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.
Thursday, 29 May 2008
Sunday, 25 May 2008
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!
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!
Friday, 23 May 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, 21 May 2008
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!"
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!"
Monday, 19 May 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, 17 May 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, 15 May 2008
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 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.
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