A feast to behold.

Feeling in expansive mood now with my new gangster connections, I took another epic train journey down to the south to have a look at Odesa, the seaside playground of the Ukraine and stronghold of the Mafia.

A city of one million people, Odesa is like Sopot in Poland or Brighton without the grunge. The first thing I did was check out the famous concrete steps made famous in Eisenstein's 1925 film Battleship Potemkin and familiar to any film buff. Monumental and the perfect meeting place.

Odesans are seen by Ukrainians as a different breed, with a unique energy, humour, and a slight snootiness. The density of pubs and clubs is greater here than in any other city, and like most seaside towns it takes on a different personality in the summer. I've always thought that holiday resorts are much more interesting in January. There are without doubt loads of brothels, and 'Romance Tours' bring older men from the States to hook up with local lasses. Many of these online dating agencies are run by criminal organisations. God knows how the 'couples' converse as it's only Russian spoken here. Still, I don't suppose they do much talking.

Of course it was only a matter of minutes in the town before I spotted a McDonalds. The Ukrainians put garlic on everything, be it toast for breakfast or chips for lunch, it all gets covered in the stuff. Garlic is fantastic but I thought I would take a break from it and pop into our favourite American 'restaurant'. Young Ukrainians spurn traditional cuisine for junk food and pizza, which is a shame as Ukrainian food is delicious. Invariably with masses of people queueing, this was the first McDonalds I could actually get into. Depressing eh?

When I eventually got to the counter, the boy at the till beamed at me and, seizing a chance to practice his English said, "What can I help you?" I looked up at the familiar menu and pointing to what looked like a Big Mac I said... "I'll have one of those."
"Oh, you mean a schwelterinszkay?"
"Right, yes, that'll do me. And some chips."
"No, we no have the chips, only fritki."
"Yes," I said. I knew from my Polish that fritki means fries so I was getting somewhere. He looked up after tapping on a screen, "and this to drink?"
"Coca-cola" I articulated, assured by the fact and the whole world understands that.
"Small, to this medium or the big one?"
"The big one, I mean a large coke."
He focused once more on the screen and tapped. "And sauce?" he added.
I pointed to a picture of what looked like mayonnaise... "this white stuff."
I handed him a blue note and he presented me with my change and a receipt, saying "Your check."
"You mean my RECEIPT," I corrected him. Europeans using American terminology really gets my goat.

A tray was swiftly handed to me and I weaved my way through the clamour of the crowd. I made a beeline for a rare seat, sat down and examined my lunch. I had been given a fillet-of-fish, no fries and a small coke. He'd got the mayonnaise right though.

Eurovision... another year of bloc voting.

Surprise surprise, Russia won the Eurovision Song Contest.

Since the Eastern European countries were invited to participate in The Eurovision Song Contest eight years ago, not one country in western Europe has won or even come close. This year the United Kingdom came last again. No-one, not even the BBC would admit it until now, but bloc voting is the way it goes. Eastern European countries flagrantly vote only for each other, regardless of what the entries look or sound like, and because there are so many of them the larger industrialised members in the west don't stand a chance. This is no longer a song contest.

The results of last night's competition reveal that nations east of the Adriatic Sea occupied the top 15 places in the competition. It is an example of the way things work on this side of the continent. Eastern European neighbourly back-scratching has turned this 'contest' into a mockery and it's a shame. In the ex-eastern bloc corruption is still rife and on all levels. There is no sense of fairness. You can see this even here in this once funny camp kitschfest, Eurovision was always light fluffy fun to us, but now it has become humiliating. Terry Wogan who has compered the contest since 1980 says he may not return next year as there is just no point in the UK (or any of the original participants) taking part.

What really pisses me off is that France, Germany, Spain and the UK all bear the brunt of the cost of Eurovision. The 'big four' all limped in last yet again last night. If Eastern Europe wants to let politics takeover the contest then lets pull out and let them pay for it and get on with it!

The local lingo.

The official language in the Ukraine is Ukrainian, but the language actually spoken depends on where in the country you are. In the more patriotic west it is Ukrainian that is most commonly used, and Russian will often a provoke a peevish response. The borders of Central and Eastern European countries have moved to and fro with dizzying frequency over the centuries, and up until 1939 Lviv was part of Poland therefore many people speak Polish.

In the east and south of Ukraine it is Russian that dominates. In the capital Kyiv which sits roughly half way across it is half and half. This can be confusing for foreigners trying to learn some of the vocabulary to get by. Which language should one go for? Ukrainian is the official national language, but Russian is commonly used and geographically more widespread. In Lviv they say 'Learn Ukrainian of course!' but in Kyiv, Odessa or the Crimea they will advise you to learn Russian.

A brush with the Mob.

I got a text from Kuba - they were also in Kyiv - inviting me to the same jazz club where I had been the evening before, I declined. It gave me some satisfaction to hear that Paddy has had trouble acclimatising to Ukrainian cuisine and has spent most of the last week on the karzy.

I had dinner with my Russian pals Vitaly and Alexey, then they talked about going to a club. "At midnight on a Tuesday?!" I asked. I've been in Poland too long where during the week there is nothing happening and nowhere to go. "We will find somewhere!" they enthused. After some heated discussion with a taxi driver and 10 minutes drive we ended up in a small bar that was throbbing with music and bodies. In Poland this would be difficult to find, even in Warsaw or Krakow. The Ukrainians have a different energy, brighter and more optimistic. There is a pulse here and a sense of fun that I've never felt in Poland, and Ukrainians are not so proud, or angry and bitter about their past which is a breath of fresh air. There's nothing more common (or boring) than a Pole ranting about the Second World War.

On looking around at all the scantily clad lovelies eyeing us Vitaly screeched in my ear "Come on! They will suck it!" Succinctly put and maybe so... but did I want it sucking? And having to go through all that chat, all that routine, all that effort... I just couldn't be bothered. I was happy to sit back and relax. I planted myself at the bar and watched while the barman played with bottles and ice like Beckham with a ball, the whole bar oozing fun and excitement... sex was just a moment away. I've sat in 'exclusive' (and very expensive) bars in London which were like bingo halls compared to this place. Fabulous music, loud laughter, outrageous sexuality... this spot was nothing short of sensational. And the finest vodka was being splashed everywhere, back in Blighty spirits are measured out carefully into steel thimbles... yawn.

Slumped at the bar towards the end of the night, and entranced by nubile dancers sporting slogans and miming words they did not understand, I was approached by Vitaly over my right shoulder, he put his arm round me and said, "there's a guy wants to meet you... he's a gangster." I glanced at my watch, it was six o'clock and I told him I that I was ready to go, but simultaneously felt a black presence sit down on my left. I turned to find a 22-carat grin and a hand heavily laden with sovereigns outstretched towards me. He introduced himself in Russian and ordered some vodka for us. In Eastern Europe, vodka can bring the most unlikely people together. The shaven-headed man in black was utterly charming. He had had a few drinks. On his left sat a giant of a human being - his bodyguard - with his eyelids half closed, it had obviously been a long night. I noticed two other bodyguards watching us from the end of the bar. I kept expecting Joe Pesci to pop up between us. The Polish language is closer to Ukrainian than Russian but we managed to grab at certain words and communicate. I turned to Vitaly for help but he was pumping and grinding with the last remaining die-hards on the now quite empty dancefloor.

The gangster was entertaining and I enjoyed talking to him, although I shed no tears at his departure. He ended by telling me that if I needed anything whilst in Kyiv that I was to call him, and giving me a last hard slap on the back, made his way toward the exit. The club bouncers lowered their eyes and took half a step back as he strided out with his bodyguards following in single file. He commanded some respect although Vitaly later dismissed him as a small-timer. I looked at the vodkas lined up before me like soldiers waiting for drill practice, they now sparkled with new appeal.

On delving in my back pocket for my wallet later in the day, I pulled out a creased beer mat. On the back the gangster had scribbled his name and number, with the words in Russian "You are my friend. Chelsea!"

Varvara.

In May there are quite a few public holidays in the Ukraine. On these days the streets in the town centres are closed off to traffic, in Kyiv this was particularly welcome - the loud and aggressive SUV's having already become tedious. The population turn out in their droves although the carnival atmosphere is pleasantly subdued. Old patriotic songs and soppy love ballads fill the airwaves as heavily medalled Generals with their grandchildren, canoodling couples, and fashion conscious przyjaciolki stroll along the main promenades and make merry.

I sat on a boulevard bench enjoying the serenity and the sun, watching the stream of passers-by and writing postcards. A tall girl in a crimson jacket and holding a golden balloon gave me a lingering glance and sat down nearby. Not one to stall at a green light I hastily gathered my things and sidled up next to her. Her name was Varvara and she was indeed beautiful. She was from the south of the country and had been in Kyiv for a year studying English. She had no family or friends in the city. She had some sort of boyfriend, but rarely knew where he was. On this day, it seemed as if it were only us on our own. She didn't go to clubs but preferred walks in the park. Melancholy, graceful, entirely exquisite... and quite alone.

We soaked in the warmth and her balloon played sentry above us. The sun and the setting gave the scene a dreamy vagueness. After an hour or so it turned cold and she got up to go. She said goodbye and I watched her recede from view until she became obscured in the crowd, her golden balloon merging with others. A last flash of crimson and she was gone. Then followed a hazy moment, a blur, and I was overcome by an enormous sense of sadness, like I'd lost something, or something in me had flickered and died. I began to hear people walking and talking, footsteps and voices close to me, a faceless motion, and I became aware of the day again.

Word of the week: Przyjaciolki meaning close female friends.

Vodka... Russian style.

On my first night in Kyiv I discovered what turned out to be a lively jazz club. Settling myself at the bar I assumed the young swanky staff spoke English & ordered a drink, but to no avail. Even here in Ukraine's impressive capital surprisingly few speak English. Smiling at me in sympathy, two suave sorts alongside invited me to join them. They were from Moscow. Upon my enquiring what they were doing in Kyiv they replied, "Holiday. The vodka is better and the women are prettier. You are alone? You are a brave man." Their names were Vitaly and Alexey.

Forgetting myself and wanting to quench my thirst, I ordered a vodka and coke, my Russian comrades both gasped with disapproval. In Eastern Europe, mixing vodka with anything is a no-no... mixing Ukrainian vodka with anything is nothing short of sacrilege. Vitaly switched to Russian and ordered a bottle of the local lubrication. The first of many shot glasses landed on the bar along with an ice cold bottle of crystal clear liquid at which Vitaly grimaced. Apparently, vodka should be served at room temperature. It should also always be served with food, so various plates of pickled herring with onion, smoked sausage, fried potato and bread quickly followed.

Once the shot is consumed (all in one of course), a slow intake of breath is inhaled through the nose and exhaled through the mouth. This gives a warming sensation in the chest and should be immediately followed by a chunk of herring and onion or sausage. As I live in Poland, Vitaly automatically ordered some juice for me. In Poland, juice is drunk after each shot to ease the impact. Vitaly leaned in to me, "You know, the Poles do not know how to drink vodka, it is not part of their culture. Vodka was originally invented and has been distilled over centuries by Russians. But the best vodka is here in the Ukraine." We fired up our souls with the delicious liquid and feasted on excellent fish and meat.

Many Brits, on short breaks to Eastern Europe make the mistake of getting 'tanked up' with the locals - knocking shots back like there's no tomorrow. I've lost count of the lads I've met who are violently sick after their first night in Eastern Europe. Vodka to Eastern Europeans is like wine to the French or beer to the Germans. They enjoy it, understand it and know how to drink. The British do not. Getting 'hammered' or 'bladdered' and staggering around on Saturday nights has become an inherent part of the British weekend. You can see the 'stag-nighters' in Krakow, storming in packs from one pub to the next and throwing up in between. That's not to say that Eastern Europe doesn't have it's alcohol problems - it does. There is a lot of alcoholism here and the streets are full of drunks all day long, but alcohol is not seen as the enemy which must be conquered every weekend. The recent and horrendous hooliganism in Manchester is an example of how alcohol manifests itself in the British.

Kyiv... a shot of adrenalin.

Fast and furious, brash and flash, Kyiv reeks of sex and money. No lada's, no Buck Roger buses and no Tonka Toy trucks. Just big black SUV's... tons of them and driven aggressively. Apparently, most of Kyiv's three and half million population are relatively poor but you'd never know it by strolling around the city. White and gold stucco buildings with expensive boutiques at their base look down on grand and spendid avenues. The people, particularly the women, are well-dressed and would give Parisians a run for their money, except that most of the loud logo's they flaunt are fake.

The metro seems to be inhabited by a different race and feels very much like the underbelly of the metropolis. Beautiful Art Deco lighting warms the stations with a homely glow. Patriotic music, plangent and unobtrusive, drifts along the patforms and through the carriages. There are only a few lines and trains run frequently. It can get very busy and quite claustrophobic. On exiting a train at one station I found myself caught in a massive crowd slowly inching itself to a solitary working escalator. Any thoughts of bounding up the stairs were quickly extinguished when, on glancing up, I saw just how far down we were. Deeper than anything I've seen on the London Underground. People often sit down on the slow moving staircase as it takes so long. Having finally reached the escalator's base and just as I was about to start my ascent upwards I noticed in one corner three people crouched down and hemmed in by the crowd. Underneath them lay a man, his lifeless legs protruding. He wore brown trousers and black shoes. They were pounding his chest, but I think the man was dead.

The night train from Lviv to Kyiv.

I love taking long train journeys and overnight rides are even better. It's not something we do in the UK as we don't have so much terrain to cover, and anything over four hours then people prefer to jump on a plane. Besides which, trains in Britain are just so expensive.

From Lviv in the west of the Ukraine to the capital Kyiv halfway across the country is 10 hours. Ukrainians generally choose to do it at night as the advantages are obvious; you don't lose a day, it's comfortable and cheaper than a hotel, and it's easy to make friends.

The trains themselves are fantastic, like the trains which featured in all the films of the 1950's and 60's. Great wide-eyed monsters, tall and imposing and breathing heavily. Serious looking conductors man the end of each carriage and check your ticket before you then grip the rail and heave yourself up into the mighty beast. Then it's into the narrow gangway and up the aisle to locate your berth. Think Some Like It Hot or North by Northwest, or anything about the Cold War.

Since Poland's accession to Europe and the massive amount of money it has received, the national road and rail network is being replaced and updated. This includes new train stock. In the Ukraine - outside of Kyiv - it is as it was.

I opted for 1st class which comprises of a bunk in a 4 person compartment, clean sheets, feather pillow and blankets! Blankets are the best. There is an irrestible tungsten reading lamp and various fittings for your every need including a steel and string shelf for your clothes, a hold for your luggage, and a bakelite radio on the wall with white chunky buttons. It's perfectly designed and its all mechanical as opposed to electronic. The switches give a loud satisfying click and the locks a reassuring clunk. Plastic ivy surrounds curtains with Soviet style logo which open out to wooden framed windows and the perfect view. Sour-faced matrons in slippers will bring you tea in pewter and thick glass tankards. And the price of all this? Just under 8 pounds.

I got chatting to my comrade, a fitness instructor who couldn't put his mobile phone down. His English was weak and a couple of times I broke into a grin as his odd accent brought images of Borat in his bikini. He told me he was an amateur photographer and insisted on showing me his 'album' which he had in his phone. Artists talking about their art somehow diminishes it. I was itching to get into my top bunk and get my book out. He was recovering from the flu and his detailed explanation of each tiny picture was interspersed with vigorous noseblowing and violent coughing. I could feel the compartment filling with germs and opened the window slightly. He also kept 'clicking' his knuckles which I hate, I met a lot of Ukrainians that do that.

The WC on Eastern European trains is usually a bit of a surprise for westerners. When you step on the flush pedal, it simply opens a hole through the floor to the ground rushing by beneath. So, presumably, the railways are strewn with crap. In Poland, you will rarely find soap or loo roll in a public lavatory, even though you have to pay to use them.

The fitness instructor was from Lyiv and offered to show me a map of the city which he had in his phone, but my eyelids had grown heavy so he closed the door and I climbed up the special fold out ladder to my bunk. I pulled out F. Scott Fitzgerald, slid in between the crisp sheets, and glanced out the window at the sun on the horizon. Bliss.

BGF.

I met my Big German Friend, like just about everyone I know, in the pub. He had been sent over to run the Polish side of a large German company, I had also recently moved to Poland and we became close friends immediately.

BGF is very German. A substantial frame, chiselled features and fair hair that tumbles down his forehead in romantic locks like those of a First World War poet. Intelligent, well-informed and organised. Strong, athletic, fearless, and with a directness that I find refreshing. A man's man.

He used to tell me endless stories of his daily troubles at work. He was constantly receiving anonymous letters from his Polish workforce bitching about fellow employees. "They have no loyalty" he would sigh, "...to each other or the company." He once told me how one woman, high up in management, failed to get to a meeting with a client and renew a large and important contract, simply because she had reached the limit for her company petrol allowance and refused to drive any further at her own expense (it was a question of about 8 miles)... even though she would have been compensated! On hearing this, BGF fired her immediately.

Once, we were out on a Saturday night, strolling along a main street. Boy racers were screeching around and showing off. One idiot accelerated very fast and narrowly missed hitting a small girl. We looked on with horror. BGF said "If he hit my child I would kill him." And he meant it. He then recognised the car, a new BMW, as one of his company vehicles. The next day, having discovered it was one of his junior managers, he summoned him to his office and confronted him. The little prick couldn't understand what the fuss was about but BGF sacked him nevertheless.

Eventually, after many years of working all over Europe he began to miss and long for his beloved Dusseldorf. The few years in Poland was the straw that broke the camel's back and my Big German Friend took a job back in his home town to be with his new beautiful wife and soon to be born baby. Since his departure Lodz is certainly a greyer place and another person like him in Poland I will not find.

The wild wild east.

Lviv is really very pleasing and full of interesting nooks and crannies... perfect for tourists. Sadly, like the Poles, Ukrainian men like to piss in doorways, they will go right inside hallways too. So, often, the stench of urine will prevent one from getting too close. Everybody smokes, oh, and they gob a lot. It's unbelievable the vast amounts of snot they manage to summon up and deposit everywhere.

Things commonly seen in Lviv: big dogs curled up asleep under trees, badly beaten women putting out rubbish, people carrying Sainsbury's plastic bags (??), dogs fucking, groups of pretty children watching dogs fucking, smoking and melting plastic bins (fag butts are flicked straight in), church dignitaries waving away begging gypsies.

I sat down at a tram stop. The man on the other end of the bench leaned to one side to take something from his back pocket and rolled all the way over and landed with a thud on the ground. In the old days my English sensibilities would kick in and I would rush forward with offers of assistance. That's long gone. Now I just watch nonchalantly like the rest of the locals. In Poland I've seen it too many times. Our poor comrade picked himself up, blind drunk, and planted himself delicately back on the bench. The tram arrived and the doors opened and people jumped on and off. Our friend made a snap decision at the last moment that he had to get on the tram. Leaping up, he slung his long spindly legs into action and waded out into the street, a miracle of physical co-ordination. He took a rather lengthy bend but managed to grab the door-rail and heave himself inside just as the doors were closing, only to land on a large woman inside.

I spoke to Big Eggs at 4 o'clock in the morning, he was watching desperate housewives with a pal. He's worried and advises me not to venture on my own further east than Kyiv... "There is mafia place! You are nothing to them, this wild place and you rich foreigner... there is a lots of robber!!" I tried to calm him but he hissed at me... "You the English know nothing, you must to be careful." Lola says the same. Of course I'm not going to take any chances, I've two dogs and several Polish barmen dependent on me. Anyway it might not be such fun if I can't communicate (it's only Russian in the east), although I suspect my Polish will get me through. Poles play down the similarity in the two languages for obvious reasons. BGF said simply, "My friend... do not move to the Ukraine."

Kalashnikovs, Christians & Calvin Klein.

On looking out of my window this morning I spied a boy of about twelve standing on the pavement outside the house opposite, he was in an army combat uniform and brandishing a very real Kalashnikov AK47 rifle. He was aiming the gun at passing motorists and making mock shooting noises. A few moments later a man, obviously his father and also in an army outfit emerged from the house with three more AK47's grasped to his chest. An ordinary looking Mercedes saloon pulled up and the driver, another 'soldier', got out and opened the boot, at which all the weapons were laid out inside. They then got into the car and it sped off. Disconcerting to say the least.

The owners of my flat are very nice. "They should be, you are paying five times what we are," Kuba was quick to point out. Worth it to get away from you I thought. I told my landlady I would be heading east to the capital Kyiv and beyond but would like to return in maybe a couple of weeks for another few days. I'd also like to offload some stuff as my suitcase is too damn heavy. "Fine," they said, "just hang on to the keys and pay us at the end of your stay." I still have not given them any money. Trust like this is unheard of in Eastern Europe. Having another look around the apartment I soon realised why. I discovered at least a dozen Bibles and a myriad of other religious reading including the old favourite Billy Graham's Christian Workers Handbook. Every summer the flat is let out to American Evangelists who, along with Mormons, spend months all over the ex-eastern bloc Spreading The Word. In order to attract people they usually offer English lessons at their church meetings... when the locals arrive they are bashed over the head with a bible. I don't care about the religious aspect, but there is nothing worse than Europeans speaking English with an American accent.

I wandered through a market for an early lunch and was overwhelmed and overjoyed at the variety of ghastly trinkets and souvenirs available. Russian and Polish tourists were clammering for the stall attendants, scooping up all sorts of paraphernalia for their pals back home. It's amazing the crap people will buy when they are abroad, stuff they would never go near back home. I was particularly taken by the glittering array of fake goods, dazzling in their hideousness. In the end, temptation getting the better of me, I couldn't help but fork out for matching oversized red Daniel Klein watches (obviously a distant cousin), a multi-coloured Golce & Dabbana t-shirt the likes of which you have never seen, and the jewel in the crown... a gloriously grotesque black, red and white double-breasted jacket, resplendent with tassels and adorned with sports cars and naked ladies... Kid Creole eat your heart out!

Ukrainian, Polish and Russian fashion.

I found a place. Big, bright and relatively clean, I now have a flat opposite a park and just 10 minutes stroll from the old town. Hugely relieved at having escaped my comrades, I caught up on my sleep and have had a couple of days to take in Lviv.

It is a city of contrasts, common in much of eastern Europe but more marked here. Lots of smart overpriced western shops with tiny prune-faced grandmothers sitting outside holding out paper cups for change or clutching small bouquets for sale.

The streets bustle with life now that people have returned to work. Faded peroxide beauties sit at the helm of dilapidated trams which rock from side to side as they groan through the streets. A mass of boxy Ladas, cool Buck Roger style buses (packed) and monumental Tonka Toy trucks that wouldn't look out of place in a WWII film make up most of the traffic. Speeding between all this are the arrogant Nouveau Riche in their powerful aerodynamic Japanese and Geman Driving Machines.

The people seem slightly less rude than they are in Poland, and that's bearing in mind that I'm not speaking Ukrainian. The girls are tightly wrapped and strikingly beautiful, but in order to impress them you would have to adapt a little to the local style... a few gold teeth and a shiny black suit will get you off to a good start. Add to that a pair of very new pointed shoes, a pair of very black wrap-around sunglasses (which should be worn at all times) and you're on to a winner. Top it off with a big black SUV with blacked out windows and you'll get laid in no time.

Having said that, Ukrainian men's attire is an improvement on their swaggering Polish counterparts with their de rigeur uniform of crew cut and baseball cap, shell suit or bad jeans, and shoes squared off and curled up at the toes. A beanie cap and bomber jacket in winter completes the Polish look.

Ukrainian women are more Russian based in their glad rags than their Polish rivals, with a liking for Versace style gauche gold embossing and accessories, impossibly high heels, tight jeans or pvc, and a steely attitude that would freeze a simmering volcano. This look takes them into a point in their fifties when they then suddenly and mysteriously shrink overnight into miniscule and shrivelled babushka's.

Word of the week: babuszka meaning old lady.

A change of plan.

The difference having left Europe behind was obvious and immediate. The heavily pot-holed road and cows and horses ambling about forced Kuba to slow down, thank goodness. We passed through lush countryside and villages, old men in dusty grey suits huddled round benches watching others play chess or sitting on corners smoking, and before long we were in Lviv. It was deserted as we had arrived on one of their many public holidays. It looks just like Krakow but in a worse state, cracked and crumbling ornate buildings looking down on wonderfully wonky cobbled streets, the eerie desolation added to the feeling of a once grand city now neglected.

Our 'flat' turns out to be a dark and damp two room hovel with no comforts, not even beds, and much to my disappointment, Kuba and Paddy seem to be quite grubby. Paddy is also reluctant to pull out his wallet. He wears a rocker's leather jacket over t-shirts with music logos and says 'man' and 'wicked' which for a fat Irish grandfather in his mid-fifties just doesn't sit right. He talks big and name-drops various musicians he's 'played' with, but it's obvious at a glance that he has achieved little. We had to carry him back the first night as he got horribly drunk (so boring), he should know his limits by now. Once at our filthy den he threw up all over himself. I went to sleep with the stench of vomit and those two snoring and farting within a few feet of me.

Not surprisingly, I have decided to look for another place to stay. Kuba says it will be impossible as many tourists (mainly Russians and Poles) invade the town during the May Day Holiday. I shall set off early in the morning with my large vintage suitcase (too heavy), my city map (in Ukrainian), and my hopes high.