Bloggin' Babin

Zagreb

2009-07-02T08:41:00.001-07:00

Zagreb is set beautifully in the foothills of the Alps. You have a world-class ski hill mere minutes away, spectacular vistas from certain parts of the city on clear days, and crisp mountain air. These are things even the Soviets couldn’t ruin. Perhaps it was because they were too busy erecting cookie-cutter apartment blocks. I remember taking one picture of three such monstrosities lined up along the river that could’ve been mistaken for almost any former Soviet capital. Greetings from Zagreb, or was it Kiev or Sofia?

The centre of town is quaint to say the least. Streetcars and trams run all over the place and cars are not allowed on some streets. The buildings are also beautifully restored. It’s like wondering around a more vibrant western European regional capital. But then you come across the old, still functioning former Soviet bazaar and remember what makes the Balkans so fascinating.

One story, albeit an unconventional one, sticks out at me. The National Football league playoffs were going and my favourite team was scheduled to play one of the nights I was in Zagreb. I couldn’t miss this game, so I spent almost the entire day searching for a place that would show it. Not surprisingly, no bar had any of the channels. About ten minutes before kickoff, we ended up in a casino (our last chance). To our delight, the game would be showing on the big screen. It was a happy moment.

Eger

2009-06-27T23:22:00.001-07:00

I decided to take my search for a plateful of meat to the Hungarian countryside. And what better place to go than to the heart of the wine producing region where they make a vintage affectionately known as “Bull’s Blood.” How on earth could anyone pass an opportunity like that up?

So off I went on the train. It was a short ride made all the more interesting because of the transition from “warm” Budapest to the frosty countryside. One minute you could see the colour of the grass and trees, the next it was a sea of white. Wherever Eger was, it was going to be cold.

Two things stand out about Eger: the wine and the awesome outdoor bath complex. I got my fill of both.

First up, the wine. It goes great with red meat (big surprise, eh?). If only I had more time, I would’ve spent a fair amount of time “taste testing” at the winery.

The real story from the trip was the baths. I met some Australians and a Brit just after getting of the train. Our conversation moved quickly to the idea of drinking a lot of wine and going to the bath. The next day, we were sitting in a 40 degree outdoor pool in an air temperature of –9 drinking champagne. It was the perfect way to spend New Year’s Eve day.

What made it that much better was the locals. They were popping champagne bottles every couple of minutes and truly having a good time. I can imagine that this kind of stuff happens all over Hungary on New Year’s Eve. All the more reason to go back…

Budapest

2009-06-16T10:52:00.001-07:00

Like meat? Go to Hungary. Want a taste of the Warsaw Pact with a little “glory days of the Austro-Hungarian empire” mixed in? Look no further than Budapest.

Hungary is an anomaly in Central Europe. Its people do not share ethnic roots with its neighbours, the food is entirely different (to the point that it’s actually flavourful), and the language is about as indecipherable as Mongolian.

As far as Budapest is concerned, you get the feeling that it once had a charm that I can compare only with modern-day Tbilisi; something I can only describe as a “unique cultural enclave.” Alas, a lot of that history has been swallowed up by EU health standards and development money. Gone are the days of the exotic markets and palancinka (thin pancakes) street vendors. In are exorbitantly expensive tourist restaurants and more souvenir shops that one cares to imagine. What I wouldn’t give to go back to Budapest circa 1925. You could probably smell the paprikash upon arrival.

I’ve heard people call Budapest a “grander version of Prague.” You only need to see the parliament, Andrazi Avenue, and the two magnificent train stations to realize this. But the city has something that Prague most certainly lacks: the most ornate and glorious bath house ever conceived. Once inside, you feel as though you are bathing the way the Austro-Hungarians kings intended.

What disappointed me most about Budapest was the lack of old-school goulash joints (the places where you could get a plateful of heavily paprika’d meat). This is what I had been dreaming of. I imagined entering from a side street through a non-descript door and being greeted by the sweet smell of roasted paprika. I would then sit down and be brought a plateful of meat and a jug of red wine without even asking for it. But I digress….

One final thing must not go unmentioned: the Museum of Terror. Like the Warsaw Uprising Museum, it is a chilling, yet fantastic look at life under Soviet oppression. The museum itself is located in the former KGB headquarters, so the underground cells can be seen up close. Perhaps the most provocative exhibit is the one that tries to re-create the smells of a prison cell.

Paprikash, anyone?

Vienna

2009-06-13T23:00:00.001-07:00

Two things about Vienna will stick with me for the rest of my life: bacon for breakfast the day we arrived and the selection of desserts at the plethora of charming coffee houses throughout the city. If you’re surprised that I only remember food, don’t be. It’s really the only reason I travel anymore.

Vienna was recently rated as the world’s second best city to live in and I can see why. The history, the architecture, the culture, the sweets, the transportation system, the multiculturalism. It’s all there in its magnificent glory. Some might call this too orderly and boring. And while that might be true, you shouldn’t really be going to Vienna for an exotic experience, should you?

What you should be going to Vienna for besides the culture vulture stuff I’ve never fully appreciated (museums, ballets, operas, etc.) is the appreciation that the Viennese have for the things they are good at. Chocolate. Austrians don’t mess around with that stuff. Classical music. When was the last time you heard a bad Austrian composer? Exactly. Coffee houses. Nothing short of legendary.

Let’s not mince words. When you’re walking around a Central European city at the end of December, your main goal is to stay warm. And what better way to do that than spending a majority of your time drinking espresso and eating cake in beautiful, high-ceilinged cafes. Austrians just do the whole cafe culture thing right. We mortals around the rest of the world don’t. That’s one thing I learned very quickly.

One point a want to stress is that when I say “cake,” I don’t mean the crap you find at the supermarket. Oh no. I’m talking cakes, torts, and strudels made with history and tradition in mind. The grand daddy of this wonderful world of desserts is the Sacher Tort. Tourists actually line up for a slice of the stuff at the Hotel Sacher, where it was first made. I couldn’t bring myself to do that.

Vienna is one of those places I would go back to with a lot of money. And of course to pay homage to all those desserts I wasn’t able to try.

Christmas and New Years 2008

2009-06-13T07:01:00.001-07:00

I think it’s about time a regale you on my end of the year “get out of the country I’m in as fast as possible” adventure to Riga, Vienna, Budapest, Eger, Zagreb, and Ljubljana.

Enjoy.

It's True What They Say...

2009-05-26T00:16:00.001-07:00

If you can't handle the heat, get out of the kitchen.

Economic Crisis Hair

2009-05-03T06:20:00.001-07:00

Baku Architectural Tour - Stop 6

2009-04-29T09:43:00.002-07:00

It used to be the Lenin museum. Now it's a carpet/national history museum, I think. I haven't actually been inside yet. It's one of those things I'll get to just before I leave.

Baku Architectural Tour - Stop 5

2009-04-27T10:34:00.002-07:00

Fountain Square - the "centre" of Baku. It's a square full of fountains that only work in the spring/summer.

Baku Architectural Tour - Stop 4

2009-04-17T10:13:00.003-07:00

This street is called Nizami. It's the main shopping street in the centre of Baku. Thankfully no cars are allowed.

Baku Architectual Tour - Stop 3

2009-04-04T03:54:00.003-07:00

Nizami Theater

This place was the best place to play ping pong against Azeri legends, but it is now being coverted into a "stylish" cosmopolitan-esque complex.

Baku Architectural Tour - Stop 2

2009-03-31T11:01:00.002-07:00

From left to right: Kapital Bank HQ, Heydar Aliyev Statue, Azerbaijan Central Bank

Baku Architectural Tour - Stop 1

2009-03-28T00:15:00.002-07:00

The State Circus

Oh How the Azeris Love Big Gold Fountains

2009-03-15T08:44:00.002-07:00

A Date with Soviet Nostalgia

2009-03-12T10:01:00.002-07:00

The Pursuit

*whisper* I think he's using the wrong bike

All the Great Soviet Track Cyclists had this exact picture taken

He's about to get the gold from Krushchev himself

The Village – Part 4

2009-03-10T11:42:00.001-07:00

The man turned out to be incredibly knowledgeable. He told us that despite the fact the village was named “Babin,” no one with that last name had ever lived there. Fascinated, we asked him how the village came by its name. His answer was based solely on legend. It goes something like this:

A long time ago, when the Huns were invading Europe, they came upon a settlement. The invaders quickly laid siege to the settlement, which forced most of the people out. Only one person, a grandmother, remained.

Eventually, the villagers, her son included, came back to repel the invaders. They found the grandmother still alive and as fiery as ever. At the next town meeting, the people decided to name village after the old woman.

“Baba” in Ukrainian translates to “Old Woman (and is also short for “Grandmother”). When the genitive case ending is added to denote possession, you end up with “Babin”.

Hearing this story made the trip overwhelmingly worthwhile. Shortly thereafter, we headed out of the village and back to Chernovitse.

Babin

2009-03-08T04:17:00.003-07:00

The Customary Photo

The Countryside

The Road to the Village Centre

The Cemetery

The Village – Part 3

2009-03-03T09:07:00.001-08:00

It was mildly anti-climactic that the “Babin” sign was covered by a tree. But that didn’t stop the shivers from running down my spine. There is something chilling about entering a city that not only shares your last name, but also represents the conditions that your forbearers ostensibly emerged from. This unique experience is one that not everyone gets to experience (unless your last name is “Midway”).

We took our customary pictures in front of the sign. My dad can now boast the elusive Grand Slam of “getting your picture taken next to a sign with one of your names on it.” Fifteen years earlier he was seen standing next to a sign that read “<- Gary” (the arrow was conveniently pointing towards him).

Obligations done, we headed into the village centre. Along the way, we saw what can only be described as a “time warp.” A man, straight out of the 19th century, was pushing a wheelbarrow (also circa 1853) up a hill. Some things never change in this village.

In the centre, there was a post office, a small monument, and a shop. Our driver stopped to ask an old lady (circa 1923) where the cemetery was. She said she was going in that direction, so we gave her a ride. The 5 minute trip, mainly on dirt roads, was accompanied by the smell of southwest Ukrainian river fish emanating from the woman’s bag.

Up at the cemetery, we spent time perusing the names on the gravestones. Many of the last names could also be found in the Grand Forks phonebook. What are the chances?

Our search complete, albeit empty-handed, we headed back down the hill to the main dirt road. Luckily, the man who knows everything about the village happened to be outside getting ready to go for a wedding. He would be able to tell us what was going on.

On the Road to Babin

2009-02-26T09:08:00.001-08:00

The Road

The Car

The Field

The Village – Part 2

2009-02-22T00:46:00.001-08:00

I spent the first forty minutes of the trip trying to decipher the driver’s Russo-Ukrainian rambling. Ukrainian doesn’t have a soft “g” sound, so every time he encountered the sound in a Russian word, the driver would replace it with an “h”. He told me about the region’s history—how it was part of Romania and then the Soviet Union and now Ukraine.

Eventually we got off the main road and headed deep into the rolling countryside. I felt like we were in the Canadian prairies, which prompted my Dad to remark more than once that the Ukrainians who got off the boat in Canada a hundred years ago must’ve felt like they hadn’t actually gone anywhere. There was one significant difference: the soil. It was as black and rich as I have ever seen. No wonder they called this place the Breadbasket of the Soviet Union.

The narrow paved road we were on led us through small towns, by magnificently restored churches, and past bustling markets. We stopped to ask for directions every once and a while (the people just pointed us further down the road).

We soon found ourselves on a dirt road heading to the middle of nowhere. There was no signage, save for provincial boundary markers. Our maps didn’t provide the kind of detail we needed, so we had to rely purely on local knowledge. We stopped to ask a woman where the village might be and she said that we had already passed it. I guess the old joke of a town being so small that if you blink while driving through, you’d miss it completely rang true.

As it turned out, we had to turn, go through another small village before descending into a small valley and the village of Babin.

The Village – Part 1

2009-02-16T10:35:00.001-08:00

After spending the first day in Chernovitse wandering around in the rain trying to figure out how to get to the village of Babin (how many people have the same name as a village?), we finally decided that a driver was the best option. There had to be some old guy out there with legendary knowledge of the region who was willing to take us around for the day.

Most people don’t often put much thought into taking a cab. The process is simple: stick hand out, get in taxi, go to destination, pay taxi, leave. I tend to look for the oldest car possible; the car with the most character. Why? Because anyone still willing to drive a car that old, must have character himself.

We walked out of the train station hotel and surveyed the line of taxis waiting to ferry the recently arrived away. You had your newer European cars, come older European cars, new and old Ladas (not that you can tell the difference), and an older Volga. Bingo!

A Volga is like the Soviet equivalent of a Lincoln. It’s built like an ox and sucks up gasoline like a fish. There is a certain element of class, though, so it ends up being a comfortable ride fitting for the region. The driver was as we hoped for: old. He took our map and immediately did us one better by bringing out his own map. Within seconds he had Babin pointed out on the map. “Why do you want to go there?!?!”

I gave him the story I gave everyone else and watched as in his eyes this trip went from simply carrying two tourists around to guiding people with genuine connections to the region. This fascination proved itself over and over throughout the day.

Once the price issue was settled, we took off into the countryside. I just hoped he knew where he was going.

Chernovitse

2009-02-12T09:45:00.002-08:00

The Centre of Town

Ghetto Cafe across from the Train Station

Train Station

And then Transdniestra Got in the Way… – Part 6

2009-02-10T10:37:00.001-08:00

We couldn’t be bothered to wait around the border area for a bus to the next town. Locals told us one would be coming, but it was anybody’s guess when it would actually arrive. So we just starting walking. Past an ostensibly abandoned kolkhoz (commune), a real treat of the journey I might add, over hills, around corners. On such a pleasant fall day, walking was probably preferable to sitting in a crowded microbus.

Eventually we came upon a town with what we hoped was a train station. I asked some truck drivers what the best way was to get back to Chernovitse, but they just looked back at me and I imagined them saying, “Why don’t you just get a taxi?” when in reality they said, “Well, you can take a bus or the train. The train station was up a few hundred metres and then to the left.”

I asked another group of drivers further along where the train station was. They simply pointed across the road and said, “There.” It’s times like this when I’m glad the locals actually know where things are as opposed to just guessing and pointing randomly in different directions.

At the train station, we learned that the train wasn’t coming for another hour. For fun, we went back to the main road and tried to flag down a bus. I consider myself well-versed in the art of flagging down vehicles propelled by the internal combustion engine, but this task proved to be difficult. Bus after bus was either not going to Chernovitse, was full, or just had no interest in picking us up.

We finally opted for the train and left our spot in front of the ubiquitous Palace of Culture found in every town. There is nothing like a grandiose name to make a small building in a small town sound important. Such exaggeration is something only the Soviets and North Korean government are good at.

Our day trip ended with a sleepy train ride back to Chernovitse. This time we were in a warm carriage with reasonable comfortable seats. We sat, listening to the locals banter away, and prepared for our trip to Babin the next morning.

North of the Border

2009-02-08T00:43:00.003-08:00

The border complex from the Ukrainian side.

Road to the border.

We stumbled upon a Kolkhoz (Commune) on our way back from the border.

And Then Transdniestria Got in the Way… – Part 5

2009-02-06T23:30:00.001-08:00

We were dropped off on the Moldovan side of the border. Our friend and the driver accompanied us right up to the guy who had the authority to let people through the gate. He was a young guy, but appeared to wield some serious power. We showed him our passports and he gave us a piece of paper with a stamp on it before letting us through. Our friend, wanting to go with us further, tried to talk the border guard into letting him through without a passport. Fat chance. So we said our “Goodbye’s” and went on our way.

For two fairly small countries, Moldova and Ukraine sure made a complicated mess of their borders. The first guy we passed, we soon realized, was simply there to prevent people without passports from getting to the second level. To get to the second level, we had to walk for about two-hundred metres. There’s nothing like walking across a frontier, is there?

At the second level of defense, we were approached by a Ukrainian customs official who asked us if we had our immigration forms. If not, we needed to fill them out here. She took a look at our passports and said, “Babin? That’s a Ukrainian last name. What are you doing here?!?!” This bought us instant credibility. She happily made sure our forms were in order, stamped our little piece of paper, and sent us on to the next checkpoint.

Another hundred metres down the road was the third level. Two Moldovan customs officials this time. They took our passports, incredulous at why two Canadians had come to Moldova by train and were now walking back to the Ukraine. What was this, a free country? These two guys weren’t nearly as interested in moving us on to the next checkpoint. They made some calls, recited our passport numbers and names into the receiver while no doubt Ministry of the Interior officials on the other end were checking to see if we were in fact spies. I swear the two officials asked me six times what we were doing and where we were going. “Ya, ok, I get that. But what are you really doing?”

I don’t blame border guards in remote places for having a little fun with foreigners. It’s all part of the experience. You never really feel threatened, but at the same time they keep you on edge. After all, they can either let you through or send you back to rural Moldova.

Eventually the two relented and stamped our passports and little piece of paper. We were in what appeared to be the Ukrainian border complex. Five metres separated the Moldovan booth and what we could only assume to be the Ukrainian booth. The only problem was that there was no one in the Ukrainian booth, so we just kept walking. I was thinking, “Hmm…that's odd. When are we going to get out Ukrainian entry stamps. How was I supposed to explain to the customs guys at the airport that we didn’t get an entry stamp walking across the border near Chernovitse. They’d think I was nuts and throw me in prison.” All of a sudden, a guy came charging out of the main border complex and yelling, “Come back!”

Right on cue, I guess. Border guards yelling is rarely a positive thing and should be avoided if at all possible, but I think this time it was welcome. The man took our passports and little piece of paper, asked us the usual questions, looked inquisitively at us, pondered the thought of playing a practical joke, stamped our passports and piece of paper, and then sent us onwards.

The end was finally in sight; there was one guy left between us and non-border area Ukraine. We got to him and, not having a clue what to do, we tried to show him our passports. In response, he just sneered, ripped the little piece of paper out of my hand, and said “Get out of here!” Welcome to the Ukraine.

So let me get this straight. We had to pass through five checkpoints (Moldovan, Ukrainian, Moldovan, Ukrainian, Ukrainian) and get four stamps on a little piece of paper that was then collected by the last guy? I bet it was easier in Soviet times.