Another Day at the Circus-

Another Day at the Circus-  

Kiev, 1997

My boss Martin came up to me at the office.  He told me that he met a girl at his fitness club and they decided to go out for dinner, but the girl wanted to bring her younger sister along and asked if he had another foreign friend that he could invite for a double date.  He then asked me to be his wingman.  

“What does she look like?”  I asked immediately.

“I don’t know man; I have only seen her sister.  Her sister is nice.  She has big tits.  She’s mine.  You will get the sister.”

“Hmm…Big tits you say...Ok, I’m in.  What’re we going to do?”

“We spoke about dinner at the Red Lion.”  Of course, Martin picked one of the most high-end and dramatically over-priced restaurants in the city. 

“The Red Lion huh, that place is very steep and quite poor quality, but it makes sense and I like the sound of it.  Then what, we go to a club or something?”

“I don’t think she likes clubs.”  Martin added in a way that I thought he’d follow up with a suggestion, but only silence came.

“I have an idea, I’ve been wanting to hit the circus, let’s take the girls there after dinner.”

“The circus?”  Martin didn’t understand the idea and it showed.

“Yeah, I heard that it’s a real, traditional Soviet-style circus.  Someone told me that they’ve got a polar bear on ice skates- that sounds really cool.”

“A polar bear on ice skates?”  Martin was totally dumbfounded.

“Yeah!  That sounds interesting doesn’t it?  Trust me, the girls will totally dig it.”

“Let me ask Nastiya and I’ll let you know.”  Nastiya was the older sister.

The next day, Martin said that he spoke with Nastiya and she was really excited about the circus.  I told Martin to pay up for good seats.  By the end of the week, we had secured four front row tickets to the main show.  The plan was coming together nicely. 

When I got to the Lion on Saturday, Martin, Nastiya and her sister, Katya, were already there.  Nastiya was indeed quite a good looking lady.  She was in her mid-twenties, had big soft blue eyes, shortish dark hair and the biggest rack I’d ever seen on a Ukrainian girl before.  She also had a certain poise and elegance about her.  She indeed looked good, real good.  

Her sister, Katya, was younger than I expected at 19 years old.  She was much skinnier than Nastiya.  She hadn’t really filled out yet, had this frizzy curly brown hair and wasn’t put together nearly as well.  Though, she did have her own sizable mammaries.  The main problem was language.  Neither of the girls spoke any English whatsoever, which was typical and usually not a deal breaker in itself, despite my extremely poor Russian language skills.  The problem was that Katya was more interested in the dinner than trying to understand or meet me, so the conversation kept hitting roadblocks.  

We got through dinner and went to the circus.  Once there, we were led all the way down to the front row.  The night felt like it was improving.  There was a circular stage in the center of the amphitheater and we had some really great seats. 

We bookended the girls with me being on the far end, then Katya, Nastiya and Martin at the other end.  I’d never been to a circus before and was excited to see how the Soviets pulled one off.  As the girls and Martin talked to each other as we waited for the show to start, I enjoyed people watching as the place filled up.  There were lots of families with young children coming in, but they were mostly higher up in the cheaper seats.  Our area had some people, but it was nowhere near as packed as the upper rows.  After about twenty minutes, where no one from my company acknowledged or tried to engage me, the lights dimmed and the show started. 

First, lots of clowns came out with music blasting.  They did some slapstick type of humor, falling down a lot and running in circles.  The crowd seemed to like it and there was laughter throughout the audience.  Then they brought out some cats.  Not lions and tigers- house cats.  Normal domestic house cats.  It was strange.  A handler was using a whip to get the cats who were at one end of a long board that was at a steep angle to force them to climb higher and then over a small bridge to another long board sloping down.  One by one the cats were whipped, went up, over and down the other side.  It wasn’t impressive, but the crowd really ate it up. 

Next, some dogs came out.  Smaller dogs, like terriers or something.  They did some jumping tricks and walked a balance beam and the like.  Again, not impressive, but the girls were digging it while Martin just stared with an absent smile on his Slavic face.  I watched the crowd and saw that there was some genuine happiness around me, which was nice to see, especially considering I found it to be quite a banal, bordering on animal abuse, performance.  

Then, some more clowns danced and fell around as the stage was cleared.  After a few minutes, the clowns exited and a handler brought out two black bears in muzzles.  The bears started walking on their hind legs in a circle around the stage.  Again, they were being whipped regularly by their handler (as were the dogs and cats) and with the muzzles, you could see them in agony, drooling and moaning as they ran around almost frantically.  They then had to climb over things and onto a balance beam.  I wasn’t expecting such cruelty, which really turned me off, but our Ukrainian girls were jumping up and down and clapping their hands with big smiles throughout.  I was confused when I looked over and saw that, but my gaze inadvertently shifted to the two sets of the biggest breasts in the place bouncing around next to me, which made the confusion more bearable (no pun intended).    

After a little more time, the bears were led off and the stage was cleared.  The music started blasting again.  After a couple minutes, another muzzled black bear came out riding a small motorcycle or mini-bike with a handler directing him from the center of the stage.  The bear drove in a circle around the stage perimeter and everyone was really loving it and hooting it up.  However, the mini-bike was burning oil, so as the bear kept going in a dizzyingly fast circle, white exhaust was pouring out of the motorcycle like a special effects cloud machine.  The mini-bike was creating a massive exhaust cloud and after a few circles, the bear was driving through thick fumes.  It looked like he was going through hell as the handler kept shouting at him.  My heart felt for the poor guy.  Also, since we were in the front row, the fumes soon consumed us, and the audience around us.  It was horrible, my eyes burned, I couldn’t breathe, all of our clothes would surely stink after this and through it all, the muzzled black bear kept going in a circle hanging on for dear life in the ever-thickening toxic exhaust fog.  The handler didn’t seem to notice or mind the fumes at all.

At this point, I leaned behind our ladies, who were really loving it and tapped Martin on the shoulder.  He looked over and I gave him a big double thumbs-up with a smile, basically saying, “this is awesome!”  At first he thought I was serious and had a look of utter confusion on his face, but he soon realized my sarcasm at the absurdity of it all and let out a deep belly laugh. 

Despite the health hazard and irritated eyes, when the girls heard Martin laugh, they thought it was in response to the performance, so they both started jumping up and down clapping even more enthusiastically.  I remained unimpressed and worried about all the children (and myself) sitting in a toxic cloud of carbon monoxide fumes and a tortured bear desperately stuck on an antique motorbike speeding continuously in a rapid circle.  This whole spectacle was indeed a circus, but in the frenzied, bewildering and confusing kind of way. 

I guess the Soviet circus had decayed along with the Soviet Union for so long, it had lost its ballast along the way, just like everything else.   The ice skating polar bear never came out and the bear on the motorcycle was the main attraction.  When this smoke bomb of a performance finished, the lights came up and you could see that the entire pavilion was filled with the white exhaust slowly climbing all the way up to the rafters.  I’d never seen anything like it before.   

We went out for a post-circus drink, but Katya and I had no interest in each other, so I soon called it night and peeled away.  It wasn’t a good night and I never went back to the Kiev circus again.  Looking back on it now, I’m sure I would’ve preferred the ice skating polar bear over the “smoke bomb bandit” motorcycle bear, that is, if the polar bear didn’t break his leg on the ice or something. 

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The Benefits of Having a Positive Attitude to Police Harassment in Kiev

The Benefits of Having a Positive Attitude to Police Harassment in Kiev   

I was at a new nightclub that had recently opened.  It was the first high-end club to open in Kiev post-independence and it was walking distance from my apartment.  The locals called it “elitny,” which meant it was only for the rich (and for some stunning ladies trying to meet the rich).  The problem was, back then, foreigners in Kiev were a real anomaly and the girls at the club were only looking to meet wealthy locals, so it was hard to make any inroads.  It was pretty late and my buddy had left, so I got one more drink hoping to pull a rabbit from a hat, but it wasn’t meant to be.  I finished my drink and headed out.  It was around 3:30am by the time I started walking down the street toward home. 

As I got around the corner from the club, a cop car passed by, flipped a U-turn, pulled up beside me and stopped.  Two policemen got out and came straight to me and asked for my passport.  I gave it to them.  They then asked me to show them what was in my pockets, which I did.  They said there was a “problem” and told me to get into the car.  I hesitated, as I knew my passport, visa and registration were in order, but they were the police, and since this was my first real run-in with the authorities, I decided to do what I was told.

Once in the car they started driving around.  There were four cops- two in front and two in back.  I was riding the hump in the back seat between two of them.  I was strangely calm and blithe about the whole thing.  It must have been the alcohol, or just plain ignorance of what was happening.  The cop to my right was doing all the talking, in Russian.  This made it more difficult, as my language skills were still quite remedial. 

After some sentences that didn’t register, the cop ended his rambling with “sto dollarov,” which I knew meant $100 (they had seen my emergency USD stash when I emptied my pockets).  I replied in my broken Russian that I wouldn’t give them $100 and asked why they were asking for such money.  He said I was drunk and needed to pay them.  I told him in Russian, “We are in Ukraine- it’s not a problem to get drunk!”  No one said a word to that.

Then they started driving off the main boulevard and behind buildings where it was dark and no one could see us.  The cops were clearly trying to freak me out, but for the most part, it wasn’t working.  In my American life, I didn’t fear the police, so I just kept talking to them in my bad Russian and was having a good time enjoying the experience.  It was all something new for me.

After about twenty minutes of this late night tour, they realized that I was not suited for their corruption, so the cop to my right, who first asked for the $100, now asked if I could buy them some vodka and cigarettes.  He was actually very nice and polite about it.  This was a victory in itself, as vodka and cigarettes would cost me less than $10.  I was getting tired and the romantic allure of police harassment was wearing off, so I was about to say Ok, but right then the car turned behind the State Philharmonic

Kiev Philharmonic Building

Building and we saw two young girls, both wearing very short skirts and high heels sitting in the back corner of the parking lot.  The driver said something that must have been akin to, “Oh, what do we have here?” and the entire car’s focus immediately shifted from vodka and cigarettes to the ladies.  The cops started talking fast amongst each other about how they were going to play this one.  I couldn’t really understand what they were saying, but that much was clear.  They drove straight up toward the ladies.

While I’ve said my Russian was still pretty weak, I had built up a vocabulary of some funny things to say, mostly as jokes to help pick up girls at the bars or to make people laugh.  For example, I’d memorized how to say “the toilet doesn’t flush” or  “I have an octopus at home,” and other things like that from a Russian phrasebook I had.  I also learned some funny ailments that tourists get from bad food and the like, which I found really made the crowd at my regular hangout bar erupt and go nuts over.  As the car approached the two girls, the incessant chatter between the cops continued and I had become something as insignificant as a cockroach behind the refrigerator.  The girls were so out of it that they didn’t even notice us approaching. 

As we got within fifteen yards of the ladies, one girl started vomiting. It was obvious that the girls had too much to drink at the nightclub I was just at and they stumbled back here to sober up a bit before heading home.  When the cops saw the puking, they reacted like they hit the jackpot.  Just then, one of my guidebook lines popped into my head, so as the car stopped about ten yards in front of the ladies and within only a few seconds of seeing the girl vomit, I said in my heavily American accented Russian, “Oh, she has tapeworms.”  I then added, “Maybe also very strong diarrhea.”  This threw all the cops for a loop since my Russian up until then was very basic stuff, so everyone in the car turned to me immediately.  I was beaming happily with a broad smile at my wittiness, in a foreign language no less, and when they saw that, the whole car erupted in hearty laughter, including myself.  We all really had a good laugh at that one.

As things calmed down, the two cops in front got out, still laughing a bit and approached the girls.  After a couple minutes the other two cops got out to see what was going on with one of them approaching the group, while the other stayed back with me.  I waited in the back of the car for a minute, but it was clear that they were all totally engrossed by the hot young ladies who were clearly drunk as hell.  I got out of the car.  The one cop that stayed behind looked my way.  I lit a cigarette, offered him one, which he took and I lit, and then I stared over at what was happening with the girls.  He also turned back to the girls trying to hear the conversation being had. 

A minute or two passed with the cops talking to the girls and looking through their papers and documents.  My cop then moved over to the group and I was standing next to the car by myself smoking while they were all talking.  After another minute, I realized a window of opportunity had opened and figured it was now or never.  I started walking away, quietly, but hurried.  I expected someone to shout at me or something, but they didn’t notice and when I got around the corner of the Philharmonic, I trotted quickly to the street and hailed the first car I saw to get the hell out of there. 

I was home within ten minutes, but I learned a most valuable lesson that night: never- ever let the cops see you sweat or you’ll lose the upper hand in the game of power.  Also, if you can make them laugh, as I did with my line about the worms and diarrhea, it breaks down their façade of authority and they deal with you in a much more friendly and civil manner.  At this time, racism was rampant in Ukraine (a Soviet legacy) and the cops loved to hassle dark haired people with olive skin like myself, and once they would see my U.S. passport, the hassle immediately turned into a bribe situation.  This happened to me all the time back then, in many different manifestations.  It was something I had to live with.  It was the price of entry for living in such a dynamic place; but having such a pleasant first experience saved me a lot of cash (and stress) over time. 

At the end of the day, we’re all in this shit show together, so if we can break down the barriers between us, we can always then try to find some common ground.  I have found that humor is one of the best ways of doing that.  I really miss those days, and those wild experiences. 

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If you like these tales from early Kiev, check out this one:  Young Love in my Kiev Storage Apartment

The Pitfalls of Doing Laundry at a Dinner Party

The Pitfalls of Doing Laundry at a Dinner Party

I was invited to a dinner party by a couple, Robert and Jennifer, who I’d met at the bar one night.  They had come in after some weekday dinner event and wanted a nightcap before heading back to Roscoe Village.  The bar was pretty empty and I was already pretty soused, so when they sat down next to me, I immediately engaged them with some friendly banter.  They were excited to be having a night out, so the conversation flowed like cold milk over frosted flakes and we had a fun discussion about a myriad of things and life philosophies.  When they were about to leave Rob, quite spontaneously, invited me to a dinner party that they were having on Friday.  Since I’ve only returned to Chicago a short time ago and am still trying to build up a social network, I decided to roll the dice and accepted the invitation.    

Looking back, in all fairness, it was a very kind gesture for them to invite me and now, with the passing of time, I realize I could’ve handled things better.  The dinner party was on Friday, but the week was a crazy busy one and my washing machine went down the previous weekend.  I had bought a new one, but it would only be delivered the following Monday and I was at the end of the line regarding clean clothes.  I needed to get through the weekend, so I thought it made sense to combine the dinner party with a laundry night and brought over a very small load to wash.  It wasn’t a particularly stinky batch, especially considering the recent hot weather, but it did have a certain aroma if one intentionally smelt it.

I arrived right on time, at 6pm, as I figured that no one really does that anymore and it would give me a chance to get the load in before the other guests arrived.  Robert answered the door, while Jen was still preparing the meal.  After the usual pleasantries where I presented the host with a particularly pleasant bottle of Saint Emillion, I jumped right into it.

“Hey man, I’m really sorry to even ask this, but I’ve been having some washing machine issues and even though I bought a new machine that will be delivered next week I’m totally swamped this weekend, so I’m wondering if I may be able to do a quick load while I’m here?”

Robert didn’t know what to say and looked like a diehard Star Wars fan walking out of The Phantom Menace for the first time.

“I brought everything to just punch it out.  I don’t even need to dry it.”  I added pointing to my backpack.  

“Um, I guess it’s ok.”  He finally replied, before adding, “Jen will have to help you.  I don’t do laundry.”

“Great, thanks so much, I really appreciate it….I’m actually embarrassed to even be asking.” 

“Uhh, don’t worry about it.”  I took this response as a good sign.  He was being supportive. 

Jennifer was also a little taken aback when we explained the situation, but she rolled with the flow and we got the load in the machine and went back to the kitchen to have a cocktail.  Now, I’m usually a beer drinker, but Robert was drinking martinis and he made one for me while Jen and I were at the washer, so I went with it.

Most of the other guests arrived by 7pm, which was expected, but since I didn’t eat much in anticipation of a home cooked meal, I was already feeling the martinis.  I was just starting my fourth by then and was making some serious headway into the cheese, olives, hummus and crackers that were out for pre-dinner snacking.  Everyone did the usual introductions by asking what I did for a living and then telling me what they did (lawyer, banker, accountant, etc.).  I told them I was an unpublished writer who used to work in finance in Eastern Europe/Russia, but called it quits when Putinism undermined all of Yeltsin’s gains and that Crimea and Donbas were the last straw.  That didn’t get much traction or follow through, as usual.   

By 7:30pm we were all seated at the table.  There were only seven of us, three couples (including the hosts) and myself.  By the time we sat, I had just finished my fifth martini and was already regretting my acceptance of the invite.  These were just not my kind of people.  

Unfortunately, Jen made some type of fish casserole, which really didn’t suit me at all, but I was hungry and decided to just focus on the meal for a bit, as the conversation was quite dull.  Once I was satiated, I mentally returned to the conversation, only to realize that it had advanced from tiresome to insulting.

“It’s starting off well and I think we’ll soon have some real accomplishments on the health care repeal and tax reform.”  Teddy, the short, rotund banker with a mustache who wore a tie and jacket throughout dinner was saying.  

“Oh, I agree, it’s only to be expected that there’d be a learning curve.  We’re already over the hump.”  Robert chimed in, and the entire table agreed with head bobs and snorts.  

I couldn’t take it, “Learning curve?!?  This is a disaster unfolding before our very eyes.  What in the world are you referring to when you say “starting off well”?  Do you mean supporting neo-Nazis, attacking our institutions or the pulling out of the Paris Climate Accord?”  The whole table turned and focused on me now.

“Gorsuch was a real home run- you can’t deny that.  And frankly, anything is better than what we’ve had for the last eight years or having that lying bitch in the White House.”  Teddy responded with a new flush of red entering his round face. 

“Whoa, are you kidding me?  I’m seriously confused.  What about Obama didn’t you like?  I mean, don’t you honestly believe that, even if you disagreed with his policies, he sincerely tried to do the most good for the greatest amount of people every day he was in office?  Can you ask for more from a president?  Especially compared to Trump?”

“I don’t know who you are, but I’m NOT a socialist.  I make a lot of fucking money and I pay more in taxes than you make in a year, maybe two, and I’m not going to be supporting loafers looking for a free ride.”  Teddy was a real ignorant.  In his arrogance he assumed that since I labeled myself a writer, I couldn’t possibly be worth anything to society or have an income.

“Are you serious?  You pay more in taxes than I make in a year?  Even if that’s true, does it really mean anything?  What about taking away healthcare from 20 million people who need it the most so that pricks like you can get a huge tax cut?  Kicking the Dreamers out solely to rally up an ignorant xenophobic base is good policy?  And don’t even start with Russia being fake news, the guy’s been money laundering for them for over a decade.”

At this stage, Robert stood up and stopped the conversation.  “Mike, I’m sorry, but I think you drank too much and it’s time for you to go.  I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“This has nothing to do with the amount I’ve had to drink.  It has to do with basic intelligence, decency and common sense toward how our country is run.”

“You should go, please leave.”  Jen added and the table agreed with head bobs and snorts. 

“Trust me, I’m going, but when Trump blows up the economy, possibly gets us into another stupid war and is getting impeached, I hope you all remember this.”  It was clear that my company and insights were about as desired as a hurricane passing over Puerto Rico.

When I started making my way to the door, the whole table erupted (at least all of the men did).  They were yelling- “Get the hell out of here!” and “Fuck off you socialist!” and other things I prefer not to repeat.  

Once on the street, I walked a few blocks cursing at the sky about such idiots and fools and how our country is so lost at the moment.  I then got a ride and headed to the Ale House.  It was only then that I remembered the laundry I had left in their washer.  I knew I couldn’t go back for it and, sadly, it became a casualty of my indiscretion of attending a dinner party with Republican chaff. 

Once back in the Ale House, I relayed the story to Bruce, the owner, who was at his usual perch at the end of the bar.  His only reply after my five minute diatribe was, “Well, I guess that old saying that you shouldn’t air dirty laundry in front of strangers came true for you tonight.”    That was one way of looking at it.  I took a long pull from my High Life.

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