BootsnAll Travel Network



May 29-30: Lviv

May 30th, 2009

 

In the morning, Michael (the Peace Corps volunteer I visited in Lutsk) walked to the main road, flagged a taxi, and brought it back around to the apartment entrance. (I didn’t think my suitcase, which had already suffered a major wheel injury, would survive 200 m on a muddy, wet path).  I took the 30-hr ride to the bus station, and walked up to a bus that had a sign that it was going to Lviv.  It was starting to pull away from the stop, but thankfully the driver pulled over.  Instead of putting my luggage under the bus, he wedged it between the last and next-to-last row of seats.  I climbed over the suitcase and sat in the corner like a kid in a fortress made of luggage. It didn’t feel like enough of a buffer, though, from the three leather-skinned men sitting next to me with a near-empty bottle of Lvivske beer in one man’s hand. (Did I mention it was 8 am?) Eventually, they got off and three generations of villagers (grandma, daughter, granddaughter) squeezed into their place.

 

The bus drove past forests and fields of yellow flowers that were reminiscent of the town of Trachtimbrod from “Everything is Illuminated”.  I later realized I liked the views here so much because I didn’t see any big smokestacks. 

 

Around 11:30, we pulled into the station and I caught a taxi (45 hr, bargained down from 50), to Hotel George.  On the way, the driver voluntarily gave me a lecture (after I told him I had lived in Kharkiv) about how in Lviv they only had communism for 40 years, so they speak more Ukrainian and have a more correct nationalism. In Kharkiv they had communism for 70 years and had so much “propohanda” (propaganda) “They don’t even love themselves. They don’t love Ukraine. It’s like an American not loving America.”  I even retold what he had said and I repeated it to make sure I understood correctly.  I don’t agree that people in the East “hate Ukraine” or “hate themselves.”  But I didn’t dare argue the point with him. As a researcher I was too busy making notes in my head that a taxi driver would say such things, and say it to a foreigner. 

 

At the hotel, it turned out neither my inquiry directly through the Hotel Web site, nor exchanges of emails with Lviv Ecotour, had converted into an actual reservation at the hotel. They had the type of room I wanted (a single with a private bath for 420 hr), but only for one night not two.  I could have chosen a cheaper room with a shared bath, a more expensive room (over 600 hr), or stayed one night and moved to another room. As in Dnipropetrovsk, the clerk suggested I pay for one night and think about it.  I took that suggestion.

 

I settled into the spacious, bright room with a huge door and high ceilings, had a morning snack, did a little laundry, checked my email with a free wi-fi trial, and headed out into the city.  I walked on Prospect Svobody (Freedom Boulevard) to the opera house and bought tickets for a ballet.  I don’t think it was a famous one, but it was only 30 hr (about $3.50) an mainly I wanted to see the opera house and sit in it for a little while.

 

It was cold and rainy and I hadn’t had any caffeine yet, so after the opera house I started walking in the direction of the hotel to find some coffee or go back to bed.  I stumbled on a restaurant-coffee bar called Praha (Prague), which offered Czech dishes in a room whose walls were covered with several stain glass reliefs.  The cappuccino was excellent, as was the grilled pork with a creamy mushroom-pepper sauce I ordered. Those two items plus a bottle of Borzhomi mineral water cost less than $9, and that was in a restaurant with a tablecloth.

 

After lunch, I wandered around the city center. I stopped in one Catholic and one Orthodox cathedral that I remembered from previous visits to Lviv.  They were both as beautiful as ever. I walked around Plosha Rynok, and this time I stopped in a museum of ethnography.  If I understood the Ukrainian correctly, in the late 1800s the museum started collecting furniture and other objects from the 16th century.  After the first World War, these objects ended up in “private collections” (or hidden away).  Then in the 1970s a fund was established (either to recover these objects or buy new ones, I’m not sure).  The furniture and Vienna china that was there was lovely, as was the folk art from a man who painted in the 1980s and 1990s and died last August.  After the museum, I walked through the Lviv crafts market, and felt bad that I had bought so much in Chisinau. 

 

Around 2 p.m., I decided it was time for dessert.  I found my way to Veronika, a restaurant-bakery I remembered from previous trips (though I didn’t remember where it was).  It was even better than I remember. I must have stared at the case for 10 minutes before I finally chose 100 grams of a roulette with yellow cake, butter cream, chocolate cream, and a surprising, thin layer of orange.  It was only 10 gryvnias, too.  I wish I had ordered tea instead of a latte; not only was the latte 27 hryvnias, I finished it too quickly. I would have much rather sipped tea and enjoyed the ambience.

 

With all the food gone and no reason to stay,  I settled my bill and walked back the hotel, which it turned out was right up the street from Veronika.  I rested a bit and got ready for my night at the opera.  The inside was lovely; many people were having their pictures taken on the steps inside.  I walked up to the 3rd floor balcony entrance. A man stopped me, and I showed my ticket. He said something and the only word I understood was “наченается” (beginning). I started to walk to the down the hall and he stopped me again. Somehow I understood I had to go down (maybe I had gone one level too high)? but the stairs only led to the very bottom.  I asked another worker, and she pointed to the door leading up. I said (in Russian) that I had already been there and the man said to come down. “Again she said the phrase with “наченается” and pointed me into the first level of seating. I looked for my seat, but the numbers only went to 23, and I had 29. Again I said to her I don’t understand. Finally she said, “любое место” and I understood—take whatever seat you want. 

 

The show looked like a cross between “Adam and Eve” and “Terminator: The Rise of the Machines.” 
At least the music was good, one male dancer had 6-pack abs, and the ladies were on their toes more than I ever could be.  I later understood from the show that the title, “створчення світу”, probably means “Creation of the World.” I was too cheap to buy a 10 hryvnia program to find out more. 

 

The show ended by 8:00 p.m.  I wasn’t hungry so I browsed shoe shops until I found a place selling shwarma. I hadn’t had it in Ukraine or Moldova yet, but now I have a new rule: Don’t buy shwarma if you can’t watch them make it. When I opened the foil, it was 80% mayonnaise, 10% chicken, and 10% pickle.  Ugh. 

 

The next morning I had a real bath with hot water and realized it was totally worth $20 more to have a private bathroom.  I went downstairs for the free breakfast—tea (or instant coffee), meat, cheese, tomatoes, bread, and blini with cheese and sour cream. 

 

By the time I finished breakfast and finished repacking, it was only 10:30. Since the weather looked better than yesterday, I decided to take one last little walk around the city.  I walked to the street where the bad shwarma shop, because there was a building up the road that looked interesting. It turned out it was a church that appeared to be closed. Nearby was a monument, most likely to communist oppression.  I walked down a parallel street and stumbled on the Lviv Art Gallery, which appears to be housed in a former palace. If I’d had more time, I totally would have paid the 5 hryvnias to walk around it.

 

I went back to the room, grabbed my bags, and went to the reception to drop off my key. I said in English, “I’m checking out.”  The lady at the desk said, “Passport?” That seemed like a strange question. Since when do you show your passport to check out? Then she showed me MY passport.  Apparently I had given her my passport to check in, and hadn’t gotten it back. I’d been wearing my money belt and thought I felt it next to me, but it wasn’t. That really scared me and made me realize I have to be more careful with it in the future. 

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May 21: Chisinau and Purcari

May 22nd, 2009

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I woke up late and no one was home.  Lena had left a post-it note on the fridge that their assistant Sylvia would not be coming in the morning to make cirniki (fried sweet cheese patties).  I wasn’t feeling up to the adventure of boiling my own milk and coffee, and since seeing placintas (a long rolled flaky pastry with fruit or cheese inside) in the Fourchette supermarket yesterday, I’d had a real craving for them. I decided to walk up the street to the La Placinte restaurant I’d seen the day before.

When I sat down and looked at the menu, the placintas in the pictures looked different. The one called placinta looked more round and flat like a pizza. There was another variety that looked more like what I remembered, so I ordered a cherry one. Shortly after, the waitress came back and said the cherry one would take 25 minutes, so I ordered the apple.

I was embarrassed by the size of the thick perfect circle of cooked apple, pastry dough, and powdered sugar set before me, and the latte which seemed to be steamed milk with just a splash of coffee. I told myself I would not go again without friends to help me eat such a concoction.  But I was also determined not to waste it.  I’d skip lunch, I figured.

After gorging myself, I walked down the street to the park near the pedagogical university. Lena (the 22-year old university student in my Moldovan family) told me the park had been renovated, and that people line up to pay money to get it in or go there after they get married to have pictures taken.  I walked in, paid my 2 lei (students pay 1 lei), and found immaculate rows of flowers, hanging baskets of more flowers, trees, even a pond with ducks.

I walked back to the house to freshen up, then Lena came and took me to the Hippocrates Center which her mother Diana runs. The center provides physical and social services for children with disabilities, a rare service in a country where parents will abandon healthy or disabled children to work overseas. See http://www.chcmoldova.md for information on the center; click on “donatii” to give money to support their work.

When I walked into the center, one of the employees, Galina, shouted with wide eyes and open arms, “Bridget!” “Bowling!” before giving me a big hug. The last time I was in Moldova, I had gone with Diana and her colleagues to the bowling alley in Chisinau. (See my post, http://blogs.bootsnall.com/Reisefrau/dec-9-part-2-bowling-in-moldova.html, for a description of that experience.) That had been their first time ever bowling and I had to teach them the basics of it, though Diana told they have been bowling other times since then.  It never in my wildest imagination occurred to me that I would be remembered so strongly for teaching them how to bowl.  Other employees hugged me and kissed me on both cheeks and made similar comments before sitting me down—to what was left of their lunch.  Instantly set on a plate for me were pieces of bread with fried chicken or ham on them. And there were plates of placinta with cherry and placinta with cheese. At least I balanced it with fruit tea, tomato, and cucumber.

At the table sat two women from Britain, an occupational therapist and a recreational therapist.  I later found out Linda was from Kent (where my aunt’s mother lives so I’ve been there) and Renata was originally from Berlin but has lived with her husband for many years in Nottingham.  The three of us, Lena, and our driver Boris set out for the Purcari winery.

Although the winery is only 100 km from Chisinau, it took two hours to drive there. The roads are full of potholes that have to be avoided, and we also agreed that Boris is the most careful driver we’ve ever had in Moldova.  It’s good to have such a careful driver transporting disabled children and us.

We arrived at a chateau-like white building set among rows of grapevines.  We met our tour guide, Svetlana, who escorted us through the different stages of wine making.  To be honest, the tour felt out of order at times (we saw the labeling area before the barrels the wine matures in) so I’m still not sure I understood the whole process of fermentation and freezing and maturing and filtering.  But I understood big steel vats, old oak barrels (from France), bottles made of Italian glass so the wine can be exported to Europe,  spots for fishing, and the natural spring running under the grounds.

Our tour ended at the hotel and restaurant. We saw a 4-star suite. It costs 90 Euros a night, but you get three free mini-bottles of wine.  The restaurant had oil paintings hanging tastefully on the white walls, and three windows with a view of the vineyard that looked like a painting themselves.

We sat at a table and watched a video in English about the winery (a bit redundant, but well done) then sat at a table for our tasting.  We tasted four wines—a chardonnay, a pinot noir, a cabernet sauvignon, and cahor (a sweet wine usually used in church ceremonies). We even had a pen and paper to mark our ratings of each wine.  The chardonnay and cabernet came out as the top two, but the pinot noir and cahor were not to my taste at all.

Throughout the day we had heard about the winery’s “black wine”, a darker variant of cabernet-sauvignon.  We were disappointed when it wasn’t included in our tasting.  Apparently we had gotten a special deal on the tour, so we only got four wines. However, our tour included dinner at the hotel (shashlik/grilled meat) and was 25 Euros instead of 23 Euros.  The tour guide agreed that we could use the 2 extra Euros to have a small bottle of the black wine with dinner.  It was without a doubt supreme, totally worth the 175 lei for a big bottle (from a Western standpoint).

After dinner we went to the gift shop to pay for our tour  and to buy wine to take home with us. Then we drove off into the sunset, gazing at the green rolling hills and grazing cows as long as there was light to see.

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May 13: Dnipropetrovsk Day 1

May 16th, 2009
It seems no matter how thick the curtains or my eye mask are, the morning light in Ukraine taps me on the shoulder at 5:45 a.m. So it was this morning. I had tea (2.50 uah) served by the conductor in a glass with a metal holder, a granola bar, and a banana. I arrived in Dnipropetrovsk at 7 a.m. and Valentyna from the secondary school of foreign languages was there to greet me. With her was Oleksander and his 7-year old daughter Ann, who is a student of Valentyna’s. We climbed into Oleksander’s fairly new Subaru and headed for the hotel.
The Hotel Dnipropetrovsk
After ultra modern Kyiv, the hotel felt like a step backwards into Soviet Russia. Valentyna went with me to check in at the hotel. We went first to the “administrator’s” window. She gave me a registration card to fill out. Then we went to the other window to check in. She asked to see my passport; I asked if she need the original or a copy and she answered, “either one” (все равно). Since I didn’t see a currency exchange but I did see signs for Visa and Mastercard, I decided to go ahead and pay with a credit card, especially since the sum was over 1000 gryvnias ($164). The strange thing was, she started to swipe the card before even telling me what the total was! I had to ask for the breakdown. She said it included 3 Ѕ nights (I wanted a late checkout Sat. night before the train), and 4 breakfasts (today, tomorrow, Friday, Saturday). I said, “I’ve already had breakfast, can I not take breakfast today?” She said no (не получается). I was too tired to fight about it so I signed.
Valentyna said I had to get the key from the attendant on the floor where my room was. I got the key and then asked if I had to give the key back to her every time I leave (уезжаю) the hotel. She said yes because there is only one key! I realized I’d better be careful it.  [On the other hand, I may have been using the word for checkout, in which case it’s possible that I didn’t have to leave it each time. But maybe Valentyna didn’t know I was using it incorrectly.]
The room itself was a pleasant surprise. There were many amenities such as a stocked refrigerator, a bathrobe, slippers, a shower cap, shampoo and conditioner, a dental kit, (all marked with the hotel name) and wallpaper that doesn’t make me want to gag. The toilet seat was sealed with a strip of paper that in Russian and English said it had been sanitized. The toilet paper was soft and white and replaced before it ran out. The water in the shower was hot. The only drawback to the room is there is exactly one electrical outlet in the room (over the bed) and 2 mirrors—one in the bathroom and one in the foyer of the room. I suppose next time I should pack an extension cord for my hair dryer and flat iron, or be happy that the lamp above the electrical outlet had a shiny metal finish that doubles as a hazy mirror in a pinch.
Valentyna said she, Ann, and Oleksander would wait 45 minutes for me to have breakfast and shower, then take me on a little tour. I went into the breakfast room, looked at the menu, and asked for the plate of vegetables and cheese. That’s when the server explained I couldn’t just order vegetables and cheese; I had to order one of the complete menu sets—either “firmovii” (house special), continental, or English (eggs and bacon). Although I joke in the States about being decisionally challenged [having a hard time making choices], because I’m American I get very frustrated when I have no choice. [On the other hand, maybe choices are hard because being part Russian I’m just not used to it!]
I went ahead and chose the house special: the basket of white and black bread (Ukrainian black bread is the best!!); the plate of cucumber, vegetables, and cheese; two mini croissants filled with jam; juice (again no choice, they just brought me grape juice); two frankfurters topped lovingly with mayonnaise; and butter with mashed potatoes (well, the mashed potatoes were so yellow it seemed like there was more butter than potatoes, but maybe they were just Yukon gold potatoes). I also got yogurt but decided to take that out and let Ann eat it. I had officially eaten more calories before 9 a.m. than some people eat all day.
City Tour #1
Around 8:30 a.m. we piled in the car and drove to Taras Shevchenko Park. I found out on my second tour that the bridge we crossed into the park was actually a pedestrian bridge, but some cars drive on it anyway. I had thought that bridge was a bit narrow for cars…It was a bit chilly so we didn’t walk around, but we saw the monument to Ukrainian poet Taras Shevchenko and the church of St. Nikolai. Then we drove on to the Monument to Glory, with the Soviet hammer and scythe clearly marked on the side and flowers at the base of the monument in honor of Victory Day. We stopped at the Museum of History to see ancient statues outside (from 6th century B.C.), a monument to the founder of the history (an ethnologist who lived in the 1800s). We also saw military equipment including tanks, rockets, and the famous “Katjusha” (Little Katie). It was hard at first to understand what Little Katie did. On the second tour I found out it was a very fast rocket launcher. We also saw a building built in honor of the 30th anniversary of Victory Day (1975), which contains a “diorama” about World War II. It wasn’t open.
We drove on towards the school. The closer we got to the school, the less paved the roads got. I said it would be okay to walk instead of trying to drive over roads only a Range Rover should handle. But he said he could get me in front of the school, and he did.
Visit to the Secondary School of Foreign Languages
Upon entering the school, I was greeted by a few 10th graders and two teachers. The students described some of the things I saw in the school. We went up to Valentyna’s classroom. It was large, clean, with new cabinets, a computer with internet access (donated by Ukrainian Americans from Buffalo), a pristine chalkboard and chalk.
I had my talk about technology. The take home message for sure was that the desire, use, and issues around technology are pretty much the same in the U.S. and Ukraine. Parents and a few grandparents use technology. The students don’t use technology quite as often (maybe once a day), but there were students who were concerned that technology was destroying the language and even people’s personalities as they don’t read enough and expand their mind. When I talked about students in L.A. not using technology for a week, they too thought they would go crazy. The students were familiar with every technology (including Mac) except Twitter, Facebook, and Craiglist. The dangerous side of technology (murder, bullying) hasn’t reached Ukraine, and I hope it doesn’t. Students use the internet for homework, but don’t get in trouble with their teachers if they copy things from the Internet. I taught them the world plagiarism and said if they go to a foreign country to study English they better be aware of this issue. I also taught them the words “dot” and “at” because they were saying “tochka” and “cobachka”.  They didn’t have smart boards in the classroom but it sounded pretty cool to them. The best part was when we started talking about emoticons, and they knew emoticons I didn’t. They started drawing them on the board for me. My favorite is the rose: @}- – – –
For the 9th graders, I was concerned they wouldn’t have questions to ask. To get them started talking, I had them go around the room and say their name and their favorite word in English. My fears were unfounded; in fact, they raced through lunch to come back and have time for more questions. One student asked how I felt about my own hometown, then proceeded proudly to tell the story of the history of Dnipropetrovsk. I felt bad for not taking more pride in L.A. or Philly after that, and I also saw how similar Dnipropetrovsk and Philly are. Both are connected historically to 1776 (Dnipropetrovsk was founded by Catherine the Great in that year), both have a major river and bridges across the river, both have major performing arts centers and shopping malls. It was hard to stop the questions from coming, but for me that was a nice change. And they were intelligent albeit surprising questions. One major issue at the moment is the impending independent exams, a kind of final exam in all subjects that will determine whether students graduate. A student asked, if the book says one thing and the internet says another, how do we get the right answer on the test? I said the real question is, if the book says one thing and the internet says another, how do you analyze critically which information is right? As for how such differences affect a test, if it is a well written test the number of problems like that should be small enough not to affect the outcome.
I can’t seem to show it through documentation of our interaction, so I’ll just have to tell you how impressed I was with these students’ English level, energy, and intellect. As much as the morning at the hotel depressed me, so the morning with these students impressed me and gave me hope for the future of Dnipropetrovsk and Ukraine.
After the questions and answers, Valentyna took me to the canteen for lunch. I had salat Olivier (the delicious mayo-based one with eggs and pickles and ham and peas), beet salad, and piroshki (mini-pie) stuffed with cabbage (kapusta). Valentyna said she had never met an American who liked beets; I had to remind her I lived in Ukraine for two years and learned to love them then. I also saw a bread that looked a lot like a bagel. I remembered something similar in Ukraine that was actually sweet. I ended up just buying it and trying it. It was soft like the Ukrainian nonbagel bread, but it wasn’t as sweet. It reminded me of Turkish bread simit.
At my request, after lunch we stopped in briefly at a few classrooms so I could see how English is taught there. (I am, after all, here on a mission to find a dissertation topic). Valentyna said they try to conduct classes in English, though occasionally they may also use Ukrainian. Sure enough, in the two classes I observed I only heard English, except when one student couldn’t remember a word and there was some negotiation (and I couldn’t tell if that negotiation was in Russian or Ukrainian). In the third class, a 5th grade group, my entrance became another question and answer session as young boys in suits raised their hands eagerly, stood up, and asked me questions about reading. Of course, being a grad student I don’t read much for pleasure, and what I read would be of no interest to 10 year old boys who want sci-fi and adventure stories.
At least I understood that my Russian textbook was right: Russia (and Ukraine) are the most well-read countries in the world. I also understood that to conduct ethnographic research in a Ukrainian classroom, I will have to choose the class very carefully to make sure my presence is not a complete disruption of all activity.
By the time it was time for me to give my pronunciation workshop to teachers, I was dragging. I think the overnight transits were catching up to me. I got through the workshop fine and enjoyed the present (a ceramic dish and bell of Dnipropetrovsk). But I asked Valenytna if I could skip the Skype session they were having with a school in New Mexico and head back to the hotel. It took 20 minutes for Oleksander to come, then another 10 minutes to track down Ann. They took me to the hotel with another teacher.
I got to the hotel about 4:30-5 p.m., went up to the room and straight to bed. Oleg, the professor whom I knew from his days as a visiting scholar at Penn, called me awake at 7:30 p.m. to invite me to dinner with him and another visitor, if I could be ready in 5 minutes. I was exhausted and had already had 3 square meals, so I apologized and said I needed to catch up on my sleep. And I went back to sleep for the rest of the night.
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May 12: Kyiv Old and New

May 16th, 2009

After I had breakfast and got ready, I headed out again towards Maidan. Knowing where I was going this time, I crossed the street in a crosswalk and was stunned when cars actually STOPPED to let me pass. This experience was unimaginable in Ukraine a few years ago.

I got on a bus that was only 2 gryvnias instead of 2.50; it seemed older, made more stops, and went down a different street. But I got there just the same. As I walked to the Post Office, I saw tables with gifts and souvenirs on display. I saw multiple copies of Ukrainian poet Taras Shevchenko’s “Kobzar”, something I probably wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t had that class on Ukrainian literature at Penn. I also saw souvenirs similar to ones I had seen in Philadelphia that I thought somehow had been “American”, like t-shirts and car stickers that said “Ukraine” on them. I also saw some anti-Russian sentiment: Several shirts and mugs said “Thank God I’m not Russian” (….тобі боже, я не москаль).

One stand was run by a man selling stamps. Two of my very good friends in Pennsylvania are stamp collectors and sellers so I started looking for things to buy. I asked if he had anything particular to the post office or stamp collecting. He covered up his table with plastic sheeting and walked with me inside the post office and sat me down with a book of stamps. He recommended one which I ended up choosing, but I decided to flip through the book anyway to see if there were other options. In that moment of looking through those books, I felt transported to my friend’s house; it was as though I had met their Ukrainian alter ego. I was so happy that it didn’t even bother me when, after I handed him a big bill, he said he didn’t have enough change and asked if I would by something more. (I added a stamped envelope to my collection).

I went upstairs to the internet cafe of the post office. The price had gone up since I remember to 12 gryvnias for one hour (about $1.50), but it worked fantastically. In fact, I think I uploaded my pictures to Facebook faster here than at home!

After emailing I was hungry, so I walked back to Krim (Crimea), a semi-outdoor cafe (it was covered on the top but not the sides). The manti (Turkish dumplings) were extremely tempting, but instead I was a good girl and ordered shopa, which turned out to be chicken soup with potato, carrots, dill, and a cube of meat. I also had a cappuccino that was smaller than an American cappuccino but still very good. The best part I think were the two pieces of black bread (Ukrainian rye bread).

St. Sophia Cathedral

I walked up the hill and paid the 2 gryvnias (25 U.S. cents) to enter the cathedral. I was stunned when the clerk handed me a computer printout with a barcode, which a guard scanned so I could enter the turnstile. That seemed fairly cheap, and I soon learned why—each building inside the cathedral has its own admission. I decided skip a few of the buildings, but something about the “khlibnja” (bakery) caught my eye. No, it wasn’t the donuts; it is a former bakery for the monastery that is now an art museum. There was an exhibit on the 75th anniversary of the restoration of the cathedral, paintings of the cathedral, and an exhibit in honor of Mother’s Day of a woman’s paintings of flowers.

I left the khlibnja and walked around the grounds. As I neared the other end of the complex, I saw through the trees a HYATT hotel! I had heard that Radisson had a hotel somewhere, but I couldn’t imagine that an ancient site as St. Sophia would now look out on such a modern building.

I left the cathedral, crossed the street, and browsed the hotel. It was so luxurious there, I even contemplated getting a massage at the spa. But I looked at the price list and realized I wasn’t willing to spend hundreds or thousands of gryvnias on that. Even a simple manicure was around $30.

I gently exited the hotel and stopped at a cafe between St. Andrews and St. Michael’s. I was staring at the buterbrod (butterbread, meat or cheese on a single piece of bread) contemplating what to order. The waitress asked what I wanted. I suddenly got tongue tied trying to explain that I was trying to decide which buterbrod I wanted. This waitress suddenly started speaking in English! “We have hot dishes, meat, potatoes”. I couldn’t cope with it and started speaking in Russian again. The second staff worker also said something in English, though I can’t remember what she said. Once I ordered, I said in Russian, “I’m sorry, you speak English well, I’m just not used to hearing English in Kyiv” (извините, вы говорите хорошо по-англиский, просто я не привикла слухать англиский язык в киеве.) She responded (in Russian), “I don’t speak English!”

After eating one buterbrod with salmon and lemon and another one with cheese, cucumber, and tomato, and drinking a rather sweet tasting green tea (probably the cup was pre-filled with sugar), I walked on to what I thought was St. Andrews and St. Michael’s cathedral together. I soon learned that the light blue building was the bell tower of St. Michael’s and the periwinkle building is the actual cathedral. I walked through the arch of the bell tower, and to the left there was a museum. At first I wasn’t interested and even the 8 gryvnia (1 dollar) price didn’t entice me. But I caught a glimpse of exposed brick and a diorama and got curious.

At the cashier’s desk, I met a man from Kingston, Ontario whose mother was Ukrainian; he was visiting the country for the first time and didn’t speak the language. He decided to skip the museum even though the cashier said (in English) there was English “explication”. He only had a week to spend in the country so I can’t really blame him.

The museum got really interesting on the second floor. In an area with walls painted red as part of the exhibit on the communist era, I saw a quote from Lenin only in Russian. I could understand he was talking about the church, but I couldn’t tell if he was supporting or condemning the churches. I knew the Soviet Union was pretty much atheist, but I wasn’t sure if that began with Lenin or Stalin. In Russian, I told the woman who was sitting guard duty that my Russian isn’t very good, and wondered if Lenin was for or against the church.

Suddenly, the guard was transformed before my eyes from a mindless drone to a history professor. She not only answered my question, she pointed out the key words in the passage that indicate Lenin wanted to get rid of the church. She then led me and another visitor into the next room and explained the pictures on the walls. Until now, I had thought the Ministry of Foreign Affairs was an impressive if austere building. Once I learned through her description that it had been built over the original monastery which was destroyed by the Soviets, it became hideous to me.

The guard continued, pointing out the photos of the rebuilding of the cathedral and bell tower, and pictures of the reopening ceremony in 1997 with then-president Kuchma and famous Ukrainian boxer Valeriy Klitschko. Last, she described the bell tower. I understood there were 50 bells and a carillion, then it got fuzzy for me. It seemed the bells were out of service. She also said something about computer controls of the bells (or that a computerized version was being played)? Whatever she said it sounded fascinating.

I thanked her and walked up the steep, attic-like steps to the bell tower and admired the view of the city below and the bells above. I came back down the steep steps and finished my tour of the grounds. 8 gryvnias well spent indeed.

I was about ready for a nap, so I started walking back to the apartment. On Artema I saw a cafe named after Pink Floyd’s “The Wall”, complete with a picture of a pupil. Next to the cafe was the Pink Floyd the Wall grocery store (produkti), so I went in and found a modest selection of prepared foods. The mayonnaise-based salads looked old, but the chicken thigh and cabbage salad looked safe. I took them and some provisions for the road to Dnipropetrovsk. I took a short nap, ate dinner, took another short nap, and packed while watching “House” overdubbed in Ukrainian.

Olena, the landlady, came at 9 p.m. as we agreed and she called a taxi to the train station for me. While waiting for the taxi, we chatted in Russian. I found out she has been living in Kyiv for 30 years (moved there from a small town/village outside of Kyiv), has two grown sons, and grandchildren (2 grandkids, or a kid who is 2 years old, I’m not sure).

At one point, Olena asked if I spoke Ukrainian. I said unfortunately no, and then told my story about living first in Kharkiv and being told to study Russian there. She said not to worry, she only speaks a few words of English. I said I’m a student of linguistics and language policy, so I know how important language is. I then asked if she spoke Ukrainian at home (something I suspected given her childhood home and question). She said it depends on who she speaks with. If they “advertise” (?) Russian, she speaks Russian; if they advertise Ukrainian, she speaks Ukrainian. I had to probe further—what about her family? She said Ukrainian. I said, only Ukrainian? She said yes. It fascinates me that even at home, language use is fluid and negotiated, and that in this case home (в дома) didn’t immediately refer to family.

When the taxi came, Olena helped me get my bags down the stairs. I got in the front seat and PUT ON MY SEATBELT. Not only was it there and working, it had a little pad on it, and the driver didn’t wave his arm at me and say, “you don’t need that.” Another point in the huge change column for Ukraine. (I heard later from a student and teachers in Dnipropetrovsk that fines for not wearing seat belts are very high these days, but still many Ukrainians don’t like to wear seat belts. In fact, the Honda Civic this student drives came with a plastic insert to block the seat belt lock! On the other hand, when she said her father still hates seat belts, I had to admit my father hates them too.)

At the train station I decided to get some ice cream and sit for a while. But then I found a new Ukrainian restaurant below the pizzeria Celentano called Drova. They had blini with cheese (tvorog) and sour cream (Smetana). That was better than ice cream!

I got on the train, which seemed like it had had a fresh coat of paint inside (and not in a bad, smelly way but in a freshened up way). I walked in the cupe compartment (4-bed sleeper), and there were already sheets and a towel. I asked the girl sharing the compartment if I still had to rent the sheets; she looked at my ticket and said it was included! Looking back on this moment, I think it is one of many examples of Ukraine’s efforts to be tourist-friendly for the Euro Cup coming to Ukraine in 2012. I curled up under these pre-paid sheets and hoped the rhythm of the train would rock me to sleep.

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May 11, 2009: First Day in Kyiv

May 12th, 2009

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Arriving and settling in

 

            My flight left rainy Frankfurt a little late, but we arrived in Kyiv on time.  My first reaction was surprise at walking onto a jetway instead of having to walk down stairs and take a bus 400 feet.  The jetway may have been there last time and I just didn’t remember it.  The immigration line moved very quickly. The passport control employees (and they alone) were wearing surgical masks, most likely to prevent catching swine flu.  It’s always nice as a tourist upon arrival to be greeted with the feeling that you might be disease-ridden.

I got my luggage (apparently intact) and walked out the only of three doors that was open into the Kyiv sunshine.  I looked around for the cashier’s desk or other signs of the airport bus that runs to the Kyiv train station.  Across the parking lot I was able to spot buses marked “Polit”.  I couldn’t remember if that was the name of the company, but “Polit” sounded like Ukrainian for “to fly”.  I walked over and found out my interpretation was correct.

I took the bus (25 hryvnias, about $3) for the 45 min. ride to the Kyiv train station, then caught a taxi (50 hryvnias) for the 5-10 minute ride to the apartment I would be staying in. Hotels in Kyiv are either extremely expensive or extremely depressing. Last time I was in Kyiv my friend Lilia arranged an apartment stay for me. It is $70 a night and has been completely renovated.  Plus there’s a full kitchen, huge tub, and even a washing machine.  So I was looking forward to staying there again.

On the road to downtown Kyiv, I made a note to myself to tell my mother I think I have a lead foot (like to drive fast) because I’m 3/8 Ukrainian.  I also made a note to myself to tell Christie and Suzi that I passed an Avon office building with the U.S., Ukrainian, and Avon flags flying.   I saw ads for modern luxuries such as a Ukrainian golf school and club and a Nokia touch phone, a store that sold “vse vid 8 hryven” (a Ukrainian dollar store), a wooden church, lots of apartment buildings old and new, and messages from the Ukrainian president and other leaders in honor of May 9, Victory Day.  And of course I had my first sighting of the word “remont” (renovation).

            I called Olena, the apartment owner, when I was on the bus and again when I arrived at the apartment building because I didn’t know the house number. (My phone works in Kyiv, and although it’s very expensive to make a call with a U.S. number, I didn’t send text messages because wasn’t sure if she could read Russian written in a Latin script.).  She came downstairs and helped me get my bag upstairs to the apartment.

Olena showed me the rooms, the towels, the tea and coffee and refrigerator.  She checked the stock of toilet paper and found that the apartment is almost out. “You can use tissues (Kleenex)”, she said.  The irony is I almost packed a roll of toilet paper for myself, but then thought I was being ridiculous in assuming there wouldn’t be any, and the purse-size packet of Kleenex seemed more convenient. Maybe I have gone native after all!

I took a much-needed two hour nap, shower, and turned on the TV and flipped the channels. I was looking for evidence of Ukrainianization policies.  What I noticed were Russian-language soap operas with Ukrainian subtitles, a news show (likely in Ukrainian) with an English language news bar, and foreign shows dubbed in Ukrainian.

 

Khreshchatyk—Kyiv’s Promenade

A little after 7 pm, I finally got myself out of the apartment on onto Ulitsa Artema.  I had no idea at that point which way to go (train station to get my tickets for Dnipropetrovsk and Odessa or to Khreshchatyk to see the sights).  I didn’t even know which buses ran in which direction.  Running on instinct, I crossed the street and got on the first marshrutka [minivan which runs a fixed bus route] that said “Maidan Nezaleznoshti” (Independence Square).  I found the sign with the price (2.50 hyrvnias), and remembered to pass it forward. I also understood when I got a 2-hryvnia note back that it was being rejected because it was slightly torn (giving new meaning to the expression, “you’re money’s no good here”).  I got out a fresh note and passed that one forward.  When a woman sat next to me, tried to close the window above our head, said she couldn’t get it (shut), and pointed at the open window on the opposite side (an indicator of crosswinds which Ukrainians are convinced will make them deathly ill), I understood all that too.

The marshrutka ended up going down Volodomirskaya, past two beautiful cathedrals.  I made a mental note to head that way again. We turned the corner and soon enough we were where I wanted to be.  The square had never seemed so grand, so larger than life to me before.  Across the street from the independence statue was a large park area and another memorial/victory-type arch I didn’t remember.   I walked around the Globus shopping center near the independence statue, amazed at the number of high-end shops and stores.  I was even more amazed at how happy people seemed as they walked on the street, at the sight of signs that said, “Love Ukraine!”

I walked along and saw the McDonalds next to the metro. It now has a real breakfast menu with Egg McMuffins (here just called “MacMafin”) and blini (Ukrainian pancakes, not American ones).  I loved the sign above McDonalds for Ernst and Young—not only because it means there’s a big accounting firm in Kyiv, but because the sign below it in Ukrainian didn’t translate the word “and” as и or even і; it said єнд (end).

What I didn’t love were the prices, which my friend Tina had warned me about, though as Lonely Planet said there are bargains to be found. There was new café opened by the beer company Slavytych which looked lovely, but I wasn’t about to spend over $10 for a basic dinner there. I walked up the Passazh to find the Italian restaurant I used to go to with my friend Kitty, but it seemed to be gone. What I found on that street instead was a very nice Ukrainian cafeteria called Puzata Khata (and no, that doesn’t translate as “Pizza Hut”, though it sounds pretty close). For 40 gryvnias ($5) I got a bowl of Borscht (Smetana/sour cream pre-loaded in the cup) with pampushki (garlic rolls–yum!), “spring salad” (shredded lettuce, sliced cucumber and radish with oil), a fried pork cutlet with mushrooms, hrechka (buckwheat), and Bordjomi (mineral water from the republic of Georgia).

After dinner I continued walking and suddenly remembered that instead of taking the Metro, I could walk to the train station by turning right on Boulevard Taras Shevchenko, and then left when I saw the Vokzal  (train station). It took about an hour, but I needed to work off that hrechka anyway.

I love the Kyiv train station, the hustle and bustle and the beauty of the building. I love Union Station in D.C. for similar reasons.  But I was reminded I was in Ukraine when I went to buy the ticket. I stood in line patiently for one man to finish at the kassi (cashier’s desk) that was open round the clock.  When it was my turn I started to say what I wanted, but the clerk said, “This is not a kassi.  Go to the other side [protiv].” Although I half suspected something like that could happen, especially since there were words above the opening times that I didn’t understand, it seemed only in Ukraine could someone walk up to a window under big signs that say “kassi” and be told that this is not a kassi.  At least my listening skills have improved enough that I could understand what she was saying and what she meant.

The other side was a more pleasant surprise.  When I went to the kassa that was a kassa, and I slid my passport through the window, and the clerk said (in Ukrainian), “Is that your passport? It’s not necessary.” That’s a HUGE change from 2001, when in Kharkiv I had to have my original passport (they wouldn’t accept a photocopy) passport to buy a ticket.

From there I walked to the good supermarket (Fourchette), but it was already closed.  The tram stop next to it looked deserted and scary, so I walked back to the train station. I thought I would have to take another expensive taxi, but I found the marshrutka stops, found one that went to Artema, got off as soon as I saw a landmark I recognized (Soho New York Steak House), and found my way back to the apartment.  I trudged up pitch black stairs until I realized I had used the wrong entrance, walked back down into the blackness, and went to the next entrance which was locked up. I had to call poor Olena again at 11:30 at night to ask what the code was to open the door. Good thing I’m not a party animal.

A Footnote about Codemixing

 

            Being a sociolinguist, it seems necessary to analyze my own use of language today, especially compared with how I use them in the U.S.   I usually think of myself as Russian dominant and not able to speak Ukrainian.  In Russian class I didn’t use Ukrainian unless 1) I couldn’t remember the Russian word for it, or 2) it was very fresh at the top of my mind. At the Ukrainian school I tried very hard to use only Ukrainian (unless I thought something was close to Russian and then I tried to pass it off as Ukrainian).

Here in Kyiv, despite knowing the politics of Ukrainian and Russian and the stigma associated with code mixing (surzhyk), it seems there’s a race from my brain to my mouth, and which ever language gets there first wins.  And that race is run for every word in a sentence.  I think I sense that this is an environment where Russian and Ukrainian are understood equally, and so which ever variety I use I will be able to communicate my idea.  Sometimes it’s not a problem and even results in cute discoveries, like last night when I bought water. I said, “pol liter bon akva, budlaska (half a liter of Bon Aqua, please). I am not sure if “pol liter” is Russian, Ukrainian or both, but when the lady replied, “haz, bez haz?” I knew she was answering me in Ukrainian because “haz” is the Ukrainian pronunciation for “gas” whereas in Russian it is “gaz”.  I had never heard “haz” before, and it just sounded cute.  (That is the non-sociolinguist talking for sure!) Anyway, she probably accepted my sentence as Ukrainian, unless she was just speaking Ukrainian no matter what, which people have been known to do here.

On the other hand, when I was taking a taxi from the train station to the apartment, I said, “skolko stoyt poekhat do Bekhterevska 13?” (How much does it cost to go to Bekhterevska Street Number 13?) The driver replied, “Bekhterveskaya Pereulok?” (Bekhterevskaya Lane?)   I realized that he was saying the street name in Russian and I was saying it in Ukrainian because “ska” is the Ukrainian adjective ending, “skaya” is the Russian adjective ending. Plus, “pereulok” is Russian; “provulok” is Ukrainian. I had said the street name in Ukrainian and my question in Russian (in Ukrainian, “How much is it?” would be “Shkilki koshtuye”.) So he might have been correcting me for codemixing, or, he might be someone who continues to use the Russian street names for everything the way I still call the airport in D.C. “National Airport” and not “Reagan National.” Or both.

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March 13: New Orleans Muffaletta

March 17th, 2009

For one last time I walked down to the waterfront. I heard calliope music coming from the steamboat. I walked down Decatur to find that restaurant with the original muffaleta sandwich.  Like Pat’s and Geno’s or The Real Le Anh and the Original Le Anh, there were two places claiming to be the home of the original muffaleta—Frank’s and the Central Grocery Store.  I decided to trust the grocery store because it had Italian food and it said “home of” rather than simply “world famous”.

I was right. I walked in and there was a sign indicating where the line began. I didn’t see the need for it, but by the time I ordered and sat down I saw the line was all one side of the little market from the counter to the door.  And for good reason.  I got a semi circle of bread with the most authentic Italian cold cuts, cheese, and olives that I’d had since Di Bruno Brothers in Philly (also Italian-owned). I washed it down with a bottle of ginger ale from an old-time bottling company based in Jersey. I took one last walk through the shops on Decatur and St. Ann, then began the journey back to chilly Philly.

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March 12: Mississippi and Crawdads

March 17th, 2009

I woke up and began looking at tour brochures for places to go. I had been thinking about taking a tour bus to see the plantations outside of New Orleans, but the brochure I had said for $50 I’d only get to see one plantation.  I thought about a 2-hour ride on a steamship, but that seemed boring.  There was the “Katrina” tour, but I still had mixed feelings about that.

Unfortunately, I’d left the full guidebook and map for Louisiana and Mississippi at home—I didn’t think I’d need them. Fortunately, I had my computer with me and could go online to investigate places to go. I had a sudden thought that I could rent a car and drive to Mississippi.  Natchez was too far away—over 3 hours. But Biloxi was only 1.5 hours away, and virtualtourist.com suggested there were things to do there.  I looked up the closest Enterprise rent-a-car, phoned them, and they said it would cost $37 to rent a car for the day. It seemed worth it to do a little driving and add another state to my list of places I’ve been.

The earliest they could have a car available was noon.  That left me with nearly two hours to kill. I checked email and jotted down detailed directions to Mississippi.  I decided to grab an early lunch at Stanley, the place recommended by the guy at Apple Barrel.  I really should call it brunch—I went in thinking I would get a po’boy, and ended up choosing the “Eggs Stanley”, Eggs Benedict with fried oysters. Yum!

A nice young man picked me up and took me to the Enterprise car rental. They gave me pretty much the only car they had left, a mid-size Chrysler. It actually drove pretty smoothly.  I got on I-10 East, musing at the thought that I was on the very same freeway that runs through Los Angeles.  It was certainly the smoothest experience I’ve ever had on I-10; I had no traffic in either direction.

As I got further east of downtown, I could get a better sense of the toll hurricanes had taken on Louisiana and Mississippi’s Gulf Coast.    I saw shopping centers with empty, rusted out marquees; whole tracts of land with nothing but foundations; and trees that were clearly windblown but had not succumbed to the wind.  On the other hand, I also saw a lot of new buildings and apartments under construction, signs that New Orleans is coming back.

I crossed the border into Mississippi quickly, and at the exit for the Visitors Center (Exit 2), I found out I was also on my way to the scenic road, Route 90.  I got a map at the visitors’ center and stuck with 90 to Biloxi. I’m glad I did; Route 90 goes right along the water. I got out of the car a couple of times to walk on the white sandy beaches, dip my feet in the still cold Gulf waters, and gaze at the beautiful tree-lined homes either in pristine condition, total disrepair, or under reconstruction.

The only sight that disturbed me on my drive was Beauvoir, the home of Jefferson Davis (president of the Confederacy during the Civil War). There was even a confederate flag flying. I decided to skip that tour and head straight into Biloxi. The employees at Enterprise had recommended the Beau Rivage casino. It was beautiful inside (and the tables didn’t have English Only signs), but I didn’t want to gamble and it was too early to eat so I left.  I tried to find the Biloxi visitors’ center to find the historical walking tour Virtual Tourist had mentioned, but I didn’t see it and it didn’t seem like a place to stop and wander so I got in the car and started back.  As I got on the 10, I saw signs for Mobile, Alabama and wondered how much longer it would take me to pick up one more state. On the other hand, since I had no idea how far it was and if I made good time I could get the car back the same day and not have to find parking for it near the hotel (which would have run $15-30), it seemed to make more sense to go back. (I later checked and Mobile is an hour from Biloxi—not bad but would have made for a 2.5 hour drive back, and no evening adventure).

After dropping the car off, I realized I knew where I was and could walk the mile back to my hotel without a ride.  I walked down Canal to Bourbon Street, and I saw that because it was only a little after 6 pm, Pat O’Brien’s didn’t have a line yet.  I went in and ordered their famous hurricane from the Patio Bar.  I realize now why it is called a hurricane and why people line up for it.  It was all I could do to contain my happiness and my balance.

I miraculously made my way back to the hotel, dropped off my bags, and started walking toward Praline Connection, a restaurant on Frenchman Street. On the way though, I smelled some good spices coming from the French Market Restaurant and Bar on Decatur Street.  I walked in and sat at the bar. I had seen signs before for boiled shrimp, and decided to order some.  After Michael, the bartender, took my order, he soon told me they were already out. Would I be willing to have crawfish instead? I’d never had it before, and it sounded like a good adventure. It was. A pound of them came whole in a boat shaped tray.  Michael taught me how to break the body at the joint, suck the spicy juice out of the crawfish’s head, peel the tail, and pull the crawfish meat out.  While I ate and occasionally choked on cayenne pepper, he told stories about his family and Louisiana cooking.  Most importantly, he told me to tell people that New Orleans is alive and well. In fact, although everyone I talked to had their story to share about Katrina, the people who’ve come back say they and the city haven’t been changed by Katrina.  Plus, while I was there I didn’t think at all about the recession.  Lassez les bon temps roulez!

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March 11: New Orleans Garden District

March 17th, 2009


I had continental breakfast on the hotel patio.  The pool had leaves in it, so I wouldn’t be swimming today.  I asked the desk clerk where to get an all-day transit pass ($5) for the streetcar and bus. She pointed me to a place near the Jackson Brewery, but I couldn’t find it. This affirmed my decision that I should walk to the Garden District, even though it was about two miles away.  I walked down Decatur, which became Magazine Street, until I saw the WWII museum and a statue which turned out to be a memorial to Robert E. Lee! It’s easy to forget that Louisiana was a slave state and fought on the confederate side of the Civil War.

From Lee Circle, I continued on St. Charles.  I was starting to get hungry, and saw a restaurant that I had seen advertised on TV as the best BBQ in New Orleans, Voodoo BBQ. I saw hospital and construction workers going in there, and figured it would be good. It was. In fact, it was better than what I had in North Carolina.  The pork was better cooked and there was mac and cheese as well as sweet tea (sweetened ice tea). Yum!

I walked on St. Charles until 1st Street, where I turned left one block to start the walking tour outlined by my AAA guidebook.  I was led past a school for girls, Anne Rice’s former home, and homes with a wide range of architecture styles. I even saw a row of homes dubbed a “folly” because they didn’t sell.  The most shocking one was the house where Jefferson Davis died.  I saw a cemetery with its above ground graves, but my guidebook said cemeteries are havens for criminals so I shouldn’t walk through them alone. Instead I walked in, snapped some pictures, and walked right back out.

As I was standing in front of Colonel Short’s Villa, I felt something at my feet. It was a cat that kept rubbing up against my legs. I’d never run into such a friendly cat, and it didn’t any tags. I’ve named it the chair of the Garden District Feline Hospitality Committee.

From there I walked to the Rink, a skating rink converted into shops. I browsed the fabulous Garden District Book shop, and took an early coffee break.  My last stop on the tour was the Women’s Opera Guild, which was still recovering from Katrina damage.

I took the trolley ($1.25 one way) back to Canal Street, and walked down towards the Natchez. I thought I would spend the afternoon cruising on the Mississippi and listening to the story of the city.  On the way, I saw the shops at Canal Place.  I wandered around the high end shops up to the third floor, where I found a movie theater showing Slumdog Millionaire for only $5.50.  I rarely go to movies, hadn’t seen this one, and was thinking being in a movie theater would be better for me than on a boat since I hadn’t worn sunscreen and already had a good tourist’s burn going.

I had an hour and a half before the movie started. I wrote postcards, had a cookie, and still had some time left. I decided to browse Saks Fifth Avenue for fun, looking at ridiculously overpriced clothes I’d never afford let alone buy.  Next thing I knew, I was trying on a dress that was 40% off and in which I didn’t feel fat. One that I could use for teaching and presentations this summer.  Then I guiltily carried that bag into the theater to watch a movie about kids who are living in poverty.  Oy!

After the movie, I walked down Decatur Street again. This time I ended up at the Crescent City Brewhouse. Their weissbier was really good, as was their gumbo (seafood stew) and baked oysters.  While I ate, the oyster shucker watched basketball—the Hornets at the Wizards. I hadn’t realized the Hornets had left Charlotte for New Orleans. I also hadn’t realized the coach of the Hornets was Byron Scott, one of the great players from the 87-88 championship L.A. Lakers team. Obviously, I don’t follow sports as much as I did then, but seeing Byron brought it all back. And he looks so cute with a moustache!

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March 10: New Orleans French Quarter

March 17th, 2009

When I arrived at Louis Armstrong International Airport, it was a balmy 80 degrees outside. I changed into Capri pants and caught an airport shuttle into the city. It took a while to get into the city, and a while longer to get to the hotel.  That was okay though—by the time I arrived at the hotel, my room was ready even though it was 3 hours before check-in.  The room was nice as was the receptionist, though I didn’t realize “interior room” meant a room with no windows! That made mornings interesting.

I asked the receptionist to recommend a place to get po’boy, a famous New Orleans sandwich.  She directed me three blocks away to the Maspero Café on Decatur Street.  I ordered  a catfish sandwich—4 strips of breaded catfish on a huge bun.  It tasted so fresh I thought it was still wiggling! And after I while I got rid of the bun and just ate the catfish straight—it was filling enough without bread for sure.  I asked the bartender, a slender, white-haired woman with a soft voice and an outgoing personality, to recommend a drink with it. She gave me Abita amber, a local brew. It was excellent!

After lunch, I walked along the Mississippi River, saw the Natchez steamboat with paddlewheel, and ended up at Harrah’s Casino.  I got a free beer while I lost $5 at the video poker machines. I started to walk towards the tables to watch people play, and I saw a sign on every table: “All communication must be in English.”  I couldn’t believe it!  (I later did a Google search and found that poker tournaments can have an “English only” rule while playing hands in the U.S.)

Unwilling to spend any more time or money there, I walked back down Decatur to Café du Monde for café au lait and beignets, the fried donut treat with powdered sugar. I meandered on my own through the streets of the French Quarter, marveling at the wrought-iron balconies and long painted shutters.  It seemed amazing that people could really live in such a Disneyesque place.

I found my way up to the entrance to the Louis Armstrong Park, then down to the Blacksmith Shoppe, allegedly the oldest continuously operated bar in the U.S., but there were no seats available.  I wound my way back to the St. Louis Cathedral at Jackson Square, then walked the block and a half back to the hotel for a late afternoon nap.

In the evening I headed out to Bourbon Street. Forget the Vegas strip—this really felt like Sin City to me.  There were so many places to get daquiris, “Big Ass” beers, and 3 for 1 drinks (all to go), plus girlie shows and adult shops.  In between all of this was the occasional restaurant offering gumbo, jumbalaya, po’boys, or alligator.

I managed to find a sane place, Desire Oyster Bar at the Royal Sonesta Hotel.  It wasn’t dark and foreboding or bathed in neon; it was brightly lit with a white tiled floor and a wooden bar.  I sat at the bar and ordered shrimp creole (a little salty but the shrimp was good), and a Category 5 hurricane.  A man sat next to me and started chatting. He had grown up in New Orleans, and told me that if I wanted to see the real New Orleans, I should go to Frenchman Street. He gave me directions and even offered to walk me there, but since he was married I didn’t think that was a good idea.  Instead, I walked on Bourbon to Canal, turned left, found a movie shoot and the Hard Rock Café on Decatur Street, dropped off Nick’s t-shirt at the hotel, and  walked to Frenchman Street.

There were three blocks of restaurants playing all kinds of live music. I stopped in one called the Apple Barrel, recommended by the guy on Bourbon Street. The bartender, Monica, gave me a drink while a man played blues.  I ended up chatting with a kid who was enrolled in culinary school in New York but doing an externship with a chef in New Orleans who owns two restaurants, Stanley and Stella.  The young man described the menu, and even though it sounded expensive I was determined to try it.

The blues man took a break and another band started setting up. Monica said it would be a while and recommended that I check out the other bands on the street. I did, but got very tired and decided to take a cab back to the hotel instead of hearing the next band.

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New Orleans and Mississippi: Photos Link

March 17th, 2009

Here is the link to my photos page for my recent trip to New Orleans (with a day trip to the Gulf Coast of Mississippi):

http://s193.photobucket.com/albums/z72/reisefrau/New%20Orleans%202009/

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