The Borderland Chronicles

Oleg, center, with a stuffed bear on his head. He made it his personal mission to get me plastered. And he succeeded. He also invited me to butcher a pig with him at his dacha.

I’ve been hiding in my bedroom for about five minutes, standing over my bed with my head out the open window, and I’m inhaling and exhaling deeply, doing everything I can not to get sick from all the vodka I’ve drank during the past hour.

Then, from the other room, a heavily accented voice beckons. “Kree-ees,” it says, drawing it out in the middle.

I take one last deep breath, give myself a light slap to the face and then walk to the other room.

It’s Ira’s 23rd birthday, and her entire family has come over to the apartment I share with her and her boyfriend, my very good friend Igor, to celebrate.

Birthdays in Ukrainian culture are a very big deal. It’s typical to host a large dinner for family and close friends on the day of your birthday. And it’s important not to have empty space on the table during those dinners.

So for the past three days Ira and her friends, Ira, Ira and Tanya, have been baking, cooking, preparing elaborate mayonnaise salads and decorating the living room. They’ve also accumulated a table’s worth of booze. Every sort, from champagne to cognac, is represented.

The birthday dinner itself follows a strict formula. First, the dinner must be held on the actual day, or after, but never before. Once at the dinner, no one dishes up before everything is laid out, and no one drinks until everyone is present and ready to begin. A toast to the person whose birthday it is sets everything in motion.

On Monday night it’s Ira’s uncle Oleg who starts.

“Let’s drink,” he says, standing and raising his shot glass. The rest of us follow accordingly. “To Ira, my beautiful and wonderful niece on her birthday! May you have a long and prosperous life.”

Everyone throws back their glass of vodka, and we’re off to the races.

Plates are passed around, with the women scooping enormous helpings of everything onto them for the men. Discussions begin, with topics running the gamut from gossip to politics. The latter is one that I try to tread lightly on, because it has the power to ignite a firestorm amongst Ukrainians. And over the course of the next hour there are more than a dozen toasts, to the honored guest and just about everything else.

“I would like to make a toast to love!” Ira’s aunt cries out. So we all stand, clink our glasses and toss one back.

A few minutes later Ira’s father announces, “To the lovely couple – Ira and Igor!” Another shot down the hatch.

Not long after someone else shouts, “To women!” And everyone drinks again.

There’s a toast for men, another for Ukraine, one for friendship between Ukraine and America. There’s even one for me, for making it through the past two years. “It must have been difficult for you living with all of us,” someone jokes. All the while Oleg is watching my glass to be sure I’m drinking the shots in full. When I try to get away with just drinking half he calls me out.

“It’s bad luck to drink only half after a toast,” he explains. “Finish that now and let’s get you another.”

It’s after that next one that I escape to the toilet and then to my room. I need some air, and I need to stand up. I need to focus myself, because this thing’s not close to over.

But what I really need is to purge all this booze, drink some water and sleep. It’s a Monday night, and I have English lessons at 8 a.m. the next morning. Oleg, though, won’t let that happen. He’s made it his personal mission to fuck me up.

Somehow, sometime during my five minutes away, he’s acquired a new bottle of vodka. How the wretched thing materialized is beyond me

“Chris, you see?” he says, flicking his finger against the raised bottle of Nemiroff, his wedding ring clinking the glass. “This is just for you and me. For new friends!”

“Oleg,” I say, slowly shaking my head. “I don’t know. I just– ”

“No excuses. Only drinking,” he tells me, with a flick to his neck. “C’mon!”

Now I have no choice but to continue. His father, Ira’s grandfather, has sat me down on the sofa and is now holding my shot glass in front of my face, waiting for me to take it from him.

“You’re young and strong,” he tells me. “Everything will be OK.”

But after more than a dozen shots, I’m not sure if I believe him.

I finally get Oleg to let me take a break, but only after Ira’s aunt goes to bat for me, explaining to her husband in a rather patronizing manner that I’m American and I shouldn’t be held to Ukrainian standards.

“They can’t drink like us in America,” she says.

For the next several minutes I consume as much mashed potatoes, salad and bread as I can, in order to soak up some of the alcohol, careful not to overindulge for fear of becoming ill.

Living here for more than two years, you’d think I’d have learned all the tricks to surviving the Ukrainian birthday dinner. During Peace Corps training we’re even warned about it and taught ways to say no to alcohol. They tell us we’ll need to say “no” forcefully and at least three times for people to comprehend that we really don’t want or need anymore, or that we should think of a medical excuse.

But that’s just stupid. And the latter only works if you’ve not been drinking from the start. The former, well, sometimes you do want to partake, have fun and be lively. It’s not that I can’t take more than three shots, it’s that I don’t fare so well taking more than that in a span of just 10 or 15 minutes.

Three shots into the new bottle, I cut myself off, informing Oleg that it is now impossible for me to drink anymore without paying dearly for doing so. When he asks me what that means exactly, I make a vomiting gesture.

Tossing his head back in laughter while simultaneously patting me on the back, he finally gets it.

Thirty minutes and two pieces of cake later, Oleg and everyone else are gone. Igor and Ira do their best to convince me that going to a nightclub called Fresh is a great idea, but I make it no further than the courtyard in front of our building before I feel nauseous. Forget dancing, the simple act of watching someone dance might incite vomiting.

So I make my way back inside, stumble on my pants as I take them off to climb in bed, and hit the sack.

The next morning Igor and I bump into each other in the hallway. We leave for work at the same time.

“How are you feeling?” He asks.

“Terrible,” I say. “How about you?”

“Like a Brontosaurus Rex,” he tells me. “I think we drank a lot of vodka.”

Posted in Artemovsk, Culture, Encounters, Food, Holidays, Life, Peace Corps, Russian, Travel, Ukraine |

I was recently contacted by Matador Network to put together a photo essay that represented the eastern Ukrainian region that I’ve called home for the past two years.

Beautiful rubble of rural Ukraine was the result. And while you’ve seen many of the 20 photos here on The Borderland Chronicles, there might just be a few that’ll be new to you.

While you’re there, check out the other pieces I’ve published with Matador.

Posted in Artemovsk, Culture, Donetsk, Environment, Food, History, Holidays, Journalism, Konstantinovka, Life, Media, Peace Corps, Travel, Ukraine |

I finally got my hands on a copy of The Other Chelsea – A story from Donetsk, a documentary film by German director Jakob Preuss. Having lived in the Donbass region – where the film is set – for the past two years, I found it to be a very accurate and fair depiction of the culture and mindset that exists here in eastern Ukraine.

The film follows a Donetsk coal miner and a city assemblyman during the run-up to the UEFA Cup in 2009, which was won by Donetsk’s football team Shakhtar (Miners), owned by billionaire oligarch Rinat Akhmetov. The Other Chelsea examines the stark contrast of the region’s working class and political elite as well as that of east and west Ukraine.

With multiple film festival wins and nominations, The Other Chelsea is well worth the 86 minutes, especially if you’re interested in football, corruption and eastern Europe. The film is mostly in Russian, with some parts in German and English, but English subtitles are provided throughout.

Posted in Culture, Donetsk, Football, Holidays, Kiev, Life, Media, Politics, Ukraine |

It’s been five days since Ukraine celebrated Christmas on January 7, but I thought this story in The Local East Village, an NYU Arthur L. Carter Journalism Institute project in collaboration with the New York Times, was interesting enough to post here.

The story about a small Ukrainian shop in the New York City area once known as Little Ukraine does a good job of sharing what Christmas is to Ukrainians while providing a glimpse into the life of an immigrant who migrated to the U.S.

Here’s a snippet:

Andrew Ilnicki, the store’s 50-year-old manager, spoke as customers shopped for smoked meats, breads, borscht mixes, pierogi, and jellied pigs’ feet. “On Christmas Eve,” he said, meaning Jan. 6, “people serve non-meat food, which can be dairy; a lot of fish; and kutya, which is a pearled wheat with poppy seeds.”

“You can make kutya richer with honey and walnuts and raisins,” he said, describing one of 12 dishes that make up a traditional Ukrainian Christmas Eve supper. “On Christmas, there will be hams. They’re very popular with people. We cure them, smoke them, bake them and sell them.”

As Mr. Ilnicki spoke, the store’s owner, Julian Baczynsky, looked on with a paternalistic smile. Mr. Baczynsky was a displaced person in a German labor camp before he migrated to New York in 1949, one of tens of thousands of Slavic immigrants to do so after World War II.

“I worked for a farmer in Germany,” he recalled, adding that he has a degree from a German college and has learned to speak seven languages. He described himself with a grin as “just a young fellow – 88 and a half years old.”

Mr. Baczynsky opened his now iconic market in 1970, after closing a store he ran on Avenue B in 1955. It has since drawn visits from a multitude of locals and dignitaries ranging from the first President of Ukraine to Ray Kelly, the city’s police commissioner.

You can read the full story over at The Local East Village.

Posted in Culture, Food, Holidays, Journalism, Life, Media, Ukraine |

We’d heard about the beauty in western Ukraine, but had never seen it for ourselves. A place more reminiscent of European cities like Krakow and Prague than of Kiev and Kharkov. It wasn’t only foreigners, but Ukrainians, too, who crooned its praises, proud to call it a part of their country. So over Christmas, my girlfriend and I sprung for kupe (second class) tickets on the fast train (8 hours) west to Lviv to have a look around for ourselves.

What we found was a charming place, with architecture representing all European styles lining narrow, cobbled roads, mansions of former royals, castle ruins atop a hill with a panoramic view of the city – even an ice rink. Church bells rang out as we roamed the city center early Christmas morning in search of our rented apartment. That night, we stumbled upon an illuminated Christmas tree, which stood at the foot of the Opera House. Around us festive kiosks sold mulled wine, sweets and handicrafts, while carolers sang songs.

Lviv, or Lvov, or Lwow – maybe you’ve heard it called Lemberg – sits just north of the Carpathian Mountain range in western Ukraine, a few hours east of the Polish border. Over its 755 years, it’s been a part of Austria, Poland the Soviet Union and Ukraine, it’s been invaded and occupied by the Tatars, the Germans, the Soviets and others. It’s had a tumultuous history, but one that’s yielded quite a bit of character.

After checking into our apartment, my girlfriend and I went out in search of a market where we could gather what we needed for a modest Christmas meal. Selection was slightly limited, but we ended up with a whole chicken, a few kilos of potatoes, onions and garlic, and some broccoli to add some green to the mix. We also managed to find cinnamon so that we could prepare some mulled wine of our own. Back at the apartment that evening, wearing our Santa hats, we cooked it all up and enjoyed a relaxing evening away from the stresses of work and home.

We hit the streets early the next morning to see what the city had to offer. We strolled back through the market on our way to Castle Hill, observing an array of skinned animals ready to be cooked, fresh eggs and milk, as well as an assortment of pickled vegetables. After a 30 minute hike up the hill, we were rewarded with a view overlooking the entire city. Overhead the Ukrainian flag flapped in the wind. In the distance a train’s horn whistled. For a moment I felt completely at ease. I also felt extremely small, as one usually does looking out from such a vantage point.

The Market Square was bustling with life. Streetcars rang their bells at slow crossers, people haggled with vendors over the price of books, children howled as they glided across the ice rink. More holiday kiosks lined the streets, selling nutty treats, caramel apples and an array of hot drinks. We stumbled into the Lviv Historical Museum at Rynok #6, which houses both the Royal Mansion Museum and the Italian Courtyard, two stunning design achievements. Afterward we climbed the many hundreds of steps up the city hall bell tower to take in a view of Old Town. Before the sun set, we stumbled into a few churches. Photographs of their interiors couldn’t do them justice. We watched as people lit candles, crossed themselves and said prayers.

The next day was more of the same. While exploring Old Town, we stumbled upon Masoch Cafe, as in Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, whose named spawned the term we all know today as masochism. The author of Venus In Furs was born in Lviv – then Lemberg – in 1836. We stopped in for a drink and a quick bite and observed a waitress dressed in a maidens outfit of old whipping three young men with a leather whip as they left.

In the evenings we cooked and drank, watched films and read. In all, it was a very relaxing holiday. Until the last day.

We had to be out of the apartment by noon, even though our train back to Kiev didn’t leave until 9 that night. So I awoke early to clean and pack. But halfway through my cup of coffee, something began feeling wrong. Not something, actually, but my stomach. I tried eating some oats, drinking some water. That only made it worse. I lied back down in bed for a while longer. Still, no improvement. It got worse as we walked from our apartment to the train station, where we’d planned on stowing our bags while we spent the afternoon and evening in the city before our train that night. But when we arrived at the station, I found myself in a light sweat, chilled to the bone and curled in the fetal position on a waiting hall bench. Clearly, I was ill.

From what, I’m still not sure. But the next nine hours in that train station were among the worst of my life. I’ll spare you the gory details, but let me just say that running to a paid squat toilet every 10 to 15 minutes for nine hours is extremely uncomfortable. Worse yet, this same behavior continued for the duration of our overnight train ride back to Kiev. Suffice it to say I didn’t get any sleep.

Sickness aside, the trip was a fantastic holiday away, and one that reminded me how beautiful and interesting this country can be. If Odessa is the Pearl of the Black Sea, then Lviv must be the diamond in the rough that is Ukraine, or something like that.

Posted in Culture, Food, Holidays, It's Cold!, Lvov, Public Transportation, Russian, Tweets, Ukraine |

Kiev’s Central Station on Christmas Eve, moments before my girlfriend and I boarded our train to Lviv.

A kiosk at Lviv’s holiday market sells handicrafts and souvenirs.

Christmas sparklers.

Workers on a lunch break at the foot of Castle Hill.

Atop Castle Hill.

Lviv as seen from the bell tower in Rynok Square.

The Black House, located on Rynok Square, was built for Italian tax-collector Tomaso Alberti in 1577. Today it houses part of the Lviv Historical Museum.

The Italian Courtyard, located inside the Royal Mansion Museum.

Ice skating in Rynok Square.

(Photo by Bri)

A rabbit at the market, ready for your pot.

Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, author of Venus in Furs, was born in Lemberg – now Lviv. The term known today as masochism was derived from his name.

A nude woman inside the chest of the Leopold von Sacher-Masoch statue.

A headstone at the historic Lychakiv Cemetery.

See more photos from Lviv here.

Posted in Culture, Holidays, It's Cold!, Kiev, Lvov, Travel, Ukraine |

To all our friends and family around the world, we wish you all the best this holiday season.

Now we’re off to Lviv to celebrate!

Cheers!

Posted in Holidays, It's Cold!, Travel |

Heavy-eyed and over-tired from just three hours of poor sleep, we spent the 30 minute taxi ride reassuring each other everything would be fine, that despite my girlfriend’s multiple entries into Ukraine and living here for five months now customs officers would simply look the other way and let us pass through security to the gate where our plane to Poland would be waiting.

The law in Ukraine states travelers are allowed in the country for 90 days total during a 180-day period, but must spend 90 days out of the country before allowed another 90 days in it. The law is fairly new and until recently has rarely been enforced. But with Euro 2012 approaching, Ukraine’s trying to clamp down and show the west it’s moving away from Soviet-era lawlessness and toward European conduct.

It’s well known that corruption and bribery has played a prominent role in Ukrainian culture. In the country’s defense, with a bureaucracy as thick as the ice that forms on the Dnieper in winter, paying someone off is often times the only way to ensure something gets done here.

Approaching the airport customs booth, I went over every possible scenario in my head. Everything from nothing happening to detention and deportation. A check of my passport proceeded as usual. With a working visa and government approval, I rarely get asked many questions at customs. Then came the check of my girlfriend’s passport. Multiple entry stamps showed more than five months residing in country. The guard’s eyes widened as he studied this. And then he spoke – in Russian.

“Do you not have a visa or registration to be in Ukraine?” he asked my girlfriend.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “She doesn’t speak Russian. And no, she doesn’t have a visa.”

He went on to explain the law – 90 days in, 90 days out. Did we not know about this? No, of course we didn’t know, I explained. Our bad. We apologize. What do we need to do now?

He didn’t ponder this question long.

“You must pay a fine. Today. You can pay 850 hryvnia, and I can let you pass.”

I turned to my girlfriend to explain the situation. She had 800 hryvnia on her, not a kopek more. When I explained this to the guard he said it would be enough, and then he motioned me around to the side door of the booth.

“Put the money in here,” he said, holding open my girlfriend’s passport.

A minute later, after some pecking at the keyboard, we got the stamp we needed to get through. Thirty minutes later we boarded the plane to Poland.

Returning would be another challenge, of course. Would we run into the same customs officer? Would my girlfriend be allowed back in the country? Again, thoughts of questioning, detention and deportation entered my mind. Always prepare for the worst, but expect the best.

Turned out it was easier getting in than going out. The female customs officer said hello and smiled. She didn’t ask a single question, but stamped the passports and handed them back to us. “Have a nice stay” was all she said.

Outside the terminal we embraced for a moment, relieved that we’d been allowed back in without any trouble. But we were interrupted a moment later by a taxi driver asking if we needed a lift.

“Yes, please,” I said.

We didn’t haggle over the price – 150 hryvnia – which my girlfriend agreed was probably twice as much as it should have been. At that point, though, we just wanted to be home.

Posted in Culture, Encounters, Flying, Holidays, Kiev, Krakow, Teaching, Travel, Ukraine |

Morning in Rynek Glowny, the main market square, in Krakow, Poland.

Street musicians play near Krakow’s Rynek Glowny.

An artist sells paintings in Old Town Krakow.

Inside Rynek Glowny, the main market in Krakow. Booths here sell handicrafts, including jewelry, wooden toys and various souvenirs.

A jeweler straightens his earrings inside his booth in Rynek Glowny. Precious stones, such as amber, a very popular here.

Nuns out for a stroll in Old Town Krakow.

Bri at the foot of Krakow’s Wawel Castle.

Pigeons fly overhead at Krakow’s Rynek Glowny.

Bri perches atop a stone wall on the grounds of Krakow’s Wawel Castle.

More photos from Krakow, Poland over at Flickr.

Posted in Culture, Flying, Holidays, It's Cold!, Krakow, Travel |

Another holiday abroad, and more specifically another Thanksgiving. This year, however, I was thankful to be spending it with my girlfriend, who’s now living in Kiev. We had to settle for chicken instead of turkey, but mulled wine, a good white wine, plenty of garlic mashed potatoes and a killer apple, red onion and blue cheese salad more than made up for it.

Of course, we were missing our families. There’s no accounting for them – or the famously delicious apple and pumpkin pies my mother and grandmother prepare each year. But we’ll be back in the states soon enough.

Posted in Culture, Holidays, Kiev, Travel, Ukraine |