Crossing The Bulgarian Border: The Man In Black

I needed some sign, any sign.  The gas station I had started at was deserted, so after chugging my Red Bulls I quickly abandoned the idea of hitching a ride from there and walked the kilometer into tiny Dragoman.  I choose a spot next to another small gas station that was directly on the highway and held up my 'Serbia' sign.

Thirty minutes later I was still standing there.  Things weren't going well and the sun continued getting lower in the sky.  I had just moved to another spot on the highway when I saw my omen.  A man dressed in black.

No, he wasn't the reincarnation of Johnny Cash, but a Bulgarian Orthodox monk.  He was standing in a small roadside parking lot and had a look of complete serenity despite wearing head to toe, all-black garb in the heat of the afternoon.  I would have expected to find him in a monastery and not standing on the side of a lonely highway.  Why was he there?

The same reason as I was.  He had a suitcase and was waiting beside a parked car.  I hoped he might pass his mystical hitchhiking powers on to me, so I approached him with a wave and a "Dober Den."  I knew he wouldn't speak English, and indeed he answered with a Bulgarian response and a question which I didn't understand.  I grinned like an idiot and asked, "Serbia?"  He pointed down the highway and responded, "Autobus."  I hadn't received his magical hitchhiking powers, but at least I had been blessed with an alternative route to get to Serbia.

I thanked him graciously, "Blagodarya."

I never feel comfortable saying this phrase out loud, because in English its sounds like, "Blog 'O' Diarrhea."  As follows...

"It's been great meeting you.  By the way, check out my travel website, "Blog 'O' Diarrhea."  It follows all of my horrible experiences I've had with foreign food around the world.  It has many color pictures....hey...where are you going?"

Poof! The man in black departed in a cloud of dust with the car he had hitched.  I stood there on the deserted highway wishing I had had his fortune.  He had told me of a mysterious bus, but finding it would be as difficult as gaining financial support for the "Blog 'O' Diarrhea."

I walked towards the center of the small town, while keeping my eyes open for any stray buses that could be parked on the side of the road or at random gas stations.  The sun created long purple shadows on the streets and hills of the surrounding area.  The heat and dimming light gave everything a hazy, out-of-focus quality.  Or possibly it was my fatigue.   Sunset would come soon and I was anxious.  The bus finally manifested itself.

It was sitting in the parking lot of an abandoned gas station.  I ran towards it as fast as possible and repeated my usual lost foreigner routine.  "Idem do Serbia? Serbia? Serbia?"  There were no signs nor marking on the bus to indicate it actually went towards Serbia, but the driver seemed very concerned with my predicament and tried his best to explain in Bulgarian where we were going.  I paid with my last Lev and blindly jumped on a crowded bus that for all I knew went to Romania.

After 30 minutes on the highway the bus veered off onto a small dirt road in a small village.  By this time I had gained support from practically the entire bus.  Everyone seemed surprised to find an American on the side of the highway in Dragoman and they were explaining in that - yes - indeed I was really going to the Serbian border.  I wished I could stay on the bus with the friendly locals.

We continued down the dirt road for a stretch before the bus stopped - seemingly in the middle of nowhere.  The driver waved for me to get off.  I looked around frantically at the wide open country and endless rolling hills, desperately searching for a "Serbia This Way" sign.  When I asked, "Serbia?" the entire bus shouted in unison, "SERBIA!!!"  They practically cheered for my travel heroics as I got off the bus.

I waved at the friendly Bulgarians as the bus drove away on the dirt road.  For a brief moment I felt elated from the positive vibes I had encountered on the bus...until the bus disappeared around a corner.  I looked around at the empty countryside that was devoid of any human signs.

Johnny Cash echoed in my mind as I wondered out-loud, "Where the hell am I?"

 

  

Sofia to Serbia by Hitchhiking

I'm riding a travel high now.  Its 2 in the afternoon, I've completed a 3 hour city tour of Sofia, got laid last night, and I'm convinced I can hitchhike to Nis, Serbia before the sun goes down.

Serbia is to blame for my hitchhiking addiction.  I did my first hitch there 2 years ago and it quickly became my normal way to get around the country for both short and long distances.  My Serbian friends have hitchhiked distances which scare most average people: Serbia to Latvia, Serbia to Belgium, Serbia to Iran, etc...etc...etc...   I don't know if I will ever cover those distances, but I can damn well try.

View Larger Map

After gazing at Alexander Nevski Cathedral for a while, I went with my Brazilian girls, Thor and a few more tourists for a final Bulgarian banista lunch.  We shared future travel plans and hollow promises to see each other again in some other part of the world.  Possibly we will meet again.  Stranger things do happen.

While the other tourists continued wandering around the city, I made a beeline for Hostel Mostel where my backpack and guitar were waiting at the front desk.  I drilled the receptionist for hitchhiking advice to get to Serbia.  With a skeptical tone in his voice, he outlined the quickest route for me to cross the Bulgarian/Serbian border to Nis:

 Lyulin ==> Dragoman ==> Dimitrovgrad ==> Pirot ==> Bela Palanka ==> Nis
  
I had him write the city names in Cyrillic in case I would need to show them to any non-Roman reading citizens.  I would.

"I recommend you take tram first to Zaharna Fabrika. Then another bus to Lyulin where there is bus very cheap to Dragoman."

"And after Dragoman should I hitchhike?"

"Yes.  There is no bus there."

The price he quoted was very cheap and I wanted to get rid of my Bulgarian Lev anyway. There was only one more bus that day going towards Dragoman.  It was leaving in less than an hour.  I factored in the time I would lose wandering around trying to find unmarked stops while asking directions from people who don't speak English...  The calculations made me break a sweat.  Time to haul ass.

With the sun already low in the sky, I hauled ass the few blocks to the tram stop.  There was sign but it was in Cyrillic so I had to refer to my notes to "translate."  All this thinking added to the incredible sweat I was producing due to the heat that day.  Even if I made the tram, I still had to make 2 transfers to arrive at the bus that would take me to Dragoman.  The transportation service here is as reliable as anywhere else in Eastern Europe; which is say not reliable at all.

Sweat. Sweat.  Where the hell is the tram?  More sweat.

I heard it almost before I saw it.  The contact of steel wheels on steel tracks created a piercing whine as a small orange cluster of metal boxes creeped around the corner.  It moved slowly but the driver seemed unaware of my presence since I was the only one at the stop.  I waved frantically, practically throwing myself in front of the little tram.  The driver came out of his stupor and the orange boxes screeched to a halt.  I showed the guy my Cyrillic notes while yelling 'Zaharna Fabrika, Zaharna Fabrika!"  He nodded and indicated that I should sit next to him, so he could tell me when to get off.

We rolled along at a snail's pace.  I feared missing my next 2 transfers.  I was sweating bullets and the curious looks I received from the other passengers only aggravated my tension.  After a seemingly endless time, the driver waved for me to get off and pointed me towards a bridge that crossed over the road.  Through a series of (polite) hand gestures and jumbled Slovak/Serbian/Polish gibberish I figured out that the next bus was in front of a restaurant on the other side of the bridge.

I went under the bridge and saw several buses in a dirt parking lot parked in no particular order.  Time to start the search process again.  "Dragoman? Dragoman? Dragoman?,"  I repeated parrot-like to each bus I passed.  Finally a driver nodded his head left and right, "Da."

Did I mention that Bulgarians nod their head left and right to indicate the affirmative?

The next transfer was far easier. Instead of a random parking lot, I was dropped off at an actual bus stop located in front of a shopping complex.  The sign was still in Bulgarian and my ability to read Bulgarian had not improved despite staring at Cyrillic signs intensely for the past hour.  I looked around for help.

I am very biased when seeking help from people in a country where I don't speak the language.  I look for younger people, since there's a better chance they've either studied English or been exposed to it, thanks to television, internet and the general globalization of USA culture.  God bless America: Hollywood, Facebook, Microsoft, McDonalds, etc.

As luck would have it, the youngest person at the stop was a cute 20-something university co-ed who was studying in Sofia and heading back home for the week.  Or possibly I just wanted to talk to the girl.  She spoke English better than anyone else and she was able to explain where I had to get off the bus in order to hitchhike to the Serbian border.

When I say her English was better than anyone else on the bus, I mean she understood, "Hello, can you help me?"  When we got to explaining directions she stared blankly and drew a map:

"Here is gas station.  Go there.  Then go to Serbia."

Simple enough.  She drew a gas station, the highway and "Serbia" with a large arrow pointing down the highway.  She also drew two stick figures holding hands, a ring and a question mark.

  ...Am I married, darling?

I was at the gas station.  I bid yet another beautiful Balkan lady goodbye and got off the bus.  My exhaustion was incredible so I walked into the gas station to buy a few million Red Bulls (see, isn't globalization great?)  Time to hitchhike.







  

Ancient Subway Tour of Sofia

Many of Sofia's Metro lines date back to the 3rd Century B.C.  Justinian The Great would use it to voyage through his northern territories.  It is said that even Jesus found some of his earliest converts during his morning daily commute on the Blue Line...

Seriously the Metro is recent, but while it was being constructed many ancient ruins were discovered underneath the city grounds.  Rather than cover the ruins, the designers decided to incorporate the ancient walls and buildings into the metro construction.  We saw parts of the old underground during the free Hostel Mostel city tour we took of Sofia the day after the pub crawl.

Justinian the Great frequently commuted on the Red Line

I had arrived alone, but was now touring the city with my Brazilian lady, a friend of hers and another American nicked-named 'Thor' due to his resemblance to the character from the movie which was currently out in theaters.  I cannot for the life of me remember his real name, but this is one of the sad things about backpacking.  Like Maria from the Lviv train, I meet a million people in my travels, and its impossible to hold on to all of them.  Names fade while memories remain.

Here again is a point where if my notebook hadn't been stolen, I could've given you many minute, interesting details of the tour.  For now I can simply recommend this Hostel Mostel tour and tell you that our wonderful tour guide (whose name I also don't remember) was spectacular and full of humor and information about a city which is not frequently touristed.

We began on the stairs of the central Court House and headed to Sveta Nedalia Square.  Here you can find Sveta Nedalia Church, one of the largest Orthodox Churches I have seen so far.  It dates back to the 10th century and has been frequently reconstructed due to many attacks.  It was wood for a large part of its history until people realized that wood burns very easily.

Speaking of burning... 

The sun was brutal that day and our tour guide noticed.  She diverted our group underground to the caverns to explain the subway history and keep us from burning up.  When we emerged from the underground we were in front of a Muslim mosque.  The Banya Bashi Mosque is Sofia's only functioning mosque.  It's located over thermal springs and there is a charming story about it regarding the Muslim population and the Orthodox folks.  Additionally, it contrasts pleasantly with the McDonald's located across the street.

We were in the heart of Sofia, and it seemed every street was lined with verdant trees and large historic buildings.  We wound our way through one of the large parks until we were in front of the Ivan Vazov National Theater.  Our tour guide went on a long explanation of the importance of Ivan Vazov, Bulgaria's 'national poet' and one of the countries most important literary figures.  In addition to literature, he also was a political figure and played an important role in the revolt against the Ottoman Empire.  She finished his story by stating with a giggle that his death was probably not due to natural causes...  Indeed, as a great poet he was popular with the ladies and at the ripe age of 71 was reported dead by his 20-something mistress, most likely due to an exhausting night with her.  We should all be so lucky.

We were near the end of the tour.  We walked up the wide Tsar Osvoboditel Boulevard to Sofia's crown jewel, the Alexander Nevski Cathedral, our final stop on the trip.  The massive cathedral glistened in the bright sun and I pulled out my camera in anticipation of the event.  When I turned it on, it flashed a low battery sign then instantly went dead.

I am no professional travel writer.  If you really want pictures, they're all over Google Images. 

I'm quite used to anticlimaxes and never expect the best moments to happen during guided tours anyway.  My travels are marked by wild, unforgettable stories and not by historically significant buildings and pretty scenery that's recommended in Lonely Planet.  The country of Serbia still awaits and based on my past experiences there, it will eclipse anything I've done so far in my travels.   I was ready to see if I could a set a new hitchhiking record: Nis, Serbia before sunset.

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.