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.

We set off.

It took us five hours to drive from Krakow in Poland to Lvov (or Lviv) in the Ukraine. The road was rocky and the Lada roared and shook all the way like a plane taking off.

I spread out on the back seat on the long route towards the end of Europe and got stuck into a guide book and Tolstoy. I thought about M, it had not been possible to go back to search for her the following week as we had to leave a day earlier to pick Paddy up in Krakow.

An hour into our journey we were pulled over by police who clocked us doing 120km when we should have been doing 80km. That is an automatic 500 zloyty fine (115 pounds) and 10 points on your licence. Or, as always, they suggested we could just give them 80 pounds unofficially and drive on, which is what we did. Police in Poland are notoriously corrupt. Needless to say, within five minutes Kuba was doing 120km again.

Every now and then, massive advertising placards interrupted the pleasant view and descending sun, mocking and cynical in their boldness, they present a new western lifestyle, bank loans, cars and houses.

At one point Kuba exclaimed "Look at ze beach!" We were surrounded by nothing except flat fields. Ten minutes later he screeched again... "Zer is anuza one... look at ze beach!" It was then that I saw her. The 'bitch' to which Kuba was refering was a forlorn female alone on the grass verge in a wonderbra, mini skirt and knee high leather boots. I've seen prostitutes before on Polish highways and it's always troubling to think about the abuse that they almost certainly endure and the danger they put themselves in.

There was a moment when all the traffic slowed to a snails pace for about 100 yards and then accellerated off again. This was due to a speed camera which was well sign posted. But why inform all these lunatic drivers that it's there? If these idiots were receiving fines through their letterboxes every week and the threat of a two year ban, they would soon slow down and bring a little more civility and a little less death to Polish roads.

The border out of Poland (and Europe) and into the Ukraine was deserted. One reason is that Ukrainians need a visa to enter Europe, and another is that it was Easter in the Ukraine so everything shut down. The big hatted border guards eyed us with great curiosity as they rarely see westerners this far east... and watched us as we drove out into a land with a history even darker than that of Poland.

A month in Russia with Kuba... and a stranger.

I am to spend the next month with Kuba driving around the Ukraine and Russia. He has been a few times and speaks Russian (which I do not), so is the perfect person to go with. He has bought and serviced an old Lada Jeep especially for our trip.

A few weeks ago he asked me about an Irish friend of his, whom I shall call Paddy, who wanted to tag along... I agreed seeing that Kuba was keen, even though I have never met this person. We were due to set off today from Lodz to Lvov over the border in the Ukraine, Paddy having joined us in Lodz. We hadn't heard anything from him for the last few days - despite several calls etc - and had got used to the idea that we were going without him, but today he called and asked us to pick him up from Krakow, five hours in the other direction. Kuba readily agreed but this annoyed me. We arrived into Krakow late and arranged to meet Paddy at Kuba's cellar bar in the Jewish Quarter. He swaggered towards us, beer held to his chest, and started to bore us with stories of his day. I took an instant dislike to him and cut in...
"Are you even remotely aware that we have just driven five hours here to pick you up? And that tomorrow we will have to drive five hours back to where we were today?"
Apparently the train was 'too complicated' for him. Kuba confessed that he is lazy. Lazy? Probably. Inconsiderate? Definately. And I will be stuck with this arsehole for the next month. Not necessarily. If my dislike for him matures into hatred then I will branch out on my own. Kuba and Kristina insist that he is alright, that I will have a good time. It's early days, but I have very good instincts when it comes to people.

It's late now and we have an early start tomorrow. I'll read in the back seat and let them do the talking. Paddy doesn't speak Polish so I can converse with Kuba if need be, I'll be honest and if I'm not enjoying it I'll flee. I packed a heavy suitcase though as I didn't figure I'd be lugging it around. Oh well.

High prices and cheap quality.

Poland is a very expensive country in which to live. Capitalism is still relatively new in the ex-eastern bloc and consumerism has not quite taken hold.

If your diet consists mainly of cabbage, you live in a tiny flat in a block which you rent from the government, you spend your evenings watching TV and you don't need western type goods or electronics then I suppose for most Poles, yes, life is cheap. But if you aspire to anything not typically Polish then expect to pay well over the odds. I bought a courgette yesterday and it cost me the equivalent of one pound 20p. A small bottle of HP (only found in some hypermarkets) is just over four pounds. A pot of pesto will set you back nearly a fiver. Mobiles cost well over twice what they do in the UK, upgrades are given only every two years with just a minimal selection of old models. Many mobile phone shop owners get their pals in Britain to buy in bulk from places like Argos and then sell them here for a fortune, they even sell the two-pin European adaptors alongside the handsets! Even the main dealers like Nokia in Lodz charge two and a half times what the same phones cost in the UK. Why? I have no idea. Landlines, the Polish national telephone company TP (Telekomunikacja Polska) is apparently the most expensive in the world after Japan.

Antiques are few on the ground and horribly expensive. Flea markets exist but consist mainly of over-priced junk with very little of interest to be had. Books are also pricier despite being made of cheap quality paper. Generally, all Polish goods are high in price and cheap in quality. And there is very little choice.

Cars are often bought from Western Europe and advertised for sale in Poland at ridiculous prices on online auctions... I've seen the same cars advertised for over a year... sitting there at the same silly prices for months on end. Even complete write-offs are advertised at ludicrous figures... who's going to pay thousands of pounds for a write-off? And yet they is an abundance of them (another sign of the carnage on Polish roads). In Polish there is no word for Bargain.

Looking for M.

I woke with recollections of the night before and the exquisite M. I managed to break Big Eggs from his slumber and we went for lunch with a couple of pals of mine. We then opted for a coffee in a plush and velvet laden (and empty) bar which has recently opened. Places like these were non-existant when I first arrived here some years ago. Still slightly dazed from the night before, we wandered back early evening and Big Eggs caught the last train to Warsaw. He presented me with an exotic pendant, which has accompanied him to far-flung regions, to keep me safe while touring the Ukraine and Russia - I leave at the weekend.

I sent a text in English to M: 'I dreamt I danced with a girl called M... and she was beautiful.'
Her response was swift and succinct: 'So...?'
I switched to Polish and told her that we could meet that evening if she was free. Her reply confused me: 'This is a mistake'.
Thinking she had misgivings about meeting, I called her. My heart sank when a man answered the phone. She had given me the wrong number. Or I had taken it down wrong.

There is no way to contact her and I know nothing about her except that she is at university. I don't know what she studies or where. I could go back to the same place at the same time next weekend as she said that she is there regularly, but I leave that day for the Ukraine with two friends. By the time I get back in five weeks I will be but a blurred and faded memory. Maybe I could delay our departure...