Tired of Russians

I am tired of ...

Their inability to smile in public.
Their knockoff D&G sunglasses and Gucci bags.
The odors of the men and the pools of parfumia on the women.
The ugly pointy shoes that all men proudly wear.
Food tasting only approximately of what it ought.
Their constant smoking, even while eating.
No Mexican food anywhere.
Xenophobia.
Living out of a suitcase and brushing my teeth with "water with gas."

Counting down the days until I can get back to the USSA.

Snarkless Photos from Odessa

My Near Aneurysm in Ukraine

Ukraine always brings money headaches for me, not in having too little but having my access suddenly choked off in the most malapropos moment. Longtime readers may recall my prior trip to Odessa two years ago, when my ATM card was gnawed up less than an hour before the helltrain through the ultrascary Transdniester Region of Moldova disembarked, leaving me nearly penniless for two souldraining days of border guards and wild dogs. Due to high incidences of fraud in Ukraine, many ATM cards won't even work here, being blocked by the issuing bank or credit union. Fortunately I had gotten prior consent from SESLOC, so I knew I didn't have to tote an overstuffed wallet, something unwise in this city of 1.2 million on the Black Sea. Odessa is always a hustler, sometimes a pickpocket.

After all the tricky places I've maneuvered thus far-- and for crisis' sake I escaped under cover of night from the clutches of Kyrgyzstan -- it seems incomprehensible that I should leave my VISA debit card in the machine at Borispol Airport in Kiev! The digital replay of me realizing this horrifying truth, hours later, would be, I'm sure, hilarious. Running around my hotel room, heart beating visibly out of my throat, looking looking looking over over over in the same three places for my card, my brainstem on autopilot. And in a final shot worthy of Sam Raimi, a camera telescopes through that day's path in ultrafast reverse, the Odessa airport, the scary Yak-20 flight, the customs line, zooming finally back in large magnification to my ATM card, sitting halfway out of the beeping machine.

Sadly, having a PhD does not vaccinate one from stupidity. And now my only artery to money had been cauterized.

Travelling abroad, especially in Eastern Europe, makes seemingly every task more difficult, as in cancelling my card before some Ruski bought a hulking fur chapeau on my dime. You can't just pick up the cell phone and call. First a Ukrainian sim card must be purchased somewhere, which takes longer than it should. Then go somewhere else to purchase credits for said card. Then find an internet cafe to look up SESLOC's number, dial it and have said units evaporate while waiting on hold. Repeat.

Finally, I was able to make the call and get my card cancelled, without any mischief being made! Fortunately I was also able to contact my parents via email, hurray twelve hour time difference!, and now have enough to get back to SLO next week thanks to them and the redheaded ogre at the Western Union office. Whew!

Here's my photo of the day, the famous Potemkin Stairs here in Odessa, site of a worker's uprising and subsequent massacre in 1905.

Make That the Whiskey Plane

The once-weekly flight to Kyiv is four and a half long hours, stuffed to the gizzards with aromatic human cargo and fish and fruit masquerading as luggage. Passing through customs is hellish with four screeners and hundreds of disgruntled, pushy passengers trying to wedge their way through. Entire families of eight fly with seemingly every shrinkwrapped belonging they own, children wearing oversized nutpunching backpacks and gum-toothed babushkas assaulting anyone in elbow range. I have yet to master the mathematics of line choosing, always opting for the slowest or the one with the most relatives suddenly appearing from the back. After an hour I make it on board, ten minutes before it is scheduled to depart.

Being in the middle seat in an Airbus 310 is no fun, but Alona, the bleach blonde was determined to make the best of it. After takeoff, as soon as that safety belt gongy bell sounded, her chrome-polished fingernail whipped out of its holster and onto the call button overhead. I probably could have telegraphed what would soon transpire when she ordered an Azil, but since drinks are free on these flights and Russians define beer as a soft drink, I didn't think much of it. Besides it was already 7am.

By the time breakfast came, itself a nightmarish concoction of pungent meat/fish/jelly/bread, she was on her third bottle, two empty ones crammed in that upholstery flap in front of my knees. It was on Alona's fourth attempt that her beer wagon had been shut down, the flight attendant explaining that she was pushing the freebie drink concept. Temporarily thwarted, she tried to engage in nasalvoiced conversation with me and the portly man with the bad haircut in window seat 23K. She said she was a fashionsomething, but, though pretty, she was too old to be a model. An acquaintance in Moscow once told me that Eastern Europeans age in dog years, a mean-spirited and somewhat correct comment. In truth, the multiplier is less than 7 but definitely greater than 1, but again, I haven't worked out the math just yet.

Once the dutyfree cart made its appearance, she was back in business, flicking a $100 bill in the direction of the flight attendant and grabbing a fifth of Jack Daniels. I dozed off for about twenty minutes and awoke to the sight of a quarter empty bottle next to me and a bejewelled, too-tanned hand on my thigh, holding her balance. Each drink followed the same algorithm, ice cubes brashly plunked down into empty plastic cup, followed by Jack then coke then Jack. A laugh followed each drink and then something incomprehensible about life, the world, puppies, godknowswhat.

By the time the bottle hit the halfway mark, it was bathroom time. Passengers awoke from their slumber as the bleachblonde bomber yanked her way seat by seat to the toilet, eyelids drooping, brastraps at half-mast. Her return was even more flamboyant, with her arms mimicking airplane wings as she continued to laugh at her private conversation. Once seated, she returned to her schedule of drinking, slurring, hand on thigh, repeat.

The bottle was exhausted upon landing, her speech now inhuman, her breath subhuman. She needed me and Flattop Monobrowski to help her deplane, gucci bags penduluming back and forth as she teetered on her white high heels.

Unsurprisingly, we were met by her angry husband and two air security goons in the transfer area. I caught a glimpse of her half-smile, which seemed to indicate she thoroughly enjoyed the spectacle she had created, if in fact she even knew where she was.

I am now in Odessa and had my own episode in Kiev, but that will have to wait until my next post.

Last Day in Tashkent

Last night I went to a club with a fellow hotel guest, Patrick from Holland. He went to school for, get this, Beer Technology and that's now his business, selling and marketing beer in other countries. You would think someone who actually majored in beer would have a better time handling it but after three Baltikas he was an embarrassment, limbs flailing wildly on the dance floor, kissing nearly every man and woman in sight. The morning ending in a drooly stupor. My accursed supermetabolism kept me from even feeling buzzed, which I desperately needed to handle the antics of this Nederlander.

Tomorrow morning early I head to Odessa on the Black Sea. It's been two years since I've been there and I'm looking forward to it. It's really the only destination on my docket that might somewhat qualify as a traditional vacation spot. Last time a Ukrainian visa was needed but, since the Orange Revolution that I unwittingly started, Westerners can now enter visa-free. I'm worried that the place will be overrun by Europeans but hopefully I'm getting there late enough to miss them.