The Road Less Traveled

I got back on American soil on September 22 after
nearly 3 weeks as an English Language Specialist in Togo (
West Africa). It was absolutely fantastic. I took
nearly 300 pictures which I’ve whittled down to 4
albums, all in photos.yahoo.com/reisefrau. The photo
albums are named as follows:

1) Togo_Kara: Kara is the town where I did my first
week of work, 420 km north of the capital Lome.

2) Togo_Kpalime: Kpalime (pronounced roughly like
Palime, unless you can figure out how to combine the K
and P sounds as the Togalese do) is the town where I
did my second week of seminars. It’s also where I made
friends with the Austrian hotel owners who arranged a
guided hike into the mountains around Kpalime. This
one has the most pictures and the most scenic
pictures.

3) Togo_Lome: This is the capital city, where I spent
weekends and then did one last half-week of work.

4) Togo_Togoville: This is an island near Lome where
I took a day trip my last Sunday in Togo. If you like
sun, red clay, and voodoo, check this album out.

More to come!

Bridget

When it comes to the 4th of July in America, my main goal is to find the best place for fireworks. I had heard on the radio that Morongo Casino and Resort was hosting fireworks on Monday, July 3. It seemed like an odd day and place for it, but then I thought about it some more and realized 1) the middle of nowhere is not somplace I’d want to be on the 4th but it’s okay for the day before, 2) it was only half an hour from my house, 2) it would be easier to come home and relax on the 4th, and 3) I could still catch fireworks across the street from my house on the 4th.

I ran out of work as soon as classes ended like it was Friday, even though it was only Monday. I got to Cabazon at nearly 4:00 p.m., and realized I needed to kill some time–the fireworks wouldn’t start until 9:00. I decided to stop and walk around the Desert Hills Premium Outlets. There was a pretty good crowd for a Monday. The stores were nice and well laid-out, but nothing grabbed my attention.

I went on to Morongo. It wasn’t hard to find the hotel–it was the only multistory building around for miles. Downhill from the hotel was a flat maroon and purple building that said “Casino Morongo.” I parked near there, but when I walked over, I found that the doors were locked. I was stunned that the casino would be closed. Then two men outside said I was standing outside the bingo hall–the regular casino was inside the hotel.

As I was walking up the hill, a man driving a golf-cart stopped and asked if I wanted a ride. It probably wasn’t more than a quarter mile, but since I’d walked around the shops and down the hill already, I accepted. I thought it was pretty luxurious of the casino crew to offer a ride like that (and pretty lazy of me and other people to accept it), but then I noticed a box on the cart for tips. It’s another moneymaker for the casino workers. I left a quarter.

When I got inside, I remembered why I hate casinos. It’s not the flashing lights that bother me; that’s rather melodious. It’s the people. They are usually old and not Rockerfellers. They never look happy as they are losing hundreds of dollars. I went to the Pit Bar to get a drink and maybe chat with people, but every seat at the bar had a video poker screen in front of it, and someone focused on playing it. <

Figuring if you can’t beat them, join them, I found another bar outside the Mystique Lounge with a free seat. I ordered a Cape Cod and proceeded to lose a couple of bucks on video poker. When I finished, I walked around some more. I saw signs for the 360 and Cielo (Sky) restaurants. I was pretty sure they were expensive, but for fun I decided to look at the menu. It turns out Cielo has a happy hour from 4-6: $6 drinks and apetizers. It was 5 minutes to 6 so I quickly got on the elevator.

Cielo lived up to its name: it was a breath of fresh air. It was bright and clean and quiet inside. It had huge windows that made the desert landscape feel like a beautiful view. And the “Morongopolitan” I had was good. The small artichoke pizza wasn’t bad, but if I had to do it again I’d order the shrimp cocktail appetizer instead.

If I’d had a higher alcohol tolerance or a room for the night, I might have stayed up there longer. As it was, though, I needed to move on. It was close to 7 p.m., so being outside wasn’t unbearable anymore. I walked to the area where the fireworks were being set off. Suddenly, I was sorry I’d ordered food at Cielo. There was a lot of good food–hamburgers, corn, Indian fry bread, authentic tacos–for a lot less than $6. I bought some $2 nachos and put my blanket on the dirt. There were two bands that were pretty good when they weren’t playing country music. The fireworks started right at nine, and went for a good half hour to the recorded sounds of rock and patriotic music. Not only were the fireworks really good, in the desert setting there were no distractions like streetlights and cars.

The only drawback of the night is that it took longer to get out of the parking lot than to watch the whole show. I even walked back up the casino and watched people lose at blackjack for 10 minutes, and it still took a while to get to the freeway. That said, I would definitely go back next year.

On a Saturday in June, two of my friends from college who now live in Kirkland took me winetasting in nearby Woodinville. I had actually been to the area many years ago–the famous Chateau Ste. Michelle winery is there as well as my preferred winery, Columbia Winery.

Whether Woodinville has grown or just me I am not sure, but there are now over 20 wineries now in the area. I know because my friend Aaron gave me a copy of their “Passport” to Woodinville Wine Country, which included information on the different wineries. They had loved the Passport tour they did in April (the wineries stamped the pages), and had decided I would enjoy it too.

Our first stop was Silver Lake Winery, the largest of the small wineries. They actually pour for three labels there–Silver Lake, Glen Fiona, and Hoodsport. 

We started at the Glen Fiona bar–Suzanne and Aaron had already had some of the Glen Fiona and bought one bottle without even tasting it.  The pourer was an older gentleman who shared his expertise about the wines and about winetasting in general. When I went to rinse out my glass with water between tastings, he said, “You really wanna do that”? He then explained how the water could actually ruin the flavor of the next wine. He also told me to hold the wine on the tongue for up to 60 seconds to release more flavor.

The Glen Fiona wines were all excellent, even the one that tasted like orange  blossoms. The Silver Lake wines were not as impressive. The Hoodsport wines were pretty good considering they were half the price of the other wines. But I was on a budget and I figured as long as I can get Washington State wine at Trader Joe’s for four bucks, why should pay $10 or $20 for it?

One would think that as the wineries got smaller, my resolve not to buy would have strengthened. I mean, most of the wine tasting rooms were suites in a large industrial center. How is that conducive to wine tasting? But maybe the steady flow of wine (even with some dumping) had loosened my brain, or the wineries had done a good job of creating a genteel atmosphere inside.  Because at the fourth winery, Red Sky, the wallet opened up. Maybe it was the original artwork on the walls, or the lush red paint on the walls behind the artwork, or the name Red Sky that evokes some exotic Native American place for me.  Or maybe it was just good wine. Even Aaron got into a buying frenzy, buying two original artworks from a worker’s young daughter for 25 cents each. I bought a 2002 Merlot.

At the next stop, Edmonds Winery, I took one sip and charged again–a 2003 Cabernet. We then took a break at the nearby farmer’s market to get some popcorn to try to absorb all of that wine. Then we hit the last two wineries on our tour, De Voigne Cellars and Mark Ryan Cellars.

De Voigne Cellars actually had two different labels, one from each brother in the family.  Although it was more expensive, I found myself partial to the De Voigne 2004 Sangiovese. But I couldn’t bring myself to spend $25 on wine. He had little bottles but said they weren’t for sale (only marketing). As we were walking away though, I kept thinking about how nice the winemaker was as he was talking to us, and I felt this need to buy from him. So I went back and bought it.  Then Suzanne said you can get a bottle signed by the winemaker. So I went back yet a third time and asked him to sign it, which he did although I’m sure at that point he thought I was some nutty lush.

We finished off the day at Mark Ryan, a stark and minimalist place that nonetheless had great wine.  I couldn’t bring myself to buy any more, but Suzanne bought their fifth bottle of the day there.

I still get a little woozy thinking about all the wine I tried, but three weeks later I opened the Edmonds Cabernet and it was truly fantastic. 

I went to Seattle for four days in June. I got lucky weatherwise–it only rained on the drive to and from the airport. My cousin told me it had only been raining there every 3-4 days, which is kind of a miracle up there. Most of the time was spent at my cousins’ house with their 3 kids (5 and 18-month old twins).

A House with Kids should have its own guidebook, visa requirements, immigration control, and even an interview in which an officer says, “Do you have any idea what you are walking into?” I mean, I’ve had my share of travel adventures, but never before did someone ask me to stick my nose down someone else’s pants and sniff for signs of poop.

Fortunately as with most foreign places I’ve gone to, after the period of culture shock passed I found myself falling in love with the place–with my older cousin’s intelligence and sense of kindness (he kept trying to give me things he had), and my younger cousin’s boundless energy and fearless willingness to hug another human being. I thought I’d be happy to be free of the crying and bodily function obsession, but when I got inside the airport I actually felt a little empty inside. Not empty enough to move there myself permanently, but empty enough to want to get back there to visit as soon as I can.

We had another big breakfast, and decided to take a few hours in the morning to walk around Munich before heading back to Peter’s hometown for New Year’s celebration with friends. We went to the Victualienmarkt, an outdoor farmer’s market. We saw a lot of nice food and gifts, but nothing that I could take home or that Peter wanted to take home. On our way back towards the hotel, we saw a crowd around the Rathaus. It turned out we had arrived just in time to see the Glockenspiel go off. Like the Hofbrauhaus, it was impressive because we could say we saw it, but that was about it.

As I say that, I think about people who have never been outside of their own country, and wonder if they wonder how I can sound so blasé about the Hofbrauhaus and the Glockenspiel. And of course I realize I am lucky to have seen these places. But for me, the true pleasure in traveling is not seeing everything that’s in the book. It’s DISCOVERING places I never would have known about otherwise, and discovering things about myself too.

Before Peter and I left, we stopped at Alois Dallmayr, a fine foods store I’d read about years ago in travel newsgroup. It was impressive and very crowded. Peter bought some fondue dips for his friends, and I bought a lovely tin with an elephant on it for my mother. Then we stopped in a flower shop so Peter could buy his friends a plant. The salesladies were very friendly and helpful. If I knew its name or street, I surely would recommend it to others.

We woke up at a reasonable hour for Fruhstuck (breakfast), included in our room price. The dining room was small, but the food and service were very good. There was meat, cheese, tomatoes, cucumbers, eggs, bread, cereal, and bottomless pots of coffee and tea.

After filling up, we asked the front desk clerk the best way to get to Neuschwanstein, the famous Bavarian castle, from where we were. She wasn’t sure exactly. Peter asked for directions to a specific highway, and she said something about finding the “Mullerring”, and then we’d find the highway from there.

Peter started heading up Ludwigsstrasse towards the university; he was sure he’d seen a sign pointing to the highway on the road. I was sure from looking at the maps that we needed to go back the way we came and turn left. I finally convinced Peter that he should turn around, and voila! he saw the highway sign he was looking for. In that moment, I started to wonder if God thought of Peter and I as two of his students for whom he’d created an information gap activity: Peter and I each had half of the information necessary to make the whole trip work.

It still took us another 20 minutes of twists, turns, and asking two cab drivers for directions before we found the “Mueller Ring” and finally the highway out of Munich.
The paperwork Peter had said we should take the B7 to the castle. As I was looking at the map, though, the B17 looked closer and easier. Of course, in these situations, looks can be deceiving; in this case, the road less traveled was also a road that moved more slowly than I anticipated. The B17 was two lanes and went through lots of small towns with slow speed limits. To be honest, the scenery wasn’t that impressive either. It may have been more impressive in summer, or it may have been more impressive if I hadn’t just come from seeing the steppes and cowherders of Ukraine and Moldova.

The Bavarian Alps made me sit up and take notice though. The peaks were majestic and snow covered, and the sun glinting off of them added a rare beauty. I still feel a little bad asking Peter to do all of the driving to see a castle that was so touristy, but for me seeing those Alps made that part of the trip worth it.

We arrived in town and went to the visitor’s center to buy our tickets for the castle. Normally there is a bus that takes visitors to the top of the hill, but the bus was not running due to icy road conditions. Our choices were to walk or take the horse-drawn carriage. I thought the carriage ride would be kinda cool, but Peter wouldn’t hear of it. The walk turned out to be nice despite the cold, though. It took about 20 minutes and I am sure I needed the exercise after all that beer and sausage.

We had our ticket electronically scanned at our tour group’s appointed time of 3:05. The tour was conducted in English. The rooms were what one would expect from a medieval castle; tall ceilings, long red carpets, tapestries on the walls, and the like. There were many swans in the rooms; his childhood home had been “Schwangau” (Swanland), and “Neuschwanstein” (New Swan Stone) was the castle he built across the street as an adult. Perhaps more interesting than the rooms was the story of Ludwig’s life, his madness, and the mysterious circumstances of his death, possibly at the hands of his own psychiatrist.
After the tour and a walk through the old kitchen, we saw a very strange movie about Ludwig and his life. Then it was time to walk down the hill and start the long journey back to Munich.

Along the way, we started to get hungry. We stopped at a roadside Bavarian restaurant that had been there since the 1500s. It felt like being in a hunter’s lodge; there were many animal heads on the wall. Because of the cold, I was in the mood for Gluehwein. It wasn’t very good there, though. A better choice was the Hirschgulasch (venison ghoulash) with Semmlnknoedel (dumplings made from bread rolls). Peter informed me that Semmlnknoedeln are very traditional and very Bavarian. They were delicioius.

About an hour and a half later, we were back in Schwabing. Peter rested while I started adding layers of clothing—it was Friday night and we wanted to go out again in Schwabing, and it was expected to be –14 Celsius (about 7 degrees F) that night.

As we walked up the street, Peter was very disappointed by Schwabing. Apparently it had had a reputation at one time of being very hip and eclectic. The Schwabing we saw was quiet and yuppified. We saw some nice places for a drink, but for some reason “nice” also looked expensive to me. So I talked Peter into a place that looked darker and more down-to-earth. We sat there and downed another liter of beer while talking about life.

The Drive to Munich

We left Peter’s hometown in the morning. Although there had been some snow the night before, the roads were remarkably clear. We had Peter’s father’s Mercedes with all-weather tires just in case, though.

About two hours into the drive, we stopped at a highway rest stop for lunch. Peter said the Jagerschnitzel (Hunter’s Schnitzel, breaded and pan-fried pork fillet with a mushroom sauce) and Spaetzle (a traditional German noodle dish) were a little expensive at 9 Euros, but we agreed they were delicious nonetheless. At the rest stop I also picked up a free book about German highways that listed the full name of every city abbreviation on German license plates. Whereas American children on a road trip try to spot license plates from different states (which are clearly marked), German children get 1-3 letter codes which they have to try to decipher. Some of them are fairly easy—B is Berlin, M is Munich, MA is Mannheim, but some are more obscure. The book helped us find the correct answers for a while, then took the fun out of it.

We arrived at the hotel with no trouble around 2:30. Upon our arrival, we found two reasons to believe Fortune was smiling on us. One, we found a parking space right in front of the hotel. Two, we walked into the hotel but no one was at the front desk. In fact, the front desk looked closed. A woman walked downstairs and said, “how did you get in? The door should be locked.” Peter explained that it wasn’t locked, and we had a reservation. Then she said, “Oh, we’ve closed this hotel up. You have a room now at our sister hotel up the street. We tried to contact you, but we didn’t have a mobile number for you.” Now, that may not seem like a good thing, and certainly it was an odd welcome, but if the door hadn’t been open and the lady had not come downstairs at that moment, we really would have been up the creek with no hotel and no idea what to do about it.

We checked in and went to the room. It was small and basic, but also very reasonably priced at about 80 Euros a night. The location was good too—It was close to downtown and the “Schwabing” neighborhood, a traditionally hip area of the city near the main university, Ludwig-Maximillian University.

Exploring Munich

We started our tour by walking up Ludwigstrasse. The State Library building looked beautiful, and I convinced Peter to go inside for a look. We walked up the long marble stairs to the second floor, and found a special exhibit on a nature writer we’d never heard of. Unfortunately, we didn’t find ourselves caring any more about him after seeing the exhibit.

We kept walking up the street towards the Victory Arch until we got to the university. Seeing the university was very special to me. It was here that Sophie Scholl, her brother, and several friends had been university students in 1942 when they formed an anti-war society called the White Rose. They distributed flyers protesting WWII and Hitler’s actions. They were caught and executed within three days. I had never heard the story, but it was pretty famous in Germany. Two months earlier, though, I had gone to a film festival in L.A. and seen a movie about it—“The Last Days of Sophie Scholl”. It had been a very good film, and now here I was seeing the university where the events in that movie had really happened. I am not sure if they filmed the movie at the university, or if they had created a set. Nonetheless, I recognized from the movie the balcony where Sophie and her brother had pushed their leaflets onto the floor below. In addition, we saw at least two plaques commemorating Sophie and her brother. There was also a very small museum, but it closed at 4:00 and we got there at 4:10.

After the university, we started walking towards the Englisher Garten. We hadn’t planned on going there originally; it was December and everything I’d read about the garden made it sound like someplace to enjoy in the summer. But Peter had had his hair cut recently, and had mentioned to his hairdresser that he was going to Munich. It turned out Peter’s hairdresser was from Munich, and had advised him to go to the Englischer Garten; he said it would be beautiful even in winter.

Peter’s hairdresser was spot-on, as the British would say. Actually, just the architecture of the houses in the surrounding neighborhood was a beautiful sight. When we got to the garden and I saw the river and the bridges and the snow and the pagoda and the sweeping snowy hills, I was impressed. Peter enjoyed it, too.

One sight that Peter did not like, and which we argued in a friendly way about for the rest of the trip, was my attire. It was December and cold, and I had my beautiful coat from Ukraine and my new fur hat from my friend Tina. The coat was okay, but Peter thought the hat was a kind of fashion crime. He was probably right about it being a little big for my head, but it was gift from one of my dearest friends and it completed my “Ukrainian girl” look. I finally told him, “I like it, I’m gonna wear it, deal with it.”

We walked through the Englisher Garten and past the Hofgarten Chancery (which looked like a big greenhouse), and the Residenz. It was already after 5:00, so we couldn’t go in and see the sights. That was okay, though. We made it to the Rathaus (town hall). Wow! It was so big and beautiful in its neo-Gothic way. Now it’s mostly a shopping center and tourist stop. But the Rathaus and the square around it were still beautiful.

We stopped inside a café on one of the side streets for a late 4:00 coffee (a Peter tradition). It was run by two people who clearly were from Italy. Peter thought it was a little strange to walk into a coffee shop in Germany and hear “Bon Giorno”, but I didn’t mind so much.

It’s Hofbrau Time

After our cup of coffee, it was time to wend our way to the kind of place I hated to want to go to: The Hofbrauhaus, the king of Bavarian beer halls. When we got there, the place seemed quiet and empty. A little too quiet, thought Peter. He asked a server, and sure enough, we had walked into the restaurant. The beer hall was downstairs.

We went downstairs and found a room with many people sitting at long tables. Servers in traditional clothes were carrying large mugs of beer, just like you see in every traditional image of Germany. Such pictures don’t capture the horrific wonder of the oom-pa-pa band that was playing.

We managed to find two seats together at a table with strangers. Peter didn’t want to drink too much, so we agreed to share a mass (a 1-liter mug of beer). I guess we’re lucky his passport and national ID weren’t taken away for this. :0 We were a little hungry, and Peter suggested I try Weisswurst (white sausage). It wasn’t his favorite dish, but it was a traditional Bavarian dish and therefore he thought I should try it to have the experience. The sausages were boiled and served in a white ceramic pot of water. I had to agree with Peter; they were just okay but I was glad to have tried them. A better choice was the pretzel. Peter bought one from a vendor who was walking around with them to the tables. It was only 3 Euros, very soft and filling, and not too salty.

After we finished our beer, we got out of there. We got some postcards at the gift shop and hit the Hard Rock Café across the street to get a t-shirt for my friend Nick, who collects them. We walked back towards the Rathaus and walked down the street looking at the shops. We followed the road to the Fraukirchen. We didn’t think it would be open, but when we tried the door, it worked. For reasons I still can’t explain, I felt closer to God in that place than I have felt in any place of worship in my whole life. It wasn’t overly gilded with gold and pictures as some churches are. Yet it didn’t look like the church elders were taking a vow of poverty, either. The ceilings were so high they seemed to already be in Heaven. There were some interesting exhibits on historical figures of the church as well. We sat down in the pews for a minute to collect our thoughts, and suddenly heard a choir singing. It was surreal.

We quietly thanked one of the priests for letting us in, and walked out. Facing us was a lingerie shop—I thought it was an odd location but I guess it forces people to make a clear choice in life. We walked past the shop and found the Augustiner Hall. It wasn’t as over-the-top as the Hofbrauhaus, but Peter said the Bavarians who were there were probably just bringing their out-of-town guests to see it.

We each had another half-liter of beer, and tried another kind of sausage. This sausage was served with lentils, which Peter said was traditional. I always associate lentils with Indian food (i.e. dal), so I was a little surprised to hear that.

Walking back towards the U-Bahn (subway, literally “Underhighway”), we saw a woman playing an accordion. She was wearing a special blue satin robe and white hat with a fur trim. The costume looked familiar, and then it hit me—she was Snegurichka, the Russian granddaughter of Father Christmas! I said to her, “Snegurichka”? She said, “da”. I gave her a Euro and said “Spaceba”. I think it surprised Peter how excited I got when I saw that.

The day before, Lilia had received a call from an English teacher who offered to show me around the city. Normally I wouldn’t have accepted such an offer because I’ve been to Kyiv many times, but I was very much interested in seeing Babi Yar, the site of the massacre of the Jews by the Nazis in 1941. I didn’t think I’d be able to find it or understand it on my own. I’m glad I got the help I did.

I met my guide, Raisa, at the embassy at 10:00 a.m. We took the Metro one stop to Dorohozhychi. We exited the Metro out one side and walked to the site of a large, wide ditch. Coming out of the ditch was a large wall that had a statue of people attached to it. This was the first memorial we saw to Babi Yar, which Raisa told me was a memorial to the “murdered Soviet citizens”.

I must not have been the only Jew who felt there was something not quite right about the first memorial, because on the other side of the Metro station Raisa and I saw two more memorials. One was shaped like a menorah. The other was a touching monument to the children who died at Babi Yar: three broken toys.

After this moving experience, we took the metro one stop to Golden Gate, where we saw the remnants of one of the original gates of the city. From there we walked down Volodomyrskaya past the St. Sophia Cathedral, past the statue of Bogdan Khmelnytsky (who himself killed several Jews in his time but is still considered a national hero) and past St. Michael’s Cathedral to Andrisky Uzviz.

Andrisky Uzviz is a narrow, hilly, cobblestoned street with arts and crafts from around Ukraine. It’s a beautiful street with beautiful crafts, but I have to admit it is not a pretty walk when it’s –5 Celsius (24 degrees F) and steep stone steps are covered with snow and ice. It’s moments like this when I remember that Victor told me the Russian word for translator—perevodchik—is very close to another word that means “someone who helps another person cross the street”.

Raisa was both my translator and my walking guide, and she received what I hope was a reward for her at the bottom of the hill. We were now in Kontraktova Ploscha, a square in the Podil neighborhood of Kyiv. We were very close to Kyiv Mohyla Academy, where I would be giving a presentation in a while. Before going there, I invited Raisa to a new café, Double Coffee. According to the In Your Pocket city guide, it’s a Latvian chain. It’s hard to describe the colors and textures of the walls, seats, and menus now (the shande of waiting three months to write a journal), but it felt as clean, colorful, and solid as any Western European café. It had the prices to match too—about $3-4 each for our cups of coffee and tea, and another $3 for a croissant. I’m still not sure if Raisa was completely comfortable in this environment, but the Embassy was giving me money for per diem and since she had taken the time to show me around and paid for my Metro tokens, I felt glad I could at least give her the chance to think about it.

My seminar at the university went fine. After the seminar, Lilia offered to go out to dinner with me. My first thought was Mimino, a Georgian restaurant. However, it’s a little expensive, Lilia goes there a lot, and it’s more fun with a group of people. Ironically, I was more familiar with other restaurants in Podil than she was. I suggested Black-Orange, a small café I had been to years ago. The food was as good as I remember it. More importantly, Lilia said the Ukrainian food was excellent. She said their derunye (potato pancakes) were the best she’d had in years.

After dinner, we took the Metro to Maidan Nezalezhnosti (Independence Maiden). We walked along Khreschatyk (the main street in Kyiv). There was a wooden kiosk with women selling hot spiced wine. In retrospect, I can say that hot wine sold on the street out of a large steel pot for 60 cents is not a good buy.

We ended the evening at the Globus mall under Maidan Nezalezhnosti (I’ve seen the Maidan and her entourage of TV screens many times, so there was no need to stop and look at that really). I had fun looking at Hallmark cards in Russian, though the prices were pretty hefty.

At 3:30 in the morning, I caught a taxi to the train station to get the train to Kyiv. When I lived in Khmelnytsky, I could take a very comfortable overnight train that left at 11:00 p.m.and arrived in the morning. Now it’s considered more convenient to get up before the sun and spend 4 hours sitting upright. Ah well.

Tina and Victor had tried to warn me about how much prices in Kyiv had risen since the Orange Revolution brought the Western-leaning president Victor Yushchenko to power, but I still wasn’t ready for it. I needed a taxi from the train station to the apartment I’d be staying in for the next three days, since I knew I would never find an unknown apartment on my own. Based on past experience, I thought it would cost 15-20 gryvnias (3-4 dollars). The first driver asked me for 30 gryvnias, and I stormed past him in a huff. The second driver asked for 40 gryvnias. I can’t remember what excuse he offered for why that was a reasonable deal, but I went ahead and took the second driver. Later my Ukrainian embassy friend and vital contact, Lilia, told me that that I was charged double the normal price. This is what one former colleague called the “foreign discount”. On the upside, I did feel I got extra value for the money; we had a nice long chat in Russian. He suggested many worthwhile sights in the city (most of which I’d seen already). More importantly, he talked with me about Ukraine since the revolution, and the rising prices. He said the problem is many Westerners come in to Kyiv and are able to pay high prices for apartments and restaurants; locals can’t compete.

I felt guilty enough to feel sorry for him, but not guilty enough to not take the apartment where I’d be paying $50 a night with a grant from the embassy. It was a beautiful apartment that had been renovated in the past few years. It had two rooms (a living room and a bedroom), a kitchen, a huge bathroom, a washing machine, modern lighting, satellite television, a large cabinet with books and dishes, and a kalonka (hot water heater) that could be kept on all the time.

Despite these conveniences, there were still a few irritating reminders that I was not in Kansas. First and foremost is the heating problem. With all the amenities, it was still necessary to turn on the gas stove and oven (with the burners lit of course) to keep the apartment warm. That helped keep the kitchen warm, but it didn’t do much for the bedroom.

The beautiful new bathtub with the modern shower head still had Ukrainian plumbing, a system in which it seems to be impossible for hot and cold water to mix. One gets only scalding hot or burning cold. (To be fair to Ukraine though, sometimes I think my mental wiring works the same way.)

Then there was the television. It had over 300 channels, but every other one was a sex channel. Most of the rest were sports channels or channels in foreign languages other than English. Don’t get me wrong, I love flipping back and forth between an Arabic sitcom and a Polish game show, and Arirang (a Korean channel to teach foreigners about Korea) is excellent. Nevertheless, it would have been nice if out of 300 channels there had been more English than 4 news channels.

Not everything about the apartment was negative. Out two windows I could see the onion domes of an Orthodox Church lightly covered with snow. It was not as fancy as some of the other churches in Kyiv, but they were a sight to behold nonetheless.

In the morning, Tina and I got up and got ready to head out. I mentioned to her that I wished I had a better hat for warmth; I’d underpacked a bit. Tina took out a traditional fur hat. She’d had it made to order, but it didn’t fit her right. She put it on my head, and I instantly loved it. She said, “it’s yours.” I was thrilled; I know those things are very expensive, much more expensive than a couple of jars of peanut butter and a video or two. I was also excited because I felt my “Ukrainian woman” look was complete.

We took a marshrutka (a minibus on a fixed route) to the train station. I bought my train tickets for the express train to Kyiv for Monday morning, and an overnight train back to Khmelnytsky arriving Thursday morning.

By the time we finished that task, it was nearly 11:00 am. and I was pretty hungry. Tina pointed out that a new pizza restaurant had opened up near the train station since I’d left. That sounded good to me.

I’m still trying to figure out how it’s possible that so many pizza restaurants can have nearly identical food and formats, yet have different names. Does one owner open each restaurant under a different name for tax purposes? Or are people allowed to copy an original idea without a team of lawyers on their back like in America?

Anyway, we walked in and I saw the familiar faux marble counters, salads, pizzas, and crepes. Tina and I decided to split a small pizza, and we each got a salad. When I say “salad” here, I’m not talking about lettuce and veggies. I’m talking about potatoes and meat, chicken, or fish covered in mayonnaise, or I’m talking about marinated vegetables like eggplant or mushrooms. The closest one can come to an American salad at a Ukrainian restaurant is marinated chopped tomatoes and cucumbers without the lettuce. To be honest, though, when I’m in Ukraine I don’t miss the American variant too much.

After brunch, we got on a trolleybus to the local bazaar. We changed money at a stand run by two ladies Tina knows; they give a good exchange rate. Still, the exchange rate had gone down from my last time there, from 5.33 gryvnias to the dollar to 5.10. Ugh. The only other shock was seeing that all of the bills had been redesigned. Tina had completely forgotten about that.

I was on the hunt for new winter boots. It had been over two years since I’d bought the last pair of casual winter boots, also in Khmelnytsky. The zipper handle had been broken for as long as I could remember and my American shoe repair shop (yes, they still exist) couldn’t fix it. Then, I found the seams were coming apart at the heel. To me, it was time for a new pair.

As a courtesy, I tried on a pair on the road to the main bazaar. I took off my shoe and stood on the typical piece of cardboard with the new shoe. Even though the price was great (65 gryvnias, about 12 bucks), the feeling wasn’t. And I’ve learned that when it comes to buying shoes, it’s better for me to spend more and be comfortable than to go cheap and have sore feet.

Tina and I walked on to Proskurivska, the main walking street in Khmelnytsky. Every time I see this street, there is something new on it. And every time there’s a new store, I end up spending a lot of money. This time was no different. There is now a Monarch shoe store on Proskurivska. I’m not sure where Monarch is from, but I’ve bought that brand of shoes before in Kyiv and I really like the quality. I tried on a few pairs of boots (indoors, no cardboard) before I found, with Tina’s help, a pair that felt right. It wasn’t cheap (about 80 dollars), and the boot legs are still a little high for me (I’ll have to get boot-cut jeans to wear with it for my next trip), but overall I was happy.

Tina agreed to take the old boots and find a good home for them. Later, she gave them to a young Ukrainian friend of hers who only had one pair of boots. The way Tina described her friend’s reaction to the gift, I felt like they were manna from heaven for her. I felt humbled by how lucky I was to be able to buy an 80-dollar pair of shoes without thinking too much about it, and I felt grateful that my overwillingness to discard something old had had a positive result for someone else.

After shopping and stopping for a beer at another new bar on Proscurivska, Tina and I found our way (with some help from the neighbors) to her friend Anya’s apartment. Anya’s mother made the best blini (Russian pancakes) I’ve ever had in my life. We had them with herring, sour cream, or jam. Her mother said to make them right takes hours as one mixes and remixes the dough. Amazing. Tina also helped the Anya’s daughter Sasha make a poster painting of the family dog, Vera. It was a nice way to end the day.