Happy Birthday, Dad

Sorry if its supposed to be a secret, but my dad has a big birthday today. And not only do I love my dad, I really like him too. So here's to you, Dad. And all the ways that you continue to enrich our lives. Wish I could be there today to give you a hug. Will this do?

West with the Night

Life’s coming at me pretty fast and furious these days as I went to the Timisoara grassland conference last week with some value-added side trips, had a fun contest-thing in the park today, and tomorrow I go to Buc to fetch my mom and sister.

Timisoara

Took the night train to Timi—all the way across the country, presented on grasslands, had a field trip to a nearby national park with great karst formations and waterfalls, spent time with a really amazing woman who runs the pasture forage department and had insightful things to say (alas all in Romanian) about lots of things including what she saw at the revolution, visited nearby Arad with fun PC volunteers, exchanged stories with national park employees in Arad, and came home also on a night train. See the pictures here.

Contest

In our park today, we had what I think is a mostly annual event of school groups competing…oh, I can’t explain. It’s a uniquely Romanian event that includes species knowledge and presentations on cultural things. So some costumed dancing and singing. And the best was the group from Cerna that demonstrated traditional brick-making. It’s too bad it’s out in the woods and the only attendees are the participants. Whatever. It was really great. The brickmakers won. They applied the same creativity and teamwork to each category, so they were a no-brainer. See the pictures here.

Sorry this is so rushed. Life in Romania usually isn’t that way. I’d love to say more about Luminita, my Timisoara host. Maybe another time. And it’s now hot here, in the 80s, maybe the 90s by the weekend.

Poem from the Train

Later, in September, when the monsoons
are done, we'll walk up the creek
and see the oak trees black
from the burn and the rushes pushing
up through the crust.

Next April, if the winter rains
are rich, we'll take a picnic
to Division Creek to revel
in the lupines.

In a year's time, the blackberries
will grow back and the bears
might again make a pilgrimage
down from the mountains.

And one year, when the white pelicans
make their long journey down the valley
to the Gulf of California, flashing
in unison their white wings to the sun,
I will only remember what endures.

Junior Grassland Ranger Management

Had a successful field trip yesterday with my Luncavita 5th graders. I say successful because we have many new ways of measuring success here. It didn’t rain (well I guess that’s universal), the kids got to the park (30 minutes late and had to leave 40 minutes early), the ranger who joined us was only 45 minutes late, nobody got hurt, and the kids had fun. Now, did we learn anything? I’m not sure about that. I know that I learned a lot—such as teachers like to sit and chat with each other while on field trips. They chatted with the ranger. That in itself may serve useful, though. The goal of the trip was to complete their junior ranger booklets, which most did not. But I do think most did the pages that consisted of observations—listening, drawing, finding interesting things. We also picked up some garbage. My favorite moment was when we found something similar to a darkling beetle on the trail, one of those big black guys that’s also sometimes known as a stink bug. I talked about how they ate poop and dead things and they were like nature’s garbagemen, performing a valuable service. Oooh, that’s interpretive. I also let an inchworm crawl all over me and talked about how the forest was the animals’ home. AND I DID IT ALL IN ROMANIAN. Actually I did learn a lot and will make some changes accordingly.

Last night went to Aurelia’s for dinner and scrabble with her husband and her brother, Saşa, visiting from university in Galati. That’s Sasha to you and me, short for Aleksander. Gabi won at scrabble, but Saşa was proud that he beat me and Aurelia. Really? I asked him. You need to take pride in beating ME, the American. We had a laugh. I took cake and peony blossoms and a present for A’s birthday next week. Melody sent me the Pioneer Woman cookbook since she and Aurelia are both PW fans. It was a great hit. We have a fun time together.

And now I’m getting ready to go to Timisoara next week for a conference on grassland management. I knew I needed to get going on my presentation but just found out today she also wants me to present on my wilderness management paper. Yikes. Good thing that’s old hat for me. My day has been fueled by pufuleţi, a packing-peanuts-type corn snack, and Betty Ice ice cream, the good stuff. So I’ll get it all done eventually. Earning, without a doubt, my next upcoming vacation. There they are, my Junior Ranger all-stars.

Another Day in Romania

After commiserating of late with some other volunteers in the vein of “another year…really?”, I had one of those days today that while maybe wasn’t a dream day, was certainly interesting in its Romania-ness.

This is the first day in five that I’ve set my alarm and gotten out of bed. I developed a cold last week, spent the weekend in bed, and basically didn’t have a good reason to get out. But today I needed to go out to the park and scout the trail better where I’m taking my fifth graders on Friday for our Junior Ranger test trip. Riding the bus, I ran into a woman from the school, the really nice one who I think is the Director’s assistant/secretary. I asked her if she could email me a list of the students’ names so I can pre-make their certificates. We’re big on that here. Then I headed down the back road to the park entrance. I walked a ways with a nice older man in dapper orange sweater, told him why I’m here (at least the Romania/Peace Corps part). Then he turned into his yard and told me I’d have no problem hitching a ride. He was right. Found a guy in a little pick-up truck who drove me most of the way. I wanted to walk the last section of road because I was looking for our native peony which is evidently blooming now. No luck. After a half hour, I came to the trail into the park. This is where we will start with the kids. It’s only a 30-40 minute walk into the park to our destination, a primitive campground. I want to do our activities here because there are benches and a bathroom. It’s a good central location for us. My goal is spend a couple of hours together in the park doing our Leave No Trace activities and then finish with the Junior Ranger pledge and a hike out. Today, I made some notes of things I need to bring, like a couple of big garbage bags and a broom head for the potty. Lots of leaves and spider webs, but usable. Then I hiked back to the road, birds just going nuts, and hitched a ride back to town. This man had a pack of Rothman blues on his dash. I commented that they’re strong and told him I used to smoke the reds. I chewed his ear about my Romanian life too. His truck made some unholy sounds down our bumpy road. It seemed a little touch and go a few times. I told him it was better than nothing. My old truck never made sounds like that, though I’ll admit she put out some bad smells. Eh, combustion is a dirty business. Anyway. Waited a long time for a bus back to Tulcea but spent a lot of it chatting with Sorina, one of the girls from my 5th grade group who was waiting for her schoolbus. Then on the ride back home, a woman got on with her baby. At the next town she first got up to pay and then to run into the store to buy a drink. She looked at me, with a questioning look. Sure, I nodded, I got the kid. This little girl, maybe 6 months, was so trusting and completely fell for the stomach tickling. She even let me pick her up when somebody wanted the window seat. We shared a great few minutes, but I was very surprised that the little girl was so accepting. Was not at all surprised by the mother’s behavior. She was thirsty. I was trustworthy. Partway home I had the coughing fit to end all coughing fits; who knew an eye had so many tears, and just one eye. Came home and took a two hour nap, completely exhausted by my hour of hiking and hitch-hiking shenanigans. Then had tutoring with the incomparable Aurelia. I foolishly thought that tutoring would be something I did for a few months, just to cement my brilliant language skills. Ha. Now I see that I will need tutoring until Peace Corps rips her from my cold, close-of-service hands. And we’ve got another date for Friday pizza and scrabble, although I think we’re tired of pizza—maybe chicken. She’s so awesome. Her birthday is next week and my sister sent the perfect birthday gift. But it’s a surprise.

Other news: the lake at the end of the street is filling with water; my first couchsurfers arrive tomorrow (in perfect irony, from Odessa [well, they’re German but coming from Odessa]); never did find the peonies; fruit trees are done blooming, lilacs are finishing up, iris in gardens; the temperature is up around 70 most days now; and the cranes are coming home to roost.

Grasslands

This blog is somewhat a combination of life in Romania and a longing for elsewhere—past, future, and imagined. Does that speak to my inability to live in the present, or to my truly rich past and my curiosity for what lies around the next corner? A little of both?

I’m reading today a book from my sister called Grassland by Richard Manning, a comprehensive look at the American destruction of our central and western grasslands. It’s covering a lot of familiar territory (I’m actually impressed with myself for how much I know) and getting into more of the politics and science of what’s gone wrong—not only on the biodiversity front, but also how we’re shooting ourselves in the collective foot agriculturally. Anyway, on self-imposed bed-rest for my first full on cold-type illness in my time here, I’m enjoying this book immensely while preparing for my upcoming presentation.

And it has me longing for a road trip. I mean get in the Jeep with the pup and head on up through my beloved Nevada all the way to the Tetons. Wait out the spring snow, then up through Yellowstone all the way to Livingston where I’ll relive a little Rancho Deluxe before heading east out across the Montana high prairie. I’ll see the Dakotas, seek out a little protected short grass in Teddy Roosevelt NP, before heading south through Nebraska and Kansas. Get a little culture in Kansas City, but most nights sleep in a Motel 6 or outside if it’s warm enough. Maybe head west through Colorado or down through Oklahoma and Texas, taking backroads this time instead of I-40, drop down into Albuquerque, a city I’ve come to love although my friends no longer live there. Cruise over to Flag, a town that’s been good to me, then up the east side of the Canyon and on up into Utah—all the way up to the Aquarius plateau, quite possibly the top of the known world, at least the highest plateau in North America.

Along the way, I’ll look at grass. And forbs. I could make a roadtrip out of looking for the last remaining stands of native prairie. Few, small, and far between. And end at the place where I first met open range head-on. Is it poor form to start my presentation on grassland management in America by saying, “We f---ed up bad. Don’t do what we did.”Riley County, Kansas

Ukraine, Conclusion: Everything is Illuminated, on a Very Modest Scale

Everything is Illuminated is an exquisite novel by Jonathan Safran Foer and a remarkably good, though severely condensed film, by Liev Schreiber. It is about a young Jewish man’s search for WWII family history in the south of Ukraine and ultimately another family’s discovery. We did not start on such a big search, nor did we in the end discover so much. But since I was an interpreter by profession in my past life, I am obliged to at least attempt to answer the question, “So what?” Or more politely, “What does it mean?” Once again, let me turn it over, briefly, to Mary Oliver:

It is our nature not only to see
that the world is beautiful

but to stand in the dark, under the stars,
or at noon, in the rainfall of light,

frenzied,
wringing our hands,

half-mad, saying over and over:

what does it mean, that the world is beautiful—
what does it mean?

Riding home from Galati on Sunday looking out the window, letting the week away filter through and settle in, of course I was pondering the big question. And in one small town we passed an older man with a lined brown face, then a small boy watching the bus drive by. I thought, you are not to blame. What I mean by this is that we are all a product of so many things, of all of the influences that come to bear on a life. Which is not to say that we aren’t supposed to take responsibility; of course we must. But how is it that whole generations and whole populations are meant to carry such a burden? And I think I can say that I have experienced the result of a generation of impacted people who carried a burden, the Japanese Americans who went to camp, and what happens when that burden is then shared outside the group. The weight of anything is inversely proportionate to the number of people carrying it. It comes back around to the importance of sharing our stories which in the end becomes sharing our burdens. If you’ve got a heavy burden that you are carrying, share it. If you’ve got some room in your pack, listen—get involved. Maybe it’s both: I give you some of mine, you give me some of yours, and we travel the road together. This life can be a heavy thing; less so when everything is illuminated.

The gift of travel: new perspectives, fresh ideas, and a small step toward illumination.

Ukraine, Chapter 3: If My Vacation Were Any Better, It Would Be a Crimea

Sorry, I've let flashes of brilliance be outweighed by bad puns. Asa.

For Every Action There is an Equal and Opposite Reaction

When Susie and I bought our tickets for the night train to Crimea, the woman displayed with effective hand gestures that we would have the two top bunks in our four-bed second class room. Never having taken a night train, I didn't have an opinion. Susie, being a bit smaller than I, feared the climb up. But we settled in well, stuffed our backpacks easily into the overhead storage, and had the room to ourselves until long after we went to bed. The bigger concern, however, was how our mattresses didn't seem to not want to slip off into the void below. A note about the night train for those of you as ignorant as I was a week ago: When we arrived in our room, the top bunks were already folded down. Evidenty they can be folded up against the wall for day travel. But even down, we had plenty of room to sit on the lower bunks and look out the window. And on the top bunks was the bedding for all four beds: a thin mattress with a cloth cover, a blanket, and a sealed plastic bag containing two sheets, a pillowcase, a towel, and a pack of tissues for the toilet down the hall (oh and what an award-winningly-bad toilet it was). Susie and I quickly made up our beds expecting company soon. Then we climbed up into our nests (Susie using my leg as a step) and had a lovely evening reading and making notes. However, the physics lesson came as we tried to sleep in our little beds. We both had the identical thought which we later shared of being concerned about the mattress slippage away from the wall. So then we had the desire to keep an arm pressed against the wall to assure ourselves that we were not slipping. Which then led to the feeling that if we pressed too hard against the wall that we would in fact increase the slippage of the mattress. In the end, of course, we did not slip off our bunks on our magic carpet mattresses, but stayed put, in place, just like they had done hundreds of times over. But we got a laugh out of using (abusing?) our high school physics.

Simferopol

Our first day in Crimea was kind of a lazy one. We found the apartment of our host, fellow volunteer Adrianne. She was heading out to work but not before we all shared a delicious breakfast of falafel and chocolate butter. Dang that falafel hit the spot. Later we met up and enjoyed the weather at a botanical garden and a walk down a creek listening to frogs. Turns out Ukraine has a trash problem too. We were trying to compare vagabond dogs and trash between the two countries. I'm not sure I can state a verdict--horrifying to Americans no matter how you slice it. We stopped in the afternoon for our requisite beer and tea, a habit we quickly lured Adrianne into. Later we had my birthday dinner at a wonderful Indian restaurant with another volunteer named Barb, who reappears later in the story. My birthday cake was...well, not cakelike except perhaps there was some kind of flour involved--little balls of sweet goodness in syrup, one fruity and one carmely. Delicious anyway. Later at Adrianne's house, she got us hooked on bad tv on the internet.

Rachmaninov Slept Here

As I say frequently, you can take the girl out of the WWII site, but you can't take the WWII out of the girl. So we went to Yalta. This was a nice day trip down from Simferopol to the stunning coastline of Crimea. This whole area has long been a vacationland of the Russians, including the family of Nicolas II who was whooping it up at Livadia Palace up until the bitter end. This is where Roosevelt and Churchill met Stalin in February, 1945, to divide up Europe. Oh, that's an over-simplification and I can't speak to everything that happened here and the results. But I know this: we have a tendency to consider the outcome of WWII as (again, simplifying)"We saved the world from disaster." And of course the take-down of Hitler and the Nazis did save a lot of ruin and I don't mean to de-emphasize this. But knowing what we know now about Stalin, and living in a country disastrously impacted by the Soviet sphere of influence, and traveling in Ukraine where 6 million people died in WWII and another 3-10 million died from the genocidal famine (holomodor) in 1932-33 because of Soviet policies, it would be foolish to think that the end of WWII represents any kind of victory for freedom and democracy. Not from this side of the curtain. And it makes it all the more understandable, though still not forgivable, that Truman dropped the bombs for the benefit of Stalin, Japanese be damned. What horrible creatures we can be.

The day was balanced by a visit to Chekhov's Yalta retreat, his last home as he was battling tuberculosis. He hosted many famous artists and we saw the piano that Rachmaninov played and the bed where Gorky slept. Also beautiful gardens, maybe even a cherry tree (but no sisters or Uncle Vanya). We also had a delicious and very cheap lunch of dumplings. I had a bottled lemonade that Susie, being a Michiganer, likened to Vernors. Enjoyed the seaside promenade but were grateful to be there early in the season. Tourists flock to Yalta in the summer, and there are other towns and beaches that I think we would much prefer that time of year. Ick, crowds! The drive down and back in little buses was pleasant enough and allowed us great views of the surrounding mountains and of the beautifully blue Black Sea. And to contemplate that somewhere between blue and black exist infinite shades of gray.

Bakhchysaray

Yeah, that's a mouthful. Can I brag for just a moment about how much I picked up as far as token words of hello and thank you and elements of the Cyrillic alphabet. I was reading all kinds of signs by the time we were done. I think I may now be almost completely over my fear of traveling to countries where I don't speak the language. Yes it helps when locals take pity on you. Must rely on this. But it was actually really fun to see this on a bus—СІМФЕРОПОЛБ—and know that we want to go there. What was really funny was when I deciphered a sign and understood it because it sounds the same as a Romanian word.

Bakhchysaray is the home to some interesting cultural sites. We went with volunteer Barb and her visiting friend Pat who served in PC Senegal. As these things go, she and Susie had a friend in common. We started at a beautiful little monastery built into some cliffs. The whole area is scenic with large limestone bluffs. We spent the day with many birds, including swallows around the cliffs and noisy tits in the woods. The end point of our walk was the top of one of the cliffs and the site of an old cave city. Most above-ground structures are long gone, but the caves endure and have been variously inhabited for centuries. Today, they are not inhabited but are available for visitors. We saw many visitors, mostly student groups with backpacks, as this was the friday before a long holiday weekend. There were lots of nice meadows for camping along our route.

Later we went back into town and perused the Khan's palace. I did not learn enough about Crimea's Tatar population, descended from Mongols centuries ago. In 1944 (oh, that dang war again!) Stalin had the entire population of Tatars forcibly removed under suspicion of Nazi collaboration to places like Uzbekistan, where they were really out of place. They were granted permission to return in 1989 under glastnost. Many did and today they are a vibrant, if struggling, part of the Crimean community. This Khan's palace is a small representation of the Islamic history and influence in Crimea that is part of the Tatar heritage. Alas, we made a mistake on our lunch selection and got a great view and mediocre food. But we settled for great coffee and a sweet in town before heading back all too soon for our night train toward home.

Crossing Borders

An uneventful trip home is a good trip home, I suppose, although we kept an eye out for another Denis. Arrived in Odessa around 8 Saturday morning. Without an awful lot of trouble we found the city trolley to the bus station. Easily found our mini-bus to Reni, paid the driver and got on. I don't know if there was a schedule to which we were not privy, or (more likely) we simply waited until the bus was full and then we left. Either way, by 9:30 we were on the road. By 2 we were in Reni. The driver offered to take us on to the border (8 km) for 50 hrivna ($7). We had one slightly frustrating border crossing because we needed to get a slip of paper stampila-ed by multiple officers. Finally a woman said "Peace Corps?" and helped us get on our way. A guard at the next border, once we could go no further on foot, found a driver to take us through to Galati. We gave him some money too, 40 lei ($13). He was very helpful, if not exactly Denis. And by Sunday, I was home sleeping in my own bed.

The only downside that I can see is allergies. Something in Crimea really got my poor sinuses in an uproar and I'm still not over it. So far, I've only been allergic to my park. Now it seems I'm allergic to the whole Crimean peninsula. I'll see if I can figure it out.

But the story isn't quite finished. Next up, Everything is Illuminated, sort of.

Ukraine, Chapter 2: Odessa—More Than Just a Great Set of Steps

Our first destination was Odessa, a large city in the south of Ukraine known for its shipping port, its Black Sea beaches, and for many a film buff such as myself its steps. Steps in a moment…

You’re Not on Vacation Until You Feel Like it’s a Fellini Film

We arrived at the Babushka Grand Hostel where we paid 8 euro a night, a discount from 9 for being PCVs. Nice. We had comfy beds in what looked like a posh former apartment with high ceilings and decorative trim. After a short settle-in, John, our California proprietor, sent us off in search of falafel and a night at the opera. The little restaurant had a street window and a few tables inside. After the waiter said he spoke English yet clearly didn’t, and the menu was only in Russian, I glibly asked if anyone spoke Romanian. Why yes, she did. Victory (and a $3 feast of falafel) was ours. They served the falafel and pita bread with an assortment of pickled vegetables (beets, carrots, cabbage, cucumbers), which I attributed to the Russian influence but was told later that this is typical in Turkey, and it was delicious. We next headed up to the far end of what we came to know as Odessa—the central area bounded on end by the opera house and the other by the train station—our known world. Our destination was the grand Opera House of Odessa. Along the way, we found music in the city park and our first taste of the wonders of this captivating city. Once at the Opera House, we found the program listings. Using my limited command of the Cyrillic alphabet, we determined that the offering that night was “Nureyev Forever” presumably a ballet. We bought tickets and wandered out to kill an hour. Didn’t take long to find a café set up in a park where Susie enjoyed a glass of wine and I had a cold coffee drink. It was here that we were introduced to the wonders of Ukrainian sugar. It was common in Odessa to be served a variety of sugars with coffee or tea, some of them similar to rock candy in white or brown. Mmm. The ballet was very enjoyable and the Opera House exquisite. The building was designed by the same men who designed Vienna’s which may or may not be famous. Home to bed in our comfy hostel.

Regarding Fellini: Walking down a pedestrian street full of restaurants and people emerging in the spring, a man and a woman theatrically overdressed were passing out flyers for something. People were speaking Russian. We were going to the ballet after eating $3 falafel and watching a fake Texan dancing in the park. It just seemed a little surreal. Particularly after our wonderful day with Denis.


My dad and I once spent a night in Odessa, Texas, in a motel across the road from a rail yard. Susie and I decided this man must have gotten confused as to which Odessa he was in. Fantastic.

Our time in Odessa mostly consisted of wandering around admiring architecture, including orthodox bisericas, catholic churches, a historic synagogue and an Arabian Cultural Center. Bravo Odessa. We came across an impressive WWII monument, a moving Chernobyl memorial on the anniversary of the disaster, vast parks, and a lovely train station. Monday morning we went to the train station to obtain tickets for our Tuesday night train to Simferopol. After a few false starts, we found the correct ticket window and a patient and pleasant woman who assisted me with my horrid attempt at Russian. Again, success. Food the first day was equally successful. We ate a big lunch on the pretty pedestrian street, not sure if our dream dinner would materialize (it did, read on). For lunch I had borsch, the traditional beet soup. Then some meat dumplings which are traditional and extremely delicious (although I liked them a bit better in Yalta in some broth). Susie had a yummy chicken and mushroom pie thingy. We were extremely full. The dream dinner was at the hostel. Our co-hostess, Masha, is from Odessa and her mother often cooks a traditional dinner for hostel guests. About ten of us enjoyed a meal that evening together: borsch to start, then a salad course of tomato and cucumber salad and Olivier salad, then fried chicken cutlets and mashed potatoes, and baked apples for dessert. Others partook of the wine and vodka as well. Olivier salad is similar to our Romanian salata de boeuf—potato salad with vegetables and meat. The Russian version doesn’t have the pickles in it and so less vinegary. I love them all. Masha’s mom put chicken in her salad, and peas. The next day we had lunch at a very nice restaurant in the basement of a historic synagogue in Odessa. Unique there was the presentation of a glass of cool pink liquid, compot. I think it’s like fruit tea. They steeped apples, not sure what else, and sugar in water, strained and served. Very nice. I had good fish soup and another meat-bomb type food. Delicious. In Odessa, we also established our shared penchant for the afternoon café experience—the search for the great tea and beer emporiums of Ukraine. Tea for me, beer for Susie. Again, we were wildly successful. Later we got food for our train. We went to a piata near the train station. Found some good gouda-style cheese, chocolate butter which is real dairy butter flavored with chocolate, and a loaf of bread. A nice man tried to buy me from Susie but we outran him. Then we headed back to the falafel place for a to-go box. As much as we were absolutely charmed by Odessa, it was then time to go and we felt like we had done it justice.

Much as I would hope one would visit Odessa for the culture, the history, the architecture, the wonderful food, the Black Sea, the cosmopolitan and helpful people, and the gateway to Crimea, I came for the steps. Not the steppes, the legendary grassland habitat that rivals our Great Plains, but steps…like stairs. In 1925 a Russian filmmaker named Sergei Eisenstein made a film called The Battleship Potemkin. It’s about a mutiny on a battleship and how the Russian army subsequently put down the rebellion by slaughtering the residents of Odessa on this lovely municipal staircase that leads from nearby the Opera House down to the sea. The sequence in the film of people fleeing (and being shot) on the stairs is legendary in cinematic history for its editing, creating drama and tension not before realized in film. Strangely I didn’t see this film in college but certainly heard all about it. Later, when I hiked Mt. Whitney in 2004, we came across a long section of stone steps carved into the mountain that formed part of the trail which I dubbed to Sarah, my hiking-mate, The Odessa Steps. So when I found out I would be stationed in Romania for the Peace Corps, it was a no brainer that the first place I had to visit was Odessa. Doubly since I live over on the east side of Romania. Triply since I then heard that Odessa is actually a very beautiful city that is fun to visit. But really, it’s all about the steps. They did not disappoint.As a footnote to the steps, one of the most dramatic elements in Eisenstein’s sequence on the steps is that a mother is shot and inadvertently pushes her baby pram down the steps as she falls to her death. Susie and I noted that in Odessa we saw lots of babies and small children, mothers, fathers, families out enjoying the spring weather. Everybody has a pram. Don’t they realize the danger, I thought? Those steps are just waiting to claim their next victim… The mother-in-law bridge was built by the ruler who wanted to make sure his mother-in-law never had to spend the night after visiting, or something like that. Today the bridge is the site of many more declarations of love as people now leave a lock on the occasion of their wedding. It would be a great honeymoon destination. And then we took our falafel and chocolate butter and got on the night train to Crimea.

Next up: For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction; or so one fears when riding on the top bunk AND Black Sea Blue.

See all the pix here.

Holiday in Ukraine, Chapter 1

I have just returned from an incredibly delightful and pleasant vacation—I think the first real vacation I’ve had since Gilbert Lake, although certainly I’ve had many adventures in the ensuing year and a half, and the first trip out of Romania since my arrival here 11 months ago. I’m too tired today to fiddle with photographs, so I’ll just outline how the trip began.

Denis played Tennis

I traveled with my friend Susie, a fellow volunteer here in Romania. We started with an overnight in Galati, the city nearest the southern border crossing. Early Sunday morning we set out for Odessa. There is no public transportation across the border this way, except for one bus twice a week from Constanta to Galati to Odessa that runs 45 euro apiece ($60). But I had read, and Aurelia confirmed, that it is easy and common to hitch across the border and even guards will help you get a ride. Our goal was the town of Reni, not far into Ukraine, where we expected to get a bus into Odessa. We started out getting a city bus and the driver of that dropped us off at the road out of town toward the border. A few minutes later, a car pulled up and the man told us he would drive us the 8 km to the border for 20 lei ($7). In retrospect, I think the bus driver called his friend and told him to look out for some Americans. It worked out great. At the border, our driver tried to find us a ride to Reni. Actually we found our own quite easily. A man popped out of his car, in line, and asked if we were going to Reni. Yes. Great.

Ok, but then we had a long wait as the guards were not happy with our passports. They were not familiar with our Peace Corps identification cards and did not trust that they were real. Then on top of it, Susie’s was more faded than mine. Because of our wait, we lost out on the ride. (unfortunately, fortunately…) The next man we talked to, however, became our patron saint. He spoke no Romanian, only Russian and perfect English. He gave us advice and helped us with the border guards. He waited for us after he had overcome his delay. And, oh yes, he was headed to Odessa where he lives and would be happy to drive us all the way. But back to the guards, we suspected they wanted a bribe but we were not so into that. I’m happy to pay people for services rendered, but as our new friend said, we were completely legal. So finally we called Cristi, our PC safety and security officer. He spoke with the guard for about two minutes and miraculously we were cleared. The subsequent border crossings (into Moldova, out of Moldova, into Ukraine) were a breeze because now we had Denis.

Our four hour drive to Odessa was through the region of Ukraine known as Bessarabia. It is very similar to the landscape of Tulcea county: flat, agricultural, near the water, some delta wetlands. Something yellow is growing now, Susie and I called it mustard. Denis says it’s used to make a cooking oil although he wasn’t sure of the English word. I’m guessing it is rapeseed which is related to mustard. Anyway, it is strikingly yellow against the springtime palette of brown and light green. Also the communities in Bassarabia are decorated with green and blue fences and house-trim similar to my area, which Susie says is unique to my area in Romania and Denis says is unique to this area of Ukraine.

Denis works as a financial officer for a large international corporation so he travels quite a bit. He had been to Bucuresti on business and had driven because of the airport shutdowns. Our lucky week. He was raised in a Russian section of the Republic of Moldova and identifies himself as Russian. Much of southern and western Ukraine does as well. He lived in the states for a year in high school (mid-90s) after winning an English contest and getting sponsorship. He lived in Norman, Oklahoma, and traveled around to some of our major cities. He also told us about participating in tennis competitions (we have reason to believe this means ping-pong) when he was student. He also told us about his family, his life in Odessa, his little garden plot he owns outside of the city, Ukrainian version of gratar (barbecue), and all the places he likes to go in Crimea on his annual vacations. He told us about an off-limits nature preserve in Crimea--that he can access because he knows someone--where there lives a rare and unique species of bird that flies up from Africa. He described it as crow-sized and pink. Normally the birds are black but there is a pink form that nests in this area of Crimea. I can’t find anything matching that description in my bird book, but it’s intriguing.

Alas, we didn’t know anyone so we just had to take his word; but as you can imagine, we adored Denis. Even more so when he went (slightly) out of his way to drop us at our hostel door in the heart of Odessa. And gave us his card in case we needed anything during our stay. We wanted to say that we needed a tour guide in Crimea, but he was leaving in a few days for business in Istanbul. Thus, our trip was off to a brilliant start even before we set foot in the country.

Although, we did joke, “It’s not an adventure until you’ve had to call a Peace Corps emergency number.” Thanks Cristi.

Chapter 2 to follow soon, including "It's not vacation until you feel
like you're in a Fellini film" and chocolate butter.