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.
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