Insomniac in Kiev

Normally I'm an excellent sleeper. I have had many monumental naps, feats of such intense mental concentration that friends and colleagues have stood flabbergasted before me while I slumbered in situations that no other man alive could have possibly achieved. In 1998 I was in Amsterdam during the world cup soccer championship when the Dutch were playing Argentina in a game that was said to be one of the most exiting in the tournament. In a bar full of Dutch soccer fans screaming their heads off I decided to rest my head against the wall of the bar for a second or two. The next thing I knew an hour passed by and I felt refreshed. The Dutch won the game 2-1 incidentally, eliminating Argentina from the world cup that year.

However, the past two nights have been more akin to rest than sleep. I get to bed alright, usually tucking myself into my sleeping bag and snoring happily within a few minutes but then I wake up and cannot for the life of me fall asleep again. Totally unlike me.

Yesterday was a pretty uneventful day. Kind of like the day before. Shawn and I took the advice of our hosts, Alex and Kasia, to hit up a hookah bar called El-Mate, which was located to the right of a small flight of stairs in the nook of a hidden courtyard of a group of buildings a ten-minute walk from where they lived. If it sounds easy to get to then I am doing a poor job of confusing you because it wasn't. When we did end up finding it the place looked like it was closed. A small outdoor covered sitting area was overlooked by a "viva la cuba libre" mural to the left of which was a an inconspicuous red door. Half-expecting the door to be locked I gave it a quick tug to expose a huge Cuban flag hanging at the bottom of a small flight of stairs. The sweet smell of fruit-infused tobacco wafted up the stairs. Right away I knew we found the place.

Inside the decor was a mix of latin American art and communist memorabilia. The passionate nature of the Cuban art combined with the subdued and relaxed arabesque setting of a nargile cafe were matched perfectly. We sat down, ordered some mate, a nargile with peach flavoured tobacco and milk instead of water and a bunch of sushi, just for the audacity of it. Everything was perfect but the nargile was monumentally perfect. The owner kept switching out the coals every 20 or so minutes and every time he did so we expected the sweet peaches and cream taste of the smoke to be diminished. Wrong. We smoked that motherfucker for three hours and it only got better.

The owner of the nargile part of the business is a man called Adriano. He is a great man. He mixes and flavours tobacco to create combinations of flavoured shisha with a quality that I have never experienced. He is a great man. Very typical of great shisha master mixers, he is an Arab from Lebanon who moved to the Ukraine to pursue businesses aside from nargile cafes. But his passion for his art is extraordinary and I felt lucky that I was able to taste the fruits of his work. A great man.

Shawn ordered a few cappuccinos towards the tail end of our experience and I made my way to the cash to settle the bill. I use my visa whenever possible to save on exchange fees and cash advance fees that my bank charges me a criminal 5$ per withdrawal for. However, the machine wasn't working at the moment so Adriano suggested I sit down and continue smoking the same bowl of never-ending deliciousness. Surely he was joking. Over three hours of hitting this milk-filled water-bong hard was simply too much for any normal shisha bowl. But nay, the motherfucker kept on giving. Another half hour passed while Adriano and I exchanged pleasantries, facebook and skype info and promises to see each other the next day when he wasn't working, hitting the hookah all the while and feeling great. The machine finally took my payment and we were happily on our way back to our hosts' house for dinner and a movie. I cooked some split pea soup and we watched "Everything is Illuminated" before hitting the sac.

But sleep did not come.

I stayed up late, trying not to hate my ex for being such a bitch, writing about my experiences, chatting with friends online and being generally underproductive while trying to exhaust my body to the point of it giving up. At 4:30 in the a.m. I finally turned in again only to wake up earlier than everyone else. I kept at it and eventually the time passed. It was 2:30 before I left he house to meet up with Adriano outside our hosts' house for some more hookah at Linass cafe. It was clearly inferior. My body started to complain about its abuse and I was ready for a quick little nap. I tucked my eyes under the rim of my hat, rested my chin on my closed fist which was supported by the armchair's armrest through my elbow and bid farewell to the world. An hour later and Shawn was shaking me form my slumber. "Hey, I'm off to get Alex, here" he said, handing me the pipe. I slurped down some smoke and what was left of my espresso allonge and left with our hosts to eat some sausages in fried bread from a store-front fast food joint.

They were taking us to a cool bar with a clinical theme. "You'll like this place Pavlos" said Kasia as we were walking along at her second trimester waddling pace. "You can order very creative shots, some of which you have to take from between the waitresses' legs." "What? Really?" I replied, faking an interest that I knew was expected of me. "Yeah" added Alex, "There are other drinks that you can order where you have to wear a metal helmut full of alcohol which is lit on fire while you slam down three drinks in a row..." "Whoa! Cool!" I added, being slightly more interested in the place than I was before. As we approached we passed in front of a hair salon and I decided it was about time to trim my hair and beard so I stopped in for a cut.

Markets and pubs

The way back towards Chyi's place took me over the Thames on the south side of the river. As I was looking for some nice photo-ops, a man wearing nothing but his boxers, a red baseball cap and some old white adidas sneakers crossed the street and dived into the garbage bin looking for empty bottles and cans he could exchange for coins.

Further along the Southwark Cathedral's spires jutted out from street-level inviting the passerby to descend the flight of stairs into the sunken moss-covered courtyard where a monument to an native Indian chief lay over the spot where his bones were laid to rest.

I decided to check out the Borough Market for some photo ops and to get my first (and only!) meal of fish and chips. The large piece of rockfish was tougher and thicker than I expected, so the cooked beer batter was a little darker than I would have preferred. The meal came with a generous side of chips and after dousing it all in malt vinegar and salt, I commenced to attack my portion with a hunger and ferocity that was the result of a day and a half of eating nothing but an apple and some chocolate.

I then visited a bit more of the market as I spoke with the concessioners selling everything from candies ready to put into your mouth to raw pieces of meats hanging from hooks. My favourite was Tim, a young man who sold a delicious mushroom pate that he had passers-by sample on small slices of bread. I stopped by at a cafe to rest a bit and ordered some more food, this time choosing a “Christmas pie” that contained turkey and gravy along with cranberries and mashed potatoes covered in gravy. It was a great meal.

I passed by Shakespeare's Globe before considering if I had time to visit the Tate modern art museum, which though highly touted didn't draw me in as much as I expected. I decided to leave it for another day as I crossed the millennium bridge to head towards St-Paul's cathedral. This impressive structure was surrounded by a tent city of disgruntled youths demanding a real solid change, the details of which were unimportant. Built up from the original seventh century church of Saint-Paul the Apostle, the current structure is the seat of the Bishop of London and was built in the late seventeenth century. There is a “donation” of fifteen pounds to get inside which I decided against paying. The outside was pretty impressive though.

I headed back towards Chyi's place and crossed the Blackfriars bridge to mix things up a bit. Chyi was really growing on me in the small amount of time we spent together. Her happy and bubbly energy is indicative of the origin of her name, which means happy-good-energy-river and is pronounced “tchee.” We met back at her place to pick up my things and headed out to a pub where a friend of mine named Dana works, whom I met back in Rhodes in the summer. I would be staying with her for the few days I had left in London.

At Chyi's recommendation we got off at Edgware Road tube station instead of the Paddington tube station Dana had recommended and passed by half-a-dozen shisha joints on the way. The pub was called Fountains Abbey and looked very typical. Dark worked wood was used extensively throughout the place and hand-pumped spouts of beer and cider separated the bar from the patrons. Dana saw me come in with Chyi and flashed a smile too big for her tiny size. She jumped out from behind the bar to give me a nice hug and took my backpack to the back room where it would stay until the end of her shift at midnight. Typically angry London men hid their contempt of me ineffectively as they glared at me from behind the bar. I tried the microbrew beers they had on tap before settling on a pint of Guinness and a pint of Strongbow cider while Chyi ordered a Campari. We sat at one of the bar-stool high tables for an hour or so before Chyi decided to head back home to wait for her next surfer. I walked with her and after saying our goodbyes I decided to get lost in London.

Commonwealth

“Are you hungry?” I asked Victoria as I pulled out an apple. She smiled and lowered her eyes a bit but did not say anything. “I tell you what, you can have two big bites of my apple, deal?” “O.k.” She took her two bites and handed me back my apple. It was exactly what my body wanted at the time: it was sweet, sour and tart. I then asked if she wanted chocolate. She resisted at first but like all desirable things, especially chocolate, resistance is futile. Her facial expressions while eating the dark Ukrainian chocolate I brought with me were very, very gratifying. I started feeding her squares of the dark chocolate, making her close her eyes as I placed the smooth pieces in her mouth. The chocolate was done by the time the plane made its descent towards London. We held each other's hand as I felt the couple of hours of our relationship weighing down on me while the ground rushed up to meet the plane's landing gear. By the time we had landed I was thinking that we needed a break.

“So, while you are in England we should get together for a coffee or drink.” “Sure,” she said as we exchanged info. We waited together at the long border crossing in the airport as I took in the smell of her hair. We held onto one another as though we had known each other for years. Our turn came up and I insisted that she go first. Having a Canadian passport, I thought I would be done before her as Ukrainians are generally hassled much more than any other country in the world at border crossings. She got to the counter as the next border guard waved me to him.

I handed him my passport as he started asking me the standard border-crossing questions: “What is the purpose of your visit, how long are you staying, where are you staying, who are you staying with, how do you intend to support yourself during your stay here, what is this 'n/a' under your current work section?” I explained to him that I am here visiting friends, for tourism, for three days and that the “n/a” means that I do not work at the moment. “So you are unemployed?” “Well, you can say that” “and how do you plan to support yourself here?” “I have savings.” “What's this stamp here?” he asked pointing to an exit or entry for the tenth of December. “I'm not sure... I can check my travel log...” “how long have you been travelling for?” “About a year but you won't find anything before this month in that passport, I was travelling with my Greek passport.” “You have two?” “yeah, want to see it?” “Never mind” he replied as he left with my passport and started speaking to whom I assumed was his supervisor.

When he returned he told me that because I was not employed and that I was travelling with my Canadian passport that he would have to put some restrictions on my visit. “What kind of restrictions? I thought that using a commonwealth country passport would have been easier.” I asked. “For instance, if you want to access part of the welfare system, such as if you end up in a hospital, you would be denied certain benefits.” O.k. So I've been in the hospital once or twice while travelling and try to choose private clinics anytime I can, preferring to pay for services I use rather than paying for services others use.

“How long will this take?” “Why do you choose to travel with your Canadian passport?” “Well, in the countries I was visiting it is easier to travel as a Canadian than as a Greek. Would it make things easier if I chose to visit England with my E.U. Passport?” “Yes, you would be waved right through.” “Fine by me, here's my passport” I said. He glanced at the passport and just waved me through, not even stamping it for entry.

I had booked an easybus ticket online a few days ago and made my way to the bus, already worrying that I would be later than the cutoff point that they have on their terms and conditions agreement that I hadn't read. I made it in fine enough and started to worry about my hostess and whether she would be concerned that I hadn't shown up the time I was supposed to. She told me to call her when I got to a building close-by and that she would come take me to her “hidden apartment.” Walking in the drizzling rain, I saw a group of three men, a little younger than I, walking towards me. They were dressed in three-quarter length grey overcoats over three-piece business suits typical of Londoners. “Hey guys, can I ask you a favour? I just got in and need to call my-” they glanced at me, turned away and kept walking without missing a step. I was shocked. “Hey! I'm talking to you! Assholes! At least tell me to piss off!” I yelled after them. They just kept their heads down and continued walking away as though I was nothing more than Jacob Marley's ghost in A Christmas Carol.

I started to walk in the direction the three men were coming from when I noticed a scarf on the ground. I stopped, picked it up and saw that it was similar to the scarves that the men in London like to wear with grey overcoats and three-piece suits. I should run back and see if it belongs to one of those as- No, you shouldn't. Karma. This is what you get from Karma. It was a battle over a monumental issue decided in under a second. I folded it up and stuffed it into the side of my bag. The fourth and fifth people I asked were almost as bad. At least they lied to me about not having a phone. The last set of men decided to help me out and soon enough the 'click-click-click' sound of high heels hitting pavement started getting louder as it approached the spot I was waiting for my hostess. “Pavlos!” she yelled after me as I turned to open up my arms to her and kissed her on each cheek. She was a petite woman with a perky attitude, cute face, Asian princess style skin and cheekbones and dark searching eyes. “Man, are you a sight for sore eyes... Why are you running?” “I didn't want you to get wet” “Oh my! You didn't have to! Its only drizzling!”

Chyi was staying at her friend's apartment who was back in Argentina for some reason or another. We made tea, talked for over an hour about our travels and cultures and she then offered me blankets and pillows before disassembling a red pleather couch which folded out into a bed. I declined to use her blanket as I was only there for the night and pulled out my sleeping bag for a great deep but short sleep.

I made coffee and mate tea the next day, pillaging a few spoonfuls of the mate that the Argentinian apartment's owner had stashed amongst his teas and coffees while boiling the water for my thermos. I made Chyi her coffee and decided to hit the city as soon as possible. My main goals were to see the London Tower, the Tower Bridge and the Tate museum before going back to Chyi's house to grab my bag in order to drop it off at my next hostess' work by five o'clock.

I crossed the Southwark bridge, walked along the Thames on the northern bank, took a ton of pictures of the Tower sights before heading back over the Tower bridge towards Chyi's place on the south side of the river. By the time I reached the Southwark cathedral Chyi sent me a text cancelling lunch (we planned on cooking a nice lentil soup at home) which worked out great for me seeing as I was not quite done seeing the city at that time.

Interviewing the master-traveller

Late the next morning a television crew from a news channel in Kiev was filming a story at the hostel. The reporter asked me to wear a wireless mic while I made my tea to do an impromptu interview with her about the hostel and the reason I was there. Some of the staff were interviewed as well before they interviewed the owner and left the scene. Daryna at Dream Hostel recommended that I leave at one o'clock to make the airport just in case. It was a good thing I took her advice.

You see, there are two airports in and near Kiev as in most big cities. Usually the airports for the big-name airliners are situated outside of the main city where space is not at a premium. The smaller and older airports are usually within the city limits and have long been outgrown by the traffic and space requirements of the bigger airliners. These are usually converted to a discount airliners' runway where the planes are smaller and go shorter distances, making them cheaper for travel within the continent.

Right before leaving the hostel, a Norwegian man gave me directions to the same metro station that the staff directed me to but added a very interesting tidbit; there were minibuses that took passengers straight from the metro station to the airport for twenty-five gryvnia; much better than taking the tram from the metro station and not knowing which stop to get off at or whether I had to make any additional transfers. I followed his directions to the minibuses and got into one of them he described, paying my fare of twenty-five gryvnia after asking a brisk and irritable Ukrainian woman if this was the bus to the airport.

Halfway through the journey I sensed that something was wrong, so I went up to the driver of the bus and asked whether we were in fact going to Zhuliani airport, the one inside the city. An explosion of what sounded like expletives were thrown at me in rapid succession until I realized that the driver was apt to stop the bus and throw me out if I didn't get back to my seat. I stopped by one of the passengers asking her the same question to find out that we were headed to the Boryspil international airport outside of the city. “Should I get off here?” I asked. “No, might as well get to the end of the line and take the next bus back to Kiev.” It was already five so I started worrying over whether I would miss my flight.

The lady that helped me in the bus pointed me in the direction of the next bus leaving for Kiev, where I tried to explain to the new driver that I was on the wrong bus, intending to get to Zhuliani airport and that I would like to ride back to the starting point for free. I mean it's the same company and I obviously bought the ticket in error, I thought. He was having none of that game, giving me a few glimpses of the terrifying character I already saw from his comrade that was apt to emerge if I kept this up. I paid my second ticket of twenty-five gryvnia to get back to Kiev.

A fellow bus traveller who worked at the Boryspil airport overheard me speaking with the driver and offered to help me make it to Zhuliani airport as quickly as possible. He called us a cab that waited for us at the metro and we ended up making it in the nick of time. I texted Shawn to tell him I had no hard feelings and wished him well while I was waiting to board the flight to London.

The flight to London was an emotional one. Feeling the passions and tensions of Ukraine slowly melting away on the flight, I started talking with a nice Ukrainian girl who sat next to me. “I want two-to-four children and I want to start having them in two years” she blurted out after talking with her about her past relationships. I showed her some pics of my travels and soon we were talking and laughing as if we had known each other for years.

Osho and love

I woke up to Nika's spastic laughter at ten in the morning. Not an ungodly hour by any means but after a night of debauchery ending at 4:30 in the morning I was hoping for a few extra hours. The one thing I want to do today is to see Lavra I thought as I was pulling on some clothes. I asked the staff for the private room that night as I was hoping for some good sleep asides from the privacy the room is named for.

After getting directions to Lavra monastery from the staff I left Dream Hostel for some breakfast at Puzata Khata with David, a Canadian from the Yukon who was just starting to travel. He may have been the quietest traveller I've ever met but he somehow made you feel comfortable in the silence he created. We ate potato-stuffed dumplings, chicken sausages, and dessert dumplings. I had a sweet dessert simply called cherry, which was made from almond-paste and dark chocolate made to look like big cherry, with my tea. David left to check out some guitars at a local music store while I jumped down 100 meters of escalator to hit the nearest metro station and ended up at Lavra within the hour.

Crossing behind Lavra from the park I came to the monastery complex where I came upon a no smoking sign with arrows pointing 5 km each way. No worries, I am quitting anyway. Smoking tobacco has always ben a chore for me, only occasionally taking pleasure in it. But nowadays I feel like I am only doing it to relieve social tension, which I like anyway, so it never really made sense for me to smoke. I headed towards the general direction of pedestrian traffic which eventually led me to a small chapel. I decided to enter to light candles and pray.

When I got in, there was a simple candle stall with the typically old Ukrainian woman selling her candles and icons to the left and a small entrance with the sign “for prayers --->” pointing to a small archway on the right. I bought three candles and went down the stairs which were steep and winding, lit by small recessed archways.

At the bottom of the stairs a monk was deep in prayer on the left side of the entrance. Straight ahead of him and to the right of the main floor, sarcophagi lined the narrow whitewashed hallway in recessed nooks. The faithful would walk the hallways, stopping to kiss each glass-paned coffin, say a prayer for a moment and continue to the next in a procession of preserved monks. Some had grey-brown wrinkled hands or feet protruding from their gold-woven robes.

Before the last winding hallway I came across a coffin that was half the size of the rest of them with the icon of a small boy at the head of the casket. The occupant was obviously taken at a young age or was an uncommonly handsome halfling. I stopped at another church on the way off the premises to listen to some Ukrainian language vespers, the choir of men chanting in a much more Benedictian flavoured manner vis-a-vis the Byzantine sound of Greek Orthodox vespers.

I was passing an empty expanse of garden with three rows of vines on either side of the promenade. I knew I was going the wrong way to get out even though it was towards the road leading off the premises due to the complete lack of people nearby. At the gate my fears were confirmed. Both gates, the larger one for the cars and the smaller one for the pedestrians, were locked. I decided that the risk of a torn crotch in my jeans from the spearheaded apexes of the horizontal bars of the gates were outweighed by the reward of saving a bunch of time walking back through the yard. I hopped the gate by climbing onto the inside ledge of the wall adjoining it and headed back through the grounds towards the metro station. I chose to walk on the front side of the monastery this time stopping occasionally to snap some shots on my way to the metro.

I met Lera over some sushi before going back to my hostel for a quiet night in. We said goodbye in front of Khreshchatyk metro station early in the evening so that I could prepare my bag for the plane-ride to London the next day. The plane was taking off at seven in the evening but with the length of time it takes to get to the airport I was planning on leaving at three. When I got into the main room in the hostel though Nika and two other hostelers were drinking beer and watching movies in the common room. The other two were a local multi-pierced-faced doll of a girl with studs through parts of her face that didn't make sense; but looked great on her somehow.

We started talking and trading travel stories, theirs mostly involving Russians as the butt of their jokes. The older guy was a Latvian who despised them due to the many years Latvian language and culture were repressed during soviet rule. Latvians get pissed when Russian-speaking people assume that they know Russian simply because they were ruled by Russian-speaking communists for so long- then proceed to switch to speaking Russian with them. Yeah, I would feel a sting there too if I were Latvian.

The pierced girl invited me to come with her and the Latvian for a long cab-ride to the suburbs to smoke some dutch skunk. “He is my driver” the Latvian was saying as we rode for almost half an hour to the end of a street facing in a more desolate suburb facing train-tracks. We got out and smoked. I was soon immersed in deep conversation about love and the teachings of Osho. “Do you know Osho?” she asked me. “Yes, of course, he was almost lynched when he was on my island” I replied, referring to the violent opposition that he received in Crete (see here: http://clubs.pathfinder.gr/osho_friends/458159). “No, he was never in Greece” they both concurred. Sometimes it's better to fold.

“Anyway, he wrote a book,” said the local girl, “in which they say you will find the answer if you just closed your eyes, focused on your question and opened the book to a random page. I did it and you know what happened?” The wait was almost unbearable. “What?” I asked. “The page I opened had one single word written on it: Love. The only page I saw in the whole book with a single word printed on it and it was exactly what I'm about. Love. Unconditional and trusting.” We went on to talk a bit about anarchism and the solution to the world's problems before dropping her off and getting back to Dream Hostel. I asked the Latvian what I owed for the cab ride and he asked his “driver” in Russian the same question. The driver replied that he didn't know and that he would have to call someone to find out. Wow, I thought, are these guys for real? “What do you mean he has to call? Isn't he a cabbie? Shouldn't he know?” I asked the Latvian. He said something to the driver and then told me the total was 160 gryvnia, a little steep for having your own driver. I gave him half that amount and went back to my room at the hostel for a nice long sleep.

Lovers and haters

There are two types of drunks: those who love and those who hate. There are angry drunks and there are happy drunks. When two lovers get drunk it's sweet and special, usually ending up in a stumble home at the end of the night holding onto each other for support and using each other's shoulders to cry or lean on. When two haters get drunk, it's very intense and sometimes traumatic, usually ending up in a fight, bloody noses or loud verbal arguments and drunk alpha-male assertiveness. When a lover and a hater drink together, it is anyone's guess which way it will end up at the end of the night.

I've done this before. I've seen more bar fights than I can remember working at a popular and huge club in downtown Montreal, called 'the Dome' at that time, for two years. The fighting patrons were always drunk. Always. After a while you get know who the instigators are and who the victims are. The victims aren't always on the wrong side of the fist. Sometimes an aggressor thinks he is much better than the person he wanted to piss on but due to a lack of proper brain processing speed combined with an increase in confidence, the aggressor misjudges and end up in his own shit-storm. The worst of the categories of drunken fighters were the Bostonian eighteen-year-olds who would borrow daddy's car and drive up to Montreal where the age limit is three years lower than their country's. They would show up to our club already hammered and just milk their beers while being loud and aggressive with almost anyone around. I call this behaviour Drunk Alpha-Male Assertiveness, or DrAMA.

Back in Kiev, I was a few drinks shy of a bottle of vodka when I realized that I am lucky to be on the other side of the wall, being happy and having a ball with everyone around. It was shaping up to be a great night with many happy experiences.

Once the neighbours left I chatted with the last of the revellers: B, Dimitri and Shawn, before feeling very tired. As I had not slept well for as long as I could remember I decided to retire to the living room and rest on the couch. I was soon dreaming great dreams when I was grabbed by the shoulder by Shawn who proceeded to shake me like a rag doll. “Come on! It's time to go!” “O.k. dude. Stop shaking me!” “Well lets go! I called a cab!” “O.k. o.k. I'm coming.” “You always do this! Trying to sleep with B, how could you?!? I told you!” he vented as we walked to the door. “Whoa man, I just passed out, relax!” “Don't tell me to relax, you were in her bed!” “WHAT?!? I passed out on the couch dude!” “Yeah, it's her bed man!” “Alright, calm down, I didn't mean anything by it-” I started to say as I was putting on my shoes. “Just go man just get out of here!” he yelled at me in front of the door. “Stop being a douche. No need to wake up the rest of the building” I said after the second shoe was on. I was facing the door, Shawn blocking the way out. “You're always doing this kind of shit!” he said as he grabbed me by the collar again with both hands. “Stop acting like such an asshole” I replied low and slow. “You're the asshole! You always do this! Women aren't pieces of meat, when are you going to understand?!?” That's when things got bad.

Shawn was trying to manhandle me. I hate it when men start trying to assert their alpha male status upon me. It's so annoying. “Stop this” I told him in a calm voice, playing my ice card on top of his fire card. I always try to fight fire with water. It's something I learned from an experienced bouncer at the Dome. The problem with this method is that it doesn't always work. Sometimes it makes the other man get crazier, especially if he knows you beforehand. In this case it just seemed proper at the time to show him that men don't need to make a scene to prove their superiority and that being loud and aggressive is silly.

He started shaking me again. “O.k. you have three seconds to let go of me before I put you through three walls Shawn, so let go.” He didn't. I started counting “Three, two-” and that's when the shit hit the fan. He pushed me backwards and away from the door as I tried to keep my footing. I must have tripped over a shoe but as I was falling my wrestling coach's training program came into effect. I twisted in mid-fall and thrust his body onto the couch by the door. We wrestled for a few seconds but with three years of high-school wrestling experience under my belt it was a futile gesture on his behalf. I pushed him onto the ground and put my knees on his shoulders, pinning him down. I pointed my finger at his face and told him to relax. “Are you done?!?!” He grunted and struggled. “Calm the fuck down and I'll get off you.” At this point, Dimitri was patting my back saying “It's over guys...” and it was.

B had appeared from the kitchen while our wrestling match was being waged. Her door was being pounded upon from the outside by the same Ukrainian man I had invited in for drinks. He was yelling at us. I apologized to him taking full responsibility as I asked somebody to look for my glasses. Dimitri handed them to me and I left the apartment, hopping down the stairs and out into the cool Ukrainian night. I felt the rush of adrenaline and endorphins streaming through my body. I started to run. I didn't understand why Shawn got all DrAMA on me, why we fought and why I was running but I did it nonetheless. My phone started ringing. “Where are you?” “Outside, I'm on my way home.” “I got us a cab, don't be silly.” “I'm not the one who was silly. You were such a douche. I'll get home alone, thanks” I replied and hung up my phone. Incidentally the earpiece was working again.

Drama. I really don't like drama... especially for the sake of drama. My whole life I was surrounded by women who loved drama. Loved it. I survived by being fake with my closest friends' friends and family. Then something really strange happened. I started to cut. I understood then and believe now that when somebody doesn't bring out good in you and instead makes you feel bad, in any way, about yourself, it is best to cut them out, no matter how hard it is. Just move on, move out, move away. But lately, I'm getting the same from more of the men I meet rather than the women. Was it a Balkan thing or am I understanding something about my nature that makes me sensitive to fake people?

I rounded a corner to stumble upon three youths drinking beers behind a concession stand of some sort, one of whom looked like he was having a hard time keeping up with the other two, his head hanging between his legs. Speaking Ukrainian wasn't necessary to communicate with this bunch, who seemed just as happy using their hands and noises common to all languages to express their thoughts to me. I told them I was a tourist and once they heard “Canada” seemed to like me much more. One of them handed me a cold beer that had a few gulps missing so I assumed it was the drunk guy's beer, who had only just been sipping on it before he sat on the curb to gather himself.

“Am I going in the right direction to get to this hostel?” I asked pulling out my iPhone to show them the map. “Hotel? Da!” one said pointing in the same direction I indicated. “Spasiba” I answered, one of the few words I picked up in Ukraine which means “thanks.” “We go!” said one of the youths, putting his upturned fists alongside his hips, executing a hip-thrusting movement while making a “Prrrrrrut prrrrrut” sound. “Um, no, I go, you stay” I replied. He was obviously a lover when he got drunk. “Niet! Niet! Hotel, prrut prrut, we go, da?” I understood that he wanted to come back to my place to either prrut prrut me and his friends or call up some ladies to prrut prrut. I started to wonder if the previously opened beer had something more sinister in it and whether his friends were lovers or haters. Stupid! Never take a drink from strange young Ukrainians on the street! I was thinking as I contemplated the gravity of the situation. “No, I sleep, no prrut prrut tonight. You stay-” “Niet, we go!” “Um, fine but I sleep, in hostel, not hotel” I answered. “Da, da...”

We headed towards the general direction I was going in before meeting these dudes and we all seemed pretty happy about it. My head was processing at light speed by this time, trying to find a way out. As we passed a nearby hotel, the boys got excited and started to indicate to me that this was the place to get some good prrut prrut. I said that I would stay here while they went inside. They headed in and I inexplicably had another urge to run that night. I took off top-speed as they entered the building, hoping that any potential drugs in my beer would burn off as I ran home.

After getting far enough away, I walked the streets of Kiev, alone, at night, fuelled by the hard alcohol of vodka and the last beer I was given. I started looking for a reason to blame myself for what happened at the party, just for the sake of understanding something about myself. I remembered the details. I looked back in time. I relived the past and reacted the same way. Being right by me and not feeling remorse is tops on my list. I acted then as I act now and would have acted the same with no second thoughts. I am either right or madder than a London hatter. Either way, I would still have had the same great experiences with none of the second thoughts. I used my energy for having a good and fun time with everyone I was with. I would have done the same then and would do the same in the future no matter what. My fire sometimes gets too hot, burning the fuel quicker than some people can handle. That's cool, I don't judge weaker- I mean, different, people. ;)

My narcissism is so much better than yours, reader.

Kissing Ukrainians

The next day started much like the last. A bunch of hostelling dudes, Shawn and I met at the Ukrainian fast food joint for breakfast dumplings and beer. We were belching satisfactorily while finishing our beers. Jerome, the French man from Dream Hostel, Shawn and I decided to walk around Kiev. Our first stop was a park near the Red University where groups of old men huddled around tables in whcih chess and backgammon games were being waged. As I stopped to take a few photos, an old man walked up to me and made a comment in Ukrainian or Russian and pointed at my camera. With difficulty, he made me understand that he used to be a photographer and gave me some pointers that I could not understand for the life of me. I thanked him and with a smile, he walked away, having his bite-sized dog lead him from the park.

Next stop was Saint Volodymyr's Cathedral, where the bones of the last prince of Ukraine and Saint-Barbara have been buried since three-hundred A.D. The inside was beautiful. The pilgrims that were visiting the church were suffocating each other to view and venerate the body of St-Barbara while most of the men looked on, seeming out of place and slightly lost. The atmosphere reminded me of Easter in a Greek Orthodox church where the faithful would fast for forty days before elbowing their way into church to hear the “Christ is risen!” chant. Then most would beeline it back home to gorge themselves on meat and celery soup and eggs and egg-bread before passing out to rest enough for another full day of eating their guts out. It is a known fact that most Greek men die on Easter day. Why you ask? Well, imagine having to resist meat and cheese and animal products for forty days and then having an entire lamb roasting on a spit for half a day, filling your nostrils with the deliciously oily smell of lamb meat while you chomp on cheese pies and sausages and meat soup. Then, after stuffing yourself with all the fabulous dishes good Greek moms make, the lamb is served with all the trimmings. It's a wonder that you don't literally hear the loud popping sounds of men's stomachs bursting throughout the Greek world on that day. Instead, they die in droves from heart, blood pressure, blood sugar, and other related health issues; or in massive car pileups where not one but dozens of men fall asleep at their wheels from mini diabetic comas while on their way home. Orthodox Ukrainians, on the other hand, were lining up for up to an hour to say a quiet prayer at the tomb of saint Barbara and are generally very faithful for the sake of faith alone.

We stopped by the entrance where a beautiful, charming and happy old lady was in charge of the stand where candles, icons, prayer books and related paraphernalia were being sold. We bought some icons, rings, medallions, and a Russian bible for Jerome's grandfather and left to go see the agia Sofia, a Russian style church built upon the principles of the Greek Orthodox church in Constantinople, built by Justinian in the 6^th century. It is still a magnificent feat of architecture even by today's standards. Architects are simply baffled at how such a massive structure stands let alone has survived over a millennium and a half of semi-regular earthquakes. The Turks have since whitewashed the interior so the artistic value of the church is not on par with the rest of the Orthodox churches' interiors today but it must have been a stunning interior back in the day.

We got to Zoloti Vorota, the “Golden Gate,” which was an entrance to the walled city of Kiev when her walls were still standing. As I was snapping shots of the pink mortar and brick gate I recognized Wayne, a black man I met at Dream hostel, coming out of the Zoloti Vorota metro station. A beautiful and typically deep metro station, its platform is bordered on each side with an arcade of mosaically crusted archways. Images of holy men, warriors, holy warriors and kings looked down upon the visitors of the metro with clubs, swords and crosses poised at their hands. The outside is just as imposing. The width and depth of the wall must have been a marvel to see.

After talking for a few minutes we all went down to the agia Sofia. Jerome and I payed for entry to the bell-tower and the church and left Shawn and Wayne to get themselves to a cafe where he could work on his computer. The bell-tower was an impressive structure, with beautiful blue detailing on the exterior. We climbed the frigid steps to get to the top, stopping at each level to snap some panoramics of Kiev. We scrambled down after with freezing appendages to get to the interior of agia Sofia before the Kiev winter claimed two more souls. Even though most of the church's interior was repainted recently and few of the 11^th century murals were intact, it was still an impressive interior. They had brought in architects from Constantinople to help design the structure back in the day, I think they designed it in the eleventh century, and the domes and cupolas were imposing and fantastic. The walls were anything but straight, due to either time, weight or design. Regardless, it gave the church a warm and organic feel to it, with one wall leaning one way while the others stood straight in the different rooms.

We left after seeing the entire structure and met up with Shawn and Wayne who called himself “Mr. New York.” He was a dj and lived his whole life in New York or other stacked dimensions. I decided that “Mr. Montreal” was a pretty good name for myself and “Mr. New Orleans” was a good one for Shawn but pitied Jerome's “Mr. France” nom-de-guerre. We drank some coffees and left for a house-party being held by a couchsurfing gal from Holland. “Pavlos, listen, no funny stuff with B. She may be my future flatmate and I don't want her to feel uncomfortable around me, so promise you won't try anything with her.” “No worries bro, nothing will happen.”

When we got to her place it was full of locals and couchsurfers from all over the planet: the states, Holland, Brazil, Finland and, of course, Ukraine. We had stopped by a local grocery store to pick up some food and alcohol but decided that this time, beer would not cut it. We settled on a litre of vodka, water and lemons. The drinks started pouring and soon enough I possessed enough liquid courage to talk with everyone around. I kept our glasses full of vodka, water and lemons and soon enough I pulled out my iPad with x-mini speakers to party up the party in the kitchen. Dimitri, a Ukrainian, started asking if people wanted some vodka shots. I didn't say no so he started pouring and I started drinking along with as many various people as we could catch passing by. By the time we had our umpteenth shot Dimitri and I were kissing each other on each cheek for every shot we took as well as straight up on the lips. Yeah, I know, weeeeeird! It didn't seem weird to Dimitri however. The Russian and Ukrainian tradition of kissing while drinking vodka is a long one and very beautiful, once you get drunk enough.

I decided to share my newfound knowledge of the tradition with the women at the party after a while, minus the drinking shots and cheeks. Dancing with two flatmates in their thirties we were getting along beautifully until they decided to leave. I was sad to see them go but the party was almost done, with only a half-dozen people left. I needed a bit of air so I went outside to get some. On the way I bumped into a Ukrainian man in his twenties who was on his way up to our floor. He was knocking at the neighbouring door and I introduced myself and invited him in for a drink. His girlfriend opened the door, we were introduced and soon enough were drinking together at Bs house.