Shepherd.

“No way out,” I thought. I thought up banging on the door for aid, but knew that there was nothing anyone else could do: the key was on my side. They’d have to call the fire department. They’d have to take an axe to the door. By then, I’d have long since passed of starvation: I’d be little more than a pile of bones sitting in a pool of water. I was trapped… trapped in the bathroom for ever.

Then I found the trick: just push on the key as you turned it. It wouldn’t catch the first time, but it’d catch the second time. This worked like a charm each and every time I’d have to escape from the bathroom. Another prestigious victory for the Bossi family. I can see this tale being recited around campfires: the great epic of Bossi defeating the bathroom door.