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.
