Full-Time Traveler

The story so far:

Our hero has arrived in Odessa, Ukraine on a journey of self-discovery.  He wants to see how he handles independent travel in slightly off-the-beaten track places and also overcome a latent fear of Russians probably left over from his childhood during the twilight days of the Cold War.  His original plan was to spend three days in Odessa and then take the train to the Crimea to visit Yalta and Sebastopol.  But, the confluence of Orthodox Easter and May Day means that the Odessans have beaten him to the punch at the train station ticket counter.  Now, imprisoned by the lack of adequate rolling stock on the Black Sea train line and an inflexible Czech Airlines ticket change policy, he is TRAPPED IN ODESSA!!

What to do?

To be fair, there are worse places to be trapped.  Odessa is a very pleasant seaside town with beautiful parks and fountains, lovely pastel art nouveau buildings, and, for some reason, one Japanese restaurant for every ten members of the adult population.  With nature, culture, and unlimited yakitori, our hero really has nothing to complain about.

Observations: the majority of the former Soviet security force seems to have found employment in my neighborhood supermarket.  In a space that would hardly contain the novelty T-shirt section at a standard American gas station, there are no fewer than three glowering guards.  And these guys are no overweight, clock-watching rent-a-cops either — they quite openly follow suspicious customers (essentially, anyone within arm’s reach of the liquor shelf) closely enough to read the proof numbers on the vodka bottles.  After you pay, you have to hand your receipt to one of them who is perched by the door.  He examines it carefully for any signs of malfeasance, and then you are free to go.  It’s much harder than getting into the country.

There are nice sand beaches just a few minutes’ walk from the center of the city.  The water is a pretty green and blue.  Odessa is a working port, so there is no view that doesn’t have a container ship or a loading crane looming in the background.  But, it is still a surprisingly beautiful place.  The water is supposedly polluted, but you can’t tell by looking at it.  Here in the last days of April, it is still a bit cold for swimming, but not by much.  And the beaches really are close to the center of town — it would be easy to go after work on a weekday or even during your lunch break.  As strange as it is, this is a Russian-speaking city with a very plausible claim to being a beach resort.

English is not widely spoken, but neither is it entirely absent.  My waiter this morning at a very cute sidewalk cafe called Kompot (where I had a very un-Russian breakfast of a giant cappucino and a chocolate croissant) spoke good English and was very friendly.  He even managed a joke: the bill came to 71 gryvnia, and when I said make it 80, he came back a few minutes later saying, “You said 100, right?”  He said this with a smile, while handing me my 20 gryvnia change, which is how I knew that this was different from the begging / shakedown from the taxi driver.

Kompot is a darling little sidewalk cafe on the main pedestrian street, the kind of thoroughly modern and European place where you feel like you might even be able to say the words “darling little sidewalk cafe” without being beaten senseless by members of the 1988 Soviet Olympic deadlift team on principle.  They serve breakfast every morning until 11, and have a good selection of more-or-less fresh pastries.  Most importantly, they serve their cappuccinos in cereal-bowl sized cups and spontaneously ask if you want an extra shot of espresso.  It was this interaction more than any other that made me realize that, no matter what our language or culture, we really are all the same.

The most surprising thing about this city is how much it feels like a Mediterranean town.  Which is not to say that it feels that much like a Mediterranean town — just more so than I expected.  There are things about it that do feel very ex-Soviet to me: the slightly run-down and crumbling streets and buildings, and the extreme public drunkenness that it not as rare as it would be elsewhere.  At the same time, as I was walking along Deribasovskaya street this evening, the fountain was splashing in the city park, the mellow streetlights were reflecting off the cobblestones, and small groups of people were walking back and forth and laughing. It almost felt like part of Spain or Italy.

Just like every other place in the world, Odessa seems to think it’s the best place in the world.  A local resident told me that in Odessa there is a joke to the effect of, “great city, terrible country” that more or less expresses the way Odessans view their place and, no doubt, themselves.

I still haven’t gone out at night yet, which is unforgivable.  Odessa is famous for its nightlife.  The Palladium Club is, according to my guidebook, one of the most popular during the non-summer season.  I checked their website tonight.  It describes a lot of things; one of which is their dress code which, as translated by Google, indicates that the club does not allow in people “With the Nazi marks of distinction.”  Eat your heart out, Goebbels: this party is happening without you!

The Palladium Club has a different show or theme for each night, and these are described in detail on their website.  For example, the theme for the Thursday before Easter (again, as translated by Google) was “Night of the absolute independence.”  It was described as “One of the hottest parties and Holy Week,” no doubt because of “our charming dancers and topless dancers.”  In conclusion, “Given the maximum number of beautiful ladies on this night, you may see a great opportunity, lots of fun and sees time of transmission.”

Which brings up an interesting point, because Odessa is the HIV capital of Europe.  It is the Gaetan Dugas of the eastern Europe AIDS epidemic, the Typhoid Mary of the plague that is ravaging the former Soviet Union.  It’s hard to imagine when you are walking past the cafe tables or sitting on a bench in a sunny park, but the estimate is that one in ten Odessans is HIV positive.

The AIDS epidemic seems to have quietly exploded in the mid-1990s among the population of injecting drug users, which was itself exploding — though not at all quietly — in the wake of the collapse of the Soviet Union.  Odessa (and the rest of southern Ukraine), with its dependence on port work and manufacturing, was especially hard-hit.  The inevitable link between prostitution and drugs bridged the disease over into the general population, while a general reluctance to talk about the problem has allowed it to spread.  In the Ukraine last year, more than half of HIV transmission was via heterosexual sex.

So the good people at the Palladium make — if Google translated them correctly– a good point: beautiful ladies and lots of fun may, indeed, lead to a time of transmission.  To have sex here is to play Ukrainian roulette.

So the rule here is, for a whole variety of reasons, look but don’t touch.  That’s really not a problem, as so far, no Odessan woman has shown any inclination to transmit so much as a pleasant greeting to me, much less a sexually transmitted disease.  And all of the AIDS-awareness websites are completely clear that HIV can’t be transmitted by studiously ignoring someone or pretending he doesn’t exist.

Still, I’m trying to work up the courage to go to the club tomorrow.  I mean, it’s Easter, for God’s sake, and I want to see what kinds of things are seen as appropriate on the holiest day of the Christian calendar.

To their credit, the good people at the Palladium seem to have toned it down a bit in honor of our Savior.  The Sunday program is a wholesome-sounding “Flirt Show.”  It’s “One of the most romantic nights of the week” and “Wonderful evening for those wishing to learn, communicate, and find their half of Happiness.”  In comparison with the Thursday program, it sounds positively innocent.