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

It is pure joy to announce the birth of our son, Baby. We have not named him yet, as Russian tradition does not demand such. We have some solid choices, but we will wait to make sure the name fits

The funniest thing about this is that there are, more or less, like only 10 male Russian names to choose from !!!

Anyhow, I wanted to let everyone know that Mom, Dad, and Baby are doing well.

Everyone is happy to be alive and so far, quite healthy. We are ecstatic about being part of a growing new family.

We will be posting more soon, obviously. But TODAY is the first day of our son’s life, and I wanted to post a picture or two. Even as I write this, he’s still not even 12 hours old!!!!

With Much Love, from Kiev,

Scott, Helen, and ???

Baby!

Mom!

and, Dad!!!!

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!

What a day.

Today was one of those days that needs to be documented. Highs, lows, and everything in between.

We start off early, waking up at 7am. A bit earlier than I like, but hey, we had things to accomplish today. The first of which was to make sure my wife was, satisfied. Needless to say, the day started off quite well. I headed to the kitchen at 7:30 to have a cup of tea and a bite of tvarog (baked cheesy stuff) for breakfast.

We packed up our usual Dacha gear, and headed out on our first errand – picking up the Mom’s good (long time) friend Svetlana (Sveta). No worries… we all hop in the car after depositing our belongings into the trunk of the Russian built, silver, 2006 Lada. Bro had lent us his car, and he was bitter about deciding to do it. He left AT 7:30 to make an appointment he scheduled the day before. His girlfriend waited another half hour and hitched a ride with us to the Metro station. So, we departed our beloved apartment on the Left Bank, injected 100 Hrivna ($20) into the petrol tank, and swooshed over the Moskva Bridge into Kiev (right bank, downtown area). We dropped of Luda at Petrovka, and picked up Svetlana with time to spare. After pleasantries and introductions, we drove towards the city Center on our second errand: checking out Sveta’s daugher’s unused apartment in downtown Kiev. Actually, it’s her husband’s apartment.

The daughter and her husband (a big-wig with a cell phone company) had two kids and grew out of the 2BR apartment after 7 years. They moved up the street into a 180 sq. meter apartment (quite large 5BR I’m told). The thing is, Helen and I are needing to get the hell out of “Dodge,” so to speak. If you recall, we’ve lived in Troeschina (practically a slum) with the somewhat dysfunctional (IMHO) family for 18 months… and now that we are expecting a little guy (in March), it’s time to get real. In a nutshell, I love my mother in law, but the cultural divide is more than that — it’s an enormous chasm that would dwarf the Grand Canyon. I need out – especially because we have a little guy on the way, I want to provide my wife with a happy environment in which to prepare for and have a baby in (which is not the situation in our current environment – though I don’t mean to say it’s that bad, really — it’s just not exactly my ‘cup-o-tea’).

So we look at the apartment, and I’m in heaven. Overall, it’s a somewhat spacious 2BR with a nice layout, it’s centrally located (more or less), it’s secure, and it even has a decent Southern view. Sure, it’s not a penthouse suite or anything, but it’s fairly nice by my learned Kiev standards. It would definitely suffice for the next 9 months. Ahhhh…. the freedom…. can’t you just smell it? I can.

As George Michael would say: FREEDOM!…. FREEDOM!…. You’ve gotta give for what you take!  And trust me, we’ve given for the past 18 months; now I think it’s time to take a bit, for sanity and health. There’s even a little spot for my Dnepr (motorcycle) over the winter, where I doubt anyone will mess with her if settled under a nice cover. The apartment even has 2 bathrooms, so when the wife drops a bomb in #1, I can just pop on over to #2!

Moving on – so far so good! All is well, and we leave the apartment. We were heading off to the dacha for some mushroom hunting and relaxation. It had been ~2 years since Sveta had been to our dacha, and since that time we have added onto our little house in the country quite a bit: the kitchen, bathroom, and extra room. Plus we have heaters, a water pump, and real plumbing. O Joy!

We make it to a main junction in the heart of Kiev called Petrovka (where we dropped Luda off earlier) when BLAM… I lose power. I’ve driven enough and experienced enough mechanical failures in “my time” to know that this was serious. “SHIT” I said to myself (and the rest of the car, though only my wife knew the meaning). My wife, seated next to me, said “what? … What is it?”

I said we lost power!

We are bummed.

We coasted from the top of the overpass and stopped just beyond a petrol station. I open the hood, dreary-eyed, knowing that whatever I find there ain’t gonna be pretty. I took a peek under te car and there was no problem. So no big seals/gaskets broke, no oil or coolant spilling, no transmission dragging on the pavement. Initial inspection in the engine compartment = no problem. No loose wires, not broken bits, no grinding parts. Hmmm… I try to start the motor again. It just spins. It felt like no compression… but I knew this was impossible based on what had happened. Sure, perhaps one valve could go, but that would likely sound bad! Upon calling Andre (brother and owner), he suggested to “wiggle the spark plug wires.” Yeah. Uh-ha. Sure. Why I even wasted a nanosecond listening to his ideas, I don’t know. But that’s all I gave it – 1ns.

I immediately dismissed anything he, or anyone else, had to say. I have had numerous experiences with Russian mechanical advice. Often useless, seldom productive, and occasionally destructive. Nope, I’m not listening to them anymore unless they have a thick coat of grease already under their fingernails.  Russian men are ALWAYS willing to give their advice, and they love to tinker. Before you know it, you’ve got 5 guys there ripping apart your vehicle. No way, Jose. Not today. I knew that I knew how to diagnose/fix anything better than anyone else around – yes, even better than the guys at the gas station. What can I say – I’m extremely mechanically inclined. Facts are facts.

I lift the hood and peer to the left side of the in-line, 4-cyl, sideways mounted 2.0-liter, 8-valve, overhead-cammed motor. I see a slight space between the timing belt cover and the motor. I lift its plastic frame back a bit and peer in the crack. Lo and Behold – I see the bare gear emanating from the overhad camshaft. There’s no belt. Again, NO BELT THERE. Excellent – and – SHIT! Excellent that I figured out the problem, and Shit, what the hell are we going to do about it? It’s a Sunday and we are at a gas station. There’s no such thing as Triple-A here.

Wouldn’t you know it – the first frickin’ time I drive my brother’s car in over a month, the over-aged timing belt snaps. Why me? This shit is supposed to happen to the owner, no? He drives it like an idiot every damn day –> WHY did this happen to me? Well, I know: it happened to me because I’m the only one that could rationally diagnose and determine the true cause of the problem without taking it to a repair station and saying “I dunno, it just stopped working.” Also, we are supposed to inherit the car as soon as he buys a new car. So, I was destined to try to troubleshoot something under the hood before taking ownership. Moreover, it happened because it was MUCH better than if it had happened while my wife was using it to go to work, by herself, while crossing the Dnipro River on the Moskva Bridge. That would be extremely dangerous, to say the least.

So, I break out my Leatherman, because that’s the only tool I have with me.

Using mechanically inappropriate techniques (pliers would not be my first tool of choice here), I remove the bolts that kept the timing belt cover on the motor. Indeed, after removal, it was obvious what had happened: the belt snapped where a “tooth” was missing, and just after (or before, depending on which way the motor rotated)a point where 2 other teeth were missing. The belt was obviously old, and had not been replaced since the car) was purchased. Good Job Andre… Good Job. I appreciate that. The timing belt, in case you didn’t know Andre, is supposed to be checked at 50,000 km, and most definitely replaced by 60,000. The odometer says 67,800 km. Again, Thanks Bro!

I show the belt to Mom and Sveta, who were standing behind the car, and they touch their faces with both hands in slight horror. The exclaim “Kashmar” and “Ujas” — basically saying “The Horror” in a shocking sort of way. (Kinda nasty, but it reminds me of Marlon Brando in Apocalypse now). So as I’m telling my wife that we are going nowhere, she befriends a very kind, VERY religious man who was filling up at the petrol station.

Because of his inherent generosity (obviously), he offered to help tow us around Obolon (suburb where we were located). I was skeptical. He looked sorta like George from Seinfeld. Short, glasses, balding, and clearly a similar “way” about him. Of course, George on Seinfeld is kniving in a lot of ways, where this guy was quite pure and innocent. Nevertheless, we were to find out later that: 1) he was Jewish, turned Evangelist?; 2) he was traveling with his mother (who was in unhappily resting in the passenger seat) and whom LOOKED like George’s mother in Seinfeld!!! Holy crap; 3) he was married for 8 years but divorced, and now lives with his Mom (who, again, was in the passenger seat); and 4) He knows Obolon because he used to live there with his wife. This situation is commonplace here in Ukraine. Since everyone inherited their apartments/houses/land, all the kids just live at home and spend their meager wages on booze, cell phones, cars, and fashion. Why should they move out… Mom cooks and cleans for them!!!

So, although it was Sunday, we proceeded in the high hopes of finding an open repair establishment. The overly kind gentleman (we’ll just call him George, though his name was Oleg) opened the hatchback to his 1.6L Lada (very small car), and brandished a sparkling new tow strap – obviously he was looking for an occasion to use it. I took it on faith that everything was going to work out — and I just had to roll with it (pun intended). He hooked it to the tow loop on the front part of my Lada’s frame, and then semi-attached it to the back of his car. When the tension increased in tow, it clearly imparted inappropriate strain upon his fledgeling, wimpy, plastic, bendable bumper. Pathetic, but it worked.

Fine. He drove OK, and I did my best to keep a bit of tension on the bright yellow strap (without power brakes), trying not to slam into him. I turn my hazards on. To keep it a bit shorter than my memory recalls, I’ll leave out the the minutia of the first 3 service stations we visited — they were all were closed, and no parts were to be found either – we need a timing belt and a tensioner. However, one moment was unforgettable and worth describing: on the way to the third place, we made an illegal left turn — RIGHT in front of two cops. Needless to say, they pulled both of us over , not that I had a choice in the matter

I stayed planted in my seat, while George got out of the car and spoke to the Militzia. Of course, he stopped right in the middle of an intersection. Russians do that a lot too… they don’t care what kind of mayhem it causes. People had to keep going around us… blah, blah, blah… and of course, I couldn’t do anything about it: I was, quite literally, powerless. (I suppose I could have pushed both cars, but screw that – I already pushed my car backwards to the original gas station for the more detailed inspection). After about 5 minutes of George sitting IN the cop car, obviously requesting a ticket as opposed to offering the standard 20 Hrivna payoff that the cops always get. Remember that George is as straight-laced as it gets.

He couldn’t possibly participate in an act of corruption? Could he?

OH-NO! Not my little Georgey!

Anyway, after 5 minutes George’s mother gets out of their car and starts blabbering in Russian: translated- “He’s tooo nice. He’s always too nice. We have errands to run, and we’ve been trying to run them for over a day now — and he just keeps helping people.” And on and on. She’s pacing, obviously pissed and frustrated. I guess George truly is hopelessly helpful – in an self-defeating sorta way. I think to myself, ‘this is going downhill, and fast.’

The cop issued the ticket, George, walked quickly back to his car and said to us that everything was normal. No worries. Let’s go. Well, after the 3rd and 4th failed attempts at finding a mechanic, I was sure we were doomed. Moreover, we were driving AWAY from our house, and I was getting bitter.

On our 5th (probably not final if it hadn’t have succeeded) drove by a small, single “grease-monkey” garage entitled “Diagnostics.” George, as he had done at the past 4 stations, takes the lead and speaks with the mechanic at the garage, as he had done at the previous 3 stations. Nobody else was there needing service, so indeed, the mechanic was willing to work. No surprise there. But it was a surprise that he was open on a Sunday, and ready to help us. Even more of a surprise, he seemed to be a nice guy! He said to go down the road and buy the part we needed, and he’ll get started on the car.

Helen went with George and his Mom, and got an earful. George is an evangelist. What the means, exactly, I’m not sure (except what I read on Wikipedia). Anyhow, he passed on some pamphlets outlining his religious thoughts – attempting to persuade my wife into becoming a member of his church. Needless to say, he had no idea that my wife was both a psychologist and an athiest. She had some fun toying with his brain – but that’s for her to tell you about.

I kept an eye on the mechanic (Igor) as he prepared the vehicle for timing belt transplant. I attempted to help whenever I could: I held the light over the engine cavity, I joked in my limited Russian, and a told him how much I appreciated the naked women on the walls. Before too long, though it took a solid 20 minutes, Helen, George, and Mom returned to the shop. All the while Mom and Sveta were gabbing out on the sidewalk… not worrying about a thing (now that we got towed to an open service station).

Helen handed me the belt and tensioner (combined $23), and I placed it under the hood (ready for action) after peering into the box. Another 15 minutes pass, and the mechanic tells me to try to start the motor. OK. Nothing happens. Ooops, he forgot to put on the timing gear. He attaches that after chuckling, and it starts normally! Wooo-hooo! He finished that job, and also fixed the emergency brake, which was obviously non-functional when the car nearly rolled off the rack in the shop.

In the end, Igor overcharged us. Why… because I’m a Yank! That’s why. The bastard. But hey, can you blame him? If I had a [presumably rich] American come into my garage needing some serious repair work, I’d probably try to charge him a bunch too! It was only $40 for an hour of labor… but it should have been half that much. But I didn’t care. He was a nice guy, quite friendly, and good at what he does. Plus, he let me watch everything he did — and I liked that!

I also liked his wallpaper.

Thus, 2-3 hours late, we head off to our dacha. All was going well, until we got to approximately 5 km from our house. We saw the police… again. I’ve seen them on numerous occasions, but I’ve never been stopped while driving. As luck would have it, the officer waved his black and white striped baton at me and my car.

“Shit,” I exclaimed.

My wife, in the passenger seat, said “what?”

I said “he’s pulling us over.”

She said, out loud, “KEEP GOING!”

Ha! Yeah right. I’m gonna just keep driving even though a Russian cop told me to pull over! I didn’t give that another instant of thought, and I quickly pulled over onto the shoulder. The cop meandered over to the car and leaned over. Helen began conversing with him. In a nutshell, he pulled us over because the hood of the car had a large scrape on it. (This happened a month or two ago when a truck backed up onto the front of Andre’s car). Supposedly the police are obligated to pull over any car with damage to the front of the vehicle, in order to insure that a person was not involved in the incident. So, he did. He looked at the registration, and that was fine. Interestingly, the vehicle’s registration is a card (like a license) that is kept in one’s wallet — and you have to remember to transfer this when lending your car to someone. Of course we always remember, and we had the registration. The officer also asked to see Helen’s passport, because her name is on the registration as a licensed operator. That being said, all she has to do is be IN the vehicle, and anyone can drive (like me, her husband).

Following the passport inquiry, he asked for my license. Reluctantly, but without hesitation, I handed him my California driver’s license. He sort of chuckled and said “oh, Americanski?” I said “da.” He said “Kalifornieye,” and I again said “Da.” He followed by saying “ah, Zwartzenegger… Ya znayoo Zwartzenegger” (I know Schwartzenegger).

At that point, I knew he was cool.

He chatted a bit more in Russian, looked at my license again, and returned the documents. We left as soon as he walked beyond the rear bumper — and headed straight for our dacha, as quickly as possible.

So, though there was potential for further drama, we arrived at our dacha in semi-normal fashion. We immediately proceeded to eat a big lunch (we were all starving) – including dessert and tea (of course). Within 5 minutes of finishing lunch, Helen and I were off to do some mushroom hunting. To keep it brief, we got a bunch of mushrooms (2-3 kg). Tonight I made a super-rich cream sauce a-la my brother’s (the chef’s) recommendations, which was poured over some perfectly cooked pasta – al dente. Yummy!

HOT DAMN!

It turned out soooooooo tasty with those wild mushrooms.

Hold on, I skipped a bit.

While mushroom hunting we had a couple of encounters… with snakes. Damn. I saw one and backed up. I turned my head, and I was maybe 1 foot from a second snake. Sure, these were only a couple of feet long — but just the sight of a snake sends shivers up my spine. My hairs stood on end, and I sped off. It took a few minutes for the “willies” to ware off. Ugh… I hate snakes.

Toward the end of the hunt, Helen encountered one. Unfortunately, she STRADDLED the snake without even noticing it!!! She had her eyes set on a mushroom. But when she kneeled down, she heard a “hiss.” Then again, another “hissssssssss.” She didn’t know what the hell it was… and then she saw it — right under her crotch! She screamed, shrieked, jumped, yelled, and hollered all at the same time. It was the scariest sound I’ve ever heard come out of her lungs. After that she was shaking with fright. Her hairs were standing up, and any sensation was just too creepy to deal with. No, it wasn’t poisonous, but that doesn’t take away from the fear instilled by seeing a snake between your legs (other than my snake).

Whew!

So we hunted for the mushrooms for nearly 4 hours, right behind our house in the “local” forest. We are really beginning to learn the local environment, and starting to learn where the “good patches” of mushrooms grow. We returned to home around 6pm, just in time to pack up and head out. We put our stash into the car, I adjusted the headlights (which had been needed since I remember), and headed home.

I expected a bit of traffic, as always, on a Sunday night heading back to Kiev. However, this was horrible. It’s a two lane road (one lane in each direction). But of course, that doesn’t stop the Russians. Ohhhhh Nooooo. A High percentage of Russians think they deserve to do whatever they want. They think that putting on their flashers and driving in the opposing traffic’s lane gives them a “green light” to drive past EVERYONE that is waiting patiently for the traffic to subside.

No shit. It’s ridiculous.

THESE PEOPLE HAVE A SCREW LOOSE!

I WANTED TO STRANGLE THEIR F*CKING NECKS.

At one point, there were 4 cars wide… all heading towards a 2-lane dam crossing, one lane in each direction. Why 4 lanes wide, you ask? Well, my lane and the opposite direction = 2 lanes. But then there were cars PASSING ME ON BOTH SHOULDERS!!!

ARE YOU KIDDING? Am I in the Twilight Zone? Aren’t we all trying to go the same way?

WHO THE HELL ARE YOU? DIPLOMATS? DIGNITARIES? PRESIDENTS? HONORARY ASSHOLES? Thankfully it’s only about 5% of the people that think they are privileged — otherwise it would be a total dogpile.

That being said, it took us over an hour to go about 2 miles (probably less). After a helluva day, that was painfu. I had to turn on my iPod when the persistent Russian babbling from the back seat (Mom and Sveta) came paralyzingly close to sending me over the edge.

Needless to say, we eventually made it across the damn, and proceeded to drop of Sveta in Kiev. We headed home, arriving safe and sound.

It was a long day, but the mushrooms made it worth it. Then again, I hate it when I can feel hairs turning from brown to gray on my head — for no good reason.

Hell of a long post today… time for bed.

Peace!

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.

I flew into Kiev a couple of days ago. We took an unusual approach, and flew right over Kiev. Our home is not visible in the picture (more to the left), but this is a picture taken when the plane was almost exactly over downtown, looking south, along with the flow of the great Dnepr River.

Anyhow, this was the first time I had seen a U.S. Air Force airplane at Kiev Airport. In fact, after we disembarked from our plane and boarded the shuttle bus from the tarmac to the terminal, I saw a second US plane. The one in front was a C17 transport, I think. I can only guess what physically rolled out of it in order to protect Dick.

Ugh…

That’s right. USA Vice-President Dickhead Cheney was visiting (I was to find out later). OK, fine, I’ll just spit it out:  I cannot stand the current US Administration — Bush, Cheney, Karl Rove (though he’s not officially a member), and all of the other F*ckers. They are evil, greedy, etc ….  the list goes on and on, and I’m sure I don’t need to repeat it here. Whew… glad I got that off my chest.
Anyway, I’m guessing that the plane behind the C-17 was Cheney’s private US Government jet (Air Farce 2, or something like that).

Look, I love being an American, and I never shy away from representing the USA. I’m proud of it. But damn… I surely didn’t vote these assholes into office. There must be a lot of stupid Americans out there. Or, oh yeah, somebody made (is making) a lot of money by rigging the electronic voting machines. Surprised? Don’t be.
When I arrived I obviously knew something was going on, but I had no idea what. I hadn’t heard that Dick (or any other high ranking USA official) would be visiting the Ukraine. Not that it’s all THAT unusual, but the airport was truly a mess when we tried to physically exit… cars everywhere, and we had to practically walk out off the airport grounds to get picked up (they wouldn’t let Andre into the roundabout to pick us up). Anyhow, on the drive away from the airport there were militzia everywhere: military guys in grey/black camouflage, hats, walkie-talkies, etc… (I didn’t see them with guns) lining the ~10 mile road into Kiev. There was at least one man every 500 meteres on each side of the road. Seriously. Overboard.

Here’s the pic:

That’s all. Just was incredibly surprised that we parked our Lufthansa jet right next to an American transport jet and “Air Force 2.”
The next day Cheney was in Italy. Putz.

I saw something on the Marshrutka (the little yellow city shuttles) today that I have never seen in the USA, though I’m sure it still happens in small towns and such. It was without question, a very introspective moment for me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it on a public bus in America.
I was going into the City (Kiev) to meet up with my wife and some friends, and I was listenin’ to my iPod with my Coopers cap and shades on. I was sitting on the left side of the busy, a couple rows behind the presumed grandmother. The bus, as usual, was somewhat crowded, and all of the seats were taken. Most people cherish their seats on these buses; remember that there are always 2 lines when waiting — one for sitting, one for standing. Therefore when you get on the stuffy often crammed-like-sardines shuttle buses, you (generally) get what you wait for, seat or aisle.

So on this day, all was usual. The bus was full. An older lady, most likely already a grandmother (babushka), was sitting in the solo seat behind the driver. The seat is unusual in that it is oriented sideways and faces the aisle of the bus. I believe it was added after production, just to offer an additional sitting spot. The older woman was sitting contently for her ride into the City. Just then, a couple of stops after I got on (and somehow got a seat), a young mother and her ~18 month old got on. Now remember, that people wait for seats – so it is quite unusual for someone to act upon their chivalrous thoughts [of giving up a seat] (though it does occasionally happen). Anyway, the mom and baby had nowhere to go because of the already stacking bodies in the central aisle, and nobody was giving up their seat. It’s a rough world out there, ya know.
The seated grandmother offered not the seat itself, but indeed, a place for the child to sit: on her lap. The mother immediately agreed without hesitation, concern, thought, worry, or creepy consideration of possible ulterior motives by the very genuine (looking) older lady. The child, also without hesitation, nor demonstrating any hint of questionable affect, turned and allowed the grandmother to lift him straight up and softly placed the little lad onto her right knee.

The mother was relieved, the child was exhibiting standard kid behavior, and the grandmother was hinting at a smile (though, sadly, the vast majority of Russians don’t [typically] smile unless they’ve been drinking).

Nevertheless, the scene was incredibly touching. Yeah, yeah, I know… I’m a softy. But it really was quite adorable. The grandmother was happy, the kid content, and the mother relaxed. Of course the mother kept an eye on the child… but honestly, I think she was relieved to not have to worry about her kid getting squashed during the ~20-30 minute ride. The grandmother was only slightly perturbed by the child’s lack of interest in her. She tried in vain to elicit an approving glance from the kid – but it was not to be had by this generous babushka. The kid was either drugged or completely oblivious to the fact that he was sitting on some stranger’s lap. Or, it was such a typical phenomenon in this culture, that looking up and acknowledging the conscientiousness of the lap-offering person would really just be considered a bonus for the offerer – should he or she be wanting it.
In the end, as we approached our final stop (where most people get off), the mother smiled and said balshoi spaciba (thank you very much), picked up the toddler, and exited the bus. The smile from the grandmother was reciprocated, and a good deed was done. The kid never looked up at the old lady. Crazy… but everyone was happy, healthy, and satisfied = without a creepy or questionable motive entering consciousness.

I’m even from a very liberal and friendly state (if you ask me); but nevertheless, at least in my experiences, that simply doesn’t happen (anymore) in the USA. Perhaps I’m just out of touch with the small town atmosphere in the U.S., but I’m fairly sure I would NEVER see that on a BART train, no matter how packed it was. As you might expect, I’m experiencing many cultural differences. This one came through loud and clear. Hopefully I can take the best from both worlds (cultures) and incorporate them into my being in the future — and contribute to a better world

Peace, Joy, Love, Happiness, Pup-n-Taco.

Markets are always by Metro stops.