Mykolayiv church

Funny sign in Dnepropetrovsk

Lenin spins In grave

Train to Dnipropetrovsk

About sixteen miles outside of Dnipropetrovsk, a formerly closed
missile-producing city of 1.2 million, a factory exists that produces
nothing but stuffed animals. Most of them are bigger than they ought
to be and locals hawk them to the passengers of the train I now ride.

The temperature inside this "first class" cabin weebles around 100F,
and seeing a quarter mile of stuffed smiling bears, pink elefinks and
bizarrely colored rabbit-chairs makes one think they're going mad. I
meet with scientists tomorrow from the Institute of Problems of Metal
Physics (yes, that is the real name - awesome!) so hopefully I can put
this image out of my head until dreamtime.

Your humble iPhone reporter. Da zaftra.

Rod

Back in Kyiv

Just a snapshot of one of my first meals here in Ukraine. No those
aren't French Fries, they are "Cajun" potato something.

Home

Back in the US,
Back in the US,
Back in the USSA.

Sorry but that's the only lame witticism I can muster after 15 hours of airtravel today. My throat is sore from breathing pressurized air and other people's exhaust for that long. But I'm home, got the Cingular simkart in my brand new Russian Razr, washed the car and headed out soon for a burrito.

Then it's lights out. Even superman needs a rest.

Snappage?

From my mental diary, Kyiv airport, customs line:

No one around me knows that I am now an assassin. This is my 15th flight in five weeks and my thoughts have now turned homicidal. The dehumanizing crush of yet another Kafkaesque parade of exSoviet inefficiency, my grey craniumpudding has been stripped of boundaries. Having only one hour of sleep, and that only en route from Odessa, I am now a killing machine behind this calm exterior of dumbass grinning. In my sights, I feel an itchy trigger:

The bowbacked Russkie with the pitstained dishwater yellow euroshirt, with man-nipples protuding. Strangled.

The Ukrainian man with the horseteeth, whose baggage has touched the back of my shoes once too many. Decapitated.

The musky babushka with the horizontal elbows and the eight cantaloupes. Skullcracked with hammer.

The plum-colored prunebaby, wailing at 100dB, spraying spit onto my arms. Dropkicked through security.

The Gucci-clad brunetka with the black skirtlet and impossibly high heels. Spared for now, but you are on notice.

Mr. Crewcut in the navy tracksuit yelling Russian into cell phone. Limbs torn asunder.

The person who keeps beerburping behind me. One bullet, bisecting your monobrow.

Mr Weaselface trying to weasel in front of me with his weasily cart of taped up bags. Fed to weasels.

--
I am now in Frankfurt, Germanz and will board the 12 hour flight to San Francisco early tomorrow morning. Not sure how much of an epilog I have in me, it all depends on the degree of snappage this trip.