I spent the week in relative peace and
quiet. While I was attempting to arrange things with Roman, not many
other things bothered me and I spent most of the week in coffee shops
trying to get some work done. I was staying with a younger guy,
Vladya, and his father in a village thirty minutes outside of Kiev.
Everyday, we had to get up around 10, catch the bus – or sometimes
his father would drive us to the metro – get to the last metro
station and then stand in, packed like wood logs on a train, waiting
another thirty minutes to get into town. The house used to be a
dacha for his family, but when his parents got divorced, his mom kept
the apartment and his father moved into the dacha, expanding it to
make it more of a full house. Every year, Vladya goes on a trip to
his birthday, across Ukraine or Europe. This year he was planning a
trip to Malta, “I found a real deal on flights,” he explained to
me. “It costs only 50 dollars to fly to Italy, and then another 25
for a ferry to Malta.” He later plans on studying at a university
in Prague and in the meantime, works at a grocery store and studies
Czech.
The weekend came, and I felt an itch to get back to the life of the inner city. Kiev is a fairly massive city, with a beat and vibration all its own. With every turn of exploration, there's another layer and facet that's revealed. For the weekend, I decided I'd return back to the hostel – for one, I still needed to meet with Roman and he was staying at the Chillout. There are different advantages to couchsurfing and to hostels for the budget traveler. With couchsurfing, you get to meet a local or long term resident, who tends to know the city or local culture a bit better. Couchsurfing is meant as a cultural exchange, where you bring something from your culture in to theirs. But at all times, you know you're an invader of sorts – you're coming in, sleeping on their couch, eating their food – and you try to provide something in return, like some groceries or beer. But it's only a good situation for two or three days, unconscious of whether you overstayed your welcome or not. While staying at hostels, you remain in the bubble, among expats and travelers that are in and out, who might know one or two expat bars, but beyond they don't tend to know much about the city or local culture. The advantage though is that everyone is in the situation, on the same level. We're all travelers traveling at a hostel, you don't have to worry about the host-guest relationship. You also meet a variety of people who've come for a variety of different reasons.
The Chillout was becoming a type of home for me. I was becoming more intimately familiar with its bright paints and Jamaican vibes, its cramped kitchen and single toilet. The common room – a must for hostels, in my book – was among the best that I had found in Kiev. Old furniture that reminded me of a living room in a common house in Georgia, complete with a bed that was being used as a couch, and a hookah to make bohemian relaxation complete. After my return, I entered the room and sat down. There were two newcomers staying there, an Australian named Mike and a Scotsman named William.
Mike was a smaller guy with a sturdy frame and huge forearms, he had long hair tied at the back. He grew up in Australia, working as a chef, when at a yacht party, got acquainted with a guy who seemed to have some steady advice on investing. The guy would call him up and tell him when and which stocks to buy and sell. Mike would turn, call his broker, telling him he wanted to immediately sell his stocks. “But that's a crazy trade!” his broker would argue, only to find that the stocks in that company collapsed the next day and Mike made thousands of dollars by following the yacht guy's advice. Eventually his broker began to understand, asking Mike once, “You're not with Derry and his boys, are you?” “Just make the sale!” Another hundred thousand in returns. Mike decided to go while the going was good, before Derry and his boys were brought in for insider trading.
After Australia, Mike traveled across the world, living off his newly acquired wealth. He traveled through Southeast Asia, India, China and Africa. He talked to everyone he could, trying to get the information on this new company in Ghana, or some new invention a guy just patented in Brazil. “But even learning all this information,” he told me, “I was still where I was at in the beginning, when I was just following Darry's instructions. I didn't know what I was doing and I was being that much of a success on the market. When I was home, in Ireland, I read over ten newspapers every morning, trying to get some sort of view on the right trades. I was looking at long term investments, real information like what I was looking for, couldn't help on the short game. Computers all control the short game, that's why all these broker firms have to be next to Wall Street, since even the slightest nanosecond of a trade or sell can make a huge difference on success – they're all running the same algorithms anyway. But I still felt that I wasn't learning anything new in the game, even the long game, or being any more successful. I was doing worse than I was when I was with Darry. It made me realize that maybe the whole game is rigged. The entire system is set up by criminals to keep them in power. The older you get, the more you realize this. The system is not designed for little players. We're all just pawns and even Darry wasn't anything but a bishop or rook.” In Ireland, Mike gave up his quest for full time trading and started at the bottom of a construction company, getting paid 15 euros an hour to sweep decks. He worked overtime as much as he could and eventually, the contracting company made him a manager, then a director, which is what he does now.
William's story was shorter and less extreme. Well, what I could understand of William's story, since it's often harder to understand a Scotsman than it was to understand any of the foreigners trying to speak English. William had become enamored in Eastern European culture, studying Czech and Polish in school. He eventually met his Ukrainian girlfriend while studying in Prague and he followed her back to Kiev. He could only stay in Kiev for a short time, since he had to get back to Scotland to finish up his degree. He fell in love with Kiev though and was planning on returning, though he didn't know how he'd afford to live. He studied Polish in school, but he didn't think he could get a job teaching Polish. English would be hard to speak, since nobody can understand a Scottish accent. “I'll have to practice my BBC accent,” he said, resigned to a world against the Scottish.
Joanna, the owner of the hostel, had us all got out to Palata No 6 for dinner. I ordered a huge rib-eye steak dinner for less than five euros – another win for Kiev. It was only reaffirming my assertion that it was better to be poor and unemployed in Kiev than it was anywhere in America. After the dinner, Mike was still wanting to go out to party. I was hesitant, “Well, you know, I've got to start saving my money.”
“You don't worry about that, mate, I've got seven figures. Just come on out.” The rest of the group didn't want to go, so it ended up being just Mike and myself. We went to Vodka Bar, one of the more scene places in Kiev, where women dressed up just to look good and be snotty, looking for high rollers to whisk them off and buy them diamonds. It was fine for our purposes though, since Mike was a high roller. When we arrived at the bar, he bought us both a drink, and a drink for the guy standing next to us. He gave the bartender 500 grivna for the drink. The bartender came back and confessed, “This is too much!” Mike gave him 100 grivna for his honesty. “He's a good mate,” Mike said. “I like to feel out the bartenders like that.” We chatted with various girls, Mike continually buying rounds for every three or four people who were around us. Eventually, I had to go use the restroom, which meant waiting in a line that took almost thirty minutes. When I got back, I couldn't find Mike. I searched through all the people in the bottom floor, then up top, squeezing through Turkish guys wearing Armani suits and Gucci sunglasses and local Ukrainian lads wearing nothing so nice.
Occasionally, when I'd stop looking and just start shaking around, in a move I like to think is what others would call dancing, I'd fall into conversations with the Ukrainian guys. “Ah, you are American! It is great country!” most would say, and continue on to buy me a drink. One guy I was standing around complained to me about the Turks. “All these rich Turkish guys, they just come to Ukraine, flash all their money and take our women. I hate Turks! I get it, it's Ukraine, we have the best women. It is good. Many people come for the women, I get it. But Turks, with their sunglasses and oiled up hair, the pompous ass holes don't give a shit about Ukraine, they just want the women. They never speak any Russian, barely even English. They are so shit.”
I finally left when I realized it was already six o'clock in the morning. I walked back to the hostel, still wondering if Mike had made it back or not. I went straight to sleep. In the morning, I saw that Mike's stuff was gone and the girl working said he had made his taxi to the airport, so he could make his three day tour of Belarus.
On the fourth day, I was still in the hostel when Mike showed up at the door. “Mike!” I said. “What happened to you? You disappeared that night. I went to the restroom and got back and you were gone.”
“So that's where you went, mate?” he said. “You had disappeared on me and I went outside looking for you, still having my drink my hand. I don't know why I had gone outside. I turned and just vomited on the sidewalk and these two cops saw me and asked for my passport. I forgot about the two hundred dollars that I keep tucked in there and they took it right out and pocketed it and gave back my passport. But then they kept saying something, so I thought they were going to try to shake me for more, so I just ran, mate. I got into a taxi and told him to go straight back to the hostel, but then he went quite a bit past it. He stopped and asked for fifty, but I was too drunk or something and he ended up swiping my wallet when I got out of the car. I don't know what happened, I don't normally get that drunk. I kind of think someone slipped roofie or something into my drink while I was there. I was just knocked out by something. And I lost my jacket, that was a 200 euro jacket. I think I must have dropped some 400 euro that night.
“You know, they say that as you get older you kind of care less and people are more likely to take advantage of that. I feel it, mate, I'm getting older and I don't really care all that much. It's just all a part of life. It's all expendable. But man, I got to keep my wits straight, that was a crazy night!”
“How was Belarus?” I asked him.
“Belarus was really something, mate. The women there are beautiful and all dressed all proper. Just people are a bit standoffish, really quite shy. And everything is really, really well organized. Signs are all posted and big, everything runs on time. It's quite weird and all, it's very... Stalinist. It really is a big flash to the past, I think. You've got to check it out some time.”
The weekend came, and I felt an itch to get back to the life of the inner city. Kiev is a fairly massive city, with a beat and vibration all its own. With every turn of exploration, there's another layer and facet that's revealed. For the weekend, I decided I'd return back to the hostel – for one, I still needed to meet with Roman and he was staying at the Chillout. There are different advantages to couchsurfing and to hostels for the budget traveler. With couchsurfing, you get to meet a local or long term resident, who tends to know the city or local culture a bit better. Couchsurfing is meant as a cultural exchange, where you bring something from your culture in to theirs. But at all times, you know you're an invader of sorts – you're coming in, sleeping on their couch, eating their food – and you try to provide something in return, like some groceries or beer. But it's only a good situation for two or three days, unconscious of whether you overstayed your welcome or not. While staying at hostels, you remain in the bubble, among expats and travelers that are in and out, who might know one or two expat bars, but beyond they don't tend to know much about the city or local culture. The advantage though is that everyone is in the situation, on the same level. We're all travelers traveling at a hostel, you don't have to worry about the host-guest relationship. You also meet a variety of people who've come for a variety of different reasons.
The Chillout was becoming a type of home for me. I was becoming more intimately familiar with its bright paints and Jamaican vibes, its cramped kitchen and single toilet. The common room – a must for hostels, in my book – was among the best that I had found in Kiev. Old furniture that reminded me of a living room in a common house in Georgia, complete with a bed that was being used as a couch, and a hookah to make bohemian relaxation complete. After my return, I entered the room and sat down. There were two newcomers staying there, an Australian named Mike and a Scotsman named William.
Mike was a smaller guy with a sturdy frame and huge forearms, he had long hair tied at the back. He grew up in Australia, working as a chef, when at a yacht party, got acquainted with a guy who seemed to have some steady advice on investing. The guy would call him up and tell him when and which stocks to buy and sell. Mike would turn, call his broker, telling him he wanted to immediately sell his stocks. “But that's a crazy trade!” his broker would argue, only to find that the stocks in that company collapsed the next day and Mike made thousands of dollars by following the yacht guy's advice. Eventually his broker began to understand, asking Mike once, “You're not with Derry and his boys, are you?” “Just make the sale!” Another hundred thousand in returns. Mike decided to go while the going was good, before Derry and his boys were brought in for insider trading.
After Australia, Mike traveled across the world, living off his newly acquired wealth. He traveled through Southeast Asia, India, China and Africa. He talked to everyone he could, trying to get the information on this new company in Ghana, or some new invention a guy just patented in Brazil. “But even learning all this information,” he told me, “I was still where I was at in the beginning, when I was just following Darry's instructions. I didn't know what I was doing and I was being that much of a success on the market. When I was home, in Ireland, I read over ten newspapers every morning, trying to get some sort of view on the right trades. I was looking at long term investments, real information like what I was looking for, couldn't help on the short game. Computers all control the short game, that's why all these broker firms have to be next to Wall Street, since even the slightest nanosecond of a trade or sell can make a huge difference on success – they're all running the same algorithms anyway. But I still felt that I wasn't learning anything new in the game, even the long game, or being any more successful. I was doing worse than I was when I was with Darry. It made me realize that maybe the whole game is rigged. The entire system is set up by criminals to keep them in power. The older you get, the more you realize this. The system is not designed for little players. We're all just pawns and even Darry wasn't anything but a bishop or rook.” In Ireland, Mike gave up his quest for full time trading and started at the bottom of a construction company, getting paid 15 euros an hour to sweep decks. He worked overtime as much as he could and eventually, the contracting company made him a manager, then a director, which is what he does now.
William's story was shorter and less extreme. Well, what I could understand of William's story, since it's often harder to understand a Scotsman than it was to understand any of the foreigners trying to speak English. William had become enamored in Eastern European culture, studying Czech and Polish in school. He eventually met his Ukrainian girlfriend while studying in Prague and he followed her back to Kiev. He could only stay in Kiev for a short time, since he had to get back to Scotland to finish up his degree. He fell in love with Kiev though and was planning on returning, though he didn't know how he'd afford to live. He studied Polish in school, but he didn't think he could get a job teaching Polish. English would be hard to speak, since nobody can understand a Scottish accent. “I'll have to practice my BBC accent,” he said, resigned to a world against the Scottish.
Joanna, the owner of the hostel, had us all got out to Palata No 6 for dinner. I ordered a huge rib-eye steak dinner for less than five euros – another win for Kiev. It was only reaffirming my assertion that it was better to be poor and unemployed in Kiev than it was anywhere in America. After the dinner, Mike was still wanting to go out to party. I was hesitant, “Well, you know, I've got to start saving my money.”
“You don't worry about that, mate, I've got seven figures. Just come on out.” The rest of the group didn't want to go, so it ended up being just Mike and myself. We went to Vodka Bar, one of the more scene places in Kiev, where women dressed up just to look good and be snotty, looking for high rollers to whisk them off and buy them diamonds. It was fine for our purposes though, since Mike was a high roller. When we arrived at the bar, he bought us both a drink, and a drink for the guy standing next to us. He gave the bartender 500 grivna for the drink. The bartender came back and confessed, “This is too much!” Mike gave him 100 grivna for his honesty. “He's a good mate,” Mike said. “I like to feel out the bartenders like that.” We chatted with various girls, Mike continually buying rounds for every three or four people who were around us. Eventually, I had to go use the restroom, which meant waiting in a line that took almost thirty minutes. When I got back, I couldn't find Mike. I searched through all the people in the bottom floor, then up top, squeezing through Turkish guys wearing Armani suits and Gucci sunglasses and local Ukrainian lads wearing nothing so nice.
Occasionally, when I'd stop looking and just start shaking around, in a move I like to think is what others would call dancing, I'd fall into conversations with the Ukrainian guys. “Ah, you are American! It is great country!” most would say, and continue on to buy me a drink. One guy I was standing around complained to me about the Turks. “All these rich Turkish guys, they just come to Ukraine, flash all their money and take our women. I hate Turks! I get it, it's Ukraine, we have the best women. It is good. Many people come for the women, I get it. But Turks, with their sunglasses and oiled up hair, the pompous ass holes don't give a shit about Ukraine, they just want the women. They never speak any Russian, barely even English. They are so shit.”
I finally left when I realized it was already six o'clock in the morning. I walked back to the hostel, still wondering if Mike had made it back or not. I went straight to sleep. In the morning, I saw that Mike's stuff was gone and the girl working said he had made his taxi to the airport, so he could make his three day tour of Belarus.
On the fourth day, I was still in the hostel when Mike showed up at the door. “Mike!” I said. “What happened to you? You disappeared that night. I went to the restroom and got back and you were gone.”
“So that's where you went, mate?” he said. “You had disappeared on me and I went outside looking for you, still having my drink my hand. I don't know why I had gone outside. I turned and just vomited on the sidewalk and these two cops saw me and asked for my passport. I forgot about the two hundred dollars that I keep tucked in there and they took it right out and pocketed it and gave back my passport. But then they kept saying something, so I thought they were going to try to shake me for more, so I just ran, mate. I got into a taxi and told him to go straight back to the hostel, but then he went quite a bit past it. He stopped and asked for fifty, but I was too drunk or something and he ended up swiping my wallet when I got out of the car. I don't know what happened, I don't normally get that drunk. I kind of think someone slipped roofie or something into my drink while I was there. I was just knocked out by something. And I lost my jacket, that was a 200 euro jacket. I think I must have dropped some 400 euro that night.
“You know, they say that as you get older you kind of care less and people are more likely to take advantage of that. I feel it, mate, I'm getting older and I don't really care all that much. It's just all a part of life. It's all expendable. But man, I got to keep my wits straight, that was a crazy night!”
“How was Belarus?” I asked him.
“Belarus was really something, mate. The women there are beautiful and all dressed all proper. Just people are a bit standoffish, really quite shy. And everything is really, really well organized. Signs are all posted and big, everything runs on time. It's quite weird and all, it's very... Stalinist. It really is a big flash to the past, I think. You've got to check it out some time.”
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