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.

Georgian High-styling

It was 19:30 before a cool couchsurfer named Martyna rolled into the chocolaterie/cafe I was at, where I was frantically sending out couch requests while eating the thickest and most delicious hot chocolate I've ever had, using that mini little spoon the French cafes usually serve along espressos. Drinking it would have been akin to drinking honey so I took it slow and sweet, coating the spoon and sucking on the chocolate for the hour I was waiting.

Martyna helped me find a hostel right across the street called Dream Hostel which looked pretty ghetto when you walked in but was super clean and warm when you actually got inside. I was greeted by Nika, a petite blonde with the typical blues eyes that most Ukrainians possess. She laughed more than she spoke in almost spastic manner. We made paper snowflakes and watched movies with the rest of the guests until 03:30. My paper snowflake was the best one in the house, guaranteed.

The next day I met Shawn (http://www.saintfacetious.com) at the Ukrainian fast-food joint called Puzata Khata where they served a myriad of dumplings, sausages, meats, crepes, borsch and other great Ukrainian food for cheap. The beer was 10 grivna, which is about a dollar, for a pint. Good deal. We went with a few people from our respective hostels and ate much more than necessary while drinking a few pints to boot before heading out to see some of Kiev.

That night we decided to check out a Georgian restaurant for some delicious dumplings that Georgians are renown for. I left my hostel with three other dudes: Jerome from France, Fabio from Italy and David from the Yukon. After loosing David and meeting up with Lera, we went to Plata 6, the same hospital-themed bar where the waitresses wore nurse outfits that you would find in a sex-shop. Not that I'm complaining. The place was jammed, so my two hostel buddies, Lera and I were stuck standing at the bar while we waited for Shawn and his red-headed friend to show up. She and Lera went to the same university so they got along fine in Ukrainian once they showed up. We pounded back our drinks before the staff kicked us out; they had place a “reserved” sign right on the bar in front of us. Very subtle. While we packed up, I overheard some Americans speaking so I went up to them and started talking. I asked them where they were from in the states. When they asked me where I was from I told them to guess. “New York, Maine, Florida” they started. “Nope,” I replied as I pointed to my vintage Habs shirt with the “CA” logo. “Oh! California!” “Nope.” “Colorado?” “No, why do you just assume that I'm American?” I asked. “....” “I'm from Montreal” “....” “Canada” “Oh! Cool...”

We left the Americans in their dazzled state and called some cabs to take us to the Georgian restaurant. Jerome started teaching me some salsa moves before we got to the restaurant. The place was posh. Real nice. Shawn tried to order in Georgian but none of the waiters or waitresses knew a word. Hmmmm. We let Shawn order anyway and the table was soon filled with delicious dishes, from meat and cheese pie, to flatbread topped with oven-baked cheese, two big plates of dumplings and a nice walnut-dressed salad.

We ate and ate until there was only one dumpling left. It felt awkward to have that poor thing left alone for so long. After an excruciating time I asked if anyone was interested in it. Nobody was, so I slurped it up. The Georgians say that the way to eat these toddler-fist-sized marvels of culinary achievement is like you would kiss a beautiful woman. It's true. If you just chomp down on the dumpling its delicious juices would just spill out onto your fingers and plate, causing an embarrassing loss of deliciousness and a mess to boot. The right way of doing it is to pick up the dumpling by it's crown, part your lips, rolling the edges outwards and upwards, stick out your tongue so that the tip of it is resting right in between your upper and lower teeth, place the bottom edge of the dumpling's flesh against both lips and tongue and then slowly suck on it until the skin of the dumpling ruptures and a hot gush of liquid fills the inside of your mouth. Once the liquid is sufficiently drained you can then bite into the dumpling at your own pace; either downing it in one big bite or nibbling at it like a civilized person. I just gulp it down in one big bite, barbarian style.

I went to pay the bill with my visa as I only had a few grivnas left. Shawn told me it should be around five-hundred. I got the bill saw that it was a whopping one-thousand one-hundred plus change. I looked at the bill and saw a seven portion entry equaling over half the bill. I called him over. “What's this? Seven orders of dumplings? I thought it was only two.” “Yeah, me too...” He started talking to the waiters and we figured out that one order was three dumplings. We had twenty. “Where's the twenty-first dumpling?” I asked. “Well... you asked for twenty” said the waiter. A quick little math equation in my head later and I said “At over two euros a dumpling you better believe that I expect to get every one I pay for...” but it was just to jab him. I was more upset at the overall cost of the place rather than the fact that one dumpling never made it out of the kitchen and into my mouth.

We ended up going home by foot and I decided to take the elevator up to dream hostel this time. It was a tiny little Soviet style elevator, where two people would have to stand very close together to fit inside and you would be wondering if it would make the climb the whole time you are inside. Scary things are my weakness so I asked Lera if she wanted to ride in it with me. It was perfect.

Faceplant

I met up with a couchsurfer for some coffee at one of the five-thousand McDonalds in Kiev. You can't throw a rock without breaking a McDonalds window in Kiev. This one happened to be right outside Alex's house so I knew the area well. The couchsurfer I met there was a great conversationalist and three hours passed by quickly. She was great to look at too which helped a lot. I then headed out to meet Lera again and I invited her out to El-Mate for some tea and sushi. Walking hand-in-hand we made it to El-Mate only to find that it was jam-packed. Adriano offered to seat us at his hookah prep station which was right in the middle of waitress traffic. We moved some stools to his minibar and felt really exposed to the rest of the room. Fine by me, I like conquering uncomfortable situations but Lera was feeling too self-conscious. We hung around the bar for an hour before Adriano asked one of his friends/patrons if we could share his table. He agreed and we sat down for some delicious sushi while exploring our sublime environment.

Getting back home was somewhat more of an adventure. Lera lived close to where my hostess lived so we took the metro together and took a nice walk at a park nearby. It was dark and somewhat abandoned and I started to wonder if Lera's intentions were a bit more sinister than she let on. I've heard of all the caveats of following a beautiful Ukrainian girl home where thugs would be waiting to rob and beat the hell out of visiting tourists so I kept looking over my shoulder the whole while. It ended up that she was truly interested in me for me and we had a wonderful walk and talk together before saying goodbye. She directed me towards the general direction of my hostess' house and I was off like a bolt.

I eventually found the metro station nearest my hostess' house but could not remember which direction she lived in for the life of me. There was an all-night fast-food place called Foxey Burger where three Ukrainian men we loitering. I approached them and started making small talk with them. I couldn't communicate with one of them at all but the other two were making an effort to speak with me in English. “Where you from?” one asked. “Canada” I replied. “Oh! Canada! Very nice!” “Sure” I replied. “Where you go now?” “Home, on Bresnievska street.” “Oh, very far! You take taxi?” It was already late and I did not want Olisia to wait up for me too much longer so I decided “Yes, taxi. And you? Where are y'all going?” “I take my burgers and then buy vodka” replied the most English speaking one. “You like vodka?” I replied as I pulled out my little mickey from last night. The one I couldn't communicate with snatched the mickey from me after I took a small swig to show them that the vodka was clean. He proceeded to down a quarter of the bottle in one big gulp. “Wow... easy there friend!” I warned. The second guy took a more civil drink and handed back the empty bottle to me. There were a couple of drops left so I finished it off as the first guy started to look green. “You ok?” He held up his hand to me as if to say Please don't speak now, I am trying to keep this down.

Within a few short moments he was leaning on what looked like a utility box while he puked his guts out. Nice. I grabbed my order and said goodbye as quickly as possible and left them while I got into the nearest cab. “Bresnievska?” I asked him as I showed him the text that my hostess sent me. “You have money?” “Yes, 20 grivni?” “O.K.” and I got in.

We got to the apartment in two minutes and he pointed to the building. “Yes, that's it.” I pulled out my wallet and took out a fifty. “Fifty” he said and held out his extended hand to me. “No, twenty” I replied showing him two fingers. “No fifty” he replied holding out his hand with all five fingers spread out. “No, twenty,” I said again showing him two fingers, “it's only twenty from the metro.” “No, fifty.”

Now I was starting to get pissed. The worst experiences I have in countries where I look like a tourist is with cabbies. They always try to rip me off. In this case it was the equivalent of three dollars but it was the principle that always bothers me most. I hate being taken advantage of economically. I hate people who try to milk me for more money than the service would cost a local. It's the principle. Not this time I thought. I am not a victim, I will not accept this from anyone anymore. It's time you stood your ground Pavlos, time you say NO! to thieves, liars and assholes. He started to drive away from the apartment and I knew I had to act. It's now or never! I opened the door of the moving cab as he was pulling onto the main road and bailed.

Yeah, I bailed from a moving cab. There is a first time for everything.

I placed my right foot on the rolling concrete and hopped onto both feet as the momentum of the moving cab pushed me forward alongside the open door. My cell phone dropped out of my jacket pocket, flying to the ground and sliding face-down towards the curb. I pivoted, following my phone towards the curb while crouching down to pick it up. I hopped onto the sidewalk in a single fluid movement and started running towards the side of a building turning right to negotiate the corner and then ducking right again while trying to hop onto a step leading to a closed door. It was too much. My body weight combined with my heavy backpack made it practically impossible to stop myself from smacking my face right into the concrete wall. A gush of liquid filled my nose as pain shot up into my brain. Nice. I squatted down and peaked around the corner to see what the cabbie was doing while my hand explored the damage the wall graced my face with.  

The cabbie pulled around the corner to make his way back to the front of the building. I waited in the shadows while I pulled out my Foxey burger to nibble on while I waited for his next move. He went around the back of the building and I had my chance. Ducking low and running across to the building I pulled out my phone and dialled my host while finding another dark spot to hide from the cabbie. The phone showed the the call was open but I herd nothing in the earpiece. I called again. Same story. Great, my phone is busted. I tried a third time routing the call to speaker-phone. A groggy, flat voice answered. “Hey, I'm downstairs. What's the code?” “Four-five ka.” “Cool, I'm dialling now.” Heart beating hard in my ears, I got out from an outcropping of concrete and ran to the lighted doorway.

I wondered whether my running in concrete dream had to do with stepping in concrete at the island, hitting a concrete wall with my face or running from a pissed cabbie. I dialled the code and waited until the call was answered. It was an extremely long thirty seconds. The door opened and I ran up top-speed.

My hostess was visibly annoyed and distressed. “Hey, sorry about that...” I said to an emotionless face. “Want to take a shower?” she asked. “Sure, that would be great.” I answered as I dusted off my jacket from the powdered concrete it picked up from my recent hooliganism. A quiet evening ensued, with her working on a translation contract while I surfed the net and started writing this post. I fell asleep at two-thirty and apparently snored my ass off.

“How was your sleep?” I asked her the next morning. “Not good. You snored.” “Yeah, sorry about that.” The morning was just as awkward as the previous night. “Hey, I am sorry for being such a terrible guest...” I started to apologize. “It's ok.” “No, it's not. Can I please do something for you? Maybe a nice little lunch downtown today?” “No, it's o.k.” I felt like I was being a burden so I decided to pack my stuff and leave her apartment. “I am thinking of going to Lviv today. I'll grab my stuff and try to find a host.” “O.k.”

We said our goodbyes and I was off to start a new day, without any plan, place to stay or idea of what to do next. I ended up at El-Mate again to meet up with Shawn over some more hookah and mate tea while I pondered my next move.

Maniacs in parks

I don't floss enough.

If there was one thing I could change in my life it would be... well, maybe not the one thing I would change, but one of the things I'd change would be my willingness to make time to floss. People who floss live longer and happier lives. Look it up, it's true. I'm full of useful information. It's true, look it up.

So, flossing is one of my weak points. A casualty of this weakness is the fact that the inside parts of my teeth started to weaken while I was still young. Combine the fact that I don't floss enough with a childhood filled with the misappropriation of parental affection via excessive offerings of ice-cream and sweets and you have a recipe for oral hygiene disaster.

So, I have a few fillings. Most of my teeth have been drilled and filled from the molars to the ones right before the incisors. The worst of the lot is the lower left molar. The one right at the back. It's probably more than 50% fake. I decided I needed to do some standard dental work while I was in Romania and one of my friends suggested I see a dentist she knew from back in the day. Romanian dentists are renown for being both cheap and excellent. My hostess, who was introduced to me via my couchsurfing hostess at the time, dropped me off near the dentist's office one fine morning and a few hours later he had resurfaced and touched up two of my bottom-front teeth. The dentist told me that I had to re-fill said molar because it had a crack in it and was ready to break, so one of my priorities was to find a good dentist in the Ukraine as soon as possible.

I woke up in the morning after another sleepless night to meet Adriano, the shisha master, who decided that he would help me on his day off. He metaphorically took me by the hand to lead me through a maze of Ukrainian dental administration. It actually wasn't that bad. I took some X-Rays, got pumped full of anesthetic by a spectacled dental anesthesiologist wielding a 4-inch screw-tipped needle who insisted I keep my eyes open and look him straight in the eyes while he administered my meds, got drilled and filled by a dentist who reminded me of that maid from the Brady bunch and payed a total of 25$ for the whole she-bang. Not a bad way to spend an hour in the Ukraine.

After setting up the next appointment Adriano and I went back to his place for some hookah action. Yes, hookah the water pipe. He mixed up a nice batch of cantaloupe-apple while Shawn made his way over and within a little while I was drooling from the half of my face that was frozen from my ear to my nostril while the other half sucked down some shisha. The dentist told me that I would experience some pain once the meds wore off and that I should take pain killers if the pain got bad. Anyone who knows me knows me better than that. I hate drugs; if it hasn't grown from mother Earth I avoid it. So, the shisha was the perfect thing to help me calm down while the meds wore off.

I got real drowsy after a little while so I decided to lie down on Adriano's sofa. I hit the sac hard and dreamt that I was being chased by someone but couldn't run fast enough. It was like I was walking through concrete. I hate those dreams. An hour and a half later I woke up and headed back to my couchsurfing hosts' house to pack up and take a shower. I was meeting another couchsurfer at 1830 for a walking tour of Kiev and then my new hostess at 2100 so I had little time to dilly-dally.

Shawn was heading to another couchsurfer's house for the next few days so we said goodbye outside the building while I went to search for my couchsurfer guide. She was waiting for me right outside the building so we were able to leave right away. She was a tall young brunette and walked quickly and gracefully, matching my long strides with ease. We made our way to the friendship arch, a huge arch lit up along its length by a rainbow of coloured lights that spanned a circular plaza whose centre held a statue of two muscular and angry looking men holding a flag. To the mens' left was a group of Cossacks standing in line looking right past them. They looked pretty mean and ugly too. It was built by the soviets to portray the friendly nature of the Russian empire to the Ukrainian nation. “I hate this statue” said Lera. “It reminds me of the attitude that Russians have towards Ukrainians, like we are their younger and weaker brothers.” It was an ugly statue.

We took in the view from the plaza. It overlooked the river and a new bridge that connected Kiev to an island in the middle of the river. “That is ---- island. At night it is full of maniacs.” “Perfect, I love crazy people, lets go” I replied semi-sarcastically.

We left the plaza and started walking down the road while we chatted about psychology, university, relationships and engaging in small-talk. I noticed that we were getting farther away from the centre and that the area started looking quite desolate. I realized the we were going towards the bridge we saw from the plaza. “You don't really want to visit the island of maniacs do you?” I asked. “Of course, isn't that what you said you felt like doing?” “I was joking!” I replied. “Oh, in that case we should go back.” “No, it actually sounds like it'll be fun... let's do it.” We crossed the bridge to the side of the island. After I stepped in a freshly-poured sidewalk of concrete we came upon a bar. My tooth was starting to ache so I thought it was a great time to start drinking. She told me that she doesn't drink after I asked her if she wanted to stop at the bar for a shot of vodka. “No worries, I'll drink for the both of us.”

The barmaid was an older Ukrainian lady with a serious face betrayed by playful eyes. “Tell her I want a glass of Vodka.” “A glass?” “Yeah, a glass.” The barmaid gave me a funny look and showed me both a large shot-glass and a regular glass. She looked at me quizzically. Fine, I thought, I'll do the shot-glass. I pointed to the shot glass and she poured me from a bottle she brought out from the fridge. I downed it. I indicated that I want another. Another quizzical look and I downed the next shot top-speed. I took out some napkins and cleaned off some of the concrete that was still on the sides of my shoe. Looking behind the bar for a garbage can the barmaid held out her hand. “It's dirty” I started to say but she was already speaking in Ukrainian. Lera started to laugh hysterically. “What is it?” I asked to no avail while Lera was almost rolling on the floor. “She said that she likes taking it in her hands.” It was pretty funny. I gave her the dirty napkin, paid for the shots and a small bottle of vodka for the road.

Lera and I walked to the shore of the island. We kept warm by drinking some more vodka and by sharing some body heat. “There is a maniac looking at us” Lera whispered to me. “Let him look” I replied as we started walking back downtown to where we met originally so that I could pick up my backpack. Lera then took me to the metro station where I was to meet Olisia, my new hostess, who appeared within five minutes.


Olisia had braided blonde hair and a shy smile. She showed up with a friend of hers who she introduced to only to say goodbye to immediately after. We took the metro and then walked for thirty minutes along the train tracks and a pet cemetery. “I don't understand these people,” she began, “I mean o.k., so you love your pet, I love my cats too, but to pay so much money for a marble gravestone like that one,” she said as she pointed to a laser engraved black granite tombstone with the picture of the canine occupant's head on it, “is just crazy.” “I agree. Once I had a cat who suffered from asthma. I mean it's just a cat. Why should I start paying for asthma meds for a creature that would have obviously been a victim of natural selection had humanity not intervened? After the first treatment I decided that it was unnatural to fight natural selection, so we euthanized her. I was thinking to myself which method of euthanization would be better: taking her to a cold strange clinic where the smell of death and other animals hung heavily in the air to be injected with a needle before dying or taking her out to a green meadow to play with butterflies, chase small animals and smell the freedom of wild nature before taking a bullet to the head from my rifle? I'd prefer the rifle.”

We finally reached her home and I dropped my backpack onto the ground like it was a sack of bricks. “I am going to sleep so well tonight, I can feel it.” She made me some green tea and we chatted a bit about her vacation to Crete and before I knew it I was in la-la land. It lasted for a few hours. I woke up and rolled around again in the wee hours of the morning until I heard Olisia get up. She made me some wicked arabic coffee before we left for downtown again.

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 done. 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 before. 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 he was not successful in finding work outside the hookah cafe field for 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 too much for any normal shisha bowl. But this 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 “Plata 6” (chamber 6), 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 helmet 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.

There is something very, special, about getting your hair cut by a woman but when the woman is stunning it becomes an experience. This one was tall, with light blue eyes, hair attachments that were bunched up at the crown of her head, spilling down her back in thin black braids and impeccably dressed in tight-fitting light-blue jeans and soft black leather boot-pumps with a six-inch stiletto heel. Typical Ukrainian style.

Within ten minutes I was cleaner and happier so I continued down the stairs to the bar where Shawn and our hosts were waiting for me. Upon entering the bar, the first thing that struck me were the uniforms. The men were wearing light-blue scrubs and the women white nurses' outfits a-la English WWII style. But with super short cuts and black lace stockings. Perfect.

Shawn and Alex were halfway through their first beers so I stopped by the bar to order myself one before I started feeling left out. We sat down and before we knew it there were test-tubes of vodka appearing in vials while we downed our beers. There is an old Russian saying that Shawn keeps mentioning: Drinking beer without vodka is like money in the wind. I think it means that if you don't drink vodka you will lose all your money. We didn't risk that that night.

At one point Kasia started encouraging me to speak with a group of four young Ukrainian girls sitting right next to our table. Their table was full of plates of food and test tube racks full of vodka. “No, I am not feeling it yet” I answered as I threw a glance their way. “Maybe in about half a rack of vodka.” They were all very beautiful but one was more than beautiful. She had amazing eyes. “What do I say to them? I don't even know a word of Ukrainian.” “Say 'ti krasavitze'” answered Kasia. Repeating it ten times in my head I opened the table up. “Hi, do you guys speak english?” They all started smiling as blood rushed up to their cheeks. Two of them spoke a little bit of English so the conversation was quite stressed. It ended up that the girl with the beautiful eyes was the one whose language barrier was most severe. No worries, 90% of communication is body language anyway.

I asked Shawn for a pen and wrote down my Ukrainian cell number under the words For Lula, with her beautiful eyes -Pavlos. I gave her the napkin while her and her most English speaking friend were having a cigarette at the bar. They started asking me questions about age work, travels and other such small-talk as we puffed away. Then I asked Lula how old she was. “Seventeen.” I felt sick. I grabbed the napkin from her hands and gave it to her friend as they started laughing. “I'm sorry” I continued, “I would never have guessed... You look like you are safely in your twenties.” “She is,” said her friend Ulia, “it's her birthday today. We were just joking.” I breathed a sigh of relief, took back the napkin and gave it back to Lula.

It is known that the chances of a girl taking an initiative to call a man are slim. It goes double for one who doesn't speak a common tongue calling individual of my overconfident narcissistic nature and stunning looks, so I never did expect a call. However, in this game of numbers, this is as much game of numbers as it is of confidence, so the more you put yourself out there the more numbers start playing for you and the more confidence you gain. Giving instead of asking for a number also puts the responsibility on the one taking the number to call and it takes a very mature and confident individual to call, so it also helps weed out both the arrogant and low self-esteem parts of the spectrum. All in all, a winning strategy no matter which way you look at it.

We decided to hit some more hookah before calling it a night. We walked to a posh restaurant where the shisha was still reasonably priced and they served beer and tea. On our way Shawn and I had another one of our man fights. This time it was over the bill. I grabbed the bill and payed for it to express my gratitude to Alex and Kasia for hosting us and would then settle with Shawn as we normally do for our hosts. But somehow this time things got mixed up. Alex put money in and messed up the accounting and Shawn blew a gasket because I didn't clarify my intent. Once the dam was breached a whole bunch of pent up issues started flowing out. “Don't be an asshole,” I asked politely. “You're the asshole!” retorted Shawn. I couldn't understand the problem and before we knew it Kasia had to stop us. “you know that you can't refuse a pregnant woman anything” she began, “so I am asking you both to drop it.” Fine by me. I hate being an asshole.

With an Arabesque theme and beautifully uniformed staff, the restaurant was pretty. We were escorted to a raised platform hidden by a screen that gave the place a Japanese look. We smoked, drank and figured out the accounting for the bill, I got the digits of the hostess who couldn't string together three words of English and we left for home.

On the way, I felt like my night just wasn't done yet. I asked our hosts if they knew of a place close by where they served Guinness and they walked me to a place called O'Briens. I entered solo. I went upstairs to the only place that still had people around. There were four tables that were occupied. The first one I noticed had five men on one side and one woman sitting on the edge of the group. I approached them first. “Hi guys!” Silence from the men, a smile from the girl. “So... where are y'all from?” “Hell” returned one of the men, a pasty-white man in his mid thirties. “Uh-huh... That's nice. Are all people in hell assholes? I would guess so, being in hell and everything... Have a great time, I'm going to stay between heaven and hell for now and enjoy myself while I can” said I as I started to move on to the next table. “I am Ukrainian,” said the buxom woman with the beautiful blue eyes, “where are you from?” I paused for dramatic effect. “I am Greek born and raised in Canada. I --” “Canada? Blah blah blah Kyoto blah blah...” started the Hellian man. “I don't really care about talking about Kyoto now and can't understand why someone from hell does either... Where is that guy from?” I asked the woman. “He's from Germany.” “Oh, I see... Listen, you guys get back to your conversation, I'll be back here to speak with you in two minutes.”

Twenty minutes later and I had talked to everyone in the room, ten minutes at a table of two women in their late-thirties to early-forties (one of whom was the most beautiful woman in the place by far, with long eye-lashes, slim body with generous curves and green eyes speckled by hazel flakes) who invited me out for “disco dancing” after I got her number, a few minutes at a table of six Americans from the Peace Corps who were a fun bunch, and then to a table of two Ukrainian men who did not speak a single word of English to me the whole five minutes I drank with them. They were making me feel uncomfortable so I swung by the Peace Corps table before sitting down next to the buxom babe again.

“So, we are going to Avalon for some disco dancing with the two girls behind me, want to come?” “no, I don't think my boyfriend would like that.” Here we go I thought. “I didn't ask you to sleep with me, yet, I asked you if you want to come out with us to Avalon.” “No, I don't like that place much. A much better spot is Shooters. “Alrighty then... let me give you my number and you can give me a call if you change your mind or if there is an emergency with your relationship in the next week” I replied and got a very expected look of shock. I love awkward situations. “Umm... n-no... I-I don't know.... No, I would rather not, my boyfriend blah blah blah...” she started. “Listen, you take it and then throw it out when I leave... it's not all that complicated and you don't need to feel uncomfortable. Just take it and don't use it.” “No, I do not want to.” “I KNOW you don't but in this case you should take it and throw it out after, it is much easier than trying to make excuses...” Now, when I think about it, the awkward situation would have been me finding a paper and pen, writing down my number and giving it to her in front of her five colleagues but I never really expected her to call me or take my number anyway so I relished the awkwardness of the situation before taking my leave of their table.

I asked the women if they were ready to leave and we walked hand in hand to the end of the street where there was a taxi waiting for us. I opened the door for the beautiful Kazakh woman with the green eyes. “No, you ferst” she said. Hmmmm... I thought as I entered. Her friend, a generously plump and tall blonde sat in the front. “It iz one-chandred to go to Avalon, you pay?” the blonde asked. What is this? I thought as the women looked at me. They had also asked me to pay their bill at O'Brien's so I was becoming weary of them. “Ummm... no... we all pay.” “No, you pay” she replied. “I'd rather not.” “Zhen we don't go?” “We don't go” I said and waited for them to leave the cab. “What was that?” I asked the Kazakh woman when we were outside. “You see... I live in Ukraine... it iz niot easy... I am working chard for money... I chave child...” “Oh, so this whole night was for you to get money from me, is that it?” “No, I like you but it iz chard here for me...” “Okay, okay... I understand. So what is it you charge?” “one sousand dollars.” “Oh. Well, I won't pay you to be with me but if I was to choose which woman was the most beautiful I've seen tonight you would take the prize. Good luck and have a good night.”

I walked back home past the globe monument, through the underpass, stopped by the MacDonalds from a late-night meal and hit the sac hard, only to wake up in my fit of insomnia a few hours later.

So starts another day.

Back in the day

I often wonder when I got bit by the Gypsy bug.

Sometimes I think it was from when I was a kid, before I even knew my ass from my elbow. My moma told me once about the time I just got pissed off at her and took off. I snagged a penny from the counter, pulled up my diapers and headed out the door, down Painter Circle street, took a right up the main street Poirier, walked for half a km and plopped down my penny at the local depanneur, the Quebec equivalent of a 7/11, and asked for an ice cream cone. I was not quite two at the time.

Or the time when I would periodically pack my bag with some G.I. Joes, cookies and other precious possessions and take off for half a day before getting bored and coming home for dinner. I was ten when this started happening every other weekend. Once, while we were living in Greece, I pissed off my mother and she locked me in the house while she and the rest of the family went on a day trip. I packed a bag of canned salmon, went to the edge of our balcony on the 4th floor of our condo complex, threw my feet over the edge, swung back and forth to time my fall onto the balcony below us and repeated the process two more times before skipping the entire last floor of our building to fall an entire floor and a half onto the sweet hard concrete of freedom. I headed for the nearest park, cracked open a can of salmon, ate it, and decided that being a bum wasn't for me, so I went back home. Problem was I was locked out and my mom would have killed me if she found out what I did. Not only was it the riskiest thing I've done with my personal safety and health but I directly went against the will of the matriarch. A crime punishable by death.

We were living in a posh area outside of Athens next to a shipping magnate who owned the biggest house I'd ever seen, complete with pinball machines in his game room and a giant Saint-Bernard that slobbered it's own body weight every day. The groundskeeper was Ahmed, from some Arab country. He was a friend of mine and had actually let me drive his motorbike when I was 14. I went to him with my problem and he decided it was a noble thing to help me back into my house, keeping my skin intact. We went to the roof of our condo complex, he tied a rope around my waist and legs and gently, ever so gently, lowered me back down to the balcony I started from. I thanked him, went back inside and didn't tell another soul until all threat of reprisal was gone.

Our family bounced around for a little while longer, going from Athens to Belleville to Montreal in the next four years while I went away to school at Bishop's University where I studied football for four years. Most weekends and holidays I spent in Montreal. I started feeling the need to travel again and headed out to Amsterdam to meet up with a friend and teammate of mine from university, Gus. We headed through Europe, seeing Holland, Luxembourg, France, Italy, Greece and were finally on our way to Constantinople but before getting there I was arrested as a deserter from the Greek army. Long story.

At the end of my studies I fell for the woman who would be in my life for good. We married and divorced while I tried to dislodge her from the idea of settling down and becoming the Jones'. It never worked. We ended up staying in the same city for the next ten years and I almost went crazy. Well, the almost part was debatable for a while but in the end it was simply too much for me to handle.

I started travelling again, slowly at first, seeing places around Quebec, then further down the road as far as Niagara falls, then off to Costa Rica and finally starting my Israel/Palestinian Territories/Jordan/Thailand/Laos trip. The more I traveled the more I wanted to see. The landscapes, colours, tastes, cultures, people and architecture of the different places I visited were a drug that lasted for as long as my curiosity and money would allow. Sometimes I would feel like staying in one spot for a week, at other times an hour. Regardless of the reason, the next place called to me through the fabric of spacetime, ripping me away from the people and places I loved in order to love the people and places that wanted to meet me next. Every step I took brought me closer to the end of a road that stretched through my mind and into the endless horizon.

night and day train from Hungary

The night ended much later than I expected. You see, sometimes I have a need for speed. I used to take my 1994 VW Golf GL on a side road bordering the train tracks of my little city of Belleville and hit the pedal so hard that I would almost brake 200 km/h on a regular basis. Sure, I was 16, felt immortal, had testosterone pumping through my body at near illegal levels and felt like there was no danger at all going more than 120 km over the speed limit but it just had to be done. If I wasn't speeding through the outskirts of the city I was bashing my head top-speed against the best football players in the not-so-immediate vicinity. I did this for many years and instead of calming down my unnatural need for speed it simply fed the fire until I was bashing heads with university level football players at 22 and hitting the weights with whatever was left over. At 34 I still get these urges; all the time.

After leaving the Hungarian dance-a-thon and feeling high off my own fumes, my urge to run and jump and spend my juice just kept coming at me. I was in the company of my travel friend turned close friend Shawn, a tall, stunning and uber-interesting Hungarian woman Sara and her two Indian friends who happen to work in my home town of Montreal. I felt trapped. Neither could I ditch them to run home, nor could I stand to walk at their snail's pace. Namely because I am totally lost if I haven't lived in a city for more than a year and I had only arrived in Budapest a couple of days ago. In the end I was simply too hyper to stay and also wanted to give my boy a chance alone with his lady friend, so, I asked for directions - which were too slow coming - and then hopped off to make my way not home.

I started jogging at a regular pace. The night was cool but not cold, the streets were clean and dry, my feet felt light and the air was clean and dense. A perfect night. Not really paying too much attention I ended up seeing some familiar stores and areas of Budapest that Shawn and I had visited in the previous days but had no clue whether they were North, South or East of where we were staying. I knew I wasn't too far West because the river would have been a dead giveaway but other than that I felt happily lost.

Budapest is full of ex-pats and the sounds of drunken Americans stumbling through the streets was as commonplace as the Hungarian hookers looking for free cigarettes or a quick buck. Yeah, I said buck. At one point I was playing chicken with a woman on the sidewalk. She was walking on one side, so I started making my way to the other. Then she started switching to my side so I switched to the side I started on only to have her follow me, head on. I slowed down and looked at her in the eyes. "Jibba jibba jabba." "Sorry, I don't speak Hungarian." "Cigarette, do you have cigarette?" "Man... I JUST smoked my last one, sorry." "Sex, you want sex?"

Ok, so I thought about it for a second, or two... I mean she DID have a tight body but one look at her herpe-ridden face was enough to turn my stomach. "No thanks" said I as I shimmied past her swinging hips and popping breasts as she tried to grab my ass. What a great time to start running again.

The night went by. I'm not sure how quickly but it did. I finally decided that I needed help so I stopped running right outside a bar where two Americans were talking on their cell phones. The girl kept at it but the dude stopped talking after I approached him. "Hey dude... can you tell me where I am?" "You're at so-and-so bar" "oh..." "Where are you going?" "I'm not really sure... I'm staying at a friend's house and I'm not sure how to get there." "Well, do you have a cell?" "Yeah, but I don't have service here... It's a Croatian sim card..." "Hmph... you're fucked" "Yeah... I guess I am..." At this point the girl got off her phone and started chatting me up with the same questions as I gave her the same answers. Finally the dude asked me if I have my friend's number. "No... I mean YES! Brilliant, can I use your phone?" "Sure, what's his number?" A few seconds later and we figure out that I am WAAAAAY off the mark. "Dude, your best bet is to jump in this cab right here... it's a far way away." "No way man, I got here running I'll get back running. How far away is it?" "Its about twenty minutes away." "Perfect... that means with my speed and drive I'll be there in three minutes flat. Which way?" "Down the street, turn right and all the way down and ask for directions again." "Word... thanks! Peace out!" and I was off again. Ten minutes later and I was huffing and puffing outside Shawn and I's hostess' house.

"Pavlos... what the fuck?" "Sorry man, got a little lost."

The next day was spent seeing some of Budapest, drinking beer, chilling at a cool bar with our hostess and her friends, going back to an American girl's house for some nightcaps and apple-bong hits and dancing to the beats on my iPad plugged into x-mini speakers. It's a great set-up... seriously, buy those speakers.

We were recovering well the day after and started getting ready for our 24 hour train ride to Kiev. We decided to not see anymore Budapest sights and took it easy, leaving at a leisurely pace from our hostess' house. We made our way to the train station right next door to buy our tickets. The international ticket sales office was slightly hidden to the side of the station but we found it and waited in front of one of the two ticket counters that were operating. In front of us was a tiny girl in a bright red wool jacket talking in a low and frantic German accent. "Iz it direkt? How do I get zhere? Vat time doez it leave? Vat metro stop iz it?" I felt like pushing her out of the way and squeezing her at the same time. I was totally conflicted by her cute accent and annoying questions. Finally she got her ticket and stood behind us while Shawn and I went to the counter.

I kept peaking back at her and wondering why she was still hanging around there so I left Shawn to handle his side of the transaction while I approached the sweet little German. "Hey... do you need help with the metro?" "Yez... I am not zo sure vhere to go." A few minutes later and I found out that this sweet little lady got her purse stolen from her the day before along with all her i.d. She had no way to get on the flight from Budapest to Berlin so her husband left her at the airport with a wad of cash and a pat on the back. I would have done the same, so I didn't judge him, inside me. "Well, sounds like quite the gallant husband you have there... But don't worry, you're in good company with me and Shawn. We're heading to the same station so why don't you tag along and we'll keep you company until our train leaves." "Oh, ok, szank you!" she replied and just like that, we were off.

We had a great time together and talked about pretty much everything that came into our heads... well, we talked about everything that came into my head... well, we talked about ALMOST everything that popped into my head and so the time seemed to fly. I knew right away that this girl was a gem and felt as though I would protect her like I protect my little sister. We ate, drank took pictures and exchanged facebook info and said our goodbyes on the train Shawn and I boarded for Kiev.

Shawn saw her out and soon enough we were rolling down the tracks towards Kiev in a posh train cabin while the movement of the train rocked me to sleep like a baby. The first interruption was when the old fat Hungarian border guards asked for our passports at the Hungarian border. "Pavlos?" "Yes." He put my passport in a portable scanner, stamped it and gave it back and before I knew it I was sound asleep. The second interruption was much more pleasant. A beautiful tall blonde Ukrainian border guardess with blue eyes and a grey Russian style wool hat asked for our passports followed by a young man and another beautiful brunette in tow. I suddenly felt an urge to be arrested. They took our passports and left us alone for the next few hours as the train cabins were decoupled from the wheels they were on, lifted off the tracks and moved sideways to another set of wheels on a parallel train track. Not even the jolt and clang of the train cabin being plopped down on the tracks stirred me from my sleep long enough to notice. Soonafter the border goddesses returned with our passports and we were off to Kiev on the Ukrainian side. We watched movies, drank Jaegermeister, and listened to music as the klicks rolled back.

Before we knew it we were standing outside the train with our new host Alex who took us through the maze of people and passages, down into the metro and onwards towards his home. "Kiev has the deepest metro station in the world. Well, apparently. North Korea claims that THEIR metro station is two meters deeper than ours but there is no real way of finding out. I think they are full of bullshit." "I couldn't agree more. How do you say 'Hello' in Russian?" I asked. "Dobre dien." "Cool, thanks." The next set of girls I saw got a taste of my new knowledge. "Dobre dien!" They looked at me with a smile trying desperately to overcome a frown that they tried to keep on their face. Ukrainians are shaping out to be an interesting breed of people. Cold, hard and beautiful on the outside with faces and bodies of chiseled ice but with a warmth and happiness deep inside them that often escapes its cold Siberian prison.

Traveling Gypsy

When I was a kid, my uncles used to tease each other about having a half-gypsy father who stole their mother Borat-stylie and took her away to be his wife... I never really thought much about it, being so proud of my Hellenic stock.  The thought of having Gypsy blood in me was so ridiculous that I would never have thought that they were in the least bit serious about it.... but now I'm not so sure...

You see, I have a bit of a problem.  I can't stay in a single place for more than a few days without starting to think of the next spot out there that I can see.... and the more gypsies I meet, the more I think that I am more like them than the Greeks I've met throughout my life.  Sure, we have a reputation for colonizing the farthest reaches of the world throughout early history but the Greeks today are kinda happy to be where they are and seldom seek out new and unfamiliar places today.  Generally speaking of course.

Anybody who knows me knows how much I hate generalizing the different peoples of the world but you can't argue certain unifying characteristics that certain cultures possess.  For instance, Gypsies love to travel.  Gypsies don't have any particular home outside their caravan.  Gypsies are passionate.  Gypsies want your money.  Gypsies are intense.

However, there are always exceptions to the rules.  The last gypsy I met was when I was in Budapest.  I was at a traditional Hungarian folk-dancing party with two live bands, three big halls and a TON of dancing Hungarians.  At first I was a little hesitant to join the dancing... mainly because it involved grabbing a girl and five-stepping with her while twirling her around one way, double-stepping right before reversing the flow and twirling her around the other way while not stomping on her feet.  But then something familiar and fascinating started happening; the devil's dance.

Upon entering the place, my travel buddy Shawn saw a girl he met through couchsurfing (couchsurfing.org) who was there with three dudes from the states.  We chatted it up a bit and later on met them at the bigger livelier hall where the folks danced traditional hand-holding circle dances... something I am quite familiar with.  So, I jumped into the fray between the girl and one of her American friends when a new song started playing and tried not making an ass of myself to the quick and devilish tune the band started playing.  The dance goes something like this: step right, step-step (x 3), back-step, inside kick with the right foot behind the left while swinging your hips right-forward, right-foot-plant step twice (x 3) and then repeat only faster and faster until the band decides it's enough.  Ok, so you may have to do a youtube search for Hungarian devil's dance to get a clearer picture but trust me, it's hard to master.  Unless you have circle-dancing experience like I do... in which case you're golden.  =)

So then, after a few hours of devil-dancing and learning a few other traditional Hungarian dances I was sweating profusely and decided to chill out in the main hall where there was a nice bar and some cute coat-check girls who ended up not speaking a lick of English.  Luckily there was a tall blonde dude who was having a hard time entertaining three girls right at the bar.  I decided to sweep in and help the fellow out by engaging him in some "Hey, you're French, cool, I speak French!  Where are you from?"  Soonafter the ice was broken I switched to the girls and voila! one of the not only spoke French but was a fellow Greek girl who lived and worked in Budapest!  Niiice.  A few shots and some introductions later I was chilling with two really cool Greek girls and having a fabulous time without sweating balls.

By the end of the night, Shawn was chatting up his Hungarian couchsurfing connection Sara and I was feeling a bit like a third wheel when I realized the there was a stunning girl in my frame. Her hair was blonde, wavy and long. Really long. Below her ass long. I made a smirky comment to Shawn and Sara about her and somehow Sara half-dared me to open her. Not that I need a dare to open up a conversation with a beautiful girl but the alcohol was definitely working for me so off I went.

“Hi... you have stunning hair” I started. The rest was a blur. Caught somewhere between a spell and a drunken infatuation with this stunning woman, the next thing I realized was promising to accompany her through Transylvania in her Gypsy caravan during the upcoming summer. Yes, she was part Gypsy and has a problem with men not being able to handle her passionate possessive nature for more than a few weeks. I dreamt of the moment when she would start throwing random objects in my direction after realizing that we are too passionate for one another and cherishing the moments we had dancing to Gypsy music in a Transylvania Gypsy village while her spell worked it's way throughout my body and soul. We kissed each other's cheeks, she held the back on my necj and pressed her forehead to mine saying “This is how Gypsies say farewell to someone who is special to them” while I tried to sneak a kiss upon her lips. “No, this is more important” she said as she looked into my eyes, plunging me deeper into her deep blue endless eyes, her Gypsy spell permeating my soul.

“Maybe I am a Gypsy” I thought as she swept her hair by my face and exited my frame, leaving the ether slightly disturbed but more beautiful than it was before the ripples of her existence disturbed my unbeknownst to me mundane life.