Beer Pong 101 for Ukrainians

What?

You thought I was going spend my last day in Lviv waxing nostalgic about the beauty of the culture and the ephemeral feelings of the city, blah, blah, blah....?  As a cultural ambassador from the United States, I feel it is my duty to introduce the world to our vast amount of drinking games.

Drinking games are everywhere, but only the USA has managed to make them into physically demanding activities that often leave the competitors passed out; both due to physical exhaustion and alcoholic consumption.

"You Americans is different. We just drink the beer to get drunk. No games."

"We're a competitive cultural.  You see all the largest, most successful companies in the world are from the United States: Microsoft, IBM, Walmart, McDonalds, Facebook..."

"Mmmm.  Is true. How do you play?"

I was using my US business school education to rationalize playing beer pong.  It was one of my more elegant pieces of bullshit but it worked.  After buying a few large liter bottles of Ukrainian beer and acquiring some plastic cups, I had assembled a team of Retro Hostel guests, friends and staff who were curious.  America, Fuck Yeah.

Other than regional variations (based on what University you went to) the basic rules of Beer Pong are quite well known to all Americans, so I won't waste time explaining them.  The difficulty in the Ukraine was the logistics.  The Ukraine -and Europe in general- does not have those big, beautiful red SOLO cups that form a perfect basket for ping-pong balls.  We had to settle for smaller, dull clear plastic cups.  Such were the issues:


1. Inexperienced players who have no idea how to play
2. Smaller cups with less area to aim providing a greater challenge for beginners
3. Vast language barrier (fortunately alcohol usually fixes this)

For example, this guy couldn't even say, "hello," in English but that didn't prevent us from making a great start-up team.  Everytime we missed a shot he would yell and grab his head in a bizarre dance of agony.  Every time we made a shot he would high-five me and at times give me a big manly bear-hug while shouting at me in unintelligible Ukraine.  After 3 rounds we were leading the newly-found Retro Hostel Beer Pong League.



I couldn't have asked for a better and more dedicated team of rookies to coach.  The wild Ukrainian, a duo of Polacks and an African exchange student took to the game with enthusiasm.  The African in particular fought with a vengeance. He told me, "I will not stop playing until I have won against the 'professional'."

It took twelve rounds, but he finally beat me.  With my win streak broken, I conceded the game and everyone returned back to their regularly scheduled drinking activities.  I realized that I had to go to Romania at 2:30am.

The lovely Retro staff gave me some useful advice, namely, "The taxi trip is only about 35 Hrynia, but the taxi driver will tell you 70-80 Hrynia...because you are American."  The blond Veronika was particularly concerned with making sure this wouldn't happen.  I certainly listened, because its not everyday you meet hot Ukrainian cosplayers who like to dress up as Tekken characters.


Ukrainian cosplayers?  With sexy accents?

Awesome.  She didn't seem convinced that I could find enough guys in the USA who would help sponsor a plane ticket so that a tall, exotic, blond Ukrainian Nina Williams/Lili Rochefort would show up at the next Otakon or MAGfest....  Any sponsors?

  We bid our final farewells and I hopped in a taxi that the hostel called for me.  Veronika told the driver to charge me only 35 Hrynia, which he agreed to.  I asked if it was OK to pay with 100 Hrynia.  She confirmed that it was OK.  Secure with this knowledge, I jumped in the taxi and took the 10 minute trip.

When I arrived at the train station, the taxi driver 'conveniently' did not have change for 100 Hrynia.  I sat there and stared at him, wondering why I couldn't leave this fucking country without another scam.  After a 30-second staring standoff, the driver threw up his arms, got out of the taxi and gruffly placed my luggage on the street.  As with my previous experience with the staff in the Fashion Club, being an American asshole was the smarter option.

I have my luggage and I have my ticket to Romania and Bulgaria.  I successfully avoided being ripped off by another taxi driver.  Now all I need to do is exchange currency.  The gentleman at the currency counter is asleep, but what does it matter.   Nothing in the Ukraine is efficient anyway.

I have taken a little bit of the Ukraine with me and I have left a little bit of the USA with the Ukraine through our great cultural game of Beer Pong.

So what's the next step?

Flippy Cup.

Lviv From The Sky

"You have to be nice to me.  I let you stay for free."

"No problem, ma'am!  Its not as if I really slept in the bed...anyway."

She looked at me for a moment, gave me a sly smile and then turned back to the mirror to continue fixing her hair and makeup.  The early morning light was not kind to either of us.  We had drifted off to sleep for barely an hour before she had woken up and announced she had to go home.  I rolled away from the sun's bright rays and wished in vain that I was still dreaming.

Her long, wild blond hair, constant smile and looks were reason enough to like her, but what I will always remember is her confidence and "who-gives-a-shit" attitude.  When we talked of the different countries we had been with in our respective hostels, she spoke of her experiences in the same way that most men brag about their sexual conquests.  There was none of the shame or shy behavior that I had grown used to seeing with many "Eastern" European women.  Indeed when she finished fixing herself, she told me to get up, clean up and get out quick before the owner found out that I was getting free room and board.

It was meant to be...

I strolled the streets alone; reflective and in awe of this strange place that felt as familiar as any part of Western Europe yet still so foreign.  My Polish comrades were gone, and I was not the joking, silly guy that I normally am.  I was a ghost in the city: officially checked out of the hostel books 2 days ago but still drifting about unknown due to my good fortune with the staff.   My train to Romania leaves at 2:30am early tomorrow morning.  There's still a whole day to take in a more serious side of Lviv.

The old Lviv Univerisity's spacious grounds were already behind me.  The Stalin-era monuments and the yellow National Library were overwhelming in their sheer massive size.  It seemed much of the architecture was built on a large scale and Lviv -unlike many other European cities- felt like a place where I could breath.  I continued north on the long Svobodny Avenue and gradually approached the National Opera Theater where a large crowd had gathered.  A steady bass beat pounded from the crowd's center and ululating song floated over their heads.  I was expecting a wild gypsy band or some traditional Ukraine music group.

Nothing of the sort...  As I got closer, I distinguished the rhythmic, "Hey Yu Hey Yu Heeyyy" typical of an American Indian Pow-Wow.  In the middle of the onlookers a group of natives in full headdresses and chaps were pounding on drums and chanting away.  What the hell were they doing in the Ukraine?

Making money for sure.  Their CD's were for sale and the music they made was good.  American Indians would be far more 'exotic' and draw more people in this part of the world than back in the United States were they were from.  I lingered around to listen for a few minutes, but continued on toward to the Old Town to see the more authentically Ukrainian City Hall.  While walking on Rynok Square (Central Square) I experienced a brief flashback as I realized a small alleyway was were the wild Kriyyka Pub was located.  Had it really only been two days since I had meet those crazy Polish guys and finished all those bottles of delicious vodka there?  The door was locked and there was no sign nor board to indicate that this was the site of a trendy Communist-themed bar.  Another ghost in the city.

I entered the City Hall, paid the 5 Hrynia entry and walked down the hallway to the tower stairs.  I joined a line of people who were hobbling up the narrow, rickety wooden staircase that circled around the inside of the tower.  As I ascended, the stairwell became more narrow and vertical and I had to crouch to avoid hitting my head on the low stairs that twisted above me.  It became increasingly hotter, humid and cramped in the narrow tower and I had to stop each time exiting tourists bumped into me as they descended the staircase.  Ms. Retro Hostel Manager had said it had the best view of central Lviv, and I hoped she was right.

I can't argue.  All the events of the past two days came back to me in a rush once I saw Lviv stretch out below me.   I took a deep breath of fresh air and felt grateful that I was not trapped in the cramped tower anymore. I began to circumnavigate the tower slowly while taking pictures: north, east, south, west. 

 I took note of the Gothic and baroque architecture of the buildings and thought how different this was from my previous (stupid) assumptions of a Communist trash heap.  I listened for English, but only the 'shushing' sounds of Slavic languages reached my ears.  Despite being a principle attraction, there were no other Westerners to be found on the top of this scenic tower.  Next summer would be different when the giant Euro 2012 Championship would bring in tourists (and investment) from all parts of Europe.

On top of Lviv City Hall

I waved to a family of Ukrainians (Polish?) for a picture.  They looked bemused and gave me an "OK" as I leaned against the tower.  After they returned the camera, I remained prone and allowed the sun to melt me into a trance.  It was the first moment of relaxation I'd had since saying goodbye to Maria on the train from Krakow.  I try to avoid those nostalgic feelings that occur when one is in a scenic area, but flashbacks came.  The border crossing, the countryside, crazy Polacks, the cemetery and Ms. Retro Manager.  Ukraine is another part of my Slavic memories.   

A bump from a passing tourist broke my nostalgic trance and I blinked in the sun.  Had I fell asleep standing up?  Well, I had only slept about 2 hours.  Although my train to Romania was still 12 hours away, it felt much closer and a wave of sadness passed over me.  I was no longer a wandering ghost in the city.  I filmed the panoramic scenery for posterity then once again entered the dark, hot stairwell that twisted down to Rynok Square.

Lviv Through Polish Eyes: Last Night At Dodgy Metro Club. Boze!

Two hours...

The blond-haired, blue-eyed Ukraine doll who I had been singing to the previous night wasn't coming.  I had been nursing two import beers for the past 2 hours at an outdoor tent by the Fashion Club where we had meet the previous night.  She had sent one text stating that she was arriving "late."  Late does not mean "two hours."  I paid my tab and walked back to the hostel.

Things had taken a downward spiral since the Polacks and I had visited Lyiv Stadium.  The bus breaking down wasn't the problem; it had only added to the ridiculous absurdity of the day. The problem started after this incident.  While walking back we stopped at a small restaurant for some much needed hot food.  It occurred to me that I would need more cash for the night.   I walked across the street to a nearby ATM and tried my card:

"An error processed read is in your card.  We are sorry."

Many idealistic people love to say that they don't need money to be happy.  These people have never been in the middle of Ukraine when their bank account stops working.  I had already called my bank and they had said such a thing might happen, so I had hard cash wired to me as 'Plan B.'   Plan B was now Plan A and it would have to suffice for the next weeks' travels through Romania, Bulgaria, Serbia, Hungary and Slovakia.  All of these countries had 'red flags' for my bank, so I had to assume the worst.  'Cheap' Ukraine was know a little less affordable.

I would have been only slightly annoyed with the credit card malfunction, but it got worse when we returned to the hostel because the Dutch University Orchestra had taken over the place.  They were impossible to avoid and they still didn't give two shits about socializing with our Polish/American group.  Despite this Rado and I continued dogging the girls with such clever pick-up lines like, "What instrument do you play?" and "Do you speak Polish?"

They continued to ignore us in a polite, proper Western European style.  And in proper European style, they decided to engage each other in a strip-ping-pong game just to test their drunken limits.  My Polish comrades and I watched for a while but eventually left when we realized the girls weren't getting completely naked.  I had a date to go on anyway...

My date was an epic fail, and was further compounded by the fact that my credit card wasn't working properly.  Even if my blue-eyed, blond-haired Ukraine doll hadn't shown up, I still would've drank my ass off...under normal circumstances.  I had to restrict my spending and return to the hostel to drink.  I am a hostel manager, so naturally the Retro Hostel manager and I had plenty to talk about.  She recommended that I go to 'Metro Club' to have a good time. My Polish comrades were already there.  But just one thing...

"Be careful because many girls are 15 and 16 years old. They make you buy drinks."

Thanks for the warning.  According to this Facebook graph, Metro Club is very popular in Lviv (at least I think that's what it is.)   I don't have pictures from the club.  I can only refer you to the website: http://www.metroclub.com.ua/   

 I imagine the frequent amount of girl-related activities explain the popularity, for example the monthly Miss Facebook Metro Club Competition.  Go ahead and vote.  The winner gets an iPad; which is probably equal to a typical month's salary in the Ukraine.  Holy Crap!

Yes, many pretty girls who I hope aren't 15 and 16.  If you really want to file through all of the pictures from their past events, you will find one of the Retro Hostel manager and I talking together, as well as the Polacks and the annoying Dutch Orchestra Students.  Metro Club is fun in a dodgy, sketchy way, but we had more interesting things to talk about:

"So, we both working in hostel...what country do you think was the best to sleep with?"

"For me, it was France.  French girls at my hostel were the best.  And you?"

"I looove Italians men.  I have a very good storys."

She told me the stories.  I told her my stories.

We ended up back at the hostel talking into the early hours.  She surprised me with her knowledge of world history, and I surprised her with my knowledge of Slavic History.  We mused over the Czech/Slovak division, the intricacies of the Balkan War and the similarities in the various Slavic languages.  She expressed pride over the common 'Slavic Brotherhood' that exists regardless of whether one is Russian, Czech or Serbian.  At some point I asked her for details about Viktor Yushchenko and his political opponents who tried a poison assassination attempt that caused his face to get disfigured.

She was amused that an American would know about this Ukrainian political shit.  Personally, I think it is one of the more amazing facts that I have read about in recent worldwide political history.

By the way, she was a Slavic History major...

"Ayyyyyyyyyyyyy.....!!!!!"
"Boze moj!!"
"Boze moj!!"
"Ohhhh. Boze!!!!"

After continued talks of which country in our respective hostels had been the best in bed, eventually we decided to try it ourselves.  We had been drinking for a long time, and she invited me to sleep in her private room rather than sleeping on the lobby sofa.  These are difficult decisions.

I suppose it was done in a very professional (if blurry) way.  When all was finished, neither of us had won the competition.  She still believed that Italians were the best and I still believed that Frenchies were the best...

I don't have pictures to remember the craziness of that night at the hostel, and its probably for the best.  However my Polacks 'brats' did send a photo to me.  Here we are up to no good before going out.  I hope the next time we meet it will be even worse.  Stay 'debil' my brothers.

A whole lot of dupa at Retro Hostel Schevchenko

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.