Hostel Mostel Bulgar Backpacker

Last minute plans gone to hell.

I arrived at Sofia early in the morning, completely clueless about where I would rest my head that night.  Fortunately the train station was filled with many Bulgarian touts who were more than happy to help me with my lodging problem.  They lay in wait at the station and attack upon sight of large backpacks, spoken English, wayward guitars and lost Western looks.  I mingled with several unseasoned, Lonely Planet-crutch wielding backpackers as we engaged in a song-and-dance with the touts.

I would feign interest in their shitty hotel/hostel and write down the name, the map location and the amenities.  Of course they never mentioned the price until I would ask them.  Even if it was a decent price, I would quickly walk away.  It pissed off the touts, but surprisingly it bothered the Lonely Planet backpacker noobs more.

"That's a good price...with a taxi.  Them seem like nice people, but its not in Lonely Planet."

"Shame. I'll keep looking. Nice to meet you. Bye."  

I didn't make any new friends at the station.

I walked out of the station with a long list of lodging...and a dazed look.  If nothing else surfaced, I would go with the least sketchy option.  I had searched Couchsurfing before for a place, but it hadn't yielded any success.  Appropriately the first people I meet when I left the Sofia train station were Couchsurfers.  I approached then because they looked 'Western' and sure enough they were from Brussels, Belgium.  They were already surfing with someone else, so they directed me to Hostel Mostel for the night.

Hostel Mostel is a highly recommended, well-known chain of Bulgarian hostels that organize several daytrips as well as nighttime pub crawls.  None of the touts had mentioned it and it wasn't on my list. It looked nice.  Twelve hours on an uncomfortable, dingy train had left me delirious (and possibly poisoned from the Chicken Cordon Very Blue) so I took the next bed available.

They handed me a key, a 'Hostel Mostel' Sofia Map and a token for a free drink at a bar they had a partnership with.  They informed me to be ready for free pasta dinner at 7pm, free breakfast in the morning, followed by a free tour at 11am and..."You look tired.  We can store your bags for free."

 Wow.  Serious shit.

Bulgarian Banitsa

I stored my bags, showered, then hit the town in search of a banista lunch.  My Bulgarian artist friend, Kosta Tonev, had told me to try it when I was in his country.  What he had described sounded like Bosnian/Serbian burek, one of my personal favorites.  Sure enough, when I said " banitsa" at nearby cafeteria, the server gave me a plate of phylo dough filled with cheese and spinach and a side of sour yoghourt. I happily devoured everything, bought some Burgasko beers for the evening, then returned to the hostel to go comatose for a few hours.


I woke up in time to watch the sun set, then joined the crowd of backpackers who were waiting for the first-come-first-serve free pasta.  I grabbed my portion then joined a table with a pair of Brazilian ladies to practice my bad Portuguese.  The Portuguese didn't get very far, but we continued chatting.  The good food (and several Burgasko beers) encouraged the social atmosphere.  I brought my guitar and played a few Brazilian tunes.  By the end of dinner we were winding up for a Sofia pub crawl.  It started at the Hostel Mostel bar with our free drink tokens.


Around 11pm our international group walked next door to the Hostel Mostel Bar.  The bar was on the second story and we were greeted with smiles by the bartenders who asked for our HM Tokens.  They knew we were going to have more than just one free shot.  In exchange for the token, we received some strange electric blue mixture which supposedly had rakia in it.  I don't question free booze, so I slammed the shot with the other backpackers, then quickly ordered beers for myself and the Brazilians.  Budget be damned.

A perfect example of "That Guy"

The night went as with many nights out I've had with hostel guests.  First establish where everyone is from and then find out where they've been.  After that it turns into a bragging rights contest to see who has been to the most places or who has the most outlandish, daring travel stories.  If there are Americans present, someone will usually introduce the other nationalities to our drinking games.  A round of Circle of Death was already in progress by the time I had my second beer.  I took it all in stride while chatting up the Brazilians. 

A Bulgarian guy who claimed to be a local said he would take us foreigners on an all-night pub crawl of the best bars of city.  After having our share at the HM Bar, a group of us spilled out onto Makedonia Boulvard in search of the next pub.  The 'local' walked us all around the city to various cool bars - none of which he could find.  We grew tired of wandering with our ignorant 'expert,' and stepped into the nearest place.  It was called Lipstick and it was way too posh for a group of backpackers.  It didn't matter much to me, since by that point one of the Brazilians and I were getting along very well.  We vanished to the second floor of the bar to find some place more private...

Somewhere close to morning we wandered back to the hostel.  Although I paid for my bed that night, I didn't sleep in it.  The 'hostel sex rules' state that you should never do it if you are on the top bunk, because you piss off other roommates from all the rocking noises.  Well, I was leaving the following morning, so I had no need to make any new friends.  The Portuguese lessons were well worth it.  Obrigado e boa noite, Sofia.

A Pub Crawl with no pubs

 

I Missed Romania.

The Ukraine is behind me.  My last image of this country is this sleeping man behind the exchange counter.  I woke him from his slumber, got some new currency, then got on the old train to Romania.  My sleeping car was dark and had a strange odor inside.  There was one lone, strange man in the bunk above me.  He didn't look like anyone I wanted to be friends with. 

I could give you a detailed route on how to travel from Lviv, Ukraine to world-famous Brasov, Romania.  But that was before 2 Costa Rican convicts jumped off a motorcycle and robbed me at knife-point right outside Castle Tam hostel (more on the robbery later.)

The bag they took from me included a notebook with all of my train, plane, bus and hitchhiking routes that I used to get efficiently lost around Eastern Europe.  Oh well.  For now I rely on memory and what information I can find online.  The ticket from Lviv to Sofia was around $60 and it did not matter whether I took it all the way to Sofia or got off earlier.

I wanted to get off at Ploiesti, Romania.  From there I had a half-hour to catch a train transfer to Brasov where I would get to see Brasov Castle, the source of all of the Count Dracula vampire stories.  The train left Lviv 10 minutes late, and within 2 hours the slow-moving train was already 30 minutes behind schedule and still losing more time.  I quietly resigned to continue on to Sofia, Bulgaria and leave Transylvania for next year...

What I didn't see in Romania

It was a sad situation and the dark, dreary train added to the feeling.  I made my way up to the dining car while listening to the creaking wheels.  I expected a Western tourist or two but not once did I hear English, French, German nor other "Western" languages as I wandered the long aisle.  Every car I passed was filled with bedraggled, sweaty, frowning citizens from who knew what part of Eastern Europe.  Bad, tinny (but sexy) Romanian pop music drifted out of many of the small rooms.

The dining car complimented the depressing train.  Four small, yellowed tables were crammed into one side of the car.  One of the tables had two large, heaving men who were well into their forth glasses of vodka and showing it.  The waiter/cook looked annoyed by nothing in particular.  He tossed me a menu which was in Ukrainian and something that looked like English, but not enough so that I actually understood it.  After waving my hands and spluttering out random Slavic mongrol phrases at the cook, I procured some kind of Chicken Cordon Blue - with emphasis on the Blue.  Its most notable feature was its dryness.

There's a reason I always order alcohol when I eat on trains. 

On the plus side, skipping Romania meant I was not so rushed to fit a million things into a limited time schedule.  It also freed up my canceled credit card-strapped budget.  I choked down my Chicken Cordon Dry then returned to my cabin to sleep away the remainder of the trip.  I didn't miss anything.

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

Lviv Through Polish Eyes: Euro 2012 Football Stadium

"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.

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!"