This Country Will Steal Your Soul and Rob You Blind - Not Necessarily in that Order

So, friends of mine from the U.S. visited this week. Their visit was off to a delightful start, since one of their flights was delayed and luggage lost en route. Despite the hassel, we persevered - I gave them a brief tour of the downtown area and headed home for dinner.

This is where it gets interesting. Back in the apartment, we close the door, but, evidently, do not lock it. We move to the dining room for dinner, eat, have tea and dessert and are getting ready for bed, when one of my guests can't find her purse. She is not known for her organizational skills, so we figure it is misplaced. However, when another bag dissapears, we know we're in trouble.

Having the fortune of leaving my bag in the other room, I am the only one whose purse was not stolen. I venture out of the apartment to see if the bags were dumped, and sure enough, I find them, empty, on the 3rd floor landing of our building. We spend the rest of the evening calling credit card companies and dealing with the militia.

About 20 of them arrive, in order to fill out some forms and attempt to find our thief and although it takes ten times as many of them to do the job of a two officers, they are somewhat helpful and sympathetic. Additionally, they are suprisingly organized and even provide a scent dog who traces our robber's scent through the back courtyard onto a sidestreet. They tell us to take a look in the area the following morning, since they may have dumped our ids and other belongings, which we do, but find nothing.

We are all fairly traumatized by the event. This is one of the nicest neighborhoods in Kyiv and we are shocked that someone came into the apartment and stole our bags, while we sat in the next room!

I Went to a Crazy, Ukrainian, Pornographic Puppet Show and All I Got Was a Broken Toe

Tonight, my friend and I went to see a show at the local puppet theatre. Built less than a year ago, the structure is reminiscent of a Gothic castle, perched at the edge of the Dnipro river, overlooking the center of the city. The show was called "Decameron" and a friend vaguely explained it that it was supposed to take place in Italy, but we didn't really know much about it. When my friend purchased the tickets, she noticed a sign that advertised the show as "adult" - we joked that we were in store for pornographic puppetry, but we were wrong. No joke.

I have since remembered that the Decameron was a series of novellas written by Giovanni Boccaccio during the late 15th century, many of which were bawdy tales. Essentially, the entire play was a series of romantic/obscene vigniettes, divided into different acts. Surprisingly, the play contained more human actors than puppets, although their primary role was to entertain between aforementioned sets, plus an MC who narrated the story. During these breaks, an entire troupe of leotard clad dancers would flood the theatre and stage, dressed in multi-colored, jester-style (diamond print) capes, dancing to bizarre Ukrainian music, amid artificial fog. Multi-colored lighting and a background screen projected trippy prints and patterns, which completed the segues. Strange, to say the least.

The puppets themselves and puppetmasters were quite talented and funny. The primary characters include: a family (alcoholic husband, philandering wife and besotted teenage daughter), a merchant travler (infatuated with the wife), a art student (infatuated with the daughter) and a corrupt and morally conflicted monk/inquisitioner. Although the two lovestories (wife and merchant/daughter and student) are relatively serious, comic relief is provided by a nymphomanic puppet who, at one point, flashes the audience her giant, fake, puppet breasts and prays on unsuspecting men who wander near her home. The climax (ahem) occurs when the local doctor provides all the men in town with "choloviche likarstvo" (man's medicine, presumbly Renaissance-era viagra), which results in an awkward orgy. Her puppet home shakes in a predictable rhythm, while various, increasingly strange noises emerge and then, one after another, the men run to the outhouse. They each take their time in there and it is not whether their medication has caused indigestion or priapism. Either way, the scene is bizarre, hysterical and unsettling.

As you might guess, the next scene really writes itself. The last man in the outhouse proceeds to find a giant treasure chest (it is not clear if it is some sort of metaphorical fruit of the other men's labors or to be taken at, relative, face value). The monk (and head inquisitioner) hears of the treasure and captures the man in order to seize the gold - although there are threats of further punishment, the monk seems to content to have the chest and releases the fellow.

Thrilled at having manipulated the man out of his found spoils, the monk returns to the bridge near the nymphomanic puppet's house, where he is knocked unconscious by a cast iron bucket dropped from her balcony (her standard method of entrapment) and dragged into her home by her eunich (obviously). At her mercy, inside, the monk's sack of money is left outside. Serendipitously, the merchant finds the gold and uses it to bribe the alcoholic father to allow the student to marry the daughter and pry the wife away from her husband. Mid-scene, the monk emerges on the balcony of the nymphomaniac's home, naked as the day his felt form was created, sporting a ridiculous erection. Evidently, his moral qualms have been assuaged. Everyone is paired up and the curtain falls.

I have this unfortunate habit of seeing the strangest Ukrainian modern dance/theatre, but this performance puts all others to shame. I suppose, seen elsewhere (say, the LES), the show wouldn't be so controversial, but it is remarkable given that Ukrainians are such notorious prudes. (One woman actually brought her 7-8 year old son! It's not clear if she was aware of the content in advance, but she didn't leave after the intermission...) Although, I wouldn't rule out all future puppet shows, maybe next time I will stick to something more traditional, like Peter Pan or Bambi.

{You might ask where the broken toe comes into play - well, half way through the first act, the crazy, leotard-clad, dancing troupe stormed the audience, one of whom sat in the seat in front of me. Having had my foot loosely against the chair, but toes were accidentally caught between the seat and the back of the chair. There was too much chaos to get him to stand up, but he was only sitting for a minute. My toe is kinda purple, but this is the price you pay when you go to crazy, Ukrainian, pornographic puppet show.}

Retroactive Blogging: Transnistria and Moldova

So, back in February, before my trip to Central Europe, Z came to visit for 10 days. Having visited Kyiv back in November for Thanksgiving, I decided we should go somewhere else, instead of staying in Kyiv the entire duration. A plan evolved that we would go to Odessa for a couple of days. Of course, being February and all, Odessa is not much warmer than Kyiv. We intended to spend two nights/three days in Odessa, but after day one, discovering that most of the museums were closed and that the weather wasn't really nice enough to do any real wandering, I decided to drag Z along for a somewhat crazy, 24 hour adventure.

Now, if you're one of those people who still thinks Ukraine is in Russia, you've probably never heard of Transnistria. This breakaway republic that is technically part of Moldova seceded during the 1990s and claims allegiance to the Soviet Union, despite the fact that it no longer exists. Not large enough to sustain any real industry, Transnistria is primarily known for manufacturing weapons later sold on the black market (see the movie "Lord of War"). In recent months, there have been a couple bombings of buses, but we didn't know that until we got back and looked it up Transnistria on Wikipedia. Of some personal interest, a distant cousin of my mothers' side ended up in Tiraspol in the 1990s during the fallout. Her husband found work there and although he passed away, she remained in Tiraspol. Despite all of these factors, my interest in Transnisteria stemmed primarily from the fact that it is the only place in the world where the Soviet Union was still alive and well.

Early Thursday morning, Z and I took a bus from Odessa to Tiraspol (about a 2 hour drive), the capital of said, breakaway republic. Of course, at the border, we are asked to explain our business and were told that we could not pass through without a letter of invitation, despite the fact that several of my friends had recently visited without anything of the sort. Ultimately, we were bribed $30 USD in order to enter, even though you are technically only required to pay 60 cents for the slip of paper known as a "kvitansia" (the Transnistrian customs can't technically stamp your passport, since they are not officially recognized as a nation). Having brought only $20s, I explained that I did not have smaller bills, but, amusingly enough, the customs agent returns our passports with the appropriate documents and includes a crisp $10 bill.

We arrive in Tiraspol, exhange some money into Transnistrovian currency (technically, they call themselves Prednistrovians), buy a map and take walking tour. We stop at the Kvint Cognac factory, one of the only semi-legitimate sources of industry, the Sovietskyi Dom (Soviet House) and various monuments to the Soviet Union. Tiraspol is gray and depressed, more so than your average city in other parts of the FSU. The city is covered in pro-communist graffiti and there are several statues of Lenin. Remarkably, the hammer and sickle remains on most government buildings and doesn't seem to faze the locals, despite the fact that the emblemis over 15 past its prime. Amusingly,local papers pride themselves on freedom of speech, but headlines reveal blatant lies, praising the success of Russia and perpetuating fears of the West.

Having seen our fill, we catch a marshrutka (mini-bus) to Chisinau. It is a short ride to the border and we are again hassled by customs. This time, the Moldovan customs pulls us aside and asks us whether or not we are bringing any weapons into the country. Presumably, they believe Z is an American businessman who has come to buy AK-47s and I am his translator/mafia mol. After a brief conversation, they are sufficiently comforted that we are not international arms smugglers and let us continue on our way.

We arrive in Chisinau around 2pm, but are exhausted from schlepping and freezing, since neither of these buses had any heat and Z has been kindly dragging our luggage. We also realize that the currency we have, Prednistrovian rubles, are not considered valid anywhere outside Transnistria and, therefore, cannot be exchanged. I convince the bus driver to exchange them, and although we get a terrible exchange rate (1:1 instead of 1:1.75), we get something for them, which is more than we could have hoped for.

Outside the bus station in Chisinau is a open-air market and after a few minutes of wandering, we find a cafeteria style restaurant. Desperate for a place to warm up, we order some borscht, bread and 100 grams of vodka each. After a few minutes, our circulation and dispositions improve significantly.

Wandering around Chisinau reveals a much prettier city than I had imagined, much different than Kyiv and Moscow. Since Moldova was technically part of the Moldavian province of Romania untilthe 1950s, when it was annexed by Stalin, the architecture and layout of the city is considerably more Western. Besides the government buildings, which are essentially identical to those in Kyiv - socialist realist in style, minus the Ukrainian flag - Chisinau has a very different feel to it than Kyiv. The main boulevard is smaller, lined with trees, small shops and boutiques. We stop for some spectacular Moldovan wine before we continuing our adventure.

At this point, it starts to snow pretty hard. Although it made for a picturesque view of the city, most of my pictures came out blurry. We find the Moldovan restaurant a friend recommended and each have a different, delicious type of goulash. Our train back to Kyiv leaves around 11pm, so we stop for a drink before heading to the train station.

Blissfully, we have the kupe to ourselves. Although we still have to get through customs, we finally have a warm bed and some respite from a long day of schlepping and orienting. It is about 13 hours to Kyiv, but exhaustion makes overnight train rides fly by. Z and I reflect on the day's events and I ask him if he imagined, when we met in Brooklyn on New Year's Eve over a year ago, that I would drag him to the FSU, much less to a dangerous, fake republic at the edge of the earth. Of course, he says "no," but he gets it - there are many different realities in this world and seeing is understanding.

The Long Ride Back

Waiting on the platform at the Hauptbahnof station in Berlin, I caught my first whiff of fellow Slavs. Primarily, it is the "refugee" look that gives it away. Lots of bags, some duct-taped together, many of which are the patented, Eastern European nylon/plaid concotion and have obviously been reused countless times. Although they are not clutching their possesions desperately and rolling their eyes heavenward, there is a certain body language of permanent fatigue that is unique to them.

For the first 18 hours of my 25 hour journey, I have the kupe to myself, which is delightful. Having left at 930pm, we pass the German/Polish border around midnight and aren't due to hit Ukraine until 10am, so I have plenty of time to rest, read, charge my phone and ipod (since the international Ukrainian kupes come with sinks and a 110v outlet for a razor!). As soon as I get my sheets, I make my bed and pass out. When we hit the border in Ukraine, the usual chaos ensues. Since the FSU still has wider rails than the rest of Europe, they have the jack up each of the cars, unscrew the European sized wheels and attach FSU gauge wheels. This process usually takes an hour or two, plus Polish/Ukrainian customs officers board the train for a guaranteed pain in the ass. As you might expect, the Poles don't particularly care. They ask where I am going, but happily stamp my passport. The Ukrainians, on the other hand, check the storage areas in each kupe and ask everyone what they are bringing into the country, although the odds of someone bringing enriched uranium (for example) from Poland to Ukraine is null, as opposed to the other way around. I want to tell them that I left my kalishnikov at home, but I figure it's better not to poke the bear.

I digress: If you've ever traveled by train in the FSU, you know the deal: trains are slow and crowded and there is no meal car, so you bring your own, since you are likely going to spend somewhere between 10 and 30 hours in a cramped car with sweaty Slavs. The traditional travel package consists of juice, vodka, bread, sausage or some other type of meat (sometimes even a whole, rotisserie-style chicken) and fruit or something sweeter. In Kyiv, I see whole cakes sold at the train station, but I haven't noticed the cream-filled/covered pastries elsewhere, so I assume it's only a Kyivan proclivity.

Anyway, we don't get going until 2pm. The next stop is about 5o miles into Ukraine, a small city named Kovel. At this point, I am joined by two Ukrainian men in their late 20s/early 30s. (Of course, when I bought the ticket in Berlin, this was a "women only" kupe, but Ukrainians don't really believe in segregating cabins by sex. After all, what harm could come from a single-woman being locked in a cramped space with drunk Ukrainian men, right? ahem, Tailhook?) We exchange pleasantries and I discover that they are milita (police) officers from Kyiv who came out to Kovel to write up a repeat offender (turns out, the perpetrator is a serial mugger - hardly a good reason for two Kyivan officers to take a 7 hour train ride from Kyiv to Kovel, when the folks in Kovel could probably do it themselves, but this is the beauty of bureaucracy). I explain that I am Ukrainian-American, which piques their interest. Mostly, they are interested in comparative costs: cars, salaries, property, etc.

Of course, they are astounded by how high American salaries are, but I try to explain that costs of living are higher too. $100 can feed a large Ukrainian family for a month, but can only feed a couple in Brooklyn for a week or so. At this point, my buddies, Vitaly and Alex, whip out juice, vodka, beer, some open-faced fried-chicken sandwiches and apples. They have small cups and insist that I get to know them for the duration of the trip. Seeing no way out of it, I join them for a sip or two of vodka and a sandwich. It's 4pm, a late start, by Ukrainian standards.

The more the vodka flows, the more interesting the conversation gets, as you might expect. I learn that my new friends are Yanukovich supporters. They are upset with Yushchenko, since militia salaries fell after his election. They are critical of Yushchenko and Tymoshenko, but seem to accept the inherent corruption of Yanukovich and Kuchma. When I ask them about the assassination of Gongadze, they insist that the tape of Kuchma ordering the hit is bogus and question why anyone would want to kill Gongadze, since no one knew who he was. I ask them why anyone would try to create a scandal for a second-term president who is on his way out and they tell me I have bought into the PR. They also believe that Yushchenko's poisoning was also a fraud. They insist that if it was a real assassination, they would have killed him. I kindly remind them that the CIA tried to kill Fidel Castro at least five times and still has never managed to get it right. I also ask them about the former KGB agent killed in London last fall by radiation poisoning - if that was also made up? They both laugh and think it's funny that I've been brainwashed. I am not sure I have ever before been told that I have bought into the status quo, but it is a memorable first.

When we arrive in Kyiv at 1030pm, I am exhausted, sick from cheap Ukrainian vodka and tired of trying to explain how things work in the West. This partly involved a 45 minute explanation of credit ratings and FICO scores and why these are actually BENEFICIAL for those in a low income bracket. They don't seem to understand, but have decided that the reason they don't have these advantages is the goverment's fault, which I can hardly deny. Although I have tried (repeatedly) to explain that Ukraine's chances for economic improvement are better if they unify with the West rather than Russia, they believe that at least their energy issues would be solved if they reestablished a relationship with their Big Brother. And, considering they make $125 a month, I find it hard to explain to them that things must get worse before they get better. Rapid privatization (shock therapy) took several, painful years in Central Europe, but now these countries are so far advanced beyond the FSU, that the difference is night and day. When you live hand to mouth, it is much more difficult to delay gratification - survival takes precedence.

Upon parting ways, the three of us exchanged numbers and they told me that if I ever get into any trouble in the area, they are happy to help me out. I assure them that I have been lucky, so far, in avoiding international incidents and thank them for the drinks and food.

Sometimes, you learn more from sharing a drink than reading a book.

I Am a Hot Dog Weiner/Graffiti Pt 2

Yes, as you may have gathered from the title of this post, I made it to Berlin. Unlike other cities from this trip, Berlin is a little more difficult to navigate. Although it is about the size of Vienna (3 million), the former division between East and West means that there are several, equally large commercial centers, rather than one downtown area. I guess it's somewhat like New York, minus Times Square. The U-Bahn/S-Bahn certainly gives NYC Metro a run for it's money - this is the only other city I can recall where subway stops are within a few blocks on one another and extend across miles in every direction.

But, before I forget, back to the graffiti issue. Berlin is also covered in graffiti, but it is far more political than artistic. After all, the Berlin wall was covered with it; a literal desecration of wall's symbolic, and real oppresssion. In general, the graffiti here has more of a political content; "Kurdssteineen auf Palasteinnianean?," "nacht war eine Iran," "Bush ist die parasite," etc. whereas the other cities' graffiti ran more along the lines of: "Greta is a slut" and "For a good time call Slavko at 3401-5-989-67-092-34-8750." I prefer the graffiti with political content for obvious reasons. Plus, if the graffiti is right, everyone probably already knows about Greta's proclivities and/or has Slavko's digits.

Anyway, I ended up having an apartment to myself in Berlin for the duration of my stay and it was delightful to have both privacy and a kitchen. The place with in Wilmersdorf, the old British Quarter of West Berlin. The owners were hippies, so there were lots of East Asian tschachkies and the place smelled like patchouli and hemp. I made dinner and crashed, since the bags under my eyes were only getting larger and darker since my trip began, eight days ago. Sunday morning, I woke up to a meowing outside my door. Sitting in a small basket I hadn't noticed earlier, was a tiny black kitten, likely confused as to why I had invaded its space. We had a staring contest for a moment or two before she darted off. Kinda made me miss my own furball.

Luckily, the political center of Berlin is quite unified, unlike the shopping districts, and I headed to Freidrichshain Platz to begin my walking tour. I started with a market off of the Spree river (although it was still early, so not all of the sellers had their wares out on display) and followed the river to the Reichstag, Potsdamer Platz (formerly the largest square in Europe, circa 1970s) and Checkpoint-Charlie (the crossing point from the East German to American Quarter of Berlin). At this point, in celebration of the victory of captialism over communism/facism and what have you, I stopped at Starbucks for the first real coffee and muffin I have had in months.

I can't stress enough how enjoyable it has been to be in the West for this last week; no pushing on the metro, no haggling over the price of everything from a winter coat to imported grapes, no time wasted pushing on pull doors and pulling on push doors (since standardization is either bourgeois or too much effort) and, best of all, non-smoking areas! Yes, here in the West, the world is not a giant ashtray. And yet, I miss the dank, wood-paneled basement bars and honey-pepper vodka and carrying a plastic bag "just in case" and doors opening on subway cars before the train has stopped and luke warm meals at Puzata Khata and holding the shower nozzle when you bathe because you can't anchor the shower head, since you can't drill into plaster walls.

I am going to have borscht and varenyky when I get home. Yum.

Graffiti

One thing that has surprised me on this trip is the excessive amount of graffiti everywhere - and it's not just juvinile vandalism, but extensive murals in multiple colors that go on forever. When you arrive at the North train station in Budapest, you see a wall the spans the distance from the suburbs to the center. It is only about 4 feet high, but every square inch is covered in multi-colored bold graffiti art. It reminds me of 80s NYC. I have encountered it in Bratislava (to a lesser degree), Vienna and Prague (to an equal degree). I think I know what to expect in Berlin.

So, I made it to Vienna Wednesday morning. Vienna is prettier and more interesting than I had remembered. I visisted the Naschmarket (main market) which was pretty and not too overpriced (I treated myself to a Kebap- yes this is shashlik in German). I moved on to the Kaisergruft, which contained the coffins of the Hapsburg monarchy, including Empress Elizabeth (Sissi), with whom they are obsessed. It is not really apparent why - married to Franz Joseph at 15, she went on to birth three children and later, as she became older, became fixated on her appearance. Her apartment in the Hofsburg palace contains a device that pressed the "juice" out of raw veal (this was supposed to cut calories?) and "gym" equipment that consisted of a wooden ladder and a wooden pull up bar. Since her waist was 18 inches, I suspect the majority of her health relatved activities involved starving.

My next stop was to Stephansdom, the major cathedral in the center that includes rooms of catacombs below, the oldest of which are said to house the remains of plague victims. There are rooms with bones stacked from floor to ceiling and, oddly enough, they are organized by bone type. A corner for skulls, tibias, femurs, etc. The rest of my day was consumed with aimless wandering and shopping, two of my favorite pastimes. Thursday morning was especially painful, since my train left at 6am. I got up around 430, shlepped the train station, but was lucky enough to find a car to myself. I stretched out and napped until we arrived in Prague around 1030, waking briefly for customs and ticket inspections.

I had never been to Prague, although I had heard so much about it, namely how spectacular it is, that I suppose I had been set up for a let down. Prague, like most former communist cities, is somewhat ugly, if you leave Stare Mesto. Parts of Nove Mesto are pretty, but a lot consists of old, run down apartment buildings. Admittedly, I have not seen much in the way of socialist realist architecture or art, but Prague definitely feels Eastern European. I spent yesterday doing the typical tourist routine - trip to the center (Old Town Square, Tyn Church, St. Nicholas Church, Pinkas Synagogue, Jewish Cemetary, etc.). By 6, I was exhausted, since I've spent the last five days shelpping, so I headed back to the hostel. Stopped at the local grocery store, since there's nothing quite as satisfying as eating when you're showered and in your pajamas.

This morning, I am writing from a internet cafe/laundromat I found in one of my guides. It's a little tough to explain "spin cycle" in Czech, especially when you don't speak Czech, but I'm making do. My plans for the afternoon involve a walk across the Charles bridge, a stop at the Museum of Medieval Torture (I know, I'm morbid) and a tour of the Prague Castle. I am debating whether to check out the Mucha museum. I know it's historically important, but I find his art cartoon-y and overrated. Certainly overexposed.

Anyway, I am leaving for Berlin tomorrow morning, for my last round of hostel staying/shlepping. Can't believe I'm saying this, but I almost miss Kyiv.

B is for Budapest and Bratislava

So, my trip is going pretty well so far, although, getting out of Ukraine is my least favorite part of any voyage. This time, I took a train from Kyiv to Chop - the border crossing point from Ukraine to Hungary. Thrillingly, I was treated to two Kupe-mates who likely had the plague or at the very least something in the cholera family. Trapped in a tiny cabin with a kid and his grandmother hacking their lungs out, I was forced to spend the majority of the 17 hour train ride on the top bunk, facing the wall, watching movies/listening to my i-pod. Reading wasn't an option, since the lights never work on these old Soviet trains. (By the way, this confirmed my endorsement of 5th generation video i-pods, as a 17 hour ride easily converts to half a season of TV and a long nap.)

Anyway, I finally got to Chop around 7am, only to find a totally desolate train station and that the "elektrychka" over the border to Zahony doesn't leave for another two hours, even though it is about 7 miles away. My only option is to take an overpriced cab, unless I want to arrive in Budapest at dusk. I am pissed that the cab is so expensive ($35), but then realize that I have been in the FSU too long since, as recently as December, I paid a NYC cabbie $40 to take me home from JFK. So, the cabbie takes me across the border. The Ukrainian customs, as usual, are a massive pain in the ass and decide they need to examine my passport in great detail, since they probably only see one on a monthly basis. They even ask for a secondary ID - I give them my ISIC card, which I basically glued together myself, but after a few minutes of required grumbling, they let me go. We wait in traffic for a bit before we get to the Hungarian side. The cabbie explains that they search all the cars for cigarettes and booze, since it is so cheap in Ukraine, that everyone attemps to smuggle in their share. The cabbie is a decent guy, and even helps me get a ticket at the train station in Hungary, since he used to work for the customs and speaks some Magyar (which is totally insane language and totally unintelligable to me).

The train to Budapest is four hours, but essentially hassle free. I make it to the hostel, shower and change, but I can tell I've been infected by whatever those peasants on the train were carrying. There were a couple things I had to see that day, since most museums in Europe are closed on Monday. I head to the National Museum for an obligatory review of Magyar history, then head to Terror Haza, a spy museum created in the old building that used to house both Nazi and Soviet intelligence agencies. Both dramatic and creepy, but definitely worth visitng. I only wish I had had more time. I have goulash for dinner at a cute place in the area and then head to the main drag, Vaci Utca, although it is almost 9pm on a Sunday and everthing is closed except for a giant strip club. At this point, I am feeling pretty rotten and since everything is closed, spend $10 on a box of oj and two small bottles of water. Luckily, I have tylenol, so I eat a bunch, drink as many fluids as I can stand and pass out.

Next day, I'm not feeling great, but no worse for wear. More tylenol, water, oj, plus a delicious cherry studel thing for breakfast (those Hungarians learned something from the Austrians, what with all the constant invasions). I head to the Gellert Baths for a good soak and massage. The last time I was there was 15 years ago when I was eight and things have changed a bit, although it struck me again that the water in the baths was kind of dirty and that they probably don't use chlorine. Oh well. I head to the steam room for a few minutes, which worked wonders on my lungs. After a short 15 minute massage, I was ready for more shlepping.

I headed to the grand market for lunch, although since I didn't have a knife on me, getting a large side of ham seemed unlikely. Very photogenic experience nonetheless. Ended my day with a trek to Vereghy (Castle Hill) and wandering around the Labrynth under the Royal Palace. Got some great shots of the city.

Left for Bratislava this morning at 5:30, which is probably why I'm losing steam now. (Hungarian and Slovak customs, btw, could not care less about this passport control business. They stamp passports out of ritual, more than anything else, since neither of them said or asked me anything, besides flipping through my passport). Got in at 8:30 and have been wandering ever since. Having trekked through the center of the city, to the National Museum, along the Danube, up to the Castle and back down, I am pretty beat. Bratislava is a beautiful city, although, you can tell from the Castle that the half of the city on the other side looks very Soviet. Cookie-cutter style apartment buildings are visible as far as th eye can see and Novy Most (the bridge that links the two) looks like some strange, futuristic UFO device. As soon as I figure out how to upload photos onto this thing, I will share them. I suppose it's kinda has a Space-Needle feel to it and I guess there is a club on top called, don'tcha know, UFO.

Anyway, I am about to have lunch somewhere and hit another couple museums. I hear there is a movie theatre in town that shows major/popular films with Slovak subtitles, instead of dubbing them, so I'm hoping to catch something later tonight. I hate to admit it, but I would kill for a cheesy action movie and greasy popcorn.

More later.