Post thirty-eight, in the land of beautiful people.

You thought it was California? Nope. Ukraine.

I know it's odd and hard to believe, but--a least in Eastern Ukraine--most people (men too, not just women) are strikingly beautiful. A nice place to vacation from Poland!

I've been traveling a lot lately--nearly every weekend--which makes regular posting difficult. It'll only get worse from here on--I'll have access to internet most places I go, but probably won't be uploading my photos to this blog, which means you'll just have to use your imagination.

So, in the spirit of the Grand Finale (at least for a while), here is a glut of photos.

(Please note that the captions belong to the photos preceding them--for some reason, blogger won't let me leave an adequate amount of space between the caption and the following photo.)

Vacation on a teacher's salary...

Somehow this encapsulates all I like about Ukraine. The combination of the hideous Soviet architecture and the cool/exotic/not quite enough to distract from the architecture palms.

Maydan Nezalezhnosti

aka where the Ukrainians like to protest.

Falun Gong supporters before St. Sophia's cathedral.

St Michael's Monastery.

It was reconstructed after sacking by the Soviets.

The market at the train station.

St Andrew's church.

View from the Caves Monastery, where I took no pictures because I didn't want to have to pay. In hindsight, maybe that was stupid.

My traveling companions and I snuck in wearing one prohibited item of clothing respectively (t-shirt, shorts, skirt above the knee). The caves are actually just very narrow underground passageways, in which ancient mummified monks have been placed. They're all wrapped, and further enclosed in glass coffins (all the better to preserve them against the somewhat fanatical pilgrims, who kiss the glass repeatedly, while praying). Only occasionally does a mummified hand or foot peek out of the wrapping. Still, it's a bizarre and remarkable experience--made more elemental and terrifying by the fact that all of these pilgrims are lighting their way with tiny beeswax candles; I can't imagine anywhere in the US where a very tight underground museum filled with mummies--filled with dozens of people--would be illuminated only by candles. However, it did smell very nice.

Near the Caves Monastery, an overwhelming number of brides.

This made me wonder if I should start a project of having my photo taken with brides--like celebrities--ostensibly "for good luck." I wonder how they would respond?

Rodina Mat--the Defence of the Motherland Monument

Made of titanium, which I think is pretty awesome.

She stands next to a pretty cool outdoor museum of various large tanks, missiles, planes and boats, which I also didn't photograph because I'm too cheap. Just imagine that it was cool.

Still defending the motherland.

Still defending it.

I appreciate a healthy lack of respect for monuments.

The picture is blurry because it was covert.

Yes, that's a pig's head.

The land in which it's perfectly natural for old folks to dance in subway stations...

See why I like Ukraine so much?

Don't these columns somehow look uncomfortable?

Does there have to be a break-dancing competition in every eastern European city I visit?

Post thirty-six, to Krakow again

Spring seems to be the season everyone wants to come to Poland. Cris, my step-mother, came to Krakow to give a lecture last weekend, so I went down to meet her. I arrived early-evening, and we had a great dinner (tartare!) before turning in.

The next morning, we took off for Oświęcim (Auschwitz). It was understandably hair-raising and terrible.

Yes, those birds are washing. The only thing cuter than this is them drinking.

Later in the day, we wandered around and I found a fantastic shop that does basically what I want to do—it sells things third-hand. The designers acquire a piece of fabric that isn’t wanted by anyone else, and sew a garment out of it. I think—should I ever have a shop—I want them to be my partner. At any rate, I bought an awesomely versatile dress and rested satisfiedly on my laurels. Later we ate more pierogi and possibly the best ice cream I’ve ever had: kiwi (great) and chestnut (awesomely gloriously shockingly magnificent). And then sleep.
Sunday we walked down to the Jewish quarter to take a gander at the old synagogues, and on the way stumbled across the procession of Saint Stanislaus.


This entailed a lot of pomp, lots of piped-in chanting, and cardinals in funny hats. We walked with them for a while, before schisming off to Kaszimiersz.
Later, we had lunch with a colleague from the Jagellonian University (the oldest in Poland, or Europe, or something). Then Cris and I separated, and I submerged myself in Krakow’s glorious PhotoMonth—a city-wide month-long photography exhibition. I saw amazing, world-class exhibitions in empty apartments all over the city, proctored by teenagers texting on their phones. The show was crowned by five photographers whose works hung in the former Schindler Enamelworks factory south of the city. I have a new found respect for gallerists, and their enormous dedication to hanging works where they belong. In this factory—itself a historical document—the photographs found incredible purchase. Most remarkable was Kill House, which was hung in an attic space, with only the light coming through the uneven slats in the floor illuminating the space. It was eerie and claustrophobic, and enormously effective.

I fast-walked north to the hotel, to meet Cris in time for ice cream. I had hazelnut and something else, and then we went to a church we’d noticed earlier was having a Chopin/Mozart concert. The acoustics were the best I’d ever experienced (I guess I really know now what people mean by “great acoustics”), but the concert was oddly disappointing—kind of a “greatest hits” of classical music.

Post thirty-five, Official Traveling Day seven

I taught an ultimately disinterested class in the morning, and then Emma and I continued to Warsaw, so she’d be in place to take the plane home in the morning. It became clear that I wouldn’t get back to Chelm in time to teach my class on Tuesday, and I (instantly) reconciled myself with it.
We hunted out a good milk bar to have dinner in (pierogi with cabbage, vegetable soup, and a tasty beer named after chestnuts), and then went to the fantastic bar with plush carpeting on the ceiling (and remarkably sassy bartenders). Then: long awaited sleep. In the morning I took a bus back to Chelm, and taught more unresponsive classes, and I assume Emma met her plane, and went home to America.

Post twenty-four, Official Traveling Day six-point-five

We boarded the bus after eating a super version of the Ukrainian (writ large: basically eastern European) specialty Borshch. An hour before we reached the Ukrainian-Polish border, Emma and I heard the odd sound of 90% of the passengers taping things together. Yeah, that sound is noticeable. And if they’re taping cigarette packets together, you tend to wonder what’s going on. 45 minutes from the border, it became clear. They were stuffing the packets wherever they fit—inside the seat-cover linings (and then sewing them up), within the foam seats, under the seats, under the walkway, above the seats. One woman strapped them—suicide-bomber-style—around her midsection. Cigarettes cost half as much in Ukraine as they do in Poland, and these women (and man) were smuggling as many as they could across the border.
At the Ukrainian border, no one batted a lash about the smugglers. Instead, they gave me and Emma a hard time, just because they could. I’m sure they know the excruciating discomfort Americans experience when their passports are taken (and its unclear whether they’ll be returned); they milked the discomfort as long as possible. When they finally gave up our passports, we advanced in the bus 20 meters and reached the Polish border. Here we were all forced out of the bus, with our baggage. The baggage and the bus were both thoroughly searched. From the latter the border guards emerged, a full hour later, with bulging trash bags full of smuggled goods. Emma and I imagined we’d be in a bus of despondent smugglers, but on the way from the border, a remarkable number of smugglers threw themselves on their smuggling hideaways, and came away with sacks of cigarettes themselves. I’m still not sure if the ruse is cost-effective, and it certainly isn’t when the time required to search the bus is factored in—however, if you’re Polish, and you’re poor enough not to count your time by the hour, perhaps it makes a profit.
At any rate, Emma and I arrived in Lublin, after traversing 120 km, 6 hours later. It was too late to take the last bus to Chelm, so we took a cab, got back to my apartment, ate heaps of pasta, and went to sleep.

Post thirty-three, Official Traveling Day six

We awoke—or rather, came to—in Lvov. Outside the city proper, at a pathetically provincial (this is before my unreasonable prejudice against Ukraine—I say “provincial” because there was a cow grazing on the median) “International Bus Station”. We took a poorly-marked (and incorrect—thanks crappy LP Eastern Europe guide) tram to the “center” to look for the famed real-coffee-serving Lvov-ian cafe (after 14 hours on a bus, it’s a matter of life-and-death). LP says “Lviv is known for and proud of its many cafes, where they serve actual coffee (not the Nescafé served in lieu of the real stuff in most former Soviet Union countries)”. Finally we found an art-nouveau cafe, then had a kebab, and returned to the station (via a charmingly confusing cab) to catch a bus back to Lublin, Poland.
Oh yeah. This bus. I feel like it deserves its own entry.

Post thirty-two, Official Traveling Day five

We awoke leisurely, and (awesomely) took showers, before eating a great breakfast of savory French toast, more glorious preserves, and tasty ham. And—of course—great tea.

Before breakfast, Alexi had researched our further travel; as the bus to Lvov didn’t leave until the late afternoon, we had the morning to sightsee.

These little kids were yelling into the fountain as loudly as they could

We returned to the market, and then had a fantastic (and thoroughly Moldovan—no pizza—) lunch (Mamaliga: polenta with soft cottage cheese, scrambled eggs and stewed meat) , before getting on the overnight bus. I bought some (what turned out to be non-) chocolate bars, and we settled in for what Alexi cautioned was a 14-hour trip. Just before vanishing behind the bleary curtain of night, I remember stopping at a…well, stop, and experiencing this toilet. The stalls were short, so we could see one another over the walls. And the grey water was saved in barrels for…something. The walls of the anteroom were incredible.

Post thirty-one, Official Traveling Day four

In Iaşi we hired a private car to take us to Chişinău (Kish-i-now, or—a la Russe—Kish-i-nev), Moldova. If you want to know the moral implications of this, write me.
Chişinău is lovely. It’s terribly run-down, but still has beautiful allees lined with trees, and good restaurants, and designer shops. We had an elongated breakfast (eggs, salad, kasha, lots of coffee) at a great restaurant and thoroughly fortified, wandered through the market to the bus station. We found a bus to Tiraspol (remember, that was our goal?), and took it. We were hassled at the border, but not terribly, and got through on 10-hour visas. Emma struck up a conversation with an International Chess Champion, on his way to Tiraspol to coach his Apprentice in a match. Our hold-up at the border had made them too late to compete, so they took us sight-seeing with them instead.
Here intrudes a comical episode, which the champions would probably resent me telling. In his extreme helpfulness, the International Chess Champion, Alexi, removed a bag from the bus that he believed belonged to us. It was a common sports-duffel bag, and Emma and I assumed it was his bag. Thus, he carried it for a good half hour before commenting on its odd clinking noise, and wondering aloud what it contained. We both said we had no idea, and it came out that he’d stolen the bag, intending to be helpful.

We searched the bag for identifying marks. There were no papers and no name tag. The bag was filled with empty jars. Thus, the problem how to dispose of the bag presented itself. We couldn’t return it to the bus station, because there was none proper. We couldn’t send it to the owner, as there was no address. Therefore, we (actually, Champion and Apprentice) wrote a clever note and furtively left the bag on the street.

(five minutes after we left the bag, it was gone)

Then we amused ourselves in Transnistria (watched a decidedly non-communist teenage break-dancing competition, ate pizza, bought groceries).

Street-racing, TransD style

The break dancing competition

Forbidden things at a popular disco....daggers, boxing gloves...the usual

We took a bus back to Chişinău and stayed the night with Alexi, his wife, and Vova (the Apprentice). They lived directly downtown, and we experienced the horrible singing of the Moldovan Eurovision hopeful (in a giant festival) before reaching the apartment. We had tea and magnificently great raspberry preserves and pickled mushrooms before turning in for the night. The bed was perhaps the most uncomfortable I have ever experienced, and I have never slept so well. Ever.

Post thirty, Official Traveling Day Three

From Debrecen, full of a kind of brittle and exuberant optimism, we took a bus to Berettyóújfalu (still obviously in Hungary), and from there walked to the train station (past a gloriously fragrant powdered hot-chocolate mix factory),

and got money, just (really just—you have no idea) in time to catch the daily train to Oradea, in Romania, and to experience the charming Hungarian border guards.

It is thus described: “Of all the cities of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Oradea best retains its 19th-century romantic style.” It is shockingly lovely. The city seems almost like an abandoned structure (a la Calvino) that has been overtaken by a foreign civilization; the current inhabitants seemingly have little to do with the faded grandeur of the buildings.

We had lunch in an art-nouveau arcade

and continued on our way—taking the train across the exceedingly beautiful (I think I remarked on its beauty, on average, about every 20 minutes) Romanian countryside,

(Haystack taxonomy)

to Cluj-Napoca. We ate a disappointing pizza dinner (why is pizza the only dish any restaurant serves these days? What happened to regional dishes?), Emma discovered that her bank card didn’t work in Romania (“Too Dangerous”), and we settled in for the night on our train to Iaşi (Yash). Romania is large enough that the train took all night. I noted only sleepily that an elderly man shared our compartment, but apparently Emma spoke with him; he was our guardian, and kept trouble at bay. I wish I had—however blearily—thanked him for it.