No, not like the TV show.

We had a real house call. Strange, but true. Kinda like the “olden” days…

It was time for Mikey’s HepB innoculation, and so we called the clinic. What do you know, they provide “house calls!”

The doctor (pediatrician) showed up with his “black bag,” and a still-cold HepB vaccine, and proceeded to give our son an injection into the anterior aspect of his right thigh, probably between vastus lateralis and rectus femoris, perhaps just a hair proximal to mid-femoral shaft.

He whined for about a minute, but no problem.

The doctor (врач) spoke excellent English, filled out the paperwork, and packed up his bag. He was in and out within ~15 minutes.

A House Call – in Ukraine. How nice….

I’ve determined that Soviet culture either doesn’t mind, and maybe even encourages, spitting. Yep –> whoever, wherever, whenever, whyever.

Why is whyever not a word?

It’s quite surprising to me because I was brought up in a culture where spitting was shunned – frowned upon. Only disgusting animals spit – like monkeys, camels, and snakes, among others. But here in a former Soviet Republic, I see humans doing it routinely – in the Fall, in the Spring, Winter or Summer – no matter.

Historically, chewing and spitting has been a part of everyday life for eons (I’m guessing). Just as a single example that comes to mind, nowadays it isn’t too hard to find a spitting contest – particularly of things like cherry pits. But please be careful, spitting can be dangerous.

There’s something raunchy, rough, tough, and overall “masculine” about the ability (and willingness) to spit. Am I right? In general, it seems to me, you are perceived as a “tough guy” if you can spit. For example, if you have power over someone else, you can exert that power in an absolute way: spit in someone’s face, and they can’t/don’t do anything about it. Gross! And Insulting!

However, at least based upon my upbringing, there’s something disgusting about noticing people spit. It’s considered impolite, and generally inappropriate if you can avoid it (particularly in a public place). Personally I really struggle with all the spitting that goes on here. Knowing what I know about disease and germs and such, having people walking in front of me when I’m downwind, and they go off, turn their head 90 degrees, and proceed to spray saliva into my headwind makes me gag. YUCK! It’s happened more than a few times. With the incidence of tuberculosis here, I’m sure I’m seropositive by now.

Sure… everyone feels the desire (once in a while) to gargle one up, snort one back, scratch one off the back of the pharynx, mix it up in the tonsil area, and hurl it (preferably downwind) through semi-pursed lips, creating enough force to eject the scourge as far from oneself as possible. Well, at least I think everyone does that once in a while – maybe not. But I admit it, I too enjoy it occasionally – and there is something satisfying about picking a target that’s outside of your normal range, and hitting it as if it were a laser-guided projectile.

To get to my point… it’s one thing to see a burly construction worker release a lung cookie after working up a sweat.. but what I find particularly disturbing is witnessing a finely dressed, attractive, young, apparently sophisticated woman hocking a loogie that would tip the scales at a solid 20 grams. I’ve always considered women to be a more refined version of men. I guess I’ve always thought that women had the mental capacity and restraint to do it when others are not around and/or watching. But that opinion has changed upon living in Kyiv. Here I see women doing it all the time. Old ladies, young ladies, babushkas, nuns, teenagers and supermodels. It’s bizarre to me. I don’t know — maybe I’m overreacting. I’m thinking you have to see it to believe it. But seeing apparently sophisticated women spit, and not giving an iota of thought as to what they just did in front of a crowd of people, is seriously bizarre to my Western Eyes.

For whatever reason, there is just something about spitting (expectorating) that is generally acceptable here. People also do it to be gross, and to demonstrate their semi-intentionally unrefined (peasant-like) nature. Indeed, there are a lot of immigrants from the country. Nevertheless, we-all-live-in-a-yellow-submarine, yellow-submarine, …. whoa, stop…. sorry, I digressed. We all live in a capital city, with millions of people, in big buildings, public transportation, personal vehicles, plenty of infrastructure, glass, concrete, etc…  With this in mind, I would like to think that we don’t live in the wild anymore. But obviously, some people still do.

It sucks that while walking to and from the metro station I find myself avoiding off-colored saliva bombs that litter the sidewalks. Green, yellow, clumpy and/or loose – there are all kinds of expectorations. Also, I’m sure a lot of this “spitting business” has to due to the absolutely ridiculous number of smokers here. Regardless, looking down and seeing phlegm littering the sidewalk is kinda gnarly, don’t ya think? I mean, if you are gonna spit, why not spit into the street, or off into the bushes/dirt? Why spit right on the sidewalk directly in front of oneself? There’s something to it, I tell you. Something ingrained in the culture that makes it both acceptable and “normal.”  I really don’t think the majority of people even thing about it for more than a split second – it’s part of the culture.

But referring back to the title of this post, seeing women do it just boggles my mind. My view has changed.

I’m telling you, it’s not hard when you see babushkas hocking loogies.

Fine, getting sprayed by spit undoubtedly elicits a sense of disgust by anyone in the way. But now, even the thought of stepping in it sends shivvers up my spine. From my perspective, whatever is on my shoe generally ends up very close to, or in, my apartment. Damn… maybe I’m gonna start leaving my shoes outside – or maybe I’ll create a sanitizing door mat hmmmm….

Nasty.

Enough for now, back to studying…

Hello World!

My name is Michael Anthony Geller. I was born on March 18, 2009, which means I’m a Pisces, like my Dad. Though my parents desperately wanted me to turn upside down, I was insisting to sitting like a little Buddha in the cozy little womb I called home… and consequently, my birthday was (sorta) picked for me.

Here I am showing them where to stick the bottle…

My name was chosen because my parents like the way it sounds. But the more I think about it, I think there is some correlation with some of my forefathers. Specifically, my Dad’s grandfather was named Milton – which I think led to the Michael; and My Mom’s father was named Anatoliy – which I’m pretty sure resulted in Anthony. According to Wikipedia, Geller comes from German, Yiddish, and/or Russian. It also means “one who yells,” so my parents are in for a special treat!

Speaking of my parents, here they are again:

Mom

and Dad

On that great day last Wednesday, March 18, we were at a nice private clinic called ISIDA in Kyiv, Ukraine. Yep, I’m a Ukrainian! But wouldn’t you know it, even though I’m proud as hell to be born in The Ukraine, Dad has already insisted that I become an American – and so I’m supposed to get my picture taken sometime in the next week or two, and then I get my first passport from the American Embassy. Nice people over at the U.S. Embassy in Kyiv, I’m told. I guess that means I’m not allowed to be President of the USA, huh? Oh well… those guys are tight-asses anyway.

The birth was fairly easy, and my Dad took a lot of pictures (and some movies). Yes, he was in the room at the time with the camera in hand. It’s sort of embarrassing, but I think he even got a picture of me peeing all over the nurses when I was about 2 minutes “old.” One of the nurses even screamed a bit in surprise. The others giggled. Pretty soon thereafter, the nurses poked and prodded a bit, and noticed I was gaining color quickly. My lungs obviously worked. I tested them out about 10 seconds after leaving the womb.

Here I am, about 2 minutes old. Kinda gross, but kinda beautiful too!!!

Look, my cord is still attached!

I think Dad was amazed to see a live baby come out!!!

They put me on the scale and I weighed in at 3.44kg. Not too shabby since the doctors were saying I was average/small during most of my development. It just goes to show you how accurate those stupid ultrasound thingys are. For you non-math majors out there, that’s about 7lb 9oz. The nurse wasted no time in measuring me too… I was 54cm long and my head was 38cm in diameter. Also, not so bad. Not quite a Kareem Abdul Jabbar or anything, but I think I should be able to hold my own when I’m all grown up. Of course these measurements were taken over a week ago now (by about 12 hours), and I’ve probably put on a good half cm and at least 100-200 g.

I was immediately given to Dad and was taken out of the delivery room, and Mom showed up in the recovery room about 20 minutes later. I was quite comfortable being wrapped up like a little worm. They also left that little bit of “white stuff” on my face for a little while – I guess it has some protective qualities.

Though I didn’t want to leave my folks, the nurses took me away to where the other babies were gathering that evening; something like a “meeting of the minds,” I believe. I overheard my parents conversing the next day about what had happened. Mom needed to sleep, and Dad went home because he wasn’t allowed to stay. That was my first day… and the rest is (proverbial) history!

We spent a few more days in the hospital, learned all about baby care, and enjoyed round-the-clock attention. I’m now at home, and I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Whitey the Cat. I understand why they named him that — but I’m sure glad they thought about it more when they named ME!!!!!

Maybe I’m being sensitive, but I think Whitey is a bit jealous already. I hope to be better friends in the future.

That’s all for now. I’ll keep you updated whenever I (or my parents) do something cool 

Cheers, and thanks for reading,

– Michael

I’m sorry, but you couldn’t pay me enough to take this job. Sure, I understand that some people are so “down and out” that any job is a good job. Butt really, spending your days in a toilet? Even if it’s the beginning of your life and you are saving money to buy that new toy you want. Even worse, when it’s the twilight of your life… why would someone take this job?

And when I say toilet, I have to clarify. No, this isn’t a nice hotel, restaurant, or theater, where a courteous gentleman or woman in official dress offers to dry your hands or provide you with a squirt of perfume or cologne (perhaps for a dollar) before returning to your seat. Nope. This is a toilet (туалет) that rarely has paper, that may have dividers, that may include porcelain, is generally enclosed without windows, exudes gag-provoking fecal fumes, encourages “no contact” behavior, and sometimes has sufficient lighting to see what you are doing. Then, to add insult to bladder-bursting injury… you have to pay for it.

Butt wait, you cannot simply place a coin in a jar. Someone would steal it… duh! There is actually someone who spends the better part of their waking day (dare I say life) collecting about 15 cents from each customer, per use of the “facility.” Well, unless I feel that I’m about to cause irreversible, irrevocable damage to critical internal organs, I will not pay for a toilet. Something seems wrong about living in a city where people pay taxes and having to pay again to do something that everyone has to do (by design) every single day of their lives. I’d much rather use the need to use the restroom as a good excuse to grab a drink in a local shop that has a bathroom for it’s customers. I guess not everyone can or want to spend money like that.

Nevertheless, when one’s wife is well into her pregnancy, requiring the use of a restroom every hour or two (tops), there are inevitably going to be times when even this place appears like a gold mine. I thought it might be worthy of a picture.

In fact, this was one of the nicer establishments I’ve seen. But when my wife left the corrugated metal enclave, she looked as though she was about to vomit – and not, she wasn’t about to go back inside to do it.

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A waddling market goer.

I also began thinking about the money exchange taking place inside. This, I’m afraid, is just wrong. It goes against human nature, I think. One wants to bury the leaves they used to wipe their ass, not use them as “change for a 20.” Talk about speading “germs.” And then I was thinking… the person in the toilet must actually be responsible for cleaning, to some extent. Gnarly.

My advice: Make sure you always carry exact change!

Or, just consider your overpayment a donation to the cause…

She’s pregnant, and everyone knows it.

Shockingly, people are even offering their seat to my wife on the subway. I never thought anyone here would be so kind. Alas, I was wrong. I’ve seen it several times just in the last couple of days. Nice people…  that obviously know what it’s like to bear children. Even with all the winter clothes on (because it’s -5C), it’s still quite obvious.

It’s big, but it’s beautiful. And there’s no doubt that it’s going to get way bigger in these final few months.

If anyone has any sage advice for a father to be – please leave a comment!

OK, Fall is unofficial again. It’s back to Summer-Fall.

It is supposed to rain a bit today, but it has been beautiful recently. Beautiful enough for some FANTASTIC Mushroom hunting –> keep an eye out for a post coming to a nearby blog sometime soon.

But today I wanted to touch on a fact of life around here. Everyone is bracing for winter. Evil, cold, blustery, bitter, winter (зима). You can see it on the faces of the people wandering around the market.

But perhaps more obvious than peoples expressions, which clearly reflect their discontent with the disappearance of Summer/Fall and the arrival of the looming winter, is the characteristic clothing that people are now wearing. A few weeks ago we had a cold snap (less than 10°C for almost 2 weeks). The winter jackets came out; the rain gear came out; the umbrellas, boots, and dark and heavy clothing. In a fortuitous twist of weather fate, for the last week it has been beautiful –> touching 21°C or more on the Centigrade thermometer (70°F on Fahrenheit, for you English Types). Hell… that’s practically summertime!!!

Yet, people are still wearing their heavy clothing. Sure, maybe the summer clothing has been put in a box in the closet or something… but dude — bust that shit out again, I say. I was thinking to myself that if this were July (and 21°C or higher), people would be outside shirtless, meandering around the liquor stands in flip-flops and shorts, drinking beers and smoking cancer-sticks, and pretending to be loving the summer life in Kiev. The fact that it’s 21°C in July doesn’t make a difference — they are enjoying the temperature.

So what IS the difference?

O’ –> for October.

Crazy, but I think it’s true. Just because it’s October nobody even thinks about wearing shorts! No, it’s not windy. No, it’s not cold. Very interesting Daniel-san – the psychology of living in a place with real seasons. People interpret the weather differently depending on what month of the year it is!!!

This being said, I think I’m gonna wear some shorts today — and everyone can mock the crazy American (if I actually leave the apartment). What’s the difference between July and October if the weather is the same? Why not try to re-invigorate that fading tan on those arms and legs? I’m pretty sure I’d be wearing shorts in Santa Barbara right now.

Funny how the knowledge of the impending cold has the capacity to influence attitudes and behaviors

OMG!

I can’t see.

I am not sure what happened.

Actually, I DO remember the last thing I saw… and I’m hoping it won’t leave permanent damage.

****

If you’ve followed my blog for a while, you will know that I’ve been blinded once before: by the sight of my horrified mother in law running naked through the house, like a sprinting cheetah, towards her room.

Yes… I got a clear view of my Mother-in-law’s backside. It was a shocker, to say the least.

****

Well my blog-reading friends… it happened again.

This time though… yep, you guessed it… FULL-FRONTAL.

Holy SCHNIKES.

Why, why, why, Lord… O’ why have you done this to me? Why do you punish me? What did I do to deserve such castigation?

I’m sure you are wondering what happened: I was on a business call for an hour in my room. She probably heard me talking with the door closed and thought, “hey, Snotty’s busy, so I can strut around brazenly without a worry.” Well, after I ended the phone call, I had to take a leak. The bathroom is around the corner from my room, off the hallway leading to the kitchen. I spin out of my door and around the corner… and…

BLAMMO!

I mean…   BLAAAAAAAMMMMMMOOOOOOOOOO!

She was walking into the kitchen from the balcony with her recently gifted thick-n-fluffy American bathrobe WIDE freaking open. I saw so many rolls, so much flesh, too much skin, and gigantic sagging mammaries — I retreated instantaneously, and felt weak, nauseous, disturbed, slightly angry, and creeped-out, all within the first 5 seconds. Thank the Maker (it’s just an expression) –> I don’t think she saw me! Otherwise our subsequent interaction(s) might be… hmmm… awkward.

Since retreating to my room I’ve discovered the only lasting effect — I’m visually paralyzed and emotionally traumatized. What to do? I don’t think my retinas will ever be the same.

Should I tell her, so that she doesn’t do it again?

Or, if she knows I’ve already seen her in her birthday suit, maybe she’ll just be that much more at ease to do it again in the future?

Or, if I just keep it to myself, will my nightmares go away???

Thankfully, my wife (and my mother) is a shrink… I may need some extended therapy after today’s episode.

So, I’ve heard of wooden spoons. Particularly popular in midieval times… but wooden forks? Yeah, yeah… sure, sure… of course there are wooden forks, and wooden knives (I think).

But have you ever used a wooden fork?

No, not the big kind for mixing a large salad… and not the pseudo-fork that you use or stirring a pot of spaghetti. I’m talkin’ a regular old fork.

^ ^ ^

Well, we have two of them, and we use them regularly. My only fear is what I know about bacteria. What grows between the tines? What grows in the wooden crevices within the superficial/exposed plant fibers? Especially knowing how my mother-in-law washes dishes, this becomes a semi-serious health concern.

But, in the end, I use it occassionally. I had never used one before, I don’t think. Sure, I’m guessing that they are normal practice in many parts of the world, but since metal (or plastic) forks have become common utensils in the USA, I’ve never seen an actual wooden one.

OK, so fires this week probably won’t catch. The fall weather has reared it’s rainy face. All week. Ugh!

The picture below was taken last week, but it makes the point, regardless of our current weather situation.

Fires are everywhere during the summer.

The picture is taken FROM our balcony. The charred area was undoubtedly begun by a lit cigarette butt. (Remember — approximately 75% of people smoke here. OK, maybe a bit of an exaggeration, but it is extremely high). My wife even suggested that some people start them on purpose. Why? I mean… Why?

The funny thing is that people walk right by the flames without flinching. I’m not sure if they even notice it. Kinda like a passing butterfly… it’s just part of the scenery.  I’ve seen countless fires along the sides of the road while driving out to our dacha. Smoldering, spreading, creeping and crawling fires that simply consume the dryness.

No firemen. No trucks. No water. No concern.

Weird!

I guess Ukrainians know that 99% of the time the fires will simply burn themselves out, as long as they aren’t proximate to forests, houses, oil tankers, etc. Who cares about individual little trees or structures without four walls, right?

It’s weird… to watch open fires burn without seeing anyone concerned, in the slightest. I guess it probably happens in other third world countries. Oops, I guess Ukraine is technically considered 2nd world, but you get the idea.

To all those that have lost their lives to the cold hands of tyrannical men… everywhere

Let us reflect – consider the loss, the pain, the sorrow that ensued following that September day 7 years ago. Please, let’s consider what brought us to that point in our history, and how we can try to make the world a more peaceful place, for ALL mankind, in our wholly uncertain future.

* * * * *

Today’s post is dedicated to those that lost their lives on September 11, 2001.

Moreover, today is also dedicated to those people that have the COURAGE to make the world a better place by:

eliminating hatred

extinguishing acts of war

fostering love in community

respecting all peoples and their origins

contributing to feelings of brotherhood throughout humanity

and acknowledging the validity of different belief systems, religions, and cultures

* * * * *

– because in relative terms, life is so very very short,

and we are all just fibers of the same human fabric –

* * * * *

PEACE

We live in the city. But in the summer months we spend quite a bit of time at our summer house. It’s about 45 km from our apartment, and serves many purposes, not the least of which is sanity and a sense of grounding with mother Earth.Needless to say, the summer house is a virtual bounty of life. Everything grows, lives, dies, wilts, withers, blows, ages, wears, blossoms, suckles, spreads, and passes. It’s the circle of life, and it is everywhere at our dacha. Of course we (as “man”) are attempting to control our environment as best we can to make life “comfortable,” but when it comes down to it, we are visitors here just like all the other plants and animals. It feels inherently different in the City.

So as you might guess, we have snakes. Yes, some are poisonous, but many are not. I can never remember – do the small yellow dots mean they are deadly, or harmless? Anyhow, we were peacefully eating breakfast a couple of months ago (early June), and I glanced over at the sunlight beaming through the glowing lilys – right onto the belly of a green, slithering, legless, sniffing-tongue, scaly varmant. It didn’t scare me so much as it surprised me. I rubbed my eyes, opened my pupils a bit, and refocused my aging lenses. Nothing changed. It WAS a snake. We hopped up, took a closer look, and deemed the snake to be “harmless.” It was not like it’s highly poisonous counterpart (without the dots, I believe) – the meadow viper??? Not sure. Damn, just the viper attached to the name gives me the willeeees.

Here’s a picture: Sneaky, isn’t he?

So we got some sticks and a fishing net, and tried to corral it so that we could get a better look. Unfortunately, he was sort of deep in the flowerbed, and we couldn’t easily capture it. After about 15 minutes, and playing “catch me if you can” as it slithered between the bases of several bushes, we lost it. Great. Gone. Just what I wanted – to be thinking about the slithering reptile casing our gazebo while my back is turned towards the table, peacefully eating my oatmeal. I bet it’s hungry. I bet it likes human.

Then, another episode -

It was nightfall. The wolves were howling, the wind was blowing, the lightning striking. Not really, that was just for effect. But… The first star was peering through the stratosphere. We were starting our evening fire in our Russian standard outdoor iron oven (sort of a BBQ). We hear a croak. Several times. And then a whine. And then a croak, and a whine. And another.

The cats became equally interested and were moving about. It was emanating from the corner of the serai (our shed), which is connected to our old (but still functional) outside kitchen. It was near the steps, and coming from under the woodpile. Surprise, surprise.

It was dark and we couldn’t see, so we fetched our headlamp and double-A Mag-lite. Carefully inspecting the area we expected to see a toad or two. The chornie-belie (black-white) cat, a demonstrated hunter, had helped focus our inspection. We couldn’t place the sound, as it was definitely unusual for a toad to squalk like that. Anyhow, under the illumination of our flashlights, we lifted a small piece of plywood – and there it was.

Shit. A snake. I lifted it again and took a picture (so that I wouldn’t have to get too close). I’ve never heard a snake make those sounds before = “no way!”
Let’s look at the picture and see if it’s a viper. If not, we can catch it. Looking at the picture, the situation became far clearer. It was a toad… and a snake. But the toad was getting the wrong end of this deal — it was being eaten by the snake. Either the toad was bigger than the snake had anticipated, or the attack had just literally (5 minutes before) taken place and the deal had not quite been consummated yet.

Have a look at the picture: I didn’t want to disturb mother nature, so this is the best picture I got.

I guess that’s what they do around here… but I’d never quite seen it before. The snake was incapacitated by its appetite. We proceeded to go back and look several times, re-lifting the wood, and the animals hadn’t moved an inch. Caught in the throws of death, the frog was muttering its last sounds.

We returned in the morning, and (not surprisingly) no trace was left. But it goes to show that life is all around us.

Oh, I almost forgot. There was another snake I almost forgot to mention. It was INSIDE one of our bags of concrete, INSIDE our fourier, on the way into our main house. Yikes!  What am I doing here???
____________________

I wrote this above post a little while ago, and between writing and physically attaching the pictures/posting the text, I came across a few other snakes during my brief trip back to California! All at my Dad’s house: first, a black racer (basically harmless, cool looking snakes) that was exiting the tomato patch – he was about 4 feet long; second a rattlesnake hanging out in a small culvert used for water drainage – it rattled at us and returned to its shelter; lastly, a rattlesnake relaxing next to the water tank right near the tub used to offer a bit of water relief from the desert heat.

The last example has particular relevance because it is very possibly the SAME snake that BIT my father about 6 weeks ago. Yep, he was walking by the tanks and stepped on the damn thing. If you know my father, you know he’s blind (or, for all intents and purposes, blind – he sees very, very little out of only one eye). Anyhow, rattlesnakes are supposed to rattle before biting, right? In fact, they are supposed to rattle before you even get anywhere close enough to step on them, RIGHT??? But this little bastard bit first and rattled afterward (admittedly, after being stepped on ). Anyway, thanks buddy. Thanks for the warning.

In the end, Dad had something on the order of 13 anti-venom treatments over the course of the next ~36 hours at 2 different hospitals. He is fine, and all is well — just a bit scary if you ask me.

Here’s my tribute picture:  Modified from a blind veteran’s golf tournament held in Iowa each year!

I’ve had more snake adventures, but those are either private, or for another post…

WITH ALL DUE RESPECT.

It was a neighbor that passed away…

No, I didn’t know him. In fact I don’t really “know” any neighbors, though I do recognize some.
Anyhow, this post isn’t about me, it’s about the man that passed away — and how interesting and different Russians (Ukrainians) approach the passing and burial of their loved ones.

People die all of the time, obviously. Just like little ones are born all of the time. “The circle of life.” And this circle is quite evident in the concrete jungle in which I live. For lack of a better word, I live in a slum. It’s not dirty or nasty, per se, but it is a concentrated with semi-poor people, and the environment has undoubtedly decayed into what I would say is an unattractive neighborhood, where the quality of life is surely sub-standard in comparison to Western ideals. But more importantly, there is a rotation of people. There’s obviously lots of breeding going on… and surely there’s also lots of elderly passing on.
The man had lived in the [attached] building next to ours. So what’s the big difference? Russians (at least around here) have ceremonies for the dead at their houses. Well, I’m not all that sure about the ceremony part – I’m sorta guessing that there’s some sort of wake that goes on inside –> but the official passing of the body from this world into the next (if you believe in that sort of thing) really begins at the family home. Even if the person did not pass away at their home, the body is brought BACK to the home, and prepared for burial. Again, in this case it was in one of the neighbors from an apartment in the adjacent building.

I don’t want to profess that I know much of anything about funerals, and honestly, I know even less about Russian ones. But I thought it would be a meaningful post to share a bit of what I see around me. I’m sure this is a daily event around here, but this is the first I’ve seen directly in front of our apartment. I’ve seen several ambulances, but only one other funeral. Several months ago at another building in our complex, I was returning from the store and noticed many (semi-formally dressed) people had gathered around the building’s entrance. There was a band playing VERY somber music. Indeed, it was a funeral. I was surprised that funerals were happening right here, in front of our homes. I was interested in what was happening, but I stayed far away and just listened to the band for a few minutes. Definitely — a reality check. And then today, this morning, I saw another funeral – in the building immediately next to ours, whose entrance we can (almost) see from our balcony.

From what I’ve gathered, Russian funerals originate in the family home, with the extended family, friends, colleagues, and acquaintances visiting the residence on the day of the burial. The body is placed into the casket within the sanctuary of the home (probably with only family in attendance), and is then carried outside to the hearse. Surprisingly, to me, they often have open caskets. And the dead are exposed for everyone to see and visually “say goodbye” to. I thought about it for a moment, and realized there’s no way the casket would fit in the elevator (which is quite small in our very typical concrete Russian “hives”). So I’m assuming that the casket is carried down through the stairwell. My wife told me that it is generally it is carried by family members and close friends (similar to elsewhere, I suppose).
To be honest, my curiosity about the event peaked when I saw the hearse back up into the lane in front of our building — an unusual approach. I didn’t know what was going on. I was just peering out of our balcony, and I saw the small bus intentionally reverse into the lane in front of the building. “Why would someone do that,” I asked myself. Then I saw ~20 people or so gathering at the entrance of the building. I’m embarrassed to say that I thought it was a wedding, and the bus was for transport! Then I realized that people were not very joyful at all, and many were wearing black. I then noticed that the hearse (basically a small bus) had all of its window shades drawn – so that you could not see into it at all — and I thought that was a bit odd, indeed. All of my observations took place withing about 15 seconds, and I quickly realized it was a funeral, not at all a wedding.
I couldn’t actually see the door to the building, so I couldn’t tell exactly when things were happening. But sure enough, soon after the hearse stopped I saw people line up on either side at the rear, and the driver of the hearse opened the back hatch.

A young man held up a small (paper-sized) framed picture of the deceased. It was from yesteryear, when the man was in the prime of his life. Most of the women wore scarves on their heads, and many men had scarves tied around their arms. Others held flowers or supported standing wreaths. The top of the casket came out of the apartment building entrance first. And then the man in his final resting place. I took a couple of pictures with the utmost respect, only to share my experience with others that, like me, have never seen or really experienced such an event. I blurred the man’s face to maintain anonymity, in respect of him and the rest of his family.

I was moved, emotionally. I know that people die. But in my experience (in the West), death is something that people don’t want to be too close to. Here, it’s a bit more raw – where outright displays of emotions – respect and adoration – for the man (or woman) that has passed is allowable, and even fostered in a final exposed exodus from one’s residence.

May this man, and all men, women, and children that have lived on this earth -

Rest In Peace.

I saw some kids buying cigarettes and beer yesterday. I swear, they couldn’t have been more than 15 years old – tops. There’s no reluctance by any salesperson to sell to “minors.” But then again, I’m not sure if there even is such a thing as a “minor.”

I asked my wife, and she said “well yeah, of course; it’s 16.” “Oh,” I replied.

There has’nt been a single thing I’ve seen thus far (over a year) to suggest that there would be a legal age for anything. Especially if you have cash in hand.

Anyhow, these two freshly-crowned teenagers were just like any other kids walking to the corner store to buy a jawbreaker, bubble gum, soda, or a bag of Doritos. But in this case, they each walked away from the corner stand with a liter of beer in their grips. As they walked towards the park, they twisted off the plastic caps and began pickling their livers – at the ripe old age of 15. It’s kind of sad.

Holy cow, man…

I knew it was possible, but I didn’t think it would really happen. I mean, I had felt the bike lean before, but…

So we head out from our friends’ house where we had dinner, and cruise towards the “ring road” that semi-encircles Kiev. It’s a beautiful summer evening, probably around 22°C for the ride home. We were wearing our leather jackets, helmets, and both of us had pants on… thankfully. And as always, I was wearing my trusty steel-toed BMW boots.

The road we were on was large (blue arrow below, heading North), with 3-4 lanes on each side, including a divider. The road we were turning onto was perpendicular to ours, and it involved an overpass — and thus, the transition was anything but normal. Have a look at the schematic I whipped out…

-

So you can see the unusual transition to the crossing boulevard. Instead of the usual semi-smooth curvy transition, it was a triple curve. To be honest, I had ridden this transition before, and I knew about the triple curve. Perhaps that is why I thought I might take it a little faster than the first time.

Perhaps I could enlarge the diagram so you can really see what’s going on:

The large arrow on the right points to the POINT OF CONTACT. Yes, we hit the wall. OK, I suppose HIT is not entirely accurate — let me explain.

The first curve off of the main street was taken at a fairly standard speed and acceleration was nothing out of the ordinary. Then, I remembered how fun this “S” turn was, and kept my speed up (heading to the right, in the diagram) as I approached the first (lower) part of the S. Needless to say, I love speed and consider myself a wannabe race car driver / motorcycle racer, and I kept the bike a bit wide as I entered the turn, and proceeded to cut across the apex of the curve, just like Laguna-Seca.

I was intentionally keeping the car behind us from passing, by controlling the lane(s). Otherwise he would have made us slow down while he passed, etc…

So my speed was up (probably only about 25-30 km/h) as I approached the final curve. Somewhere around the yellow “X” in the diagram… Oh, did I mention it was pitch black outside?… around the yellow “X” I felt a very unusual thing. Everything was leaning a bit too far left, as if the whole world was being tilted under my tires. What the ???

Almost instantaneously I realized it was not the earth that was tilting, but it was the Dnepr MT-11 under our butts. Thankfully I’ve ridden enough, both on dirt and pavement, to know that I was going down unless I corrected the steering immediately. The caveat was that I was IN a turn, heading to the right at about 25 km/h — but in order to set the motorcycle back on 3 wheels, I was required to turn the handlebars to the left. Within about a millisecond I had made the choice. If I did not turn, we were road-rash hamburger and the bike was smashing us against the ground, flipping over, and probably landing on top of us. And I hate breaking bones. So, I decided against this, and opted for turning the handlebars.

However, as noted in the diagram above (shown in red), there was a 4-5 meter high solid concrete retaining wall directly in front of us. Remember, the road we were getting onto was an overpass! So turning the handlebars meant turning INTO THE WALL.

Alas, I had no choice. Another millisecond had passed…

I turned the wheel, set the sidecar back on it’s wheel, and headed towards the wall. Needless to say, I squeezed the drum brakes as hard as I could, but they were not going to stop us — no way, no how. I used the curb at the base of the wall (which stuck out from the wall by about a foot and was about 6 inches high) as a shock-absorbing pseudo-wall, just as I turned the wheel back to the right.

Indeed we hit the curb pretty hard (thankfully no real damage there).
And amazingly, with the coincident turn of the handlebars to the right, the the curb helped set us back on track — but it was not before a “ssssccccrrrrraaaaaapppppppeeeee” could be heard from my cowling that sits atop my left cylinder.

Unbelievable. A scrape on a piece of metal was all that touched the actual wall — and although it sounded quite loud and nasty at the time, the damage was practically unnoticeable.

My heart was beating around 200, and my wife started screaming at me to stop acting like a race car driver. (oh, and she punched me a couple of times). I’m sure the car behind me got a good look at the whole episode.

Anyhow, we pulled over and assessed what had happened. No damage. No death or destruction. No slamming into the daunting vertical overpass concrete uncompromising wall.

We proceeded home, and I was giggling to myself in my own helmet (not letting my wife see my grin). Once again, I just got lucky (but I also thank my quick reflexes — they’ve saved me once before — but that’s for another post). No, this was not intentional, and not even reckless as far as I’m concerned. I just pushed the limits of the motorcycle (admittedly, perhaps, just a bit beyond what I should have) — but as all riders (and many drivers) know, knowing the limits of your vehicle is imperative to knowing how to stay safe. A bit ironic I suppose… maybe even hypocritical. That being said, I’ve since abided all safety standards

Normally I tell my fellow motorcycle riders to keep it on 2-wheels. I’m gonna start saying 3-wheels now!!!

Seriously…. That’s 2 for 2. Two days in a row, right out in front of my apartment building, there were 2 dumb-ass accidents.

It’s a very typical 3 second incident. 1) We hear cars accellerating more than they should be. 2) We hear tires screeching for about 1 second (maybe even a horn). 3) We hear impact (“BLAM”). 4) We hear Russian swearing, from one driver to the other. 5) We subsequently hear horns honking, because the traffic backs up.

Crazy drivers are abound. Actually, STUPID drivers are abound. I have been wondering why they all suck so bad. I’ve come to realize that it’s because they aren’t used to driving… historically. ONLY the very fortunate few (hard working with a well-paying job) had vehicles prior to dissolution of the USSR. So, unlike in America, there have NOT been generations of car drivers –> and thus, there’s little to no comprehension of driving etiquette, skidding, speeding, inherent dangers, etc… which is normally passed on from one driving generation to the next. Moreover, because up and coming drivers in the States grow up in conditions where driving is SANE, they themselves become more sane drivers when they obtain their driver’s licenses.

ALL* OF THE UKRAINIAN DRIVERS ARE BASICALLY “NEW” TO THE SPORT. Note the asterisk next to “ALL.” The “Old-Timers” driving the 1970’s Lada’s and Volga’s are generally excellent, courteous, and aware road companions. Those older drivers have been behind the wheel a while; they know where they are going, they know what they are doing, and they know how to get there without killing anyone.

Now I don’t necessarily declare myself an expert driver, but I’ve been pushing the pedal for 23 (official) years now… with no accidents (one crash on the motorcycle). Not only that, but I’ve spent the last 10 years hanging onto handlebars on 3 continents — which had made me quite aware of all kinds of drivers. So for those reasons and others, I feel like I’m a pretty good judge.

To give you an idea… The Ukrainian (and Russian) drivers park wherever they damn well please. Totally annoying. They drive wherever they damn well please, too. The end of pavement does not mean the end of the road. Pedestrians do NOT have the right of way. Drivers turn whenever and whenever they damn well please. They STOP their vehicles wherever they please — like on a highway, or on a bridge — just to have a look over the edge. Seriously. Totally F’n retarded. They drive into oncoming traffic ROUTINELY. They drive on the wrong side of the road, and UP OFFRAMPS. They drive on sidewalks. They drive on train tracks. I’m not kidding. They pass on blind curves. They drive within inches of each other. They think a 0.07 second gap is plenty. They split lanes with full-size cars. They think rain enhances traction. They don’t think.

Furthermore, the bigger or more expensive car you have, the more rights you supposedly have. The people driving Land-Rovers, Mercedes, and BMW’s think they are absolutely privileged, and everyone should move out of their way, as if parting of the Red Sea. Really… it moves down the ranks from there. If you have money, you own the road. Why, you may ask? Because if you hit somebody (or even if they hit you), and they have a lot of money or a beautiful car — you could very well give up your entire year’s salary just to fix their bumper. So… basically it means to get out of their way.

Oh, and then there’s the young punks. They think of themselves as invincible — but really are careless, reckless, loony, stupid, self-absorbed, hot-shot, ignorant, retarded, foolish, naive, moronic drivers, and without question –> should not be allowed to handle such a heavy piece of machinery. But once again, if you have money, you can buy a license, so what does it matter? Moreover, if you get stopped by a cop, you can buy yourself out of the ticket. So… who cares???

Perhaps even more stupidly, NOBODY, and I mean NOBODY (perhaps 5% at best) of people wear their seat belts. No kidding. They think that holding onto the steering wheel will prevent them from flying through the windshield. Ha!!!! They need to see Red Asphalt.

Oh yeah… and you have the punks who rev, burnout, spinout, and then race their cars up and down the city streets and parking lots at 3 in the morning. Back and forth… for hours until the sun rises. You’d think the cops might care, might come by and break it up – but no. Fair warning to pedestrians… do not walk at night wearing dark clothing.

For what it’s worth, the bus, trolley, and marshrutka drivers are generally quite good. The obey most laws, and drive relatively sanely. Relatively. Taxicabs on the other hand are a total hit or miss. I’ve been in a couple of taxis where, I swear to God, I thought there was a really good chance I may not make it home in one piece. So recklessly stupid, I cannot even begin to explain. It pains me just to reflect upon those times — I wish I could strangle those assholes — they don’t deserve to accept peoples lives into their own hands. But hey, all you have to do is put a taxi light on top of your car, and you are a legitimate cab. Ha!

Alrighty… almost time for bed. Happy 4th of July!

Oh Joy,

I woke up this morning around 6am for some strange reason. Especially strange because I was helping my wife with a report until almost 3am.

I looked at the clock – and it was off. I looked at my cable box – and it was off. Needless to say, all the electricity was off. Of course, nobody knew this was going to happen.

Supposedly there was a note put on the door, but we never saw it. Anyhow, so today was without warm water and electricity. I decided I could either read, or, better yet, go for a little motorcycle ride.

I went to the Dnepr store (factory) and picked up a few parts on the way to picking up my wife at work. Pretty cool… Though my Russian is only fair, at BEST, I felt comfortable enough going into the shop and purchasing a few spare parts for the MT-11. I said hello to the same old factory worker that we saw the previous time we were there. He nodded and said zdrastya back. Pretty cool. and I obviously parked next to a sitting area for the “old guys.” One of them came up to me and asked me something (in Russian) that I didn’t understand — but I told him that I was sorry, and that I only spoke a little bit of Russian. He understood, and did not pursue his original line of thought — though I think it had to do with me parking so close to where they were sitting, but I could be totally wrong. Who knows.

Anyhow, so I go into the store, and wait a couple of minutes and get helped. The guy was nice enough, and patient with me. I think it helps to at least try to speak Russian. So after a few minutes and several times pointing at parts in the MT-16 manual (basically the same as the MT-11, but the MT-16 is dual-rear-wheel-drive), the manager comes out and drops a few parts on the bench in front of me. Obviously he recognized me, though I didn’t see him when I walked into the store. We had previously discussed a couple of semi-rare parts that I needed, and he delivered!!! I was so stoked! Not only that, but he gave one of them to me for free (a “present”). Very cool.

The whole bill came to less than $7 USD. I got two throttle cables, a seat lock, a drain plug with washer O-ring, and an oil pan gasket. Man — I like this place.

We made it home by 4:30pm or so, and the power was still off. We opened the refrigerator for the first time and quickly pulled out our lunch/dinner: cucumbers, tomatoes, onions, mustard, hot-smoked sea perch, and some chicken, with some black bread of course.

Right at the end of our meal, BOING! The electricity came back on. Woo-hoo! Time to post

Well… they turned off the hot water. Yep. OFF. Like none, non-existent, nothing comes out, nada. And in typical Russian (Ukrainian) style, there was NO NOTICE. Where we live, there are no hot water heaters. It is all centralized, and gets pumped into the buildings. Sure, a few people may have heaters (electric, on-demand water heaters) hooked up to their cold water just for situations like this, but not many have this — and we certainly don’t.

As I said, in typical Russian style, two days after the water was turned off there was a piece of paper taped to the space above the mailboxes saying that the hot water will be off until July 8. That’s another 2 weeks. Which if you can read between the lines, and again, knowing how inefficiently things actually get done around here — I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s off for another week past that, at least.

The worst part –> It’s not even that warm (outside air temperature) in Kiev yet. The Summer hasn’t “hit.” Some days, perhaps late in the afternoons, it does get warm — but it definitely isn’t July/August-type warmth. I think that there are still a few communities on the Left Bank that have hot water — maybe we should just go and raid their homes — They do the maintenance in a few phases.

Actually, I think my brother in law has the right idea. He, without notifying any of us, went out to the summer house with his girlfriend after work, and spent the night –> where there’s warm water now! The little snake, rat, varmint, gopher — menace to the golfing community.

The Reason for this turn-off:

The Government turns off all the hot water in order to do yearly maintenance on the pipes, filters, valves, heaters, etc… Fair enough, because I’d like the water to stay warm all winter long, and without interruption. In fact, our buildings are heated using water running through radiators in all the rooms… so it’s quite important that the whole system works properly — but damn, 3 weeks (or more) of cold showers –> Ugh?

I think they also like to save money (and not have to pay for the gas to heat the water). Who knows, really.

Either way, I’ve only been averaging a shower every 3-4 days (or more) anyhow — so what’s the big deal if I miss a half a dozen showers, and wait for the warm water again?

I’ve found myself to become more irritable as of late. The frustrations of life are setting in. The real issue is that I think this is “shrugged off” by native Ukrainians. They have always had to deal with the BS, the change, the insecurity, the lack of judgment, the inequality, the mud, the smell, the attitudes, the loudness, the lack of law, the selfishness, the struggle.

For me, this is new in many ways. Sure, I’ve experienced those (above listed, and many more) emotions and feelings in the past, for sure. Who hasn’t? Surely not a single, sound-of-mind human over the age of 20 years. However, coming from a culture where life is generally quite good — and coming to a very different place — is a struggle.

I’m finding that my coping mechanisms are being tested. And stretched, and queried routinely, and challenged. I thought I was doing pretty well, too. But lately I’m finding myself more sensitive, vulnerable, and irritable. I don’t like it.

I think I’m going to try to get out of the house more. Fuck it. Take the risk of going places that I don’t know, by myself, without a thorough understanding of the language to fall back on in case of conflict. Moreover, I cannot say that being an American is comforting. Though most people are friendly with genuine intentions, there are also nasty people out there — that would probably love to “get their hands on an American.” Thanks George. You had a chance to rally the world, and you truly screwed it up.

Whatever,

enough of my troubles. It just feels good to write it down. Sure, my wife is experiencing the same shit… but somehow because we are both going through it at the same time, and fresh perspectives are lacking, it doesn’t help to complain to each other about the same old things, over and over again. In fact, I think I’m getting a little testy with her. It’s just frustration: and there are peaks and troughs — and for whatever reason, this new year has brought a Mt. Whitney upon us.

Ahhhhh….. breathe deep.

Be happy to be alive. Every day. It is a miracle in the making.
Feel the air (cough) replenishing your vitality.

May there be whirled peas on your plate.

I’m not sure why, but I’m continuing on, somewhat, with my bathroom post…

I’m really not a scrooge… or a cynic… or even a clean freak (far from it); but I cannot seem to shake the need (desire) to fill in the rest of the world on everyday life in Ukraine. I’m sure it happens everywhere — but I’m here, and I’m telling you what it’s like here. And because I come from a relatively wealthy and clean environment, I find myself continually stunned about some hygiene habits. I’m sure that my professional training is contributing (consciously or subconsciously) to some of these thoughts… but nevertheless, I feel obliged to share them.

Moreover, I’d like to know whether or not other people think like me? God help them, if they do…

….

What do people think about sharing toothpaste tubes? Sure, sharing with your spouse, or even your kids goes without saying. But what about other people in your household. What about brother in laws, and their girlfriends that he brings over? What about your mother or father in law? What about the snot-nosed 8-yr old that licks the top of the tube?
Granted, there are many more important things in life to concern myself with – but this was on my mind, and it’s my blog.

The family has been sharing one tube of toothpaste (on the bathroom shelf). It gets gooey and gunky around the cap by the time it’s half gone (or half full – if you are a dedicated optimist). The goo or crusty paste isn’t inherently gross — but when I consider that BIL’s toothbrush dragged across the top of the tube not 10 minutes before I got to it, I stop, stare, and wonder if I really, really want to put that bit of toothpaste at the top of the tube (with bristle streaks still fresh) onto my toothbrush — and into my mouth.

So after 6 months, I was in the market yesterday and decided to get my own tube of Colgate. It was about 90 cents (USD). For peace of mind, and never having to think about it again — that is perhaps the best 90 cents I’ve ever spent.

I decided soon after I arrived in Kyiv that I would keep my mouthguard (my dentist said if I don’t get one, I’ll be chewing my food with “nubs” when I’m 60 — so I got one) and my toothbrush in my room. This was precipitated by the fact that all toothbrushes (6 or so) are left in a cup above our bathroom sink — all touching each other; which is nasty.

They all think I’m nuts, I’m sure. But I don’t care. Now I’m keeping my beautiful tube of Colgate in my room. My room (shared with my wife) is the only semi-personal space in the apartment. So, whenever I brush my teeth, I simply open my own tube, take a bit on my nice, clean toothbrush, and walk to the bathroom. My wife even thinks I’ve gone a bit overboard here.

Am I paranoid, freaky, silly, or ???

Perhaps not the most appetizing of topics, but it is certainly worthy of some discussion. If you are easily offended, you may want to skip this post.

Our family, as all other families in these Soviet style apartment blocks must do, shares the use of a central bathroom. It is actually divided into the loo (toilet room, or туалет) and the shower (душ); and they are side by side. The shower room has the washing machine, a sink, and a tub/shower with a portable showerhead. More on this room in another post. This one is dedicated to the loo.

I’m assuming ours is the same (or of very similar) style as most all residences that have not been remodeled. Our unit is fairly large as a 4-bedroom, so I can only guess that smaller units also have only one toilet. Moreover, the block-style buildings have identical floorplans as you go vertically… so it is a logical assumption (I think).

So our toilet room is approximately 1 meter by less than a meter. Yep, kinda claustrophobic for my taste, but hey, it’s a loo — get in, get out is my philosophy. Furthermore, considering all the dastardly bathroom conditions around the world, this is a “palace” of a loo.

The family was thoughtful enough to buy a new toilet before we arrived. I can only imagine what the previous one was like. Nevertheless, as I said before, this was a very thoughtful and considerate gesture. In fact, as far as toilets go, I might even say this one is beautiful! As is common in these parts, is is a dual flusher. The left button is for liquids only, the right for more extended bathroom visits. However, I have a feeling that the toilet was one of those advertised all over town on huge, brightly-colored orange billboards: “new toilet, only 186 grivna,” (like $35 USD) at the local super center for building materials and construction supplies. I say this sarcastically because the toilet, though it does function properly, also has one major flaw: it splashes.

… Yes, splashes.

You, are telling me? No shit it’s disgusting (pun intended). Who the hell designed a toilet that splashes toilet water on the seat and beyond — even for half flushes? Duuuuuude. F’n retards. Thank God for disinfectant. I think I’m gonna drop a brick in the tank to reduce the flush flow and extra-bowl events. What can one do? I suppose we could buy a new one. But damned if I’m gonna look like an American “prince” that needs everything to be perfect in order to live here. So, I’m dealing with it the best I can. I try not to think about it, but it is hard.

Moving on…

After about a week of befriending the new porcelain receptacle, I began noticing some unusual sounds in the room. Although I could subtly hear the neighbors, either upstairs or downstairs (I’m not sure) through the fan-less vent near the ceiling, these are not the sounds I’m referring to. These curious and foreign sounds were infrequent and sporadic, and were “flowing” sounds. I pinpointed these sounds to my left, posterior space quadrant, while sitting. After the 10th time, I realized that this was not simply a novel, unidentifiable, structural building sound. It had a characteristic and repeatable tempo and intensity. ‘What the hell is that sound?’ I asked myself.

Well, it didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure it out. The standpipe on the right (see picture) is the main sewer pipe for all of the apartments in our vertical space. Being that we are on the 5th floor of the building, there are several floors above us that communally utilize this drain.

Upon further investigation, I began noticing when people upstairs were taking a shower, washing dishes, or unfortunately, had flushed the toilet. It’s mostly the volume and constancy of the flow that helps to identify the source. On occasion you hear a distinct “burst” of flow. “This can be only one thing,” I say to my self. Yep, I’m sure you guessed it as well. Sewer trouts. Damn, that is a disgusting deduction. Sure, I know this happens all over the world, every instant of every day. But generally you don’t hear them flow by. Moreover, they don’t swim by your head. Actually, to be more accurate, the disintegrating masses are in a freefall to the gut of the building.

I suppose I should be happy that we (at least) have water and sewers to carry the defecation away. But to think that while you are seated at the throne, someone else (positioned immediately above you in vertical space, mind you!) just stood up and flushed one down is perhaps one of the grossest bathroom visions I’ve ever had. You cannot help but look up at the ceiling and imagine… uggghhhh.

Now, every time I hear one pass by in the pipe, I can’t help but think to myself about the cause and effect of the sound. OK, fine, that’s an exaggeration. I’ve now come to terms with our communal 4″ pipe. In fact, I sometimes praise the pipe that serves all of our building’s daily needs. Without it we would be up shit creek without a drain.

Before I arrived, there was nothing to deal with the odors that routinely emanate from the loo. I was somewhat shocked by this lack of concern. Particularly because some members of the household tend to smell up, no, destroy the bathroom, if you catch my drift. No wonder the wallpaper is peeling. I mandated that there be some sort of air freshener and matches available at all times.

Much better. But getting people to routinely use them is another matter. This was most evident when BIL made use of the facility in a dastardly, dare I say devious, manner. I considered it so because the rest of the family was in the kitchen when the aforementioned destruction took place. Also, it now needs to be noted that the kitchen is immediately adjacent to the loo, which is an unfortunate design if you ask me. I suppose it is convenient from a plumbing standpoint, but… damn! Anyhow, we were eating peacefully, when without warning the loo door opened and BIL quickly walked the other way. BLAMMO! The noxious gas hit us all like a tidal wave. We all lost our appetite instantly. He HAD TO KNOW that this was one of his most toxic episodes, and he failed to launch preventative measures to reduce odor diffusion.
BIL was chastised about it later. Characteristically, he pledged ignorance to his own malodorous, bowel-borne extravasation. Asshole. He knows his shit smells bad. Thankfully I think he has learned, and has recently begun lighting a match to cover up his (which is by far the worst in the family) microbial stench.

A couple of other things that are worth mentioning. Not that it is a big deal, but is seems that Russians are a bit paranoid about having any electrical outlets in/around areas where there is water (or even water vapor). Consequently, there are no power outlets or light switches INSIDE either the toilet or shower rooms. This is quite a pain for shaving, as an extension cord must be used. Same goes for the hair dryer and the washing machine. So much for blocking out the sound. The bigger issues is that the light switches are OUTSIDE the rooms. So, occasionally someone switches the lights off while you are doing your thing — thinking that nobody is in the bathroom. Hopefully they hear you scream to turn it back on. Years ago, when the kids were, kids, they would routinely turn the lights off while their siblings were busy. Yeah. Funny. The first time.

Another, slightly more disturbing aspect of the loo room is the lack of privacy. For whatever reason, the door appears to be made without any insulation. The sounds coming from the loo pass right through the door as if there were no door. In fact, I want to say that the sounds are amplified by the shape of the room. There is no hiding ALL sounds — and when you have company over, this is just embarrassing, bordering on unacceptable. I think I may go buy a seal for the door, and tile the inner surface too. Something has to be done… it is nauseating.

Lastly, because I’ve got to get to work…

Toilet paper deserves a comment. For eons they (Russians / Ukrainians) have not known what consideration has been given to the routine wiping of one’s bum in the developed world. Most people here continue to use the standard cardboard-like material that adorns market shelves everywhere. In fact, it is cheap (25 cents) and comes in 65m rolls. But damn, this stuff is NOT soft. I think one roll out of 30 has been semi-soft. For evidence of its stiffness, have a look at the second picture of the post above; note how the paper defies gravity as it comes out of the holder. Moreover, absorbency remains a foreign word here. On occasion I go to the market and buy some Charmin, just to treat us. Neeless to say, this is viewed as a total luxury here. I’m sure they think I’m a prince. (but then again, I’ve noticed them replenishing the supplies with the soft rolls when the stiff stuff is right there — so I know they like it too — which makes me happy!)

Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Without notice, they (local maintenance people) turned the water off today. Luckily it was only for about an hour. Let’s hope it doesn’t happen just before flushing…