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.