Lviv Through Polish Eyes: Lychakiv Polish Cemetery

The group is called 'Viagra' (seriously) and they are one of the most memorable things I saw on TV at Retro Hostel Schevcheko.  There are worse ways to nurse a hangover than sitting in a hostel lobby watching three beautiful women singing really bad Russian pop music.  My Polish comrades and I spent the late morning staring at the TV while making plans for the day.

I was fine with leaving the day's plans up to the Polacks.  History dictates it.  Lviv has twice been under Polish control: once from 1349 until 1772 and again from 1918 until 1939.  This Polish influence still is evident in much of Western Ukraine's culture and people.  In fact most of the Ukrainians one meets in the area are able to speak Polish as well as Ukrainian.  We were lucky to have one Polish guy who had not gone out the previous night and was able to guide our group of hungover vagrants through the various (Polish) points of interest in the city.

Time was limited.  We had already lost much of the morning trying to find another hostel.  The Retro Hostel staff had neglected to tell us the previous night that the entire University of Amsterdam Student Orchestra had booked there for the next 3 days.  Fifty-four Dutch college kids were to arrive that afternoon with their instruments, meaning our Polish crew had no place to stay.  We already walked to several nearby hostels; all were booked solid.  We returned tired and explained our predicament to the staff.  I used my 'hostel manager' title to explain that they had acted unprofessionally by double-booking us...blah blah blah...besides we'd hate to leave a place with such a cute staff.

After some consideration they agreed to let us sleep on the lobby sofas for free.  

Before I continue I should introduce my partners in crime: Adam, Rado and Mateusz.  Mateusz was the sensible one who had slept early last night, brought a guidebook and was to be our patient tour guide for the day.  Meanwhile Adam, Rado and I spent most of the time making stupid 'debil' jokes and hitting on Ukraine girls in the street.  Once again I discovered that my Polish heritage influences my behavior much more than I thought.  The arrival of the University of Amsterdam Orchestra only confirmed this.

Just before noon fifty-four Dutch university students started filling up the hostel lobby.  Our attempts to greet them and be friendly were met with curt "hello's" and skeptical looks.  Its here I learned that many Western Europeans view Eastern European immigrants in the same way Americans view Latino immigrants: uneducated, poor, a social burden and an automatic scapegoat for all the Western countries' problems.  The fact that these Polish jokers were with a loud, 'ignorant' American probably didn't help.  It was time to go. 

 Our first destination, the Lychakiv Polish Cemetery, was a long, long walk.  On the map it looked like a straight shot east from the hostel, but of course the winding, crooked old streets got us disoriented.  Polacks are fortunately not that strict and we took our meanderings in stride.  On the way to the cemetery we took out our cameras to snap several pictures.  We followed a simple tourist maxim:

"If it looks important, take a picture."

Here's some examples.  If you asked me what they were, I'd have no idea.  But they look important.

Perhaps Mateusz has identified these buildings in his guidebook.  I was not concerned with the data.  I was simply happy to see that Lviv was a beautiful, historic city with elegant architecture, and not a burned-out, post-Soviet hellhole like some people had led me to believe.  What I had seen in only one day would put it on par with any major European capitol like Paris or Vienna.

Once we got our bearings east on Levyts'koho Ulica we arrived at the Lychakiv Polish Cemetery gates quite quickly.  I noted with some concern that there was a ticket booth with a line.  We have to pay to see dead people?  I accepted it as part of the tourist industry and got in line behind the Polacks.

There were three entrance fees: adult, child and student.  The student fee was about a third the price of regular admission.  How could I get that price?  I noticed the Polacks pulling out their student identifications and saying "Studentky" to the large, grumpy ticket man before they paid.  Thinking quickly I took out my Illinois State Driver's License and presented it at the booth.  Without hesitating I said loudly:

"Studentky!!"

The man barely glanced at my US driver's license.  He didn't even care.  I received a student price ticket for 5 Hryvnia and was waved away by the lazy ticket employee.   I turned to see my Polish friends laughing their heads off.  They thought my "studentky" scheme was quite funny and gave it the high Polish honor of being "totally zajebisty."

We started walking down a stone path into the leafy forest that covered the cemetery.  Gothic statues, large crosses and the occasional elaborate masoleum were scattered haphazardly among the tall trees and overgrown bushes.  The area had the usual post-communist country's lack of city maintenance and it was easy to wander off the marked stone paths onto the many dirt footpaths that had been created by the constant wear of thousands of unchecked visitors' shoes.  At night the cover of trees would have added to the sinister feeling typical of many graveyards, but during midday they created relief from the hot summer sun and added a pleasant dappled effect to the grey tombstones.

 

The sunny day and general good nature of our group kept us in high spirits despite walking through a dreary graveyard.  We strolled down the shady path while pointing out notable tombstones and discussing the history of the area.  Mateusz was taking the tour seriously, but Rado, Adam and I mainly spent the time continuing with our stupid jokes and talking of things that men worldwide can relate too: sports, booze and women.  As expected it turned into a male contest to see who had drank the most and who had slept with the most international women.  After debate it seemed I was winning...  I may fail at many other things in life, but when it comes to "living the life" I'm always on top.

We decided to adventure off the main stone road onto one of the smaller meandering paths.  We found a path just wide enough for one person so we formed a single file.  It took us down an incline that lead out of the shady forest and into the bright sunlight.  Carefully we made our way downhill to where the ground leveled out.  We were still in the cemetery but this part was clearly more orderly.  A large stone necropolis looked out over hundreds of rows of white marble crosses.   Mateusz pulled out his guidebook while asking me:

"It looks like the famous American military cemetery.  How you call it?"

"Arlington National Cemetery.  In our capitol of Washington D.C...well actually Alexandria, Virginia.  We don't have crosses though."

A few close looks at the crosses confirmed our guessing.  This section of the cemetery was for Polish military veterans.  The gravestones designated each members military ranking below their names.  Many of the stones were covered in fresh flowers and red and white ribbons for the Polish flag.  However some bore no nameplate at all.  Unknown soldiers.

This was the 'Cemetery of The Defenders of Lwow' where some 3,000 Polish fighters who died in the Polish-Ukrainian War of 1918-1919 are buried.  Their fight over the territory of Eastern Galicia resulted in the region falling under Polish control.  My mother later informed me that my Polish roots are from Galicia - which would make me half Ukrainian.  I didn't know this at the time, but the quiet, ordered serenity of the white rowed gravestones left me in a rare moment of silent contemplation.



We all needed some silent contemplation. Too little sleep and too much partying had caught up to us.  In this open part of the cemetery the only shade we found was under one of the stone archways that marked an entrance.  Despite the hard gravel we gratefully sat down.  Poor Rado had lost a 'comrade' in the fight against alcohol last night, leaving his Polish girl very unhappy.  We performed a burial ceremony for his little K.I.A. 'soldier.'  It was one of the most absurd moments of my Lviv trip, yet we completed the ceremony with a serious, solemn air.

Mateusz regaled us with some important facts about the cemetery.  I can't recall any off the top of my head, but I'm sure they can be found online.  We lay in the comforting shade, listening to him read the guidebook until our hunger came.

"Let's get lunch!"

  

 

 

 

 

    

One Night In Lviv Is Never Enough

Hurry up and wait... 
                                Hurry up and wait... 
                                                                Hurry up and wait...


Now hurry up!  After a quiet train ride through the Ukraine countryside I found myself in a mass of people rushing off the train in Lviv.  For a few wild minutes I surged forward with the herd and suddenly....I was alone.

A large white concrete platform spread out in front of me.  Central Lviv was off in the distance.  The train passengers were dispersing and I quickly hailed down one of them before I ran out of options.  He was a large, young guy with an massive beard who spoke a little English.  He introduced himself as "VladakrunpronouncableSlavicname."  I showed him Maria's drawing of the two parallel roads and the directions for Retro Hostel Shevchenko.  Instead of simply pointing me the right way, he told me to follow him and walked me to the street where Tram 29A waited.  I thanked Vladakblahblahblah kindly and paid for the ticket.

The tram did a quick turn onto the main thoroughfare.  No sooner had I sat down when I saw the same bearded young guy running after the tram.  He quickly appeared at the door and apologized for putting me on the wrong tram.  As if I knew the difference.  He lead me to a tram immediately in front of the first.  He found two young, attractive girls on the tram and chatted with them briefly in Ukraine:

"This girls speak English.  They know where you are.  Follow them."

Here we go again.

Flirting with the girls was easy, since they were flabbergasted that some American guy would end up sitting behind them on a tram.  At that point I had been border-traveling for 14 hours and could barely entertain the notion of some wild, exotic Ukrainian girl sex fantasy.  I talked with them, but the only image that kept popping into my mind was me alone, sleeping in a warm bed.  We arrived at the Green Street stop and I found Retro Hostel easily enough.  I checked-in and slumped up the 6 stories to my 10 bed dormitory.  After a shower I passed out to recover for a few hours.  Before hitting the pillow, I saw several Polish guys drinking beer and vodka in the dorm.  It was only about 3 o'clock in the afternoon.  They would be ideal party comrades.

Team Poland (plus 1 American) at Kriyyika

 We did party.  By the time we found Kriyyika Pub on Market Square at 11pm, we had already helped ourselves to several liter beers at the hostel after sharing travel stories, establishing my proud Polish roots and finding a few Polish girls as well.  Retro Hostel staff tipped us off to the pub.  Its well hidden and quite a task to find if you don't know where it's at.  This is exactly what the bar wants.  Even the website has a password.

Two bottles of 'Mint Stagger' vodka

Kriyyika Pub is what I expect from a part of the former U.S.S.R.  You can only find the location by word-of-mouth, it's hidden underground, the bouncers don't blink and they don't let you in without a password (ask the Retro Hostel staff.)  Once you're inside it's a different story.

The place is a massive underground cellar with a Communist theme.  Its food menu is nice and the drink menu nicer...especially the homemade flavored vodkas.  A few fresh, delicious bottles of  "Mint Stagger" vodka set our group of Polish folks (plus one American) reeling.  They were good enough to demand a 2nd round.  Possibly there was a 3rd round or even a 4th, but we were quickly losing track of the bottles.  Ukrainian vodka is strong and potent when its this drinkable.  Drinking it with a group of rowdy Polish guys and girls further complicates the problem.

These large amounts of vodka caused my mind to drift back to the lovely Ukrainian girls from the bus.  They weren't the only ones I had noticed.  Our difficulty in finding Kryyvina pub was troublesome, but it had given me plenty of time to watch the locals girls walking around.  What I had seen this night simply made my jaw drop.  That is no easy thing to say after having lived in Slovakia for 2 years and traveled through Poland.  Slavic girls are already amazing in general and yet somehow they got better in Lviv.  Maybe a Ukrainian mail-order bride isn't such a bad idea?

Lovely Ukrainian & Polish girls. Plus one Polish guy.

I abruptly stood up from the table and declared my plans to start looking for my future wife.  The Polacks were very amused and said since I was American it would be easy.  I started stumbling around the cavernous bar in search of a soulmate.

She was tall, beautiful and had jet-black hair to contrast with her ivory skin.  I found her drinking champagne with her equally lovely blond "mother."  I couldn't honestly believe they were mother and daughter, but who cares?  They joined our table for more vodka rounds.    

Hold on.  When two lovely girls so willingly leave their table at the request of a drunken, loud American something is suspicious.  The words of my border-crossing guide, Maria, "No English. Speak English, more money" echoed in my mind.  This thought bothered me, but the 5, 6, 7..??? shots of vodka told me otherwise.  I told the Ukrainians we were ready to dance and asked their suggestion for the next stop.

"We go to Fashion Club.  You and mother and Polish."

Fashion Club?  Sounds posh.  In our drunken mess, we managed to pay the bill and stumble out of the cellar.  The Ukrainians guided my Polish crew and I to a place right on the main drag.  It looked posh, intimidating and screamed "cover charge."  The line to pay cover had several supermodels and their big Mafia-looking boyfriends.  I wondered if my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles "Party Wagon" shirt was up to code.

Despite my drunken state, what happened next sobered me up quickly.  "Mother" and daughter had kindly gotten entry tickets for us foreigners.  Yet somehow we were all getting quoted different prices.  Men do pay more than women, but oddly one of the Polish guys was charged an additional fee because his shoes were "wrong."  Not surprisingly, I being the "rich" American got charged the most.  Mother and daughter said I was paying for them plus "added" fee.  I tried comparing single ticket prices.  Something wasn't adding up.  I could've spent more time calculating but drunkenly converting Ukrainian Hryvna to American Dollars while being scammed by beautiful foreign women is not something I learned in university.  I did the asshole backpacker thing.

"I'm not paying for you."

The golden ticket

At the risk of getting my ass beat by the skinhead bouncer with probable ties to the Russian Mafia, I argued with the ticket doorman.  By waving my arms, shouting and gesturing enough the man finally figured out I wasn't going to pay for the girls.

He ripped up my first ticket and gave me a new, single ticket.  I paid the new amount and stomped into the club, ignoring the fashionable Ukrainian spectators who were eyeing me with disgust.  Life is good.

My Polish comrades hadn't been so lucky.  One had paid the "shoe fee" and the others seemed unsure of what had just happened.  I myself wasn't so sure.  How had one ranting, jeans and t-shirt American convinced the Ukrainian staff of a fashionable Lviv club that he had been ripped off by two scheming Ukrainian women?

The rest of the night slipped away as we consumed more vodka and danced to bad Ukrainian pop music.  One of the Polacks fell victim to too much vodka.  Two Polacks fell victim to each other and left early.  I fell victim to another beautiful Ukrainian girl.  Somewhere around 5 in the morning I found myself sharing breakfast and singing "Just The Way You Are" off-key to a blond-haired, blue-eyed Barbie doll in a 24-hour casino.  This is only the first night.

   

 

The Slow Train to Lviv

'Gatta' means cat in Greek...

The seats were solid, hard wood.  They hurt.  The train creaked along and the ticket collector didn't arrive until a good 20 minutes after we had boarded in 'middle-of-nowhere,' Ukraine.  I paid about 50 Hryvnia and my accidental tour guide, Maria, paid a little less.  It was then that I finally realized she wasn't going all the way to Lviv with me.  Her long trip from Greece via Krakow was ending in a small village named Rudne.  Once again I would be alone in a large city where I don't speak the language.  I returned to my usual state of traveler's panic.

I questioned Maria for information about the train's arrival in Lviv.  In my notebook she wrote 'Prymiskyj Vogzal' which was the name of the station, or possibly the name of a villain from a cheesy sci-fi film.  To clarify she informed me, "Not Central Lviv Station."  Very reassuring.  So how do I get to central Lviv?

Fortunately I had the foresight to write a short list of available hostels in Lviv:
1. The Kosmonaut Hostel, 1st floor Sichovykh, Stritiso 8
2. Roxelana Hostel, General Chuprenke 50/4 Tehepan
3. Retro Hostel Shevchensko, Shevchensko 16.  Take Tran #1 or #9, exit Green St, cross to Saksaganskogo St.

The street names are complicated but at least they have names.  Unlike Costa Rica where I live.

Notice the third hostel has the most directions?  As a hostel manager, I beg of you hostels to always have good directions on how to arrive at your place.  The three hostels are all cheap, but I settled on Retro Hostel for the simple fact that its description told me how to get there.  Imagine.  Although it would seem obvious, many hostels seem unaware that most of their guests are completely new in the city, don't speak the language and exercise bad judgement due to exhaustion/disorientation/hangover/stupidity. 

Maria recognized the information I showed her.  She drew a simple map of the train station and two parallel streets.  I had to cross one parallel street then look for tram 29A which would take me to Green Street where Retro Hostel was. Simple.

"Skype? You Skype?  I learn English, you?"

"Umm...yes.  I have Skype."

She wrote her Skype name next to the map and continued sketching on the opposite page.  It was not a map.  It was a cat.  I asked her if it had a name.  Above the drawing she wrote 'Gatta.'  She told me 'Gatta' is 'cat' in Greek.  Next to the drawing she wrote in English: 'hello', 'good morning' and 'good night.'

"I learn English, you, Skype?" she repeated and gave me a small smile while looking directly at me.  There was a sad, pleading look in her eyes.  She took my hands and indicated she wanted a massage.  I obliged with a certain guilt.  I had observed how thin she was and it become even more evident when I placed my hands on her.

I felt like a dick for thinking that she had been out to scam me or lead me into some trap.  I remembered the pictures of her children on her phone.  She had been away working as a cook in Greece for almost a year; most likely wiring her money to her family in her small village.  Due to the wide language barrier I could never learn the true story.  I'm sure it merits more respect than my silly joyride through the Ukraine.

In time Maria gave me a massage as well.  When she finished she gave me another long, sad look.  I looked her in the eyes.  I thought of taking advantage of the situation, but guilt overcame me again and I let the moment pass.  I was sure there would be more moments like this in Lviv very soon.  After gazing at her for a minute I stupidly said, "Skype!" 

She smiled meekly and laid her head on my shoulder.  Not knowing what else to do, I put my arm around her.  Quickly she drifted into sleep despite the hard wooden seats.  I was unable to sleep and stared out the window at nothing in particular.  I stroked Maria's hair absentmindedly.  An incredible sadness came over me.  The train slowly became more hot and crowded and interesting with each stop, but I noticed none of it.

When we arrived at Maria's small village another lady was waiting for her there.  She told me "two more," which I took to mean two more stops until Lviv.  I thanked her for her help and carried her heavy bags off the train.  Her and her friend waved at me as the train took off.  I waved back and smiled bitterly, knowing I would never see her again.

 

The Wrong Way To Cross Polish-Ukraine Border to Lviv

Working in a hostel has made me realize how many backpackers blindly allow 'Lonely Planet' guidebooks to dictate their entire travel plans.  Their travel mantra is, "If it's not in 'Lonely Planet,' it doesn't exist."

 Thorn Tree travel forum

meczko

Oct 14, 2008 4:23 AM
Posts:  998

7

Re catching train on the Ukrainian side - it's not practical. The border railway station in Mostyska is several kilometers from the road/pedestrian crossing in Shehyni, actually in a middle of nowhere, so you'd have to catch a cab and I am not sure how would it be with tickets availibility there.

If I had taken this Thorn Tree advice to heart, I wouldn't have enjoyed eating lunch in scenic 'Middle Of Nowhere,' Ukraine.  Although it seemed more dangerous at the time, blindly following a strange Ukrainian lady from Krakow to Lviv was a better decision than repeating the advice of a guidebook.

Maria had gotten me from Krakow to Prsymsymsysm to Medyka and across the Ukrainian border into Shehyni without problems.  She had helped me get food in the ugly bordertown convenience store and had even scared away an evil taxi driver who had followed us inside.  I could trust her now and stop imagining she was somehow leading me into a trap involving a roving band of gypsies, corrupt police and her ugly gold chain and tracksuit clad Mafia boyfriend.

Besides...who else could I trust here?

With food in hand, we walked out the store into the hot summer sun.  The bordertown vultures saw us exit immediately and we rushed down the road in the opposite direction of the border while ignoring the shouts of "Taxi, Taxi" and "Money, Money."  A short walk past some garbage piles and homeless winos brought us to a large rock lot like the one in Medyka.  Minibuses waited for us there.

"Minibus, minbus," said Maria.  And then in a more hushed tone she added,

"You. No English.  Speak English, more money."

Those who know me would say its impossible for me to keep my mouth shut in any language.  This particular time I did follow her advice very well.  We boarded in silence and took off once the bus filled up.  My mouth was shut, but I imagine that pulling out the camera on the ride raised the rate a few Hryvnia.

Stupid tourist.

Kilometers clicked by as the driver randomly dropped off and picked up people along the highway.  It seemed everyone knew where exactly where they were going except me. Were we taking the bus all the way to Lviv?  I resisted the urge to ask Maria and assumed she knew what was next.

After 15 minutes we pulled off to a muddy road on the side of the highway.  Large puddles dotted the route.  Maria nodded her head.  I got off, grabbed my bags and turned around to see Maria heatedly arguing with the driver.  They wildly gesticulated and yelled as the other passengers stared.  Hastily Maria got off the bus with her luggage.  Some old ladies were departing as well so I helped them with their bags.   Maria continued arguing with the driver.  Finally she stopped and told me to pay 3 Hryvnia for the trip.  I paid and the driver left in a hurry.

Maria and the old ladies discussed her mystery problem for a while before they left.  I gazed around the empty countryside, oblivious to the issue.   Eventually Maria and I were standing alone on the muddy path that stretched into the distance.  She was pissed.

I asked Maria, "Katastrofea??"  She responded immediately with, "Tak, Katastrofea!!"  In my bad Slovak I found out that less than 200 meters down the path was the train station that would take us to Lviv.  For this short distance the driver wanted to charge us an additional 3 Hryvnia; that's double the price for a small detour.  His reason??  The mud was dangerous.

Train structure with chickens

We meandered to the train station...or rather train structure.  To call it a station would give it too much credit.  A tin roof topped 3 concrete walls.  Two broken benches, some graffiti and a few stray chickens were inside.  There were no schedules nor employees to say when trains came.  Maria assured me we could leave our bags alone by the tracks with no problem.  Given the desolate location, I believed her and gladly dropped my heavy luggage.  I asked her when the train arrived.  She held up one index finger.  It was 11am.  

"Woda?"

"Tak. Woda je dobra...where?"

I hadn't drank anything in fourteen hours.  The train structure clearly had no electricity nor plumbing, so I wondered why Maria would offer me water.  She waved her hand and led me around the structure to a low-built wooden shed with a crank sticking out the right.  Inside there was a tin bucket for an old well leading deep into the ground.  I momentarily thought of how the Chernobyl accident had occurred in the Ukraine, but the incredible dryness in my throat quickly cast this thought away.  After several times of lowering and raising the tin bucket we had quenched our thirst with fresh water straight from the aquifer.

My throat was no longer parched but my stomach was rumbling.  We returned to our luggage besides the tracks and prepared a simple lunch of bread, cheese and yogurt.  It was sufficient to kill the hunger that had been building up since I had left Krakow several hours ago.  Following the madness of running by train, minibus and foot from border to border all night, it felt good to have some peace.  Now was the best time to enjoy that first Ukrainian beer I had bought at the border town.  After a moment of panic when I realized I had no opener for the bottle, I remembered an old Polish saying my friend Marcin taught me: "anything can open a beer."  I walked over to the railroad tracks, set the cap against an edge on the steel beam, then pulled the bottle down quickly.  *Psssshhhh!*  The quiet Ukrainian countryside looked much better now.  Who wants a beer?

The first Ukrainian beer

Maria received a call on her phone and disappeared into the bushes to talk.  The sounds of the countryside filled up the silence: birdsong, some cricket chirps, a light breeze blowing and the occasional cow moo in the distance.  The mind wanders easily in a idyllic setting like this.

...What do I know about the Ukraine?
The bad: Chernobyl, high AIDS rate and mail-order brides.
The good: Yalta Conference, Orange Revolution and mail-order brides.
The just plain weird: Jonathan Safran Froer's novel, 'Everything is Illuminated.'

Sitting alone in this empty, never-ending countryside by an isolated railway emphasized how little I knew about the largest country in Europe.  What do they eat?  Are they friendly?  Do they like Americans?  Is it -in fact- still Europe?  Many questions and thoughts ran through my head, and soon the moment took on a surreal quality quite like one of the stranger passages from 'Everything is Illuminated.'  Perhaps the train will never come...and it won't matter.

I always thought words like 'enchanting' and 'magical' were reserved for places like Paris, Dresden and Prague, yet this little, dilapidated corner of western Ukraine affected me more than any of those great cities.

Maria returned from her hiding place in the bushes.  We finished our food then took a nap on the concrete in the hot sun.  The train arrived exactly at 1pm.

How To Cross The Polish-Ukraine Border Without A Clue

"Just follow her.  She's going to Lviv."

"But she doesn't speak English.  And I barely speak Slovak."

"Don't worry.  She speaks Polish.  You'll be fine."

 I don't speak Polish and definitely don't speak Ukrainian.  Yet I spent 12 hours traveling from Krakow, Poland to Lviv, Ukraine with a nice Ukrainian lady whose English consists of, "Good Morning" and "Good Night."  This may sound like a fantasy to many men, but when you're lost in a strange land at 3:19 in the morning it's less than desirable.

Its 10:29pm and I'm at the Krakow Central Train Station trying to get on the direct train to Lviv.  Even though there's plenty of seats available and I have the money, they aren't allowing me on the train without a reserved ticket.  My two Polish friends, Sylwia and Samantha, are trying to help but the train staff only speaks Ukrainian.

A skinny, wide-eyed, olive-skinned lady is arguing in Ukrainian with the staff.  Fortunately she speaks Polish so my friends talk with her.  Her name is Maria, she lives near Lviv and she has the same problem.  She has done this trip and says this has never happened to her before.  After some discussion my friends recommend I follow her to Lviv.  Her first impression makes me uneasy.  Emaciated, unnaturally dark and chain-smoking, she is as skittish as a wet cat and shuffles about in flip-flops despite the chilly weather.  This shuffle is made even stranger by her dragging around three bags whose combined weight must be twice her own.  She's not the kind of person who I would immediately trust myself to when entering uncharted territory.

The train staff is giving her the cold shoulder as well, and rather than a direct train it looks like we will both have to go with the more complicated Plan B.  Sylwia found some information on a Polish travel forum, but it's not the most thorough.

Plan B
1. Train to to Pryzemysl, Poland: 140 zloty
2. Minibus to the border at Medyka: 2 zloty
3. Walk across the border to Shehyni, Ukraine: Free? Bribe?
4. Minibus to Lviv or to unspecified train station: Price?? ("Maria will know where it is.")
5. Unspecified train to Lviv: Is there a train??  ...Maybe a minibus??

The plus is Plan B is cheaper than a direct train.  The con is being "stupid-American-not-knowing-what-the-hell-is-happening," which can ultimately get a lot more expensive.  I fully expected to end up on the side of a dirt road in the Ukraine countryside watching a car of corrupt police drive away with all my 'confiscated' bags.

Pryzemysl: pronounced "Psmsymsymsysm"

After a few anticlimactic yet still tearful hours, I said goodbye to Sylwia and Samantha and got on an 3:19am morning train with Maria to Pryzemysl, a city whose name I will never ever be able to pronounce.  I struggled in Slovak to find out more about this odd lady.  I gathered that she had been working in Greece for a few months and was returning to her family.  This would explain the non-Ukrainian dark skin, flip-flops and bags covered in Alphas and Omegas.  I relaxed a little with this knowledge and drifted off to sleep for a few hours.


About 8:00am, we slumped off the train in Pryzemysl and crossed the tracks into a rocky parking lot. There were a few small shacks, a crowd of people milling about and some large vans parked in the lot.  I assumed these were minibuses, but I saw no schedules or signs to confirm this.  At this point I took Sylwia's, "Just follow her" advice to heart and gave the thin Maria a lost, lonely look while inquiring, "Minibus? Medyka?"

She held up a finger and shuffled off to find out.

Maria in blue and Minibus in white.

Moments later a man walked out of one of the small shacks and started shouting.  The crowd suddenly swarmed around one of the vans, and I rushed with them just as I saw Maria doing the same.  We went to the rear of the van to pack our bags.  It looked completely full, yet the attendee magically found more room for our luggage.  Maria yelled something at the driver, then held up 2 fingers to indicate the price.  I paid the driver.  Panic set in as he turned away without giving me change.  Maria yelled at him again and he returned with my change.  Hmm. Maybe she's on my side. 


For fifteen minutes we rode to the border as she showed me pictures of her children on her phone.  We jerked to a halt in Medyka, then rushed off the minibus to join a river of people on a stone path to the Ukrainian border.

I turned to Maria to give her the lost, lonely look again.  She was ignoring me.  She had got a Ukrainian signal on her phone and was engaged in conversation with...her children? Husband?  Once she finished her conversation, she turned to me and started saying, "Fast! Fast!" in English.  I was perplexed until she added, "No Police! No Police" to the command.  We grabbed our heavy bags and skittered as fast as we could down the winding stone path.

As we scooted along the path, I saw the truth in Maria's simple warning.  Several slower people were being stopped by border police for random inspections.  Their luggage was opened, identification checked and questions asked.  I did not want to be one of these people.  I'm sure they would have fun with a USA passport.

The actual stamp and customs process was surprisingly pleasant.  We had a small holdup on the Polish side when a girl in front of us got detained for having her paperwork out of order.  One of the policemen used that time to introduce his new wife to the entire border patrol, which caused a longer delay.  Cute.  Other than that, the lady on the Ukrainian side stamped my passport without a single inspection and said to me with a smile: "Welcome to Ukraine!"

The happiness ended soon after.  Shehyni, Ukraine looked as most border towns around the world do.  An immobile line of cars and trucks stretched down the road from the border off into the horizon.  Trash and debris covered the landscape.  Various evil vultures in the form of taxi drivers, money exchangers, smugglers, beggars and other undesirables swooped down on us once we exited the border gates.  Maria didn't have to say anything.  My experience from border towns is all the same:
 
1. Move quickly
2. Avoid eye contact
3. Keep your mouth shut as the slightest utterance of English just encourages the vultures

We quickly exchanged Polish Zlotys for Ukrainian Hryvna at a reliable (??) money exchange then ducked for cover into the nearest convenience store.  One street vulture continued to follow us into the store and the charming Maria again screamed for him to leave us alone.  He slinked off and we were free to purchase some survival snacks.  I like her.  It was time for a Ukrainian beer.

Sounds complicated?  Up to this point, everything I've done can be easily found on various travel forums; however, how I got to Lviv from the border is not the recommended method...

Krakow by Night

"Raleigh, do you like football?"

"I guess more than most Americans.  I was fortunate to be in Slovakia when they entered the World Cup for the first time in their history, and unfortunately it was because of you.  That own-goal was not good."

"Yes, we are bad.  Poland and Ukraine is only in Euro 2012 Championship because they are hosting."

 We spent almost a hour traveling by bus to the outskirts of Lviv to see the construction of the Arena Lviv.  Ukraine and Poland will play hosts to the UEFA Euro 2012 Championship and Lviv saw it fit to construct a new stadium for this epic soccer event.  The Euro 2012 will happen between June 8th and July 1st of this year. 

Soccer??  I realize most Americans have quit reading this so they can go watch a College Bowl game or find out which NFL teams have gained a playoff berth.  If you are one of those few Americans who follow soccer, or pretty much anyone not from the USA, keep reading...

Construction on the Arena Stadium began in November 2008 and continued despite much debate on whether the Ukraine even had the finances and infrastructure to host the Euro 2012.  The large stadium Adam, Rado, Matuesz and I saw being constructed before us would eventually have a capacity of 34,915 spectators.  At it's completion on October 2011 the construction costs totaled 211 Million Euro.  As impressive as these numbers are, it is actually the smallest of the eight stadiums that are hosting games.

Certainly my Polish comrades were quite happy to see this building that was contributing to the Euro 2012's - and Poland's - fame.  What I saw in August 2011 looked a long way off from the ambitious project that would include city tram connections, bus connections and an airport link and was meant to host one of the largest athletic events in Europe.  From the highway bus stop we had had to walk across a least a mile of open grassy farmland.  I assumed it would be plowed to make way for a connecting road to the stadium.

The construction workers seemed bemused that we were milling about the site.  They allowed us a little closer to the stadium and even obliged us a few touristy photos.  Rado and I considered jumping on a steamroller and seeing if we could ride it into the city.  We probably wouldn't get very far, but it would make getting across the farmland much easier.  We found the dirt road back to the highway and the bus stop.  There was a shopping center by the stop, so we went inside for a drink.  Coffee, beer or water...it was all the same.  It was a long way back to central Lviv.

 We got on the bus.  Adam fell asleep almost instantly.  Rado and I began talking of the amazing beauty of Ukraine girls again.  In particular we talked of one who we saw on the bus behind us.  She was brunette and could have won that year's award for "Highest Cheekbones."  I knew we were drawing attention to ourselves by speaking English quite loud.  Did anyone understand? 

Someone had been listening.  At the next stop, our beautiful Ukraine girl turned to us right before she got off the bus:

 "You know that some of us can understand you when you speak.  Its not polite."

I refuse to be fazed.

"Sorry.  We couldn't help talking about how beautiful you are.  I wish you would stay on the bus."

What passes for cheesy in the USA seems to work well elsewhere.  She smiled and laughed a little at my audacity.   I waved goodbye as the bus left her at her stop.  By that that time we had entered central Lviv.  The city became familiar again and the Polacks and I pointed out some of the buildings and places we had seen when we had left earlier that afternoon.  We were planning for the night and Lviv was ours again.  We started guessing how far we were from Retro Hostel.

As if to answer our question, the bus broke down.  Everyone off.

Orava is Slovakia: Rozmarin Country Fest in Terchova

In Orava I've done grand, soaring castle tours and quiet village life, so now its time for the thing I do best, party!  I spent my final Orava night watching live music at 'Amfiteater na Borami' in the village of Terchova.  This village is home to Slovak folk legend, Juraj Janosik, and the amphitheater itself hosts many culture events such as, "Janosik Days," and the cooking fest "Bryndzova Halusky Terchova."  On this weekend, I experienced a bunch of Czech & Slovak rednecks playing their versions of American country music at "Country Fest Rozmarin!"

 This is Deda Mladek Illegal Band, who I saw at the festival on Saturday night. The song is, "Jozin z Bazin" which translates to something like,"Joe From The Swamp."  While they are technically not country music, they still do a fine, funny job of playing old American ragtime and swing.  The singer is clearly crazy and doesn't give a damn about being a complete fool onstage.

I don't have to understand lyrics to enjoy live music.  The bands were good, the vibe was chill and Terchova is in the middle of the Mala Fatra mountains so the surrounding countryside is beautiful.  To top it off, instead of paying 10 Euro for the entry fee, I got in free thanks to a friend who works at the event.  Typically I start out with alcohol, but they had cold Kofola on tap, and you can only find it in the former Czechoslovakian countries.  I'll take it over Coca-Cola any day. 
                                                                                             

 

Kofola only lasts so long though, and I knew I needed something stronger when I heard the singer calling for everyone to drink Hruskovica and Borovicka!  The best Slovak spirits you can get are homemade, but here I have to settle for Spis, still one of the best commercially available.  The Spis Truck (which I will own someday) was parked outside the amphitheater, and it was full of sexy Slovak Spis girls handing out shots and tattoos!!

Strong, yet still smooth and sweet.  The shot...not the girl.  

With hruska burning in my belly and the sun setting I was ready to see the last headline band.  I was expecting more American music, but instead I got Cechomor.  Just calling them traditional Czech/Slovak music is too simple an explanation.  Here they sing, "Mistecko,"  I don't have to understand the lyrics, but I know I got chills.

  Dobru Noc.

Orava is Slovakia: Dolny Kubin Village Life

We've just seen the imposing, soaring beauty of Orava Castle in Slovakia.  Now its time to focus on something much simpler, but equally beautiful in Orava.  My Slovak friend invited me to his family cottage farm outside Dolny Kubin for a day.  I wish it could have been a lifetime.  I'm too cynical and sarcastic to use words such as charming, quaint, whimsical and idyllic, but these words describe the little family cottage very well.

Most tourists in Central/Eastern Europe will never experience this kind of building.  They focus on the usual giant castles, museums and central squares of Europe.  When venturing away from the tourist areas they look in disgust at the classic "Communist" blocks, or panelka, that are quite typical in countries affiliated with the former Soviet Union.

Charming in their own way; I feel like I'm visiting Pee-Wee's Playhouse.  The irony of these "Eastern" European buildings is that their design originates from a "Western" architect from England.  I guess Stalin was just very impressed with the economical advantage of these buildings and it quickly propagated throughout the region.  If you do go to smaller villages you will see the old, rustic small cottages from the pre-Communist days.

The small cottage I found myself at is self-sustaining.  It sits on a long, thin plot of land where my friend's family grows their own fruits and vegetables.  A short walk to the backyard treats you to a variety of berries, legumes, greens and fruit trees.  On that particular day I snacked on fresh gooseberries I had plucked from a bush out back.

All of this fresh food makes for great meals.  My friend's family treated me to some homemade Slovak cooking.  I'd never thought of dill as a good way to flavor food, but it worked very well as a sauce with meatloaf and Slovak knedl'a, a soft dumpling bread that's perfect for soaking up sauce.  In addition to this I stuffed myself with korbaciky syr, a salty string cheese that's everywhere in Orava.

 It's excellent comfort food when paired with a Pilsner beer and shot of Slivovica.  If you try it in the capital of Bratislava it just won't compare.  Unfortunately most tourist don't even give Bratislava a chance, much less the rest of Slovakia.  Come out to the countryside for some simple living and discover why I like this little country.

Orava Is Slovakia: Oravsky Hrad

I work in a hostel in Costa Rica; one of the most tourist-friendly countries in the world.  When I travel I need a place without tourists...particularly Americans.  Slovakia is that place.  Many people I know think it's Czechoslovakia, as if we're still in the Cold War.  Thanks to my generous Slovak friends, I have found a lot more in this country than its small size would suggest.  This summer I discovered the heart of Slovakia: Orava.

This is the view from high atop the Citadel of Orava Castle near Dolny Kubin, Slovakia.  This is the highest as well as the oldest part of the castle.  The oldest record of the castle construction dates back to 1267, but the location had been occupied for hundreds of years before.  It would be quite difficult for any invader to scale this limey mountain.

The interior has been converted into a museum covering the history of the castle and the surrounding Orava region.  The large dining room, the armory and the views of the surrounding countryside are particularly impressive.  I found the design of the dining room chairs interesting for a special reason: alcoholic consumption.

It's a man's chair

The males would sit at the table and discuss war, politics and business over many glasses of beer and domaca slivovica. Meanwhile the females would quietly sit against the wall and get bored.  The ladies' chairs have no arms, which gave them more reason to leave early and go to sleep.  The mens' chairs have arms, which enabled them to drink all night and comfortably pass out in their chairs without falling over.

Besides the life of castle nobility, the museum also highlights the rural culture and nature of the Orava region.  Here's the traditional 'kroje' that many Slovak sheepherders and farmers wore.  Although it looks quite dated, people were still wearing these up through the 20th century.  I would take this fancy suit over the American cowboy hat and boots anyday.

This is just a short part of what I saw on the 2 hour tour.  Being the only American there also gave it a personal quality.  Although I don't expect hundreds of American tourists to flood Slovakia for one castle, I do hope some of you will hop a ZSR Train to Orava and see what I have seen.

Welcome to Slovakia.

 

Return To Europe: Vienna Waits For You

Passenger Service
------------------------------------------------------------------------
1 at 21.07.11 SAN JOSE (COSTA RICA) - SANTO DOMINGO
M DE 3235 09:30 - 14:20 (2:50h)
Economy Class
SANTO DOMINGO - FRANKFURT INT.
M DE 3235 15:20 - 06:40 (9:20h)
Economy Class
baggage incl.: 20 kg

They forgot to mention the 4 FUCKING HOUR delay in Santo Domingo.  I do not blame this on Condor Airlines, but rather on the Dominican Republic.  Their idea of efficiency makes Costa Rica look like Switzerland..

Generally flight delays do not bother me, since it gives me more time to drink beer in the airport bars.  German beer of course comes highly recommended worldwide.  For this particular reason a long wait in a German airport is quite exciting after 5 months of crappy, watery Costa Rican beer.

Unfortunately, this time the delay caused me to miss my morning German Rideshare from Frankfurt to Vienna, Austria.  I would have paid 35 Euros for the trip, but had to pay 100 plus Euros for a train trip.  This was already proving to be a horrible "budget backpacker" trip.  I finally arrived in at my Bulgarian friend Kosta Tonev's art studio sometime around 11pm.  Yes, he's a real artist who has had exhibitions all around the world.  I contemplated some of his recent works then passed out...

   

The next day I felt completely refreshed with the knowledge that I was back in Vienna after a year, and I would spend the day with Laura and Kosta, two of my friends from Romania and Bulgaria, respectively.  We meet in the weekend flea market around 4pm right before it closed on Saturday afternoon.  You can find many useful and useless things here for a fine price.  For example, here is a pimping fur coat for under 10 Euros:

Thank you fat guy in the back for making me look more attractive

After fooling around in the market, we got down to catching up on old times.  This was done in true Balkan style.  True Balkan conversation means sitting for hours at a cafe drinking coffee and smoking way too many cigarettes.  Since I was heading to Romania and Bulgaria, they were both very happy to share travel information with me about their countries.  Kosta also tried (unsuccessfully) to teach me how to roll a cigarette properly.  As you can see by his face, he was less than pleased with my final results...

Step 1.

Step 2.

Step...ah, dammit.

Der Wiener Deewan

After smoking a poorly rolled cigarette and sipping strong, black coffee, we strolled through the underground Metro on our way to find a place to eat.  Laura suggested Der Wiener Deewan Restaurant, a small, funky Pakistani buffet on the Liechtenstienstrasse.  Their eating concept was so crazy, Kosta and I did a double-take:

1. Eat as much as you want.

2. Pay as much as you want.

 WHAT? A customer can eat, eat, eat at the buffet and only pay 1 Euro cent.  This would seem like an easy way to make your restaurant go broke, but fortunately most Austrians aren't complete assholes and pay for good food and service when they have it (this would never work in Latin America.)  I settled on 5 Euros for 4 plates of food and still felt guilty.  Deewan also supports itself by charging for the drinks and merchandise.  This is why they've stayed open for almost 10 years now while serving up great Indian buffet-style food...plus you can eat laying down.

 After eating our fill we finished the night with a few beers across the street at Charlie P's Irish Pub.  I had a decent Munich beer and tried in vain again to roll a cigarette.  This one came out as good (or worse) than the first, but who cares when your with good friends.