Brett v. World round 4: Atom Smash

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People in Serbia, don't seem to understand the American "fake clubber" identity that I adopted a while back on my trip.
No, I don't actually know how to dance.
No, I don't attend clubs back home.
No, I'm not used to attempting to pick up club chics by buying them enough drinks for them to forget that I can't dance.
No, I don't own a silk-collared shirt that matches my underwear.
No, I can't afford some sort of fruity mango-banana-starfruit shot for everyone.
And yes, I forgot to shower today (I totally brushed my teeth though).
Oh yeah, did I mention that I can't dance? ...Anyway, despite the absence of these crucial 'clubber guy' characteristics, I do a dam good job of embracing a 'I'm an awkward American, gimme a break' demeanor, accompanied with copious goofy, lame, and sarcastic dance moves that rely on 20 overpriced club cocktails and at least a little smidgen of a sense of humor. Big hit right?

I didn't even come close to getting laid in Serbia.


Hello Everyone!
Yes, I'm still here, alive, partially sane, and functioning on most fronts. Moldova to Romania to Serbia to Budapest to Ljubljana, Slovenia to Zagreb, Croatia to Sarajevo, Bosnia. I'm a little overdue in the blogaction department, but I will try to cover everything as concisely as possible- especially since 8 french girls just checked into my hostel and it is a Saturday night.

Anyway, after purchasing my new favorite tourist shirt with a map of Moldova on it (surely its the only one in the entire country-- not the design, but the shirt itself) I left Chisinau for Brasov, Romania. Leaving Moldova was not exactly the most sentimental departure of the trip, but I knew I would miss the dirt cheap prices, the lovely ladies that managed my hostel, and the fact that I was in the "Dova." As soon as I arrived at the Chisinau bus station, which really was nothing more than a couple vans in a crowded parking lot, I realized that my Moldova experience was far from over.

I swear, throughout my European experience, east and west alike, I have probably encountered a total of 5.5 fat people, and I'm talking in American obesity terms. Well to my pleasant and hungover surprise, I climbed into a large van that was called a bus that was bound for Romania to find myself conveniently located/smashed between a 300lb woman and the window, all set for a 9 hour day trip. Throughout the ride, the only thing lifting my spirits was the thought of getting to the Romanian border and hoping that Eastern Europeans didn't use "seat backs" etiquette and that I could race thru customs and swoop a new seat, heck maybe even ride shotgun (yeah, it wasn't a bus). Nope... they use seat backs. There would be no cutting, butting, or seat-swapping on this bus, mainly because noone wanted to end up in my position and I was the only tourist. Anyway, for whatever reason the fat Moldovan lady gave me an apple at one point, and it was delicious so I forgave her.

Not to dwell too much on this particular bus experience, but I also met a lovely couple in front of me- the guy's name was Marius, who I still communicate via email to this day. He was from Romania and his girlfriend was from Moldova, and both spoke fluent English and had lived in the USA for three years, which was fuel enough for an hour conversation and a proper distraction from my poor squashed hungover body. Anyway, we exchanged emails, they told me they wanted to take me out in Romania, and they even paid (and most importantly made sure I didn't get ripped off) for my taxi to the hostel. When traveling, it's always amazing when you meet genuine locals who are altruistically interested in helping tourists without some form of reward. I will return to this in a moment, the tale is not over.

Brasov is basically the heart of Translyvania, Romania. It is a beautiful little medieval-style town that seems to be so thrilled about the recent accession into the European Union that the EU flag is flown from every corner, and they even built a giant Hollywood-style sign of Brasov on the mountainside. Romania is analogous to the little kid that recently got accepted into the cool kid group and is way too over-zealous and excited about it. However, I can't complain because it was nice to speak English again (much more ubiquitous there) and have a less insecure, and more confident swagger that is always important when traveling. Hell, I could actually smile in public and say thank you again without looking like an idiot.

Brasov is all about castles. Nightlife was mediocre, prices were still cheap, locals were friendly... Castles were straight radically bodacious. Along with a couple of Aussies, I visited Peles Palace, Rasnov Castle, Sigisoara Citadel and Bran Castle. Peles was located in a minitaure ski town called Sinai that reminded me of Steamboat, Colorado- an intriguing mix between rich people, farmers, ski bums, and castle tourists (me). Not only was the palace ostentaciously beautiful, but the entire town was the closest I've come on my trip to being back home in Colorado. If you have some extra cash, buy a house there already. And then let me stay there.

Bran Castle was much less picturesque, yet a thousand times more touristy because some genius decided to tag Dracula, or Vlad Tepes the Impaler, to the castle despite the well-known fact that Vlad only spent (at most) 3 total days in Bran. Of course, this minor detail hasn't prevented every vendor in town from selling any and every form of Dracula paraphernalia that you've ever dreamt (or had a nightmare) about. It was still a worthy experience, and if anything, you must tip your hat to the tourist god that created this insane castle misnomer.

After becoming completely sick of my annoying compulsory Aussie friends (don't worry I didn't become friends with them on Facebook, and they won't read this) I took a day trip to the town and citadel of Sigisoara. Sigisoara was an entirely beautiful town surrounding a medieval citadel perched atop a central mountain lookout. I ate some absolutely atrocious greasy food at some local shithole shop and immediately knew I was going to be sick and left immediately back to Brasov. Cool story Hansel.

Ok. Backtracking slightly, I left Moldova with a shitload of Moldovan Lei (currency). When I say a shitload, I mean 200 dollars worth, which considering Moldova is the poorest and cheapest country in Europe, that much money could last you about 10 light years (I know that's a measure of distance, but it sounds cool). So I should convert it to a stable or local currency... easy enough right? (whenever I pose a question, the answer is always no). Not a single bank or exchange office in Brasov (hell maybe even the entire world outside Moldova) accepts Lei, which is obviously an incredibly unstable currency. Well at this point I had four options:

1. I could go back to Moldova, probably sit next to that same fat lady on the 9 hour bus back and convert it in Chisinau (which mind you, involves going BACK to Chisinau... I don't think any sane tourist has ever done this before).

2. I could hold on to it and hope that some unfortunate tourist would head that way, convince/lie to them how awesome Moldova is and ask them to convert the currency for me, probably at a highly favorable exchange rate for them. Not likely.

3. I could hold on to it and make a long-term investment in the Moldovan economy and hope that they really takeoff and become the next political and economic hegemon (I'm sure Russia will really let that happen). nah.

4. Well obviously because this is my last option, it's the actual outcome to this riveting tale of a currency exchange adventure (I predict a feature film in the next year). I ended up going out for dinner and drinks with Marius and his girlfriend (who lives in Moldova), and like the taxi ride, they again paid for everything. Well lucky them, I got drunk and gave them 200 dollars worth of Lei, making sure the amount was undisclosed until I departed. Upon returning to the hostel I received an immediate questioning, yet thankful email from Marius and I insisted that I knew the value of my spontaneous gift. Moral of the story? Help out tourists because maybe they will give you 200 bucks.

Shit, this blog is already getting too long. I'm sorry and I promise I will expedite my future tales from Serbia which involved tons of partying, and as you already know, no women.

First, however, I took a short train to Bucharest, the capital of Romania. As few people probably realize, Bucharest is actually a city that is populated and governed entirely by dogs. Specifically stray dogs (or to be politically correct, 'community dogs' sorry PETA). I swear, surely these dogs have some form of representation in the Romanian government- there is an estimated 150,000 of them in Bucharest alone. For the most part they were pretty cool (not that I petted or spoke to them). And by cool I mean they didn't bite me.

Bucharest is a great city to spend only one day and night. I stayed at a cute little hostel in a gypsy district. The local kids were paid with candy by the hostel to bring lost backpackers there, so despite already being checked in, everytime I exited out the front door kids immediately tried to redirect me right back to the hostel. I'm sure candy commission is an effective marketing tool, but it got comically ridiculous after a while and I decided to start bringing out my own candy to distribute and avoid the confusion.

I visited the corrupt and longtime Romanian dictator Ceausescu's palace, which is the primary tourist attraction in Bucharest. It is the second largest government building in the world... so what's the first? I'll leave that for you to figure out (I'll give you a hint, it has 5 sides). Anyway, I bought a train ticket to Belgrade and left Romania without a second thought... or so I thought... I think.

I arrived at what I thought was Belgrade at 6 in the morning. Still half asleep, hungry, and confused, I asked three different people and they all confirmed that I was indeed in Belgrade. Although there had been no border customs, my train had arrived 3 hours earlier than it was supposed to, and all the signs looked suspiciously like Romanian and not Cyrillic writing, I set out to locate my hostel that was actually 300km away and in a different country. Well after approximately 2 hours of angry wandering and plenty of cursing at my map (it just didn't match up!), I finally realized that I was in Timisoara, Romania and that despite traveling for 2+ months, I am an idiot. I had made my first serious traveling fuck-up of the trip. Long story short, I discovered that my early morning train was the only one per day to Belgrade and that I would have to spend the night in Timisoara. Although Timisoara proved to be a beautiful city that was apparently at the heart of Romania's revolution in 1989, it was difficult to fully appreciate because I had expected to be raging partyboy-style in Belgrade surrounded by models in bikinis serving me exotic martinis. Sorry for the under-appreciation Timisoara, you're not so bad. But Belgrade IS better.

Belgrade is fucking insane. For someone like me who takes pride in my immaculate ability to party under any circumstance, against all odds, and thru any form of adversity, I have to acknowledge that Serbians in Belgrade are the best party-goers in Europe. Every night was a Friday night. Everyday was a Friday night. And Friday night?... I guess combine all holidays, birthdays, and weekends into one night, and toss in the only goddam songs in all of Europe, "I Gotta Feeling"by the Black Eyed Peas, "Hotel Room Service" by Pitbull, and "Sexy Bitch" by David Guetta feat. Akon. (Im sorry that I know the song titles and artists, please don't judge me, it's Europe's fault I swear), and you have yourself a Friday night in Belgrade. Words really don't do it justice. Belgrade makes Las Vegas look like a town full of little kids playing card games and crying about losing a couple hundred bucks. Belgrade laughs at Vegas.

I stayed at a phenomenal hostel that was hellbent on maximizing my inebriation levels by over-serving me Rakija (Serbian pear brandy) all evening and forcing me to stay out until 5 in the morning because "this is Belgrade motherfucker." Stefan, my Serbian amigo who absolutely hated America (he claimed I was the only good American he'd ever met), took me out every night to some variation of a club and we drank, chatted up girls, danced... until the girls got scared of my moves and left (I like to think they were intimidated by my superior dance skillz), and the whole process would start over again. Once 5 in the morning hit, most people cleared out because astonishingly, they had to attend work in 4 hours (Serbians are seriously insane partiers). At that point, Stefan and I would head home dejectedly, smoke some weed and pass out. It was the best vicious cycle ever.

I stayed in Belgrade for one week. Outside of the nightlife, I explored much of the city during the day, which included an exceptionally well-renovated castle, plenty of gothic churches, and even the Nikola Tesla Museum (the guy who invented remote control and alternating current 'AC' among many other things). I also went to the gym and discovered one of Belgrade's best social clubs. Inside the 'gym' were lounge chairs, a full bar, TVs, and about 20 gorgeous Serbian babes floundering about in their sexy work-out gear, obstensibly there to meet buff guys. Although I'm sure I look amazing while pumping iron (heavy, HEAVY iron at that), nobody offered me membership to the exclusive fitness social club and again, like the nightclubs, I left sweaty and dejected (not really, it was more humorous than anything).

Escaping the party grasp of Belgrade was difficult because it meant taking a night off drinking so that I could actually wake up before 2 in the afternoon and catch a train to Budapest. However, I eventually accomplished this grueling task and successfully made it to Budapest- my favorite city on the whole trip thus far, no ifs, ands, or buts (however there were some butts involved).

Budapest is the perfect city. It blends a highly-developed, yet artsy-bohemian style atmosphere with relatively cheap prices... and still plenty of party- cool party, not cheesy club party (alright maybe a little cheesy club party). Although I've probably met a hundred fantastic people at this point in my trip, I think my crew in Budapest has been the closest to my best friends on the whole trip. I became real friends with so many great people that leaving Budapest was almost as hard as when I left home 3 months ago. 10 days in Budapest was not enough and I miss every single beautiful face I met during arguably the best 10 days of my life (alright, I'll admit, I'm starting to get drunk here, but seriously).

Thermal baths, churches, a beautiful castle, Foosball (chocho in Hungarian), and THANKSGIVING, which me and my American friend Katie cooked for the entire 25 people staying at the hostel. Thanksgiving included homemade everything because guess what?... they don't have Thanksgiving in Hungary (no puns please, I've already heard them all, thanks) and we made stuffing, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, gravy, and... last but not least... 3 chickens and a ham. Yeah, they don't have turkeys in Hungary and Katie and I explored the butchers market for about 3 hours before giving up. Regardless, the chickens were completely un-butchered and we had to chop some heads off and remove some guts. Don't worry, we 'YouTube'd how to butcher a chicken beforehand (I'm not even joking).

I already mentioned Hungarian Foosball or "chocho" mainly because it represents the largest bar sport in the entire country. I have never consistently gotten my ass kicked so badly by girls at Foosball until I competed against Hungarian girls. No more description is necessary. Moving on, the thermal baths in Budapest were absolutely amazing and provided everything that an out-of-shape, 3-month hungover body like mine needed. A slight reduction of all the old fat Hungarian men staring down my attractive Aussie girlfriends and my tattoos would have elevated my comfort levels, but it also added a little spice to the experience and reminded me that I wasn't at Waterworld.

Overall, Budapest really provoked plenty of long overdue self-reflection regarding my new lifestyle that I have adopted over the last 3 months. A transient life of constantly making new friends daily is unfortunately accomanied with more painful goodbyes than usual. Transcience is both phenomenal and depressing (maybe depressingly fantastic), in that I have met so many amazing souls that I would normally not have met- who I will sadly never connect with or see again. This new lifestyle has had a strange, ambiguous effect on me and it is difficult to determine whether it is good or bad. Either way, thank you everyone for the memories.

OK, I just switched from beer to water, so I'll try not to get too cerebral and sentimental henceforth. Ljubljana! It is pronounced "lube-lee-ana" and if you ever magically discover yourself in Europe, I hope you travel to this beautiful little Balkan capital that feels nothing like the rest of the ex-Yugoslavs. Ljubljana (keep practising, its not hard to pronounce) was a great place to wind-down from my previous 2.5 weeks in Budapest and Belgrade and offered a plethora of cultural heritage to keep my mind distracted from all the great people I had left behind. I ventured out to lake Bled, which really should be on the cover of every single National Geographic magazine or Lonely Planet travel guide. A castle perched atop a cliff overlooking a massive cerulean lake that hosts a beautiful central island with a gorgous, yet quaint church positioned in the middle. Picturesque is an understatement because no matter how quality your camera is, a picture comes nowhere close to do this natural/medieval wonder justice. I'm pretty sure when the castle and church were built in the 10th century, some old sagacious wizard thought to himself, "dam this will make a fine tourist attraction one millenium from now." And it did.

Please go to Bled. If not, google image it (I'm sorry I can't upload any photos yet, soon though- I have over 700) and then multiply the awesomeness by 1000. It should probably give you a boner, regardless of your gender or sexual orientation.

I left Slovenia for Zagreb, thinking that I was headed to a typical "stopover" point that wasn't even worth charging my camera battery for. I was wrong. Although Croatia is exorbantatly expensive, which is still kind of a mystery to me, Zagreb was an extremely happening little medieval hub that naturally and unassumingly bragged about its culture with magnificent architecture and a unique city layout between two hills that were previously seperate kingdoms.
Although my hostel remained very low key and as did I, the town seemed more alive than ever for this time of year. Outdoor cafes were packed with young and elderly folk drinking to no ends during all hours of the day, regardless of the fact that it was a monday (nobody gets the case of the "mondays" there). I truly feel like I under-experienced Zagreb, and it may very well be one of the few regrets I have (not)experienced thus far. I stayed for two days, but could have stayed for two weeks. Also, I finally got some laundry done there, which meant I could start wearing underwear and socks again, considering it had been about 5 days of commando Brett.

Almost done! Sorry this blog spun so far out-of-control.

This brings me to my current location in Sarajevo, Bosnia and Hercegovina.... meh, I'll talk about it in my next blog.

Thanks for reading! You made it! You did it! You won! Well... I forgot to mention that after 5 seperate trips and 150 dollars later, I finally got my Chinese visa from the embassy in Budapest. On December 22 I am flying to Shanghai, China to spend Christmas, New Years, and following 2 months on my good pal Chase's couch (thanks buddy). Its sad to think that my Europe adventures are coming to a close, but certainly the adventures are not over yet.

I miss everyone more than you can believe, and I love you all.
And remember:

Being alive is a lot more than just not being dead.

Brett v. World round 3: Ukraine is not VEAK!!

Europeans and their Goddam jeans... I have never seen so many superfluous zippers, pockets, compartments, fades, and basically anything else you can install in a pair of jeans. There is absolutely no pragmatism in a vertical zipper pocket located in another pocket on the back of the knee, with a sparkling dragon embroidered into it. So why do Europeans go to all ends of the fashion world to express themselves through these ridiculously flamboyant and non-functional jeans? ... I don't know. But to quote Zoolander, I guess I prefer the young, hot, brash rookie Male Model of the Year, Hansel's attitude... "who cares? It's only fashion..."


Hello Everyone!
Its been exactly 2 months since I left my cozy little (parents') home in Colorado. I'm here at this computer once again attempting to articulate my experiences from the last few weeks- hopefully without putting you or myself to sleep. However, if I do put you to sleep, at least this blog served some functional purpose because sleeping is effing awesome in my opinion.

Ukraine. Probably to the dismay of all the beautiful Polish women, I departed from Krakow via bus to Lviv, Ukraine. I consider Ukraine my first real experience in Eastern Europe, and certainly the most interesting. People in Ukraine are assholes. I know that I shouldn't generalize 50 million people based on my encounters with a couple hundred, but I will because I've begun realizing the cultural mindset of that bitch, mother Russia. Smiling is frowned upon. Laughing is not joked about. Politeness is bad manners. You get the picture. Ukrainians possess a different scope of judgment on someone's character, and it is quite different from the western paradigm. Is he strong or weak? The answer to this question and in turn, the judgment of someone's character, is strictly based on an odd form of conduct that seems entirely unfriendly and anti-social. Smiling at a stranger or saying thank you when making a purchase or attempting to socialize in public, all constitute weakness. Obama shaking Putin's hand with diplomatic intentions is seen as weak (most Ukrainians that I met like Bush and hate Obama). Basically, being mean is cool and being nice is soooo last year.

Although this seemingly social backwardness was difficult to grasp, especially as a lonely traveler, I did meet plenty of local Ukrainians who were willing to accept my social faux pas and have a good time. Alcohol is extremely popular in Ukraine and because beer is cheaper than water... drunk Brett was more than ready to get some face time. Business men drink beers while walking to work at 8 in the morning on a Monday. Anytime you walk anywhere for whatever purpose, why not have a beer? It makes walking more enjoyable right? That seemed to be the Ukrainian attitude and I quickly adopted it as well.

Anyway, about Lviv. Although its located in western Ukraine, which is supposed to be more pro-west, I thought it felt incredibly Soviet. All the old men looked like hard-nosed communists that could build a house out of a hammer and probably beat the living shit out of (the weird smiling tourist guy, with tattoos and earrings) me. This was a stark contrast between east and west Europe, insomuch that I could probably beat up most of the western Euro-permed, 5'8", Armani suited, men (with too many Goddam zippers on their jeans), whereas the Ukrainians acted and looked tough as nails. Not to imply that I'm the world's strongest man, but I felt less secure in Ukraine because of the loss of my size and strength advantage.

The women in Lviv were..... beautiful of course- a close second to the Polish women. However, it really doesn't matter how beautiful the women are because I can't speak Russian and NOONE in Lviv can speak English. Unfortunately, despite my charming aura and stunning good-looks, the communication barrier could not be breached and all those lovely women were left Brettless. Heartbreaking really.

The lack of English was not my only problem in Lviv. The Russian alphabet (Cyrillic alphabet) is completely different and contains a plethora of funky symbols that might as well be ancient Mayan hieroglyphics to me. What does this mean? I ate a shitload of pizza in Lviv. Pizza is the universal word meaning 'I'm hungry and I can't read your stupid menu and you have no pictures and you don't speak English.' Not necessarily the worst problem in the world, but hey, I'm on vacation.

Lviv was also extremely difficult to navigate. At 7 in the morning, the bus station that I arrived at was conveniently located 9km south of Lviv in some wartorn landscape filled with Ukrainians that I (or any sane person) didn't care to meet. After realizing that noone spoke a lick of English, I hopped on the first local northbound bus and prayed that it would take me at least to a point that was actually on my map. Luck be the lady, I ended up in downtown Lviv somewhere and wandered aimlessly for about an hour until I gave up and hailed a taxi. For whatever maniacal reason, all the maps of Ukrainian cities are in the English translation and don't use cyrillics, yet all the actual streets are marked with the Russian cyrillic spellings (and they don't look remotely similar). What does this mean? Take a fucking taxi.

All in all, I felt the greatest amount of loneliness while I was in Lviv. Because winter season is near, there are very few travelers making it out to Ukraine. My hostel was an eerie flat with very few beds and loads of odd, seemingly unnecessary furniture. Igor, the owner was an amazing man that possessed a wealth of knowledge on basically everything Ukrainian. The only other people staying at the hostel were two gay Russian opera singers; one was probably 40 something and the other 20 something. My nights consisted of talking to Igor about politics while the two gay Russians continually forced vodka down my throat, in hopes of miraculously turning me gay (I found this out later, I didn't assume this). Anyway, the free vodka and good conversation were nice, and I even got the Russians talking in broken English about life as a gay couple in Russia. The drunk older one got worked up while on the topic, and yelled in broken English (with a Russian accent) "Its my cock, its my mouth, its my ass, and not Mother Russia's business!" Needless to say, I made sure to write the quote down before I went to bed.

Moving on, I took a 10 hour overnight train to Kiev and upon exiting the station, I knew I was going to like the capital of Ukraine. Kiev has successfully converted every square inch of concrete, on every building, on every block, into some form of advertisement, apparently directed towards the .05% of the Ukrainian population that can actually afford luxurious consumer goods. The hyper-capitalist atmosphere of Kiev is entertainingly ironic.

So how did I celebrate my first night in Kiev? The strip club of course- the best method for experiencing Ukrainian culture, while curing my loneliness hangover from Lviv. So I and four other guys from the hostel became new best friends for the night (this is pretty much how traveling works every night) and we hit the strip club sloppy drunk, of course just to 'check it out'. Well about 60 dollars (and that's a lot of money in Ukraine) later I came to my senses while getting a lapdance by some gorgeous stripper. Unlike the USA, in Ukrainian stripclubs it is important to note that strippers are offended if you DON'T touch them. As you can imagine, me being the classy gentleman that I am, proceeded to feel some boobies and kiss the stripper, which apparently was OK. Hey, I didn't want to offend the lovely girl! I have no idea how I got home that night, but all five of us ended up by ourselves at opposite ends of the city at around 4 in the morning and I apparently ate McDonalds for the first time on my whole trip. Like I said... nothin' but class.

Although Kiev provided plenty of fun in the party department, I also accomplished a thorough site-seeing agenda that included copious cathedrals and churches (you know with the funky dome-shaped roofs), the Lavra cave monasteries, and two museums. The Chernobyl museum chronicled the horrific disaster that occurred after a Soviet nuclear plant exploded in 1986 and not only accounted for a multitude of radiation-induced deaths, but the entire evacuation of the town of Pripyat. Much of Belarus and northern Ukraine are still permanently damaged by the nuclear fallout and not surprisingly, the Soviet Union did a fairly good job of covering up this atrocious disaster. Unfortunately, I did not pursue the opportunity to visit the actual quarantined site that is apparently still being dismantled and tested. Crazy Goddam Soviets.

Kiev also provided a great mixture of nightly parties with beautiful and beautifully non-beautiful sites (does that make sense sort of?) Graffiti-ridden shithole parks seemed to complement beautiful bustling plazas full of rich women shopping for their next weeks wardrobe, accompanied by their tough-looking asshole husbands- all of whom smoked like lung cancer never existed (I guess its appropriate when the life expectancy is only 55 for men). One gloomy day I took a trip out to some Ukrainian redneck gun club where I fired a few rounds out of an AK-47. Firing a Soviet assault rifle Rambo style (from my hip) is quite the rush, especially when you are surrounded by 'pro' marksmen firing sniper rifles and whatever other killing machines exist as recreational sport... and in Ukraine.

As most cities are, Kiev was difficult to depart. When traveling alone, it seems like as soon as you make some friends, understand the layout of a city, consider the hostel home, and find a good bar to call your own, its already time to move on. However, I left Kiev with high hopes and headed to Odessa.

Odessa is supposedly 'the place to be' for Russians and Ukrainians to hit the beach during summertime and party 'cancun-style bro'. However, I visited during the last week in October. Not only was the town completely void of any form of tourists or local vacationers, but I quickly discovered the 'beaches' located on the black sea were nothing more than ghostowns run by stray dogs and bums, and probably consisted of more broken glass than sand. Shitty graffiti covered everything and the backside of the beach housed a creepy dilapidated childrens' playground that really should be in a horror movie already. Although at first I was completely bummed out by the absence of a legitimate beach (or anything legitimate for that matter), I quickly discovered the strange photogenic attractiveness of such a shithole, and after careful deliberation, I decided to call it the "Soviet Cancun."

One day in Odessa was all I needed to see the majority of the city and its beaches. After my duties as a site-seeing tourist were fulfilled, I really began to fall in love with Odessa. Life is easy in Odessa, and considering how many foreigners I met that live there, I quickly understood how it sucks you in (aside from the beautiful women that hate foreigners). While some people may call it lounging or being a lazy tourist, I found the homeliness of Odessa invigorating. It was the first time on my trip that I performed normal everyday activities without the looming thought of what tourist attractions still required my time. One night, me and 3 guys from the hostel went bowling at some disgusting excuse of a bowling alley and got too drunk to know which direction to throw the ball. I used the kitchen and cooked most of my meals. I watched TV! (online) and couldn't make it through the first episode of the new 'Curb Your Enthusiasm' because its too painful of a show to watch. And to top everything off... I even went to the gym! I was a little apprehensive at first because I figured it would be some ex-Soviet bathouse filled with a bunch of "World's Strongest Man" contestants lifting cars or throwing full kegs over pole vault bars, while screaming roid-rage Russian obscenities at me. However, the gym turned out to be some five-star hotel fitness center and I was the only person in there, meaning nobody could tell that I didn't know what the fuck I was doing.

I celebrated Halloween in Odessa. Our hostel had a 'party' and although noone dressed up, we all contributed in varying degrees. There were probably about 20 people at our party, which was pretty impressive considering there were only about 5 of us staying at the hostel (we recruited 'outsiders'). Some people were carving pumpkins, some people brought beer, some people provided food... and what did I contribute? Well of course the classic American tradition of jello shots. For whatever reason, leading up to the party, my Russian friend Alex (who is a dentist) kept begging me to make jello shots because he "had seen it in some American movie, and couldn't remember which one." Anyway, after searching through every dam grocery store in Odessa, I finally found some Ukrainian version of Jello and decided to go for it. I googled a recipe for jello shots online (shit I've never made them before), and wrote it down on a scrap of paper. I'll be damned if every single Ukrainian or non-westerner in that hostel didn't think I had some sacred family recipe for jello shots that had been passed down through dozens of generations and represented one of the oldest American traditions known to man. They also didn't realize that there IS still alcohol in them, despite their tastiness and fun texture...
After the party I went out to the bars with Alex and another drunk Ukrainian guy and they were cut off by the bartender before receiving their first drink. However, I continued to drink, and I think they were too drunk to realize that they weren't even drinking and we met some friends, then some friends of friends, then some friends of friends of friends,.... then I woke up the next morning with a splitting headache and had to get ready to leave for Moldova.

It was time to leave Ukraine. Not only was I ready to leave for personal reasons, but the outbreak of the swine flu had hit Lviv, killing 30 some people. Its astonishing how quickly the entire city of Odessa (1 million people) obtained HEPA (High Efficiency Particulate Air) masks, and during the span of my time there, I quickly became the minority without one. Although I was cautious about the epidemic, I couldn't help but laugh when seeing people pull their masks off their face to smoke a cigarette about every 15 minutes.

Crossing the Ukrainian-Moldovan border was nerve-racking. Why? Primarily because I didn't know which route my particular bus had taken and whether or not it would go through Transdnestr- an unofficial separate country that is hardly recognized by anyone in the world. However Transdnestr has their own police force, government, and currency and is technically autonomous, although not legitimate. Regardless, if I go through this section of Moldova I will potentially have to pay a bribe of some sort to someone with a fucking machine gun, which doesn't sound fun.

Luckily, my bus went around the south end of Transdnestr, and I entered the poorest and most corrupt country in Europe unscathed. And this my friends, takes me to where I am right now at this very moment. Moldova.

I have only explored Chisinau, the capital city, for one day, and I think I have already seen enough. I think Chisinau might be the most fascinating shithole that I have ever experienced. In no way way does this place feel remotely similar to the rest of Europe. Although its only been one day, I think Moldova is analogous to one of those really shitty movies that are so bad that everyone loves it- and accumulates a cult following. Moldova is fascinatingly egregious.

That is all I got! Thank you for reading once again- I know this blog turned out much longer than the others. If I put you to sleep, then Hell Yeah, sleeping rocks in my book. I just want to say that I've really appreciated anyone who has sent me an email, facebook message, smoke signal, telekinesis, or even tried to call my phone (which is off). Traveling is a fun but lonely game and contact from home really means a lot to me, probably more than you think. Take care and peace be the journey.

dust.