Nezalezhnosti. Kyiv. Ukraine.

Little Miss Moi has left the building

2007-05-23T08:52:00.000+03:00

But unlike Elvis, I'm still alive.

I've just gone to a new home.

You know what they say, a change is as good as a holiday. And while I've got no gripes with blogger, I just wanted to try something new. Sorry, these clothes were getting a bit old.

Visit me at

http://littlemissmoi.wordpress.com

once again, that's

http://littlemissmoi.wordpress.com

For all of my bluddies out there, if you still love me, please update your links.

See you soon!

Seasons

2007-05-22T09:41:00.000+03:00

I'm so stupid when it comes to northern hemisphere seasons that, when I learned the names of the months and seasons in my Russian lesson, my teacher also had to tell me which months belonged to which season.

"Yeez, Leetle Meez Mva, vesna eez spring, eend ze months are March, April, May. Repeat after mee, spring eez... March, April, May."

But, now that I'm here and have lived through a cold Christmas and New Year, and am living through a summery May, I'm getting the gist of the seasons.

So I was more than a little suprised when I logged onto one of my daily newspaper reads, smh.com.au and saw the headline, 'First snow brings winter delight'.

"What?" I thought. "It's summer, how dumb ARE they?" (yes. I really did think that, when I should have been thinking, "Oh, this El Nino palaver, turning the seasons upside down." Either way, it was a stupid train of thought).

Then I remembered it's winter in Australia. Well, in some parts. I've never personally lived through a proper winter until this past year's in Kyiv. To prove point: I just checked Wunderground.com.

The current temperature in Kyiv, Ukraine: 24 degrees
The current temperature in Brisbane, Australia: 23 degrees
This crappy post about the weather: Pricelessly crap

Seven random things about Little Miss Moi

2007-05-21T18:54:00.000+03:00

enidd tagged me to write about seven random things. Thanks enidd. It's not often I'm tagged and it makes me feel loved.

Racking through my rather random brain, it was hard to come up with anything that seemed worthwhile. But I came up with some boring randomnesses and this is what I got...

1. When I was six, I fell off my bike and hit my head. The result was a black eye that was closed for a week. I think my parents were embarrassed to take me out in public (in case someone thought they did it to me).

2. I'm not a huge fan of the beach. While I don't mind a dip in the ocean, I hate sitting on the beach getting burnt. And sand is overrated. But I swear, I really am a true blue aussie.

3. I took my first overseas trip in utero. My parents went on a holiday to Germany when mum was six months pregnant with me. At least I had a first class position all the way.

4. I finished school, and started university, when I was 16. This is simply a result of the differences in the state education systems in Australia, not because I'm a brainbox. Sorry.

5. Continuing on the non-brainbox theme, I have two degrees. One is a Bachelor of Business in Communication. The other is a Bachelor of Arts in Media Studies. Now here's the dumb thing - both are underpinned by the exact same communication theories. So I needed to do two degrees to learn the same thing twice.

6. I have flat feet and bad knees. I use this as a legitimate excuse to avoid high hells, I mean, heels. At all costs.

7. I am one of five children. My anguished mental state is a result of the fact that I was the youngest for six years, before my little brother came along. After that, I was abruptly thrust into middle-child-dom.

Not a true Aussie? And the tale of the too-small skirts

2007-05-19T10:36:00.000+03:00

Some of my readers have accused me of being a whimpy Aussie because I can't use a barbie and I don't like it hot!

Well, poo to them.

I never said I didn't like the hot weather. You see, it's all to do with the food in Ukraine.

Since I've lived in Ukraine, I've put on about 5 kilos, or perhaps a little more. The result is, I'm weighing the most I have in my life.

Another result is, all the lovely everyday summer clothes I brought with me from Australia no longer fit me. The only clothes that (just) fit me are the heavy winter skirts and shirts I bought when I first came to Kyiv.

And before you say anything, I don't want to go out shopping for clothes that fit. Firstly, because I actually really want to be (and hopefully am in the very slow process of) losing weight.

Secondly, clothes in the shops here are rather arbitrarily priced, which means that most things that are about double the price you'd pay back home. Weird, isn't it? Cheap food, expensive clothes. Doesn't really make sense to me.

But really and truly, give me hot weather any day over snow and slush. There's nothing better than sweating, and walking around in just a skirt and shirt with sandals. No coat required.

Too bad I only have one skirt that fits at the moment.

Feeling hot hot hot

2007-05-18T09:05:00.001+03:00

I logged onto to the weather website Wunderground today.

This is what it said the weather would be in Kyiv:

Temperature in the thirties? With continuously sunny weather? I don't believe it.

Well, sometimes Wunderground gets it wrong, so I decided to check with the source of all things true and solemn - BBC Weather.

Holy freakin' shite! 34 degrees? In Kyiv? Where, only three months ago, it was minus 18?

I really don't get the weather in this part of the world. But I think it's time to buy a fan.

All of a sudden, this doesn't look like a bad prospect:

Welcome to Crimea!

2007-05-16T10:31:00.000+03:00

Where the hell is Crimea?

I like to explain it as: Crimea is the peninsula that dangles off the bottom of Ukraine. Take a look at a map of Crimea here. It dips quite nicely into the lovely Black Sea, across which, if you squint your eyes, you imagine you can see Turkey.

Crimea is an autonomous republic of Ukraine. This didn't really mean much to me. There are certain other things that define its difference to Ukraine more pointedly, to me, anyway...

Firstly, the Crimean Peninsula was historically occupied by Greeks, Genoans and Crimean Tatars, to name a few. As a result, there are some amazing ruins and architectural sights around the place.

The Crimean Tatars took over rule of Crimea from the Mongols (yes, Genghis's troupe really did get this far!) and ruled for around 300 years. They are a turkic speaking people, and indeed the name Crimea is derived from a turkic word, qimirm (imagine the 'i's without dots).

After Crimea was annexed by the Russian Empire under Catherine the Great, Crimean Tatars were persecuted and so fled the region, mostly to Turkey. Those who stayed were deported en masse by Stalin after World War II: on 18 May 1944, all the Crimean Tatars in Crimea were sent to other regions in the Soviet Union - mostly Uzbekistan. The area was resettled by Russians.

It was only in the late 1990s the Ukrainian Government started issuing Ukrainian passports to the Crimean Tatars to allow them to return to their traditional homeland. Crimean Tatars have a distinct language, culture (there is even a 'Crimea' TV channel, which plays talent shows etc), cuisine (although influenced heavily by Uzbek and Turkish) and religion (Crimean Tatars are mostly Muslim).

The second reason Crimea feels so totally different is because of it's long history as part of Russia. Catherine the Great annexed Crimea for the Russian Empire in the 18th century.

Crimea was where the Russian Empire's, then the Soviet's, navy fleet was moored. After the fall of the Soviet Union, Russia negotiated a long term lease of the mooring areas in Sevastopol from the Ukrainian government. There are lots and lots and lots of military people walking around town, and Russian flags all over the place.

Because of this, and a myriad of other reasons, I'm sure, Crimea feels totally Russian.

So, for me, learning Russian in a town where all the signs are Ukrainian, Crimea felt like a lingo utopia (is that a lootopia?). Little things started to fall into place - I learned how everyday places like Produkti and Rinok are spelt, I could understand some of the signs, and I didn't get confused by the occasional person answering me back in Ukie.

My visit to Crimea took me to a number of different places:

Sevastopol. Was a closed city until 1996 or thereabouts (so if you have an old Atlas, you'll be looking and looking for it). Very beautiful city. Where the Russian Black Sea Fleet is moored
Khersones. About 5 kms from Sevastopol. A 1,500 acre site containing ruins of the Greek colony of Chersones, which was founded in the 6th century BC
Bakhchisarai. Where the family who ruled Crimea lived. I think. Amazingly cute little palace there, as well as an Orthodox cave monastery, and some troglodyte caves
Balaklava, where the British Army fought the Russian Army during the Crimean War. (Yes, that's what balaclavas are named after...) Where the valley of the Charge of the Light Brigade is located
Alupka. A lovely sea-side village with a park and a Khan's palace
Yalta. Former Soviet resort town, which the guide books claim is a but yukky, but I thought it was nice. So there you go.

Well, this post is a bit of a link-fest, so I'd better give you some photos to reward you for your patience.

A rainy day at Sevastopol

Soldiers admiring the ruins at Khersones

Babushka and dyevushka selling Khan's clothes at Bakhchisarai

Daisies in the park at Alupka

Old Soviet sanatoriums from the boat to Yalta

Alupka and the Khan's palace from the boat to Yalta

Barbeque nation

2007-05-14T20:38:00.000+03:00

From A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson

It would be useful - I wasn't quite sure in what way, but I was sure none the less - to learn to fend for myself in the wilderness. When guys in camouflage pants and hunting hats sat around in the Four Aces Diner talking about fearsome things done out of doors I would no longer have to feel like such a cupcake. I wanted a little of that swagger that comes with being able to gaze at a far horizon through eyes of chipped granite and say with a slow, [wo]manly sniff, 'Yeah, I've shit in the woods.'

It's time I learned to fend for myself. It's time I learned to barbeque in the woods.

In Australia, a barbeque, or 'barbie', usually comes with a gas bottle and a nice wooden stand. They even have wheels, and look a variation on the theme of this:

See? This one even comes from Australia - 'Down under'.

And heaven forbid, they are so easy to use that in many a household, women commandeer the humble charcoal-maker that worldwide is the domain of men. (I'll just point out, women are less inclined to create charcoal on a barbie).

Now, I've also previously mentioned the drought in Australia. As a result, it's been illegal to light a fire in the bush, for, like, ever. The Aussie bush is predominantly eucalypt, thus there's quite a bit of oil hiding in the leaves. One carelessly lit fire on a breezy day can potentially burn half of Sydney.

But I digress. So...

Imagine how excited I was when enidd suggested that we all go for a barbie in the woods (ohh err I've never been to the woods before, only the bush!), get the man to light some sticks, and we all sit around and eat shashlyk, or potentially, Stalin.

Now. Who is we all? Let's just say, it was a real blarty (blog party).

The blarty consisted of enidd and the man, sarahemily and HDF, Olechko, Mr Olechko and bubba, and of course, Little Miss Moi and her beloved Mr Moi. Not to mention, the late afternoon cameo from Olga, the very brave dogwalker of Stalin and Fluffy.

Unfortunately, enidd got sick and decided not to come. Boo hoo. At the same time the man broke us the news, the rain started to bucket, and for an instant, it was really quite conceivable that our blarty was going farty.

However, with true pommy weather optimism, the man found a patch of blue sky and convinced us that this was the sign we were all waiting for - the weather would be fine. So we piled into the cars and took off to the island.

The island is Trukhaniv Island, and is a huge, empty, grassy and treesy island in the middle of the Dnipro River. It's covered in dirt tracks and full of big fat ditches, which are especially fun to drive someone else's car on. :o)

There's not really much to say about the BBQ itself, except that we drank lots of fizz (Cricova - a newly found Methode Champanoise Moldovan bubbly) and got a bit pizzed. We also drank beer (the Olechkos gave us a Ukrainain and European beer tour without leaving our seats) and red wine. We ate lots of meat from sarahemily's shashlyk, and endured a few rain showers (perhaps by then, I was too tipsy to care).

Australians, despite our tough talk, are really a bit ninny when it comes to being outdoors (OK, well, just me). Australians like to picnic on the beach - where they arrive first thing in the morning to nab a picnic table and camp out for the rest of the day. Said picnic table is usually within safe walking distance of a dunny block. So my biggest worry was where we were going to go to the toilet.

But. I have conquered all. Now I can say we shit in the woods. (OK we didn't really, but it sounds better than saying, 'I did a girly wee behind a tree trunk and even had to take a roll of loo paper and a can of air freshener').

And now it's time to call a halt to a long and rambling post.

Here are some photos to wake you up and help you envisage what a tough bird I've become. Enjoy!

Setting up camp in the woods - see the mole hills (I thought they were ant hills)

Boys being boys: admiring their collective handiwork (oh how Soviet!)

One of the highlights of the day was being able to enjoy the wildlife

More wildlife.. . Oh! no it's not, it's someone with her head bent in shame after going to the loo in the woods

HERE'S more wildlife. I was afraid they might bite

Not a pretty sight for vegetarians. Of which I am not one...

Beautiful bread from the French bakery owned by Russians

Gathering more sticks for the fire...

... while the girls sip on pink Moldovan fizz

And the boys misplace their beer bottles

When the fire looks like this, it's 1) time to put it out and 2) time to go home

But not before we get a lesson in what do to with bio-degradable goods...

They said there were steppes out here somewhere...

2007-05-11T09:41:00.000+03:00

But all I could see what flat land, as far as they eye can see...

With the occasional dug up paddock (yes, folks, that's the technical name)...

And every now and then, a few pretty poplars and other trees (oak? willow? If it's not a eucalypt, I can't vouch for it) on the horizon...

A canola field here and there. We were assured they weren't GM crops...

More canola fields, and very dark and dreary skies...

There were even a few lurkers on the side of the road. After all, if you ask a Ukrainian where the toilet is, their response is, "Everywhere!"

Still no damn steppes! After ten hours of driving, I thought I would have seen one or two...

But mostly just saw abandonned buildings and factories...

And lots of flat land...

I'm steppe-ing into the twilight zone...

Tune in tomorrow to see where Little Miss Moi ended up after this long day on the road that was supposed to have steppes, but only had flat land.

Diary of a lazy moi

2007-05-09T10:57:00.000+03:00

Well, the fact I have a cleaner seemed to cause quite a flutter. So here's a whole post dedicated to justifying my laziness.

Why do I have a cleaner in Kyiv when I live in a flat the size of my bedroom in Sydney, and I'm cozily unoccupied in the employment department?

It's because I'm a lazy twat. Oh, that's not it! It's because blogging has become a full time job. Nope, that's not it either. Even though, it practically has (reading blogs, not writing).

To be honest, I have a cleaner because it's so darn cheap. Hands up (Robin excluded) who wouldn't get a cleaner when she only costs $20? And not only that, but I have the satisfaction of knowing that I'm ~~contributing to the scourge of the underpaid working class~~ helping someone earn money in a country where a lot of people live below the poverty line.

And everyday life here is plain exhausting. Every three or four days, I do the following:

- Go to a money changer to... get some money changed
- Hike between three different and widely dispersed shops and an open-air market, just to get all the groceries I need
- Carry it all home in a backpack and numerous shopping bags that bang against my legs
- Walk up four flights of stairs because the lift is making really scary noises again
- Head out again to pay some bill or another (I miss internet banking)
- Visit the babushka in the kiosk up the street because I've inevitably forgotten something.

That, my friends, pretty much takes up the whole day. By the end of this little routine, there's been that much physical exertion and contact with grumpy service people, the last thing I want to think about is cleaning the bathroom. My cleaner is my sanity preservation.

And while I've wasted a whole post on justifying why I have a cleaner, I still haven't convinced myself that I'm not a lazy twat...

(At least I don't have a nanny, a driver, a housekeeper and a cook. People here do. All up, salaries for those staff combined would cost the humble expat about $20,000 a year).

Late, and unofficial, Fun Monday

2007-05-08T08:34:00.000+03:00

While you all wait on tenterhooks to find out where I've been for the past week, I thought I'd show you some photos my darling mother recently sent me.

Also, I have a twinge of Fun Monday envy. If I took a photo out my front door, you'd just see another boring, steel-reinforced door in a dreary foyer. So, I'm stealing my mother's glory.

As Willowtree mentioned in his photographic odyssey, parts of Australia are in the grip of drought. This is nothing new, as it seems for the past ten years or so, one state or another has been dry as a bone.

Growing up in lush, sub-tropical Queensland (and it's more tropical than sub, I'll tell ya), I remember the time about five years ago when the Premier ordered the drinking water dams be opened and water be released, as the dams had reached their capacity.

Criticised at the time for letting water go when parts of Australia were really darn thirsty, I remember him saying, "We have enough water here to last us another five years."

Five years down the track, and Brisbane hasn't seen a significant rainfall since... well, since then. Water is now the Premier's number one priority.

So without any further ago, here are photos of my parents lush, sub-tropical front yard...

When people say Australia is running out of water... they're really not joking.

(And as I write this, my cleaner is cleaning the kitchen with the water constantly running. At least it's not drinking water.)

Where do YOU think Little Miss Moi is?

2007-05-05T10:55:00.000+03:00

I'll be back soon! Like, in two days :o(

Prolonging the holiday joy

2007-04-28T20:37:00.000+03:00

It seems the Ukrainian government decreed that today, being a Saturday, was a working day.

And it turned out to be true! Mr Moi went to work, we even went to the bank and it was OPEN on a Saturday!

Why did the government issue a decree that Saturday was just another working day?

Next week, there are two public holidays - on Tuesday and Wednesday. When public holidays fall on days that are separated by only one working day from the weekend, the Government will usually make everyone work on a Saturday anywhere up to two weeks prior.

This, then, creates a four (or, in this case, five) day weekend.

Of course, this doesn't really affect lazy me. But I always thought weekends were sacred... Am very glad I don't work in this slave driving country (with lots of long weekend holidays).

Beer in the park

2007-04-27T09:55:00.000+03:00

After a hard day's work (that's Mr Moi, not moi), what better way to unwind than to join the other 500 people sitting in the park, buying 80 cent beers from the hastily erected tents?

Then sit anywhere - on the edge of a fountain, in the makeshift beer garden (read: tables, chairs and brollies that are scattered hither and thither), on a park bench or, heaven forbid, on the grass, while drinking the beers and watching the evening close in over the city.

Admire the tulips. Look at the trees in bloom. Watch the little kids on jumping castles. Wonder about the planters on the lightpost that have the hammer and sickle painted on the outside (they've obviously been using the same planters for 16+ years). Listen to a group of 20 very drunk girls singing folk songs and crying their Ukrainian eyes out.

Three beers and less than $3 later, it's 9pm and time to go home and cook dinner. Ahhh... spring seems nice so far. I can't wait 'til summer.

Five questions from mind the gap

2007-04-26T11:55:00.000+03:00

Little Miss Moi interview - by Mind the Gap

1. What’s your worst habit?
My worst habit is the tendency to stare off into space while playing with my hair. This, my mother calls 'twiddling'.

This habit has been such a problem throughout my life that, over my adult years, my hair got shorter and shorter as I tried harder and harder to stem the desire to twiddle: ten years ago, I chopped my hair from the longest it's ever been (1 cm below my shoulders) to short, then shorter, then shorter.... And, although I now have ear length hair as a result of not trusting the likes of Willy Barber and other hair hackers in Kyiv, I've had a happy decade of short hair.

And I'm still enjoying my twiddling. (And it's become somewhat of a trademark. Oft commented on in the workplace - where I don't even realise I do it - I've never been fired for it).

2. What’s the most stupid thing you’ve come across in Kiev?
Besides dyevushkas who slow down the pavement traffic speed to 1 metre / hour while they walk in an arm-linked phalanx of scary aggressive wimmin, in their 10-inch stilettos that they spent 70 per cent of their income on, forgoing the possibility of more pleasurable things like travelling abroad, and increasing the possibility of foot, knee, back and bone problems for the rest of my life?

No. That's definitely it.

3. What and who was your first pet?
Well, the family had a chihuahua dog called Pepe when I was about two years old. We left him with my grandparents when we moved cities, and then he died. I didn't cry, so he doesn't really could.

Then there were the two goldfish, named Speedy and Buttons. Obviously, Speedy knew how to push Buttons because one day, we found Buttons on the floor. We put him back in the bowl, but then his tail fell out and we have a feeling Speedy ate him. I didn't cry, so they don't really count either.

Then there was our green pet budgie. He didn't have a name. I trained him to sit on my shoulder, say some words, and nibble my earrings. He was my best TV watching, book reading buddy (well, he ate the pages of my books while I read them).

One day, after my dad had mowed the lawn and concurrently drank about 10 beers, he walked out of the house with the budgie on his shoulder. The bird, being a clever little tyke, saw the big blue beyond and flew away.

I cried and cried and cried. So I guess, he counts.

4. At school were you teacher’s pet or hell raising rebel?
With an impertinent name like 'Little Miss Moi', do you really think I would be the teachers' pet?

In one of my classes in ninth grade, I was sent out of the classroom so regularly for my excessive chit chat (and back chat), that the teacher installed a desk for me on the platform, right next to his desk. And that's where I sat for the rest of the year.

5. What’s your favourite joke?
It's not really a joke, it's a Monty Python skit. Scroll down to see!

If you want ME to interview YOU... then let me know - leave a comment in the comments box and I'll send through some questions.

Sarahemily - thanks for my 'quezzers'.

My favourite joke

2007-04-26T10:02:00.001+03:00

Fish and quips on St George's Day

2007-04-24T17:16:00.000+03:00

I've previously spoken, as a guilty lurker, of checking out Pioneer Woman everyday (Sorry, you can't click through. She doesn't need ANOTHER link! C'mon, I'm not being mean... am I?)

Another blog I semi-lurk at is Sam's blog at Becks & Posh. Sam is English, living in San Francisco, and an ultimate foodie. Not only does she like to cook it, photograph it, and eat it, BUT she has the energy to blog about it too!

To celebrate St George's Day - which was yesterday - Sam launched a blampaign (blog campaign) called 'Fish and Quips', inviting all bloggers to do their bit to prove English food isn't a joke, and to post a delicious English tucker recipe on their blog to celebrate.

Well, I just popped on over to Sam's and started drooling immediately. The recipes and pics submitted by bloggers around the world look absolutely mouth-watering, and being an Aussie, there's a lot of familiar dishes there (I'd say I was brought up 60 per cent English stodge style, 40 per cent combined Asian (and in Oz, Asian is East Asia, not the Indian sub continent) and Mediterranean).

But looking through this list made me realise something else.

I actually feel sorta at home in England. Now... I'm still a proud Aussie, orright?! I've never lived in the UK, I've only been there a handful of times, and I still don't want England to win anything like the cricket or the rugby.

However, in light of the fact that my 'home' home is an expensive 27 hour flight away, and that I have many friends and family in the UK (oh, and I'm a British citizen), the UK is the place I go to when I need to speak English and ~~stock up on Vegemite and Aussie wine~~ buy products I'm familiar with.

And as it was, moving to Sydney made me realise that Poms and Aussies are very similar. We talk the same language (well, we do!). We're not selfish - we haven't taken you, I mean, the 'u' out of colour, favour, humour or favourite. And we're poncy with our spelling - we like writing cheques, changing tyres, and playing tennis with racquets.

And then there's the suburbs. In Australia, we have: Lewisham, Haymarket, Croydon, Paddington, Brighton, Kensington, Petersham, Chiswick, Camberwell, Camden, Guildford, Cleveland, Gladstone, Kew, Richmond and Hyde Park, to name a few...

(Then again, we also have Woolloomooloo, Kurri Kurri, Narraweena, Ku-ring-gai, Woolloongabba, Murwillumbah, Tallebudgerah, and Wooloowin... But just ignore me.)

And... we all love Jamie Oliver and Nigella Lawson. And we love fish and chips (and if you come from Noo Zulland, you'd love fush and chups).

So there you go. Check out the tucker. It makes me want to go to England.

This one's for Willowtree

2007-04-22T10:13:00.000+03:00

If you're wondering what all this is about, click over to Willow-treat and read his post, then his comments.

Welcome to Dorrigo!

A species that can only be found in Dorrigo

Species: Pissna flushturdum

I blame it on the revolutsia

2007-04-21T23:06:00.000+03:00

I always new Friday was going to be a big day.

For starters, it was the first full day Mr Moi was home from Moscow! That's right, after being apart during my three week sojourn to Australia, I came home to an empty apartment for two weeks. But now he's returned, which is noteworthy if not for anything else but the subsequent increase in my laundry quota.

Secondly, I'd organised to meet my new bliend, sarahemily, sometime in the afternoon. What time, I wasn't sure; it mainly depended on who cracked first and demanded some Moldovan fizz and a 'thank God it's Friday' moment.

And I'd been invited to brunch. MmmMMmm, I just love brunch. I'd volunteered to make my signature* Chocolate and Banana Bread. Being my usual ~~dis~~organised self, of course I left baking to the last minute - Friday morning, 7am (exactly 3 hours and 30 minutes before brunch started). You can't beat fresh fresh baking.

So the day was, needless to say, a little hectic.

At 7am, I was in the kitchen in my pyjamas, fending Mr Moi off the three bananas I'd purchased for the sole purpose of making Chocolate and Banana Bread. The bread was in the oven by 8am, at which time Mr Moi left the flat, and left me with a bag of clothes that needed to be 're-washed' (which means, they didn't dry properly the first time and thus, stunk).

From 8am, I was a good little blogger, doing my rounds with a cup of coffee. Ten minutes later it was 9:15am, the bread was burning, I hadn't had a shower, I had to hang out the washing,
and I had to email sarahemily to arrange a time to meet (with strict instructions that she was to send me a text message because my phone still does no outgoing calls or texts).

I dashed off the email, took the bread out of the oven, had a shower and was getting ready to leave when I realised it was 10am - which is the time I'd arranged to meet my friend, new-mum H, who lives a 15 minute walk away.

When I arrived at new-mum H's building, she was nowhere to be seen, so I got the lift upstairs, rang her bell, rang it again, waited 5 minutes and rang it again. Determining she must have left, I went back downstairs, where I met her at 10:30am, only 30 minutes late, which was coincidentally the time we were supposed to get to brunch.

Giving Igor the driver strict instructions to get us there quick smart (via the bakery) we set off. Igor must've listened to me, because he did a 20 minute drive in 10 minutes, and I got a five minute stopover at the bakery.

But the time we arrived at brunch, we were a little out of breath, only 15 minutes late, and really bloody hungry.

Cut to two hours and 45 minutes, two babies, one pie and lots of coffee, toast and muffins later...

Igor knocked at the door to let new-mum H know he was here to pick us up. We bustled off into the car, tried to drive down one street, only to find that it was shut - protesters. So we headed up another street and drove along for a while at about 5 kms per hour. My phone rang and I scrambled to pick it up, and that's when I saw the text message waiting for me. Don't have time to read it, must answer phone...

Of course it was sarahemily. She'd sent me a text, which I hadn't read. It had told me to meet her 1:30pm, which was 15 minutes ago, near the revolutsia action, which happens to be halfway between our two flats. I assured her I was on my way, I should only be 30 minutes late, so I'll see her in 15 minutes.

"Do hurry," said sarahemily. "It's just started to rain and looking at the protesters is losing their novelty factor."

Roll forward one hour, three cut-off streets, two protester camps and one more phone call from sarahemily. As Igor manoeuvred the car close to new-mum H's building, I flung the door open, took a rolling dive from the front seat, landed on my feet and started running to where sarahemily was waiting.**

I reached the rendezvous point in record time (14 minutes as opposed to 15), and saw someone waiting around the corner. As I walked around the corner, I was shocked to see sarahemily had a beard, wore cargo pants and had a penchant for Doc Martens.

Then a text message came through on the phone. Oh, she's gone into a shop, so cargo pants wasn't sarahemily at all. And I can't tell you how happy that mades me feel.

So, we met. One hour and 30 minutes late. After I caught my breath, we toddled off to MegaMarket, where security had shut the gates and were only letting people in one at a time - and only if they weren't carrying a flag.

We invested in some cheese and fizz and hightailed it back to my place, past the 10 smelly portaloos that were on the street to cope with 1000 protesters with normal bodily functions. We enjoyed our Moldovan fizz... but I can't help feeling awful for keeping my new friend waiting 1 hour and 30 minutes.

I blame it on the revolutsia.

* Well, Bill Granger's signature dish. Close enough
** Made up, of course. I don't even bend down to tie up shoelaces, let alone jump out of a moving car

How to make a good first impression

2007-04-20T20:21:00.000+03:00

Well, to put it simply:

Don't be one and a half hours late to meeting your new bliend. When she's waiting in the rain. Surrounded by about a zillion protesting Ukrainians. Who don't mind drinking quite a bit of alcohol while protesting. And wildly waiting flagpoles. And she's standing in amongst them. And the riot police are out.

That's how to make a good first impression.

(And did I mention it was raining? And I was one and a half hours late? And it was windy and cold? Gosh, I'm a bad bliend. I'm drinking a glass of Crimean sparkling wine to make me feel much better, thank you very mush, I mean, much.)

Blisters and blends

2007-04-19T11:41:00.000+03:00

I've previously alluded to my blog sisters - blisters - Sabrina and Beccy. Our blogs are triplets, but were born a few months apart.

And now, I have some blends! That's right, blog friends. As in, real life friends (well, almost - I'm using today's post as an opportunity to introduce you to someone I haven't met yet but will be meeting soon!).

So far, I dusted off the passport and travelled to Molvania to meet enidd. We enjoyed drinking some shampanskoye from Molvania... or was that Moldova? Not sure, but they're both prolific wine producing regions.

Then I met my Ukrainian art and style icon Olechko. We met in the park and drank a beer before trying to go to a gallery that was shut. Oh well - next time.

And now I have a new friend. Her name is 'no i'm not a tree hugger but blah di blah' (we'll have to think of a nickname for her cause I just can't be a.r.c.e.d writing that every time). Well, you can tell from her URL that her name is sarahemily. A bit easier to type than noi'mnotatreehuggerbut...

The great news is she has a NEW blog! Well, it's sort of new - she's been squirreling away for the past month or so, writing lots of funny stories, and she's now opened up her blog for our reading pleasure! And a pleasure it is.

At no i'm not a tree hugger but... you can expect some similar 'everyday experiences' that you've come to expect from moi. But unlike moi, sarahemily also has a conscience - as a result, she mulls over things like recycling in Kyiv, sustainable development and other things that I'm too selfish to think about.

So click on over and visit my new blend and leave her a comment of support. Remember, she's living through the revolutsia too, so give her a word of encouragement; chin-up and all that palaver.

Welcome to blogosphere, sarahemily :o)

Lurkers...

2007-04-17T21:04:00.000+03:00

They're everywhere. We all have them (or hope we do!)

Guess which of the following two lovely faces is a lurker?

The lurker is the one who won't comment! Or! maybe she will now... (after all, she promised).

Are you a lurker?

I'm a lurker. I lurk on Ree's blog. I don't even want to be a Pioneer Woman reader; being an Aussie and all, I root for the underdog. (Did you like my use of the semi colon there?) But she's just so damn engaging with her so-called 'good' photos and 'yummy' recipes. It's irritatingly entertaining...

Here's a funny lurker story for you.

I always look at my stat counter. I'm reassured when I see people from home visiting. Except, in the past week, there's been this person from Ukraine who logs on for like, 10 hours at a time. I was getting a bit paranoid - is someone stalking me? Does someone here hate what I write? Should I close my blog?!

It got to the point that I checked everytime I walked out the door to see there was no one waiting there to berate me for my blog. Then I realised... the IP address... it was mine.

Duh.

Here are some other random thoughts for the evening:

Before I left Australia, I read the book Everything is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer. It's set in Ukraine. The movie (of the same name, directed by Liev Schreiber and starring Elijah Wood) is a little more straightforward and just as enjoyable (even though it was filmed in the Czech Republic, hrmph).

The music, story and acting (especially Eugene Hutz's acting and his Gogol Bordello music - he's my hero) are all fantastic. I recommend watching the movie, and reading the book if you have the time and inclination. Personally I watch it every now and then and it helps me with my Russian (there are parts in Russki with English subtitles. I'm understanding more and more).

Did you know the name Liev (as in Schreiber) is spelt the same in Russian as the name Leo (as in Tolstoy)? The true transliteration of his name into latin letters is 'Lyev'. And, with the streets and squares named after him (Tolstoy, not Schreiber), it then changes into 'Lva Tolstogo'. Yep, Russian is a confuzzling lingo.

Another random thought: if there is a sound that I identify with Kyiv, it's the car alarm. There is someone who parks their car near my apartment, and I can imitate the noise off by heart. When I visited Almaty in Kazakhstan, I heard the same noise and felt right at home.

One day, I hope to record it for you. But I fear I'm so used to it, I'll never get there in time.

Besides that, there's not much more to add tonight...

PS Welcome to my first visitor from Afghanistan! I don't think this blog will help you find Istanbul Salsa though...

Fun Monday 13: 10 Questions

2007-04-16T09:07:00.000+03:00

This week's Fun Monday is being hosted by Bethany at Ice Cream Mama. Click on over to see who the participants are this week.

Bethany's challenge was to answer the following ten questions, which she got from her favourite TV show, The Actor's Studio.

I'm in a bit of a bleh di blah mood today, so please excuse me, and I'll excuse your yawning as you read!

What is your favorite word?
Favourite words, for me, are chosen entirely because of their sounds. In fact, I said a favourite word on Saturday night (I actually admitted to the person I was talking to that I only said the word because I like the way it sounds), and now I can't remember it. Too much Pinot Grigio, I guess.

Anyhoo, at the moment I'm admiring the phrase: Respublikansky Stadion, which is up there with Maidan Nezalezhnosti. I can't think of any of my favourite words in English at the moment (sod's law strikes again) but you can be sure I've probably used them a million times in my blog.

What is your least favorite word?
I like to think of least favourite uses of words. For example, in high school, my peers started to use the word docile to indicate that someone was stupid. In my mind, docile means gentle and timid - like Bambi. It really ruined the word for me.

In Australia, it's also common to refer to people who are hippies or live in the country and are a bit rough as ferals. To me, feral is a plant or animal that grows out of control. I don't really like it used in reference to human beings. But, it actually does work well, and I do use the word - and hate myself every time I do.

I also don't like people who are too lazy to use decent adjectives, and just describe everything as 'f***ing'. This is common amongst some Australian males... I went to the f***ing beach yesterday and the waves were f***ing huge so I got my surfboard and caught the sweetest f***ing waves.... etc. Grow a brain and expand your adjectival vocab, for goodness sake.

What turns you on (creatively, spiritually or emotionally)?
I love cooking. I love reading about food. I love thinking of meals to create and picking out new recipes to try. And I love to gobble it all up. Enough said, really.

I also love listening to music. As I've grown up, I've tended to retreat into my old favourites rather than find new bands - just a bit lazy I guess. We all know how I feel about Simon & Garfunkel (and if you don't, click on the link).

I also love writing. When I was working for big corporates, I loved the challenge of creating news for the company, and editing and proof reading documents. It's hard to be creative about the same company for years on end, but when you conquer the challenge, it feels good!

What turns you off?
Public drunkeness (unless it's me, ho ho ho), hoiking and spitting on the ground, aggressive people, public conflict (e.g. couples fighting in public).

I also get turned off by people who REALLY force their opinions on others. I can be a bit bossy, so this could well be me, but I'm constantly keeping myself in check. I try hard to keep my trap shut, so I don't appreciate it when others don't (that being said, I know hardly anyone who's so opinionated I'm turned off).

What is your favorite curse word?
Fricken, bollix (yes, I know that's not the spelling, but that's how I say it), shizen, f***, pr*ck...

What sound or noise do you love?
Rain on the tin roofs in Queensland houses (listening from the inside), wind outside (but I hate being IN the wind), Mr Moi's voice, birds, the sound of Skype starting up (as it always precedes a phone call home).

What sound or noise do you hate?
The sound of toilets flushing on planes. Always makes me think I'm going to get sucked down too. People talking over the top of one another. Car horns beeping for no reason.

What profession, other than your own, would you like to attempt?
- Opening and running a shop, perhaps a cafe
- Novelist
- Chef.

What profession would you not like to attempt?
- Anything with numbers
- Teacher (I don't disrespect the profession. I just seriously don't have the patience)
- Anything that involves too much networking or selling.

If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
Good on ya for being a good person.

Transport in Kyiv 101: The Metro

2007-04-15T11:09:00.000+03:00

My readers often ask me, "Little Miss Moi, how do you move about the city of Kyiv?" (I made that up. My readers couldn't be faffed to ask me about that, but I'll answer the question anyway).

I have four main means of transport around Kyiv. Here they are, ranked from most frequently used to least frequently used:

On foot
On the Kyiv Metro
In a taxi
Being driven by someone else's driver.

Today's lesson will focus on the Kyiv Metro.

My experience on the metro here is that it's fast, reliable, clean and a great spot to see some bad fashion. I've previously alluded to how deep the metro stations are, and this Wikipedia article gives you a good run down of the metro altogether (notice the big map? Bold names in Ukrainian, lesser names in Russian. This is why I have so much trouble learning the darn lingo).

To ride anywhere on the metro costs 50 kopioks or kopeks, which is about 12 cents Aussie, about 10 cents US, and 5 pence sterling. To travel, you buy a zhiton (token) from the kassa (cashier), slot the token into the gate and jump on the escalator to go down.

The only bad thing about the Kyiv metro is that there are no signs in latin letters (i.e. ours), and the only time one sees a route map that isn't written in Cyrillic, is once you're on the train. Not a lot of help if you then find you're going in the totally wrong direction. This makes is hard for people like Mr Moi, who still hasn't learned the whole Cyrillic alphabet.

There's one confusing thing about the metro, but works OK once you get used to it. In, for example, Sydney, the Town Hall station has about six platforms because there are four of five lines running through it*. But regardless of the line, the station is called Town Hall.

In Kyiv, when you come to a station where there's two lines running through, each line's platform has a different name. Albeit, the platforms for the two lines are usually separated by a two or three minute underground walk too. So, for example, the stop Maidan Nezalezhnosti is on the blue line. There is also a red line stop at that station: Kreshchatyk. Different lines, different names, same station. It actually makes it easy when you've arranged to meet someone at the station, as the margin for error is considerably more narrow (I'll meet you at Kreshchatyk is much more definitive than I'll meet you on the third platform from the entrance, fifty furloughs from the northbound tunnel).

Now, let me have a rant about the Tube in London. It's small, it's dingy, and, even if you're at a major travel hub station, they DON'T have lifts. So, for example, I forked out 15 pounds to ride into Paddington Station from Heathrow at 6:30am, because I was at the end of a 27 hour transit from Australia. This is a lot of money, but I was exhausted and wanted to get to my brother's house ASAP. And my suitcase weighed 27kgs.

When I arrived at Paddington, I had to then catch the Tube six stops to get to my brother's place. So I followed the signs to the Tube. First, down some escalators. Then, down some stairs (bang, bang, BANG went my suitcase). Then, through a tunnel and UP some stairs! The effort of pulling of my up the stairs almost pulled my arm off.

Then back down some more stairs, and onto the Tube. Then repeated the same pully-uppy shitehouse routine when I got off the other end.

Where the London Tube is warren-like, the Kyiv Metro is cavernous. Where the London Tube has stairs, the Kyiv metro has escalators. Where the London Tube trains are tiny and slow, the Kyiv Metro trains are a normal size and go rather quick.

I could go on and on, but I won't. I'll leave it right there.

I hope you've enjoyed this lesson on the Kyiv Metro.

*I just made up these numbers.

Spring is in the... park

2007-04-14T07:52:00.000+03:00

Picture spring in Brisbane: brown backyards (even if you have a front yard, it's called a back yard) as a result of no rain or anything wet falling from the sky since April (sub-tropical climate remember, people).

The trees didn't have to grow any new leaves because they never lost them in the first place. The grass would crunch under your feet when you walked, kids were banned from playing sports on the fields because they were rock hard, and the weather stayed the same (about 30 degrees every day), but got progressively more humid.

Spring in Sydney was a little nicer: backyards were green because, hey, it does rain occasionally during winter in Sydney.

About one tree per neighbourhood managed to lose its leaves in autumn, so it would grow leaves (oooh! Ahh! Look at the new little leaves!). And, living in an older and relatively untouched suburb like I did, the most amazing spring flowers would bloom in the most amazing gardens. The temperature would increase from 23 to 28 with the occasional freak 40 degree day thrown in, usually brought over Sydney by a westerly wind, which inevitably resulted in bushfires.

Spring in Ukraine is different. Here are some little differences that I've noticed:
- There was snow. Now there's not
- There was heating. Now there's not
- There were no leaves on trees. They're getting there
- There was 20 million cloudy days in a row. Now there's some sun
- There were ubiquitous black coats. Now people are wearing some colour

And, most importantly:

- There were no beer tents with tables and chair set up every 3 metres throughout the city. Now. There. Is.

In honour of spring, here are some photos I took on a recent walk through Taras Shevchenko park.

Enjoy, and have a good spring (oh, don't worry, I'll be back before it's over).

My Ukrainian friend told me this is a tree that bears leaves that 'look like your hand'. I'm angling for some kind of maple... anyone?

Yeah, because I love underexposed shots, this doesn't capture how damn green the grass is in this part of the world. In Australia, when you picture our natural 'green', throw in about 40 per cent browny yellow too.

I'd better hightail it home, there's rain on the way. Obviously like the amount of humidity in the air in Brisbane in spring, the amount of sun in Kyiv only increases in increments.

Witty Wednesday

2007-04-11T13:09:00.000+03:00

*Scroll down for some photos of what's going on in Kyiv today*

Have you heard this one?

A man walked into a bar.

He should've been more careful.

Chrisb at Ms Cellania is on a mission to make us all laugh. Today she posted an Irish joke that was rather giggle worthy (and she said "most of you will get it before the punchline." I'm so slow, I didn't get it until a couple of seconds after the punchline).

Her joke reminded me of one of my all time faves. And I'm not insulting Irish people - I'm half Irish Aussie convict myself (the other half is stubborn Scot).

It's long but worth it.

* * * * *

Two Irishmen walk into a pet shop. Right away they go over to the bird section. Gerry says to Paddy, "Dat's dem". The clerk comes over and asks if he can help them. "Yeah, we'll take four of dem dere birds in dat cage op dere," says Gerry, "Put dem in a peeper bag." The clerk does and the two guys pay for the birds and leave the shop.

They get into Gerry's van and drive until they are high up in the hills and stop at the top of a cliff with a 500-foot drop. "Dis looks loike a grand place, eh?" says Gerry. "Oh, yeh, dis looks good," replies Paddy.

They flip a coin and Gerry wins the toss. "I guess I git to go first, eh Paddy?" says Gerry. He then takes two birds out of the bag, places them on his shoulders and jumps off the cliff.

Paddy watches as his mate drops off the edge and goes straight down for a few seconds followed by a 'SPLAT'. As Paddy looks over the edge of the cliff he shakes his head and says, "Fock dat, dis budgie jumpin' is too fockin' dangerous for me."

A minute later, Seamus arrives. He too has been to the pet shop and he walks up carrying the familiar 'peeper bag'. He pulls a parrot out of the bag, and then Paddy notices that, in his other hand, Seamus is carrying a gun.

"Hi, Paddy. Watch this," Seamus says and launches himself over the edge of the cliff. Paddy watches as half way down, Seamus takes the gun and blows the parrot's head off. Seamus continues to plummet until there is a SPLAT!, as he joins Gerry's remains at the bottom. Paddy shakes his head and says, "An' oim never troyin' dat parrot-shooting nider."

A few minutes after Seamus splats himself, Sean strolls up. He too has been to the pet shop and he walks up carrying the familiar 'peeper bag'. Instead of a parrot he pulls a chicken out of the bag, and launches himself of the cliff with the usual result. Once more Paddy shakes his head - "Fock me Sean, first der was Gerry wit his budgie jumping, den Seamus parrot shooting and now you blimmin' hen gliding."

Another week of Thinking Blogger

2007-04-10T14:17:00.000+03:00

Two weeks ago, for the first time in my blife (blog life), I was tagged! A big thank you to beccy, who tagged me.

Then about a week ago, I was tagged again! A big thank you to sabrina, who tagged me that time.

Before I go on, a word about beccy and sabrina. These two girls are my blogging sisters. Firstly, we have triplet blogs - we all chose the same blogger design! Great minds, I tell ya (and I'm not usually a fan of green).

Secondly, I love dipping into their blogs every day and reading about life in the Emerald Isle - they have great stories about haircuts, music (1, 2, 3), food and shopping, all of which I totally relate to.

Thanks beccy and sabrina.

So, let me introduce you to the Thinking Blogger.

If you've been doing the blounds (blog rounds) over the past week, you would have seen the Thinking Blogger MeMe turn up all over the place.

Here are the instructions:

1. If you get tagged, write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you think.
2. Link to the post (or posts) that tagged you, so people can easily find the exact origin of the meme.
3. Optional: Proudly display the Thinking Blogger Award with a link to the post that you wrote (in my case, I'll have to figure out how to do that :-)

As I said, last week really was Thinking Blogger week, and most blogs I read were tagged. So I'm tagging some people who I'm sure haven't been tagged. Here goes:

1. *Squishyness* - Amelita is a food lover formerly of Brisbane, in Queensland, Australia. She has a large family to cook for, and cook she does - she makes the most AMAZING recipes. She recently moved to Far North Queensland, and I've been jealously reading her posts about seafood and tropical fruits. You need to pop over and visit Amelita and drool over her food. And her pastel drawings.

2. I love Brisbane - Wes is a fellow Brisbane-ite who set himself the task of creating one post a day about a landmark or attraction in Brisbane, Queensland. He finds out the most amazing places, and makes me hugely homesick for my youthful haunts in the process. If only there was a blog like this about all our favourite places, then we'd always feel like we're keeping in touch with home!

3. Olechko - Olechko currently lives in Kyiv, and being a native Ukrainian speaker, she finds out all the cool places to go - galleries, restaurants, events and even towns (like Lviv). And then, she's kind enough to tell English-speaking expats like me all about them. Her blog has an artistic bent, and she shares her great photography and/or sketches in every post.

4. enidd (third-person singular) - enidd's blog entertains me no end. Not only is it bloody excellently written, but her mind makes me really jealous. When I think or speak in abstracts, I sound dumb. When enidd has an abstract thought, she's totally hilarious. She has a great talent for making me laugh, and hopefully you'll discover she has a great talent for making you laugh too. (Is that worth a jar of Vegemite from Tesco, enidd?)

5. This is a split - two friends in the States - Amy and Zandria.

Firstly Amy: She's moving to Australia, or she's not, or she's almost, or she definitely is again. It's been a rollercoaster ride for the past three months (boy, can I relate. Took us five months to decide to come here, daily conversations about Ukraine weren't fun). Amy uses her blog to explore her feelings about moving to Australia, and Australia itself, and talk about her feelings about uprooting her family and making this life-changing decision. Although it's a crazy ride, everyone who's moved would relate.

And Zandria: This girl could publish a magazine in her own right. She's a great writer with really thoughtful pieces and interesting stories. She has also compiled a list of '101 things to do' and keeps her readers updated on her progress through the list. I tell ya - it takes guts to make a list and make yourself accountable like that.

So there's my five.

But I'd also like to make a special note of the anti-heroes of this MeMe - Willowtree and Dirty Uncle Mark (both said they would not accept an award. Seriously. Boys, tsk!). I read both these blogs on a daily basis and they make me laugh. And they're worthy of mentioning soley because they didn't want to be mentioned.

But, I do wear my heart on my sidebar, and I'm not lying when I tell you that my daily reads really are on the sidebar. I keep it relatively up-to-date, so if you're up there, I'll just say thanks for the good reading. If your name isn't up there, then leave a comment so that I know you exist!

Photos from the road

2007-04-07T22:31:00.000+03:00

Here are some photos from the trip for your eyeballs' pleasure.

Brisbane Water, Central Coast, NSW

The parental home, Brisbane, Queensland

Australia's most easterly mainland point, Byron Bay, NSW

Mountain range near Bellingen, NSW

On the road, Pacific Highway, NSW

National Gallery, London, UK

Punters at Pimlico Markets, London, UK

My stab at poetry

2007-04-06T14:14:00.000+03:00

Thanks to Uncle Mark and Marnie for inspiring me to publish my heartfelt poetry.

I wrote this in France in October 2006. For a bit of background, the past three houses Mr Moi and I have lived in have all been on main roads. Kyiv included.

A Gite in Provence (aka Ode to Traffic)
It doesn't matter where we go,
the noise of traffic will follow.
It seems to be our destiny.

We found a gite in Loumarin
and soon we found our hearing strained
over the noise of motorbikes.

And panel vans, and trucks and cars,
all zooming to the mountain pass
beyond our peaceful rural gite.

Sunday is the noisiest day:
a weekend on the tourist way.
A playground for eight cylinders.

But as traffic is our destiny
it doesn't really bother me,
the noise of people moving.

It seems to me they're having fun,
they're not threatening anyone.
They're driving through Provence.

Still settling back in...

2007-04-05T15:20:00.000+03:00

Hi loyal readers. Scroll down for a story from the road.

Sorry guys, still getting things sorted so have to resort to using something I wrote while travelling in Oz.

Budget traveller

2007-04-05T15:02:00.000+03:00

My sister has worked and studied very hard all her life and has a very well paid job as a result. I would love to be like her but I'm sure I lack the talent, and I certainly lack the concentration span to get there. And the two year blip of Kyiv probably won't help my career path either.

Her husband is equally hard working, talented and well paid, and as a result, they can afford to live in a wonderful apartment in inner Sydney.

Which they generously allowed me to stay in while I was in Australia (they're in the middle of moving so it wasn't a great time).

Compared to my sister, I'm more of a budget person. As a result, my current toiletries bag is a Ukrainian plastic shopping bag. It comfortably fits my toothpaste, toothbrush, soap, moisturiser, razor (you need summer legs for Oz) and my other useless odds and ends.

Arriving at my sister's place, the first thing I did was stake my claim in the bathroom by popping my 'toiletries' bag in there, next to the bin. This ensured I had access to all my toiletries needs while overcoming jetlag.

On my last night in Sydney, as my sister and her family slept (it was late, I was jetlagged), I tiptoed into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Only to find, to my astonishment!.. my bag was gone.

At this moment, a couple of visions flashed through my mind:
- Most people use plastic bags for rubbish, not toiletries
- A dirty nappy sitting half inside my 'toiletries' bag after kiddy bath-time (mistaken for a rubbish bag, perhaps?)
- My brother-in-law taking out numerous bags of rubbish before going to bed.

Uh oh...

I tiptoed into my sister's room and whispered urgently... "I think BIL has chucked out my toiletries bag!"

My sister woke up BIL, who confirmed my fears. Lovely fellow, he got out of bed, traipsed downstairs and brought my bag back up to me.

It was covered in soy sauce from our Chinese take-out containers that had accompanied it to the bin. I bought a toiletries bag the very next day.

What does a revolutionary do at the end of the day?

2007-04-04T07:11:00.000+03:00

S/he goes home of course. Hails a cab, hops in, struggles with the enormous flags, decides to stick them out the window, turns up his ghetto blaster and cranks out Ukrainian anthems while driving down Kreshchatyk.

On our nocturnal walk up to Revoluti, er, I mean Independence Sqaure (Maidan Nezalezhnosti), Mr Moi and I saw quite a few revolutionaries on their way home last night. Music blaring, horns beeping, flags waving. I guess 9:30pm is past their bedtime.

Once at Maidan, I noticed they city has started constructing scaffolding, I guess to put up a stage for all those revolutionary rock concerts.

As to whether it's peaceful or not? Well, I didn't even know about it until Mr Moi rang me to tell me he caught the metro up from work to, "Have a look at the revolution". So there you go.

I'm hoping to have a look tomorrow and snap some pics (too much cleaning today, AND my first Russian lesson for a month!).

For a much more informative view of the revolution, visit enidd. I'm tipping the pink revolution.

Finally home...

2007-04-03T18:18:00.000+03:00

Finally, back in Kyiv.

I've been back for 24 hours and am enjoying the wonderful weather. I'm actually wearing short sleeves! (under my coat).

Today and tomorrow, I have/will be occupied soley with getting live back on track. It seems Mr Moi didn't pay any bills while I was gone, so the internet and cable TV were cut off. (They were number one to get paid today, and have just come back on).

It also seems he couldn't find the sink detergent, or the sink, or both. As he didn't do any washing up while I was gone (to his credit, he was only here for about five nights. He's been temporarily seconded to Moscow... So in a way, I've come home for no reason! He's flying out again tonight).

And I have to catch up on my blog reading... And that will take about a month.

More interesting news to come from tomorrow or the next day...

Ukraine on the tip of the tongue in Australia

2007-03-30T11:55:00.000+03:00

When I left Australia on Wednesday, the big news of the day was the story about the Ukrainian swimmer and her father, who scuffled poolside at the FINA World Swimming Championships in Melbourne.

While I've heard the stereotypical stories of domestic violence in the former soviet union, I've never seen it first hand.

So I was surprised that, despite living in Ukraine, it was in Australia that I saw a bit of argy-bargy between Ukrainian parents and kids. Not first hand; rather, splashed all over the newspapers.

The paper reports obviously sparked a lot of commentary on the radio in Oz, with people talking about how this sort of violence in not acceptable between parents and kids, or in the sporting community, or both. All the while talking about Ukraine in quite a negative light.

Here's my thoughts on the situation:

- Firstly, I do understand that violence is a part of life for some Ukrainian families, same as Australian families and indeed many families in many different countries. As to whether the stereotype of drunk and violent families in the FSU more so than many other countries is actually true, I'm not sure, but this episode unfortunately perpetuated that stereotype.

- Secondly, Australia is a developed and rich country. Ukraine is only 15 years into independence, is still rather poor and is still trying to find its feet in the global sphere. While violence isn't acceptable, I'm pretty sure Ukraine's priorities don't currently lie in spending money on huge domestic violence awareness and advertising campaigns that Australia does at this stage of the country's development.

Sometimes Ukrainians don't understand how other parts of the world may be different. The most obvious way that I see this is when I try to speak Russian - people can get very frustrated when I tell them I don't understand them, and their reaction makes me think they can't understand that someone doesn't speak their language (fair enough, I am in their country after all).

Violence doesn't solve anything, but Ukrainains are very emotive people - I like to think of them as the Italians of Eastern Europe. They talk with their hands, and if they feel an emotion, it's likely to be the extreme of that emotion (I've heard a couple of Ukrainians say they listen to sad music on purpose so they can cry at its sad beauty...)

What the coach and his daughter probably didn't realise that in Australia, it's illegal to even spank naughty toddlers into submission. They certainly wouldn't have realised that they would go to court and possibly be jailed for having a family scuffle by the poolside.

Sorry about being serious for once. But I just feel like it's a shame that Ukraine is top of mind in Australia and everyone's determined to be as negative as possible about it.

Really and truly, Ukrainians tend to be unemotional and a bit grumpy in shops and restaurants, and boy can they get their elbows out on the metro. But in their own homes, my Ukrainians friends are fun, helpful, generous and very lovely people who have a passion for life, their families and their country.

Ka Huna!

2007-03-23T03:15:00.000+02:00

Mr Moi organised for me to be pampered yesterday.

He booked me into a Ka Huna massage, and a caviar pedicure (and no, I didn't get to eat any).

Now, I've had three previous full body massages. Lots of strategically placed towels, and the presence of undies is the norm. My comfort zone exists within these parameters.

I walked into the treatment room yesterday and was greeted by my masseuse. She was a very sturdy looking polynesian woman, who was about 150cms tall. For you imperialists out there, this means that she was short.

First thing, she asked me if I've ever had a Ka Huna massage before. I told her no.

She then proceeded to tell me that I have to leave the comfort of my undies, there are no sheets on the massage bed, and she uses no towels to cover me.

"Ka Huna massage is very beautiful and flowing," she said. "It's a very flowing massage."

Okay, I didn't really know what she meant. But considering Mr Moi booked me into this one, and I miss him so much (oh, did I mention he's left behind in Kyiv?), I couldn't deviate from his plans.

So I dropped the undies and got onto the table.

And for the next half hour, I was repeatedly massaged from head to foot in one sweeping motion, over and over again. It really was great.

I did, however, struggle with all my might to actually remain on the table, which resembled a very nice smelling oil slick. Without the dying seagulls and penguins. Just one beached whale (moi).

Then I had to roll over and lay on my back and get the same treatment on my, erm, front.

Very interesting indeed. Let's just say Ka Huna isn't for the faint hearted...

Australia: the land of the young and free (oh.. wait a sec..)

2007-03-20T22:58:00.000+02:00

[Competition alert. Read on...]

Okay so I stole that tagline from the Americans.

But I oh so often have a whinge with my blog friend Sabrina about the trials and tribulations of moving from a Land of Big Shopping Centres and Lots of Other Stuff to a Land of Not Much of Anything, Really.

And, as Murphy himself predicted, now I'm back in Oz, can I think of anything I've been craving to purchase for the past six months? 'Course not.

I have exactly one week left in the Land of Big Shopping Centres and Lots of Other Stuff. And I want my readers to help me find Stuff.

Announcing the inaugural...

Little Miss Moi Scavenger Hunt

To participate, simply leave, in the comments, details of something you want me to find.

I'll then hunt it out, catch it, sedate it and provide a humane piccy before releasing it into the wild (orright that was a joke you RSPCA types).

Nahh, really, I shall actually provide a photo of your request, with a description of how bloody difficult it was to find it.

If I can't find it, then I'll come up with a really good excuse and maybe even send you a prize for being so clever to outsmart moi (note the emphasis on the maybe, as my guess will be that everyone will outsmart me. And I won't be able to afford that many prizes).

There's one rule: You can't send me on a hunt of landmarks you know aren't in Australia (e.g. the White House). I might make up some other rules as I go along.

FAQ

Why a scavenger hunt?
Firstly, I want to prove Australia is the Land of Shopping Centres and Other Stuff. I will repeat the scavenger hunt back in Kyiv, and prove that it's the Land of Not Much of Anything, Really.

This will keep me busy for a few days and be a bit of fun and all.

Shouldn't you be busy going out and seeing people rather than scavenging?
Yes. I should. But I'm not. The Hunt will help tear me away from English speaking telly, which I am really loving at the moment. In a way a girl should never love a telly...

So please tell me to go forage.

That's all the FAQ I can think of.

In other news altogether...

I will disappear this weekend, but you must check in again next week to see photos of my visit to Paradise (where my brother lives). Cream on the travelling cake, people.

The journey 'home'

2007-03-19T04:20:00.000+02:00

No, I haven't returned to Ukraine (well, it's technically home).

It's been a long and wiggly road home. Here are some pictures of the journey...

Borispil Airport, Kyiv

Lights of London

Daffodils in Green Park, London

Sunrise from a living room, London

Spring flags are blooming, London

Folks looking at the city, Hampstead Heath

Plane window, Bangkok

'Cuisine' in the air, Bangkok

Broken video screens, Bangkok

Afternoon storm, Gosford

Sydney from Watson's Bay

Happy 75th birthday, Sydney Harbour Bridge

Endless beaches, north coast NSW

Yes, the beaches really do stretch on and on..

Jetlag

2007-03-16T10:41:00.000+02:00

I counted. I was on a plane for 24 hours.

Because I was sitting at the back of the plane, I didn't get my shit together quick enough to actually get off when it stopped in Bangkok. As a result, I sat in my seat and took photos while the Thai people cleaned the plane.

The whole trip, I was one of three people subjected to broken video screens in our seats. The other two people were on either side of me. Thanks British Airways, for making me feel terribly unimportant and not upgrading me, apologising or even bothering to tell me that they acknowledged my broken screen. BA - you suck.

It was a long trip home...

Fun Monday for a fish out of water

2007-03-12T11:37:00.000+02:00

This will be a quick Fun Monday, as I'm not on my own computer, not sitting in my own house, or not in either of the two countries that I currently call 'home'.

So, here's my take on Fun Monday. For all the participants, visit Beccy at Peppermint Tea.

This week Beccy challenged us to post a recipe that would inspire her to cook it, so here goes mine.

Warm duck salad

Get a bowl. Throw in two handfuls of rucola and mixed salad leaves. Blanch some green beans, then add them. Crumble a handful of fetta cheese in too. Boil up a few beets until cooked, quarter them, and chuck them in too. Toast some walnuts in a frying pan, then chop them and add them to the mix.

In a seperate bowl, spoon in two tablespoons of warmed cranberry sauce, the juice and seeds of one pommegranate, one heaped teaspoon of dijon mustard, a good splosh of red wine vinegar, and a couple of glugs of olive oil. Season with salt and pepper and whisk to mix.

Heat a frying pan and cook two duck breats (skin on). On medium heat, cook skin side down for about eight minutes, then turn onto flesh side and cook for about one minute. Then pop the breasts into a pre-heated oven on 180 degrees celcius for about 5 minutes. The duck breasts will be medium rare.

Slice the breasts, chuck them into the salad bowl. Toss the salad to mix, and pour dressing over.

Serves four as an extree. Accompany with a carb - e.g. polenta, risotto or potatoes to make into a main.

Enjoy, and sorry about being uninspring.

Tip for flying...

2007-03-09T10:17:00.000+02:00

When the flight attendant offers you a newspaper, perhaps say no. Particularly if you know there was a big plane crash the day before.

Because there's nothing worse than having jiggly nerves anyway, then opening up a screaming tabloid like The Daily Mail to see a photo of a burnt out 737 in vivid colour. And worse is going this when you're sitting on a plane 40,000 feet in the air.

Love yourself. Love your woman more...

2007-03-08T08:03:00.000+02:00

Today, much of the FSU celebrates International Women's Day. This day is a holiday to honour the institution that is woo-man, and also saves the men and kids from celebrating mother's day.

IWD is the one day in Ukraine where women can expect to put up their feet, and have everything done for them by the men in their lives. And because men can't multitask, which in this case means keeping a job and treating their woman good, IWD is a public holiday.

Yesterday the streets and underpasses of Kyiv were a-frenzied with flower selling activities; in fact, I saw some old babushkas brining more up from the metro at about 3pm. Offices finished up work for the day at about 4pm, offering employees drinks and food in honour of the fairer sex. By 5pm, there wasn't a woman on the streets who didn't have a bunch of flowers in their hand.

I have also heard it said that IWD is the day that women can expect their men to take the stinky, rotten old Christmas tree out and put it on the dumpster (well, it IS the one day men will do something around the house).

The Ukrainian government declared last Saturday a working day, allowing workers to take the IWD holiday on Thursday, then another holiday on Friday.

As a result, we're de-camping to Britain for a little bit of sanity.

And I got a bit overexcited when I booked my tickets, because I'm managed to book me all the way through to Sydney. This means that I'll be away for three weeks. I need to be at the airport in three hours. And I haven't started to pack.

It also means that, after I depart on Monday, I miss all of Tuesday, arriving in Sydney on Wednesday. Sad really.

So, I promise you dear readers, I shall be writing fairly bland stuff about how excited I am to eat real food, and use real money, and hear real language being spoken. I just may not get around to it every day.

See youse soon,
Little Miss Moi.

I spy with my big blue eye...

2007-03-06T18:19:00.000+02:00

The other day when I walked through the communal door into my flat building, I was concurrently choked and blinded.

It seems some old bugger had taken it upon himself to start welding renovations outside the unused ground floor flat. Which is rather inconveniently located at the foot of the stairs, and directly opposite the lift.

Like a train crash, it was hard not to look. And let's just say the work-safe practices aren't exactly high priority in Ukraine.

So, Mr DIY had simply plugged a welder into the powerpoint and started to buzz away, with little regard for the eye and lung-health of people walked past. Or, for that matter, his own.

After dodging the flames and sparks, I made my way up to the apartment with black spots in my eyes and double vision. Opening the door, I went from choking smoke to chokingly bad smell, as the stink from the welding had seeped through the two doors into the flat.

The other alarming side-effect was that, being the enterprising fellows that they are, the renovators didn't organise to get any special three-phase power hooked up, choosing instead to plug the welder straight into a normal powerpoint.

So we've had power outages on and off for the past week. And when the power's been on, it's been strobe light effect. Party on man.

Asking a local about why these guys had taken upon themselves to renovate the foyer (keeping in mind, there's no such thing as strata or body corporate over here), he said, "Many people get very frustrated with the fact there is no definition around the services the municipal council provides. So they just do it themselves."

All I wonder is why they don't take it upon themselves to turn down the darn heating?

Fun Monday # 7: The world's shortest novel.

2007-03-05T18:33:00.000+02:00

EYE EYE EYE

As she emerged from the lift and sat down, a bright spark from the welding in the ground floor apartment renovations ruptured her retina and she was forced to stumble out of the room and across the road in search of an opthamologist; but, as she made her way blindly across the street, she was hit by a car and whisked away to hospital - so it didn't matter that she didn't find an opthamologist that day, as they fixed her eye anyway, but she never played the violin again.

THE END

It's fun Monday! Today's fun Monday is hosted by Min at MamaDrama. Visit Min's blog to see the full list of participants this week.

The challenge, should we have chosen to accept it, was to...

Write the worst opening sentence that you can come up with and accompany this atrocity with a photo of your setting, a character or a bit of action that relates to the opening line or (for those who do not have a camera) a written description of same.

Seeing as I ruptured my retina, I couldn't see well enough to post an appropriate pic - sorry!

Next week's Fun Monday is hosted by beccy.

** Update
Okay okay. Here's a photo to go with the story, for all those critics out there, and story has been amended slightly to fit.

Sprung is spring (hang on, I'm not a kiwi), and Sunday lunch

2007-03-04T20:49:00.000+02:00

(In case you're wondering why I've posted a Sunday post on a Monday, it's because our darling internet provider saw fit to leave us with access for the past 24 hours or so).

Today, Mr Moi and I 'entertained'. Which is an achievement in itself, as it's not exactly easy to fit more than him and me inside out 50 square metres. Or, be organised enough to entertain.

Nevertheless, we did. But before we could 'entertain', we had to go shopping. And in typical Moi fashion, we only felt the pressure to prepare at 11:30am, which is exactly 1.5 hours before our guests were due to arrive.

"Oh shiza, we'd better go to MegaMarket and purchase some actual food, otherwise our guests will eat gruel," said I to Mr Moi.

So off we popped to MegaMarket to save our guests from the hell that is gruel (or Ukrainian takeout. Same difference, really).

And, as Murphy himself dictated it would be, when you're in a bloody hurry for the first time ever in the history of your living in this town and entertaining - you run into someone you know. And not just one person, but three.

Yes, that's right. I've been in this town for going on five months, and I've never run into anyone I know at MegaMarket, but today I run into three people. Being the nice gal I am, I have to stop and share my life story with all.

I never shop on Sundays, and if I did, it wouldn't be before midday, by choice. Obviously, english speaking women do.

The good news is the guests were about an hour late, which gave me enough time to clean the kitchen before they came, and I felt like a good wife.

Und, vot vas on ze menu?

Starters
Fresh tomato in garlic, onion, olive oil and parsley, served on grilled bread rubbed with garlic
Home made hommous
Ukrainian sushi (flatbread spread with cream cheese, pickles and dill, layered with smoked salmon, rolled up and cut into sushis and topped with caviar mmMMmmMMmMm)

Main
Mediterranean chicken (chicken breasts cooked in dried fruits, olives, capers, wine and red wine vinegar) on a bed of cous cous
Rucola salad with stuffed olives and coriander in a garlic, sumac and red wine vinegar dressing

Dessert
Strawberries mascerated in sugar and balsamic vinegar, with ice cream.

Do you you wish you'd been invited?

The splosh cliche

2007-03-02T15:50:00.000+02:00

I've seen it happen so many times in the movies, but never believed it.

I don't know why I doubted it could happen - perhaps because Australia has lovely big stormwater drains to cope with tropical downpours.

I really didn't think it was possible for a car to drive past, and splash the happy footpath dweller from head to foot.

Now I know better.

Walking to the bank with Mr Moi today, we were in a hurry, as I had to be back on the other side of town for my Russian lesson by 1:30pm - and we were dead keen on fitting lunch in beforehand.

Today is a truly rainy day in Kyiv, and it's subsequently melted all the snow that was laying around. The pock-marked pavements resemble miniature lakes. The uneven roads have become swimming pools.

As I was standing grumpily wet on a street corner, waiting to cross the road, a bulky, black-windowed Merc zooms past at an 'up-yours' 100kms per hour.

I couldn't jump back quick enough. I was drenched from head to toe in slimy brown water.

Yay for spring! Lucky I hadn't blowdried my hair this morning.

Why I think moving sucks

2007-03-01T21:13:00.000+02:00

I blog a lot about the present, but come with me on a quick delve into life before we left Sydney.

Most days of my Sydney life, I woke up at 6am. That's on the days I didn't wake up at 5am to get some work done before I left for... work...

By 7am, I was at the bus stop, waiting for the 7:06am bus, which would get me into work by 7:50am. Once there, I would power-work until 8:45am, which was when other people arrived and I had my daily conference call with the other states to examine the news.

At 6:45pm I would leave work to get the 6:55pm bus, getting home around 7:45pm.

Don't get me wrong - I actually really liked my job. I just hated the fact that, when I moved into my place, I was working in a totally different job in a totally different part of the city. My house was a 15 minute commute from that job, but a minimum one hour commute from the last job I had in Sydney.

I gave up my job two weeks before we moved in order to pack us up and ship us out. Mr Moi was working up to the last minute... or so we hoped.

I've previously alluded to how much crap I chucked out when we left Sydney. Part of our chucking out strategy involved putting our rubbish into our neighbour's bin.

We did this for about six weeks before we moved. Not only that, but he helped us clean up our yard, trim back the hedges and basically keep our place under control when we were too preoccupied to do otherwise.

To thank him, we bought him a carton of beer. Two weeks before we moved (two days after I'd finished up work), we took it round to his place.

After living in our place for two years, we'd never actually been around to his place. He was a nice guy, but not how you'd expect. He was about 60 years old, with long grey hair and a long ponytail, and in his yard was the most amazing cactus garden I had ever seen (remember, cactus isn't all that common en masse in Australia).

So we took him around this carton of beer to say thanks, and in typical Aussie fashion, he invited Mr Moi and I to stay on and share some beers. Knowing we had to go out for a farewell dinner later that afternoon, Mr Moi took it easy on the beers, while I went rather... hard.

After about four beers (in... maybe... 90 minutes), Mr Moi said it was time to go. And it probably was - from where we were sitting on our neighbour's verandah, we could see it'd gotten very dark. And I was a little tipsy...

Mr Moi led the descent from the verandah, followed by Neighbour, followed by moi. They walked across his driveway, and I followed, traipsing a little as one does when they're a little... happy.

What I didn't see in the dark was an exposed drain, about 10 centimetres across. And that explains why I was so surprised when my foot got caught in the exposed drain. And why I didn't really understand what was going on when I fell on the ground, first on my knees, then my wrist, and then my head.

All that really registered what that I couldn't hear anything.

I stumbled to my feet rather unsteadily, and both Mr Moi and Neighbour were talking to me. I could see their mouths moving. Too bad I had no hearing, not even a high-pitched buzz.

I stood up. "I'm fine, I'm fine. I just can't hear anything. Mr Moi? I can't HEAR anything. What are you saying? I can't HEAR you." Saying this, I stumbled up the inclined driveway. Halfway up, I looked at Mr Moi, and I looked at Neighbour. I thought they were overreacting. And as I looked at them, I tried to move my feet and body to propel me up the incline.

Instead, my body froze and I fell backwards down the hill. I remember this as though I was watching myself in slow motion.

The good news is, my head hit Mr Moi's shin, not the concrete. The other good news is that, after I woke from my faint, I could hear again.

To cut a long story a little bit shorter, we went to the hospital where x-rays determined that I hadn't broken my wrist or my arm. However, it was badly sprained, very swollen around the joints, and I was on some heavy duty painkillers. (I actually couldn't straighten my arm until a month later).

The other bad news was that I couldn't pack a box or move a piece of furniture to save my life. Heck, I couldn't even bring a fork to my mouth to eat. I certainly couldn't drive to the thrift store, the dump or to pick Mr Moi up from work.

So Mr Moi was forced to go AWOL from work. He ended up doing all the moving while I sat back and gave directions.

So, what was so bad that had me dilapidated during the most crucial moving phase? Well, here are some pictures of the spoils. And let's say that photos don't do it justice.

The bruises on my knees

The bruise on my wrist. What you can't really see clearly is the green bruise that settled in the middle of my palm.

A knee close up. So painful, I couldn't even pull down my pyjama pant leg.

And that's why moving totally sucks...

PS And in case you're wondering, the beer was Coopers. Strong beer, that Coopers... Until you move to Ukraine.

Sometimes you just have to laugh...

2007-03-01T11:36:00.000+02:00

On my way home from an afternoon coffee at a friend's house, I decided to pop into the supermarket to pick up some food for dinner.

Surveying the shelves with rather low energy levels, I decided I would make pasta puttanesca - an oldie, but a goodie (and a really bloody quickie). For this, I needed anchovies.

Surprisingly, this store had a large range of anchovies. I plucked a medium sized jar off the shelf, chucked a couple of other things in the basket as I zoomed through the aisles, and made my way to the checkout.

It was getting rather late, and knowing Mr Moi's voracious appetite, I stood impatiently in line while I waited for the checkout-chick to finish with the people in front of me. While I was waiting, a young fella came and stood behind me with nothing in his hands.

"Hmm, I wonder what he's buying," I thought.

It's times like this when my imagination goes wild. In the period of about five seconds, I first thought that he might pickpocket me (so I pulled my bag around to the front), then I thought he might be security and want to search my bag (so I shifted by back back around to my back), then I realised he looked like a cool cat, so he's probably just lining up to by some cigarettes.

By this time, the checkout-chick had started scanning my items. She picked up the anchovies, looked at the jar and said something to me in Russian.

Of course I didn't understand, and usually in this instance I will say, "I don't understand", in Russian. This, of course, leads people to believe that I do understand Russian, but didn't understand what they just said, so they will persist in Russian, which leads to a prolonged and frustrating exchange, which achieves nothing.

In order to avoid this inevitability, I lazily said to her (in English), "Sorry, I didn't understand what you said."

She proceeds to pick up the bottle of anchovies, point to it, then point to a barcode on another product. Pointing back at the anchovies, she said, "Nyet, nyet."

Fair enough. No barcode. I replied, "Da, harashoo," to prove that I understood her sign language. She looks at me, shrugs her shoulders with a smile on her face, puts the anchovies aside and continues to scan.

No sign that she's going to organise a replacement. No sign that she's going to get a price check.

So I said, "WELL! I'll just go and get another bottle shall I?" and stormed off, pushing past the cool-cat-security-guard-pickpocketer behind me, saying rather loudly, "F***ing couldn't get someone to f***ing get a replacement for me, f***ing great customer service grrr."

(It doesn't matter that I said f*** out loud. Because in Ukrainian, it means 'lovely and wonderful, smells like roses').

I stalked down to the anchovy section, grabbed a bottle (with a barcode), stalked back up to the checkout and slammed it on the belt.

As I'm pulling out my wallet to pay, I notice the cool-cat-security-guard-pickpocketer behind me has started humming a tune.

"Do, do do do do do, do do do do do do do do, don't worry. Do do do do do do do, be happy, do do do do do."

Well, coming from a Ukrainian, who I know to be rather terse, humourless and unhelpful (only when you don't know them), I just had to laugh. Just quietly, and just to myself (didn't want to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me happy; it's not the Ukrainian way).

As I walked off, he started to sing the words. I wanted to grab him and hug him, as it's the first time in five months that public interaction in a shop or the like has resulted in me breaking out in a grin. But again, it's not the Ukrainain way.

Still, I walked home happy. If it's good enough for a Ukrainain, it's good enough for me. I have a new mantra.

The problem with being a 'nightly' blogger...

2007-03-01T11:10:00.000+02:00

... Is that, if you have an unscheduled trip to the pub in the afternoon, your fingers don't work well when it comes time for the daily blogging.

I might have to become a morning blogger...

Now THAT's a sausage

2007-02-27T18:27:00.000+02:00

I've learned that there are some days, as an expat, you just want to curl up and not face the world.

For me, today was one of those days.

Today I was strangely compelled to sit on the couch and do nothing but watch the telly and eat a bit of junk food.

(Or, more truthfully, I had to catch up on about a million Fun Monday posts).

So instead of depressing you with the reasons why I didn't want to front up to the world today (in fact, there isn't a reason), I thought I'd show you a picture of what we had for dinner last night.

This is half of a Ukrainian sausage.

I've seen some curly sausages in my day - I have many a Zimbabwean and South African friend who's treated me to the delights of boerewors over the years (and yes, it's a very yummy sausage. Good for camping, and brekky).

Here in Ukraine, there are lots of sausages available, always of the piggy persuasion, and always laced with a shizen-load of fat. So far, we've resisted the temptation to purchase, but when we decided to make a yummy risotto that calls for Italian pork sausages, we decided to brave the Ukie snag.

After we'd lugged the snag home and pulled it out to start the risotto, we were very surprised to find that, contrary to any other sausage we've ever eaten, this snag wasn't made with minced meat - rather, chunks of pork, and chunks of fat.

We used half the sausage for the risotto, and had to eat the other half for dinner last night.

The photo shows 'the other half'. It was seriously the most giant and chunkiest sausage I have ever seen.

Do you want to take a closer look? Here goes...

What do you think? That's some sausage...

Fun Monday # 2 (well, it is for me)

2007-02-26T08:03:00.000+02:00

** Fun Monday update: For those of you still doing the rounds, my friend carpetblogger was an unofficial Fun Monday entrant. Check out her Instanbul blogging environment (she has the best looking support staff in town).

Welcome to my second ever Fun Monday!

Today's Fun Monday is brought to you by my compatriot, Willowtree, and for the full list of participants this week, you can visit him at A Dingo's got my Barbie. I encourage you to visit, there's free vegemite sandwiches at the door. (Not really, but there should be).

The theme for this week's fun Monday is 'blogging environment'. This is fairly easy for me, seeing as I have an apartment the size of a shoe box. I have a living room, bedroom, teeny tiny kitchen and a bathroom. Not much choice really.

But I also have a laptop computer and wireless internet (not exactly reliable), so my blogging environment could really by anywhere within my 50 squares.

Mostly, though, my 'computer room' is the one that is also the telly room, the reading room, and, if we had a piano, it would be the piano room too.

Here's a picture of my blogging environment:

Jaw-dropping, isn't it? To afford you a closer look at my 'desk', I took another picture from a slightly different angle:

Notice the crochet nana-rug on my knees? Not only did I make it myself, but I hoiked it all the way to Ukraine to keep me warm. And they still haven't really fixed up the heating so I'm using it this morning.

Now, let's examine my desk in greater detail. Firstly, my mouse-pad. It's a small coffee-table book about Australia. "What's it doing on your desk?" you ask. Ay, there's the rub. My desk isn't a desk per se, rather, and this will shock you, it's a coffee table.

See the two glasses next to the computer? That's the remnants of last nights coupla glasses of Georgian red wine.

Underneath the desk there are a number of magazines, and a couple of hard drives to play music from. My speakers? They're built into the computer of course. And all the computer cords, when not in use, conveniently tuck away into the footstool you see in the backgrounds of the pics.

The true beauty of this position is that I can type at the computer, and without moving my head, I can also watch telly.

Talk about an assault of the senses.

So, that was a rather mediocre post, was it not?

Here's something to get you excited. Sunrise in Kyiv from the living room window you see shining in the photos above.

First, the sun just peeking over the buildings across the road...

Then a little more...

Then a little more than the one before....

Then even more than the one before and the one before that....

And finally way more than the one before x(times) four...
(Well, how the heck else can you commentate a sunrise?)

Have a great fun Monday. Love Little Miss Moi xx

PS Can you see the reflection of my in my pink pyjamas in the door?

The seven day itch

2007-02-25T21:24:00.000+02:00

Today was the seventh day of the seven day itch.

No, dirty minds, I don't go through a new bloke every week.

Heating in Ukraine is an interesting concept. The city (i.e. council) heats our apartment. In fact, the city heats most of the apartments in Kyiv. It's turned on in October, and turned off in March.

All day, every day, our apartment is heated to a balmy 21.5 degrees. I can't turn it down, and I can't turn it off. That's just the way life is. As tenants, we don't even have to pay for it.

The problem is, when a cold snap comes, the heat goes mad. For the past week, I've been sweating out the cold snap (when I'm not freezing, of course) in 25 degree heat, because the city has shovelled a little too much coal into the furnace. The inevitable result is that I'm constantly dehydrated. And really bloody itchy.

This morning, after a rather sleepless 25 degree night*, I woke up and surveyed the damage. I've sweated through two sets of pyjamas this week, I have a heat rash on my arms, I've scratched off skin on my shins, and I have bruises around my knees from my ferocious scratching.

Of course, it doesn't help that I insist on sleeping under a doona (duvet, quilt, whatever). I can't sleep any other way.

In Australia, Mr Moi and I never owned a heater. On those 10 degree winter nights in Sydney (it does happen), we watched telly with crocheted granny rugs on our laps. When things got really bad, we'd be in bed at 7pm watching telly from underneath the doonas.

This heating thing, with no open windows and no moisture in the air, is new to us.

I know you're thinking, "Well, why don't you just buy some moisturiser? Surely this would be the cure for the seven day itch?"

Well, the truth is, I tried. I really did. But it was so confusing looking at all the Russian labels on the shelf, that I just gave up. I didn't want to buy something for oily skin when I have dry skin. My hormone balance, in general, is erratic enough, without messing with the pH balance of my largest organ. (Ohh. On proof read, that sounds a bit dirty. But I'll remind readers that I'm a girl).

Secretly, being itchy made me feel a bit tough. It's like 'tough', at a discount. I thought I could tough it out.

Except, the cold has finally caught up with the heat, and apartment has now dropped to about 15 degrees. As a result, I have three jumpers on and am sitting under a doona. And the confined dry heat is making me itchier than ever.

* Many women in Ukraine are very beautiful. Now, Mr Moi has never given me reason to think that he even looks at other women - I've never seen him do it, and if I comment on a stunner who's just walked past, he's totally oblivious.

Regardless, last night I had a dream that he met a lovely beautiful girl and I caught him talking to her. Then, at 3am this morning, he woke me up saying, "Little Miss Babe, have you seen my wedding ring? It's fallen off, I can't find it!" Half asleep, I patted the sheets and my pillow, to no avail.

When I woke up this morning, I found his wedding ring clutched in my hand under the pillow. I have a suspicion that, when he cheated on me in my dreams, I grabbed his hand and yanked off his wedding ring. And, in case you're wondering, I did give him the silent treatment for cheating on me in my dreams.

See? I'm a tough bird.

Grrr... the problem with Rugby

2007-02-24T19:44:00.000+02:00

"Little Miss Babe [that's what Mr Moi calls me], hurry up! We're leaving in 20 minutes."

I was greeted with these words this morning, while enjoying my blog visits with a 'cup of joe', as the Americans say.

"But I have to wash my haaaaiiirr," I yelled back.

"You don't have time," was his rejoinder (wow, I finally got to use that word in a sentence).

Okay, okay, so where is this dialogue going?

I have a problem with Rugby. Hitherto in my life, autumn and winter (i.e. March to August) have ping-ponged between normal, everyday life, and weekend sporting hell. Because Mr Moi is a sports freak.

I don't mind watching a few sports, but in winter, social activities are invariably organised around being in front of a telly at 2pm and 7pm on Saturdays and Sundays in order to catch the 'kick-off'. Of what sport, it really doesn't matter, but usually Aussie Rules or Rugby.

While somewhat painful, these fit nicely into my day - 2pm, I enjoyed some girl time, and 7pm we were socialising, so he had to miss out (on sport heh heh heh).

Now, flip those times to the opposite hemisphere halfway around the world, and you'll understand why Mr Moi pushed me out the door with dirty hair at 9am this morning. We had to get to the pub to watch the Super 14.

And because we're now in the Northern Hemisphere, and our friendly local Irish pub has Sky telly, I also get to watch the UK club rugby, the Six Nations, and the whole gamut of soccer: Premier League, UEFA Cup, UEFA Champions League and some other one, I'm sure.

We don't have Sky telly. So unlike when Mr Moi watched these sports in Australia and I pottered around the house, in Kyiv, I have to join him in the smoky pub if I want to spend time with him on the weekend.

Now... Before you start commenting in the vein of, "Girl, you gotta set down some rulz for your man," I'll leave you with this thought.

I don't work. It's minus 15 outside. I watch TV all day. I have three English language channels that repeat all their content over and over again. And when they've done that, they repeat all the content backwards. To be honest, I don't mind the sport.

I just wish I didn't have to have it for brekky. With dirty hair.

You know it's time to wear your thermals when...

2007-02-23T17:41:00.000+02:00

On Wednesday, the temperature in Kyiv dropped. Quite significantly, in fact - it was around minus 15 in the morning, and warmed up to around minus seven.

And the sun was out. As a result, I seriously underestimated just how cold it was outside.

Setting out for lunch, I donned a pair of trusty knee socks under my lined boots. No tights, no thermals. Just a cotton summer skirt, boots and socks (oh, and a shirt and jumper of course).

Not having far to go to meet my friends, I didn't really notice the cold. But after lunch, a friend asked me to walk with her to find a sports hall she'd been told about.

So we set out on foot, up from the valley that is Kreshchatyk to the hill-top of the river bank. The wind was blowing mighty fiercely at the top of the hill and it was bloody freezing.

Admittedly, we were both rather cold, but as we were on foot, we just sped up a little to keep warm. We walked around for about an hour, then returned to Kreshchatyk. That's where I saw something I've never seen before.

A Ukrainian man smiled at me. Almost laughed. I was dumbfounded, this was such a monumental event. Ukrainians never smile and make eye contact on the street. What was going on? Have the tides turned?

Then he looked at my knees. I followed his gaze and looked down.

My knees were fluorescent pink. They were brighter than the worst sunburn I have ever had if my life. In contrast to my black boots and black skirt, this painful streak of freezing pink flesh was shocking.

I was so embarrassed. I undid my zip just a little so I could pull my skirt lower to hide the pink. I felt as though people were looking at me, thinking, "What a stupid foreign lady. She doesn't even know how to keep warm."

I scurried home, and pulled out the thermals straight away, so I wouldn't forget to put them on when I went out on Thursday. Then I spent the rest of the evening defrosting.

So while it's not as interesting or inventive as some of the competition entries, I discovered: you know it's time to wear your thermals when your legs are so pink, they force a Kyivite to smile at you.

If you want a haiku, leave a comment...

2007-02-22T23:55:00.000+02:00

Dear my fwends

I went out for dinks tonigth. I got a bit pished.

Love LMM xo*(^xo

Seriously...

I got so excited about my competition that I started my prizes after half a day, not a whole day.

The competition is still open. Submit you answer to... "you know it's time to wear thermals when..."

Haiku in your honour will appear within 24 hours. Give me something to work with!

Have a haiku on me

2007-02-22T10:48:00.000+02:00

In my world, everyone's a winner (either the words of a loser, or a fan of FDR) (I fall into the former category, in case you were wondering).

I have written a haiku in everyone's honour. Based on their competition entry...

Willowtree
He sat on the bench
Condensation set in. Stand
Up, skin's left behind

Karmyn
Fripples through the mist
She can't feel her mammaries
She and bra are one

Beccy
That shrinking feeling
A feeling of profound loss
Something's gone, 'downstairs'...

Pumpernickel
He licks the steel tap
It is minus seventeen
They have tongue for tea

Pamela
A tap up my nose
Emits lots of snot drip drop
Snot-cicles. Can't breathe

Sabrina
Wake up. Sit on loo
No tinkle. Just a wet bum
Darn iced loo water

enid
stick finger up nose
ouch! stabbed by icy nose hair
blood, freeze! finger stuck...

Swampwitch
Boobs freeze to brass bra
Pumpernickel licks the brass
Uh oh! Cold and stuck

Natalie
Run out of clean undies
Pull out trusty thermal slacks...
Too hot for summer

Jenny
Pull on thermals. Hot!
Pull them off, wring out the sweat
Cowboy hat instead

Robin
Ten pairs of knee socks
Toes are warm but nothing else
Knit some thigh warmers

The very nice man
L.M.M.'s a girl
Does not know what go-nuts are
Erik! Please explain...

PS I'm not a poetry freak. I suck at it. But I do like writing funny poems.

Do you want Little Miss Moi to write a haiku in your honour?

2007-02-21T21:49:00.000+02:00

Simply compete in today's reader competition!

You know it's time to wear your thermals when....?

(Hint: it has something to do with the cold)

(Yes, there is a story behind this, but you have to work for it kids!)

Terms and conditions.
All educated (and not-so-educated) guesses are welcome. The winner of the competition will be announced tomorrow. The prize is a haiku written by moi in your honour. Winning criteria is completely arbitrary. I reserve the right to write crap poetry.

Grocery shopping in Oo-kray-ii-na

2007-02-20T21:06:00.000+02:00

I have a new blog friend, which is not surprising. I have only been blogging for one month, so all my friends are technically new friends.

My friend is Willowtree, and his blog is called 'A dingo's got my barbie' (what a tribute to Lindy). Willowtree lives in rural Australia (strangely considered the outback by a few of his readers), and he has inspired me to post about my grocery items. This is because he recently posted two rather entertaining pieces about groceries - part one is here. And part two is here.

So this one's for you, Willowtree.

Today I toddled off to the local supermarket to get some groceries. My local is called 'MegaMarket' and, like all supermarkets in Kyiv, it sells a random collection of goods. Whatever you want to buy is not there. What you don't want, is. For example, I might be looking for brown sugar, or cornflour. Not there. But if I want four aisles of Russian chocolate, I have it. Yum (err, not).

Or three aisles of vodka. Two aisles of beer. One of juice. One of really bad Crimean wine and champagne. Do you get the idea that Ukrainians don't mind a bit of a tipple? Well, you're right.

Really, it's not too hard to shop in Ukraine. Even if you can't understand the writing on pack, you can either see the product itself or a slightly representative picture on pack. Personally I sure can't tell from reading the label, because most labels are in Ukrainian. Never mind that most people speak Russian in this part of the country.

And, instead of stocking a range of goods, the store will only offer one good, in one brand. You want canned corn? You have to buy Bonnedelle. End of story. Instant noodles? Big Ben. Cornflakes? Nestle all the way, baby!

MegaMarket's range changes from week to week, so if I see something I like (like Heinz Baked Beans), I buy in bulk as there's every chance they will disappear within the week and not return for three years.

So. Today's shop was only a small shop. I purchased the following groceries for the royal sum of 70 gryvnias, or $US14.

Here's what you get for $14 in Kyiv:

(I have cropped the photo very close so you're not subjected to my landlord's horrid taste in wallpaper. Also, I already owned the toaster. The kitchen is so small, the toaster lives on the table).

Now, I could translate for you. I really could... if I was learning Ukrainian. But, as I mentioned before, in that cruel twist of fate, everyone in this town speaks Russian, but not one sign or label is written in Russian. So not only is Russian a bloody hard language, but I can't even soak it up via osmosis.

Let's look at some of these items a little closer. Firstly, the mushrooms. By the time I left Sydney, mushrooms were retailing for $8.99 (aussie) a kilo.

grib'i shampin'on i vesov'ie

In Kyiv, these babies retail for $US3 per kilo. Yes, some people do choose to steer clear of mushies in Ukraine, as mushrooms (and berries) absorb a lot of radiation. But I'm putting my faith in MegaMarket not to sell me Chernobyl mushies.

Next the carrots. This ubiquitous root vegie sells here for 50 cents per kilo. What a bargain! At that price, they sometimes come dirty, but I can live with that. I've eaten so many carrots in Ukraine my skin is turning orange. And I can see in the dark.

morkov' vesovaya

The price here -1.78 gryvnias - is about 35 cents.

Next we have some delicious chips. The brand name is 'Lyuks'. I'm not sure what that means, but the flavour is cheese and I trust this brand because it's a Kraft brand. I figure that means no MSG and a certain level of quality assurance.

Lyuks nizhniy sir

You can also see my Gallina Blanca pasta sneaking a peak in there, and again below, along with my 'toonets', or tuna.

toonets

I don't usually eat much canned fish, but I figure: when you can't trust the meat, or the butcher of the meat, you can always trust fish in a can. This tuna cost about $US1 per can, and comes in springwater. Oh, no, make that simply, water.

Now. Thank God for globalisation, without which, I wouldn't be able to bring you the worthy Snickers Bar and Mars Bar.

Pictured here is part of my Mars Bar Max, and the side of the Snickers packaging. The packaging pictured reads:

superpitatel'niy batonchik. Ne tormozi. Snikersni. (Russian)

What it means, I have no idea. Something about Snickers, I guess... "Eat me, I'm delicious, I'll make you strong and muscly BUT only if you go to the gym and work me off". Etc.

Last but by no means least is the beer.

This brand of beer is called Chernigivskye (in Ukrainian it's Chernihivske). It's made in the town of Chernihiv, about 200kms from Kyiv. This is the beer my body rejects the least (no headaches, not too many evil hangovers), so it's quickly become my favoured (but by no means favourite) beer brand.

Chernigivs'kye svitle. Zvareno v Ookraiini

What you see pictured here is one litre of beer, packaged in a plastic bottle. I purchased two litres of beer, which cost me $US1.20. What a perfect price for beer, no?

Now, I would love to end with a whiz bang photo of me combining all the items above into some delicious gourmet meal, but that's not going to happen. Firstly, combining the above ingredients would create a meal of sludge that tastes like sludge. Secondly, I'm not that energetic.

And as for the fallout of today's grocery shop: I'm already kicking myself cause I bought apple and carrot juice instead of just apple. Last week I bought peach juice instead of apple.

Damn me not looking at the pictures properly. I think I need to take a five year old shopping with me next time, their powers of observation are far more sharply honed than mine.

PS Just looking at the vegie labels, I think they might be in Russian, but it's hard to tell because the printer has printed the letters crap. Not that you really care, do you?

Fun monday part II: my precious things

2007-02-19T17:44:00.000+02:00

This week's fun monday is hosted by karmyn and the topic is precious possessions. And so to start...

In August, Mr Moi and I made some very hard decisions. Examining our measly possessions, we had to decide what to bring to Ukraine (the bare minimum), what to store in Oz (anything worth anything), and what to chuck in the bin/give away (pretty much everything).

During this time, I learned how easy it was to chuck stuff out. So easy - just put it in the bin or give it to charity. We threw out so much stuff... and unfortunately, I was bitten by the chuck-out bug, and threw out two-thirds of my beloved knee sock collection.

I had about 30 pair of knee socks. I've whittled this down to a collection of about 10. I've collected these over a period of time, mostly from Australia, Japan and some recent additions from France. They are precious to me.

Yes, they are very beautiful. I especially love the ones at the far left, aqua with white polka dots. These were brought back to me from Japan. And I found the pink socks with the stars at the trader's markets in Sydney. They had a sister pair - black socks with white stars, which looked great with my black one-star converse sneakers. But Mr Moi forced me to dispose of both after a week of camping in the rain with no other shoes or socks.

The stripey socks were purchased for me by a former colleague. They are my 'corporate' knee socks, as they were deemed acceptable to wear to work. My other socks weren't acceptable, but I wore them anyway.

My other prized possessions are my accessories. I don't wear makeup, but I love earrings and all that flippy girlie stuff. Much to my mother's dismay however, not one piece is made from a precious metal, except maybe a bit of silver. And none contain precious stones. And my average accessory usually retails around the $5-mark.

Here's a picture of my accessories.

Oh, I don't wear the pink padlock at the front. But you have to admit that a pink padlock is rather special, so it's kept with my special accessories.

Here's a picture of my socks and accessories together.

If you notice, nothing matches. That's because I never match. It's just too hard to co-ordinate clothes with socks and shoes and accessories.

Last but not least. Drum-roll please...

My final prized possession has travelled with me everywhere. Mr Moi wants to throw it out. I have to hide it from him. It's covered my head in south east asian temples, been a frenchie-style neck tie in cool clubs in Montreal, and now it's acting as an ear-warmer in Kyiv.

It's my red bandanna.

Purchased for 50 cents at Vinnies at Nundah in 1997, it's our ten year anniversary this year. I love you red bandanna.

And so ends my first fun monday. I hope you enjoyed it.

Fun monday part I

2007-02-19T13:27:00.000+02:00

Dear all. I am new to fun Monday. I am feeling the pressure. If I didn't have a Russian lesson to cram for today, I would post before midnight my time.

Being from Australia, however, I should be genetically conditioned to cater to my readers there. I should be thinking forward. However, I'm not good at that at the best of times.

Fun monday is coming. The day is 24 hours long...

The terrific Taras Shevchenko tour

2007-02-18T23:27:00.000+02:00

Today was a beautiful day. So I will try not to be cynical.

To celebrate this beautiful day, Mr Moi and I nursed our mini-Caribbean-Club hangovers from the comfort of our couch, and looked at the beautiful day every now and then (basically, when we were game enough to expose our eyeballs to sunlight).

But, as fate would have it, I had agreed to babysit the kids of a couple we know. After a bolstering meal of chinese instant noodles, we set out in the crisp minus 3 air, and walked to our friends' house.

I took the point-and-shoot with me to capture the fleeting afternoon. And it wasn't until I downloaded these photos that I realised I've documented the terrific Taras Shevchenko tour.

Taras Shevchenko is a Ukrainian literary hero (not to be mistaken with Andriy Shevchenko, who is a Ukrainian soccer hero. And unlike Taras, he's still alive).

Walking to the end of our street, Mr Moi and I had to cut through Taras Shevchenko park.

Most of the snow on roads and paths recently melted, and has since been followed by a cold snap. So there's still snow on the grass, but not on the paths. This makes walking a pleasure, and despite there not being any other people in this photo besides Mr Moi, there really were a few people out and about.

The sun was actually shining through the trees, which I thought looked rather pretty, and not a little endearing.

As we walked through Taras Shevchenko Park, I couldn't help but notice Taras Shevchenko University. It's the big red building you see in the background.

There's a story behind the colour of the university - I think some young bolsheviks were protesting against the Tsars, so Nikolai II ordered them to be killed. They happened to be students at the university, who were protesting at the university. So, to remind the public of the bloodshed, Nikolai ordered that the building be painted red.

If that's not enough Taras Shevchenko for you, then here's the main man himself. Everyday, he keeps watch over his park and his university.

Unfortunately, because of the way his statue is positioned, he can't keep watch over his boulevard.

This is Bulvar Taras Shevchenko.

Well, part of it. It's actually quite long, and lined with poplar trees. I'm looking forward to seeing it in the summer.

Walking down Bulvar Taras Shevchenko on a Sunday night, as we were, we could hear the bells of Volodomyrsky ringing.

This old church is still operating as a Russian Orthodox church. The bells were calling people to church, I guess, and unlike other bells you see around the place, they were being rung by humans.

I love the blue domes with the gold stars painted on. Even religious people must be three year old kids deep down.

Kyiv, as with all former soviet countries, is full of underpasses. Because the driving is so bad, and humans act as something to target rather than dodge, the soviets wisely built a lot of underpasses around the cities.

This is one of them. It's also an entry to the Universityet metro station, one of the deepest in the world.
The sun is running out, so here are a couple of last ditch shots to capture the prettiness of the day.

And finally, here's what brings me back to earth: garbage piled high right on the footpath of one of the city's flagship streets.

And here's one of the trams from the 1940s that hopefully will get replaced by a Swiss-issue 'new'* tram.
I hope you enjoyed these colour photos from Kyiv.

*old

It's another beautiful day!

2007-02-18T09:36:00.000+02:00

Last night I went salsa dancing. Salsa dancing in a town that doesn't even sell salsa dip? you ask. Yes, I went salsa dancing in Kyiv.

It didn't really matter that I don't dance salsa. Or dance at all really. But after a couple of beers with a new friend (he's English), Mr Moi and I ended up at an establishment called 'The Caribbean Club'.

And, being a democratically priced type of place, girls get in cheaper than boys. Now that's equality!

Most restaurants, bars and clubs in Kyiv are themed, and The Caribbean Club was no exception. Protruding from the stage and hanging over the dancefloor was one of those huge, old Cuban-style cars. This was complemented by a band who played the entire back-catalogue of Buena Vista Social Club, and a few pictures of Uncle Che smiling peacefully down upon the dancers.

At first I thought the car was being offered as a prize, so out of place did it seem in a 'dance club'*. It's not uncommon for cars to be offered as prizes in the casinos and poker-machine bars here. Then I realised there was no gambling going on. Perhaps it's a prize for the best dancer? But then I thought surely they couldn't afford to give away a car per night, even it was Cuban-issue.

So through the process of elimination, I realised it was decoration. Hm. Interesting. I can imagine it gets in the way of the dancers at times.

I was surprised to find that, at The Caribbean Club, people actually know how to dance. The girls gravitate towards the fellas who can pull out the moves. And, being a student bar, there was probably even some real Cubans there!

Mr Moi, as ever, was the exception. After we got kicked off the table we were at, I badgered him to come dancing with me. When he was finally fed up with my pestering, he spotted a lonely kid from Libya, introduced himself and said, "Take my wife away and dance with her."

After one or two songs, I realised that not being able to dance (with your husband) actually makes dancing both a little boring, and a little scary. So I escaped the dancefloor, leaving my new Libyan friend in the lurch, and went back to Mr Moi and the comfort of a glass of beer.

We made our escape from The Caribbean Club just as the band was leaving the stage and the DJ was dusting off his Christina Aguilera CDs. We didn't want to get caught in the gyrating masses of 'anarchic salsa', a.k.a. dirty dancing.

And that was my night - oh, well, my two hours - at The Caribbean Club.

*It isn't really.

A to Z meme

2007-02-16T16:56:00.000+02:00

I don't know what a meme is. But, when I was working, I wasted all my time on doing these sorts of things. Seemed better than editing documents, and funnily enough, that's precisely why I'm procrastinating now.

A= Action or Drama: Romantic comedy and bad Chinese films.
B= Best Friend: My mum (that should butter her up for when I want to visit and leech off her). Nat (same reason).
C= Cake or pie: Cake. Pies only come in the meat variety.
D= Drink of choice: Sauvignon Blanc. Preferably from Tasmania, but at a stretch, Noo Zulland.
E= Essential item you use everyday: The coffee machine. Chips and chocolate.
F= Favorite colour: Pink?
G= Gummy bears or worms: Gummi bears, and sour please.
H= Holiday destination: Anywhere except Noo Zulland. Or the GULA.. I mean, Siberia.
I= Indulgences: See E for essential items.
J= January or February: Neither.
K= Kitchen Colour: The colour the landlord wants it to be.
L= Life is incomplete without: Tissues.
M= Milk with or without chocolate: White chocolate please (does that mean it's got a lot of milk?)
N= Number of siblings: Four.
O= Oranges or apples: Apples, green ones.
P= Phobias or Fears: Flying in the FSU. Being kidnapped by the mafia.
Q= Favourite Quote: The quote we got from the removalists about three months after we'd moved. We didn't give them the job.
R= Reason to smile: Finding a nice bottle of wine instead of Ukrainian rocket-fuel.
S= Season: Well, it's winter. Eternal freezing hell.
T= Tea or Coffee: Coffee with a slug of brandy.
U= Unknown fact about me: You don't know anything about me.
V= Vegetable you don't like: Liver.
W= Worst habit: Twiddling my hair. I like it. No one else does.
X= X-rays: The last x-rays I got, I stole from the hospital.
Y= Your favourite food: Vietnamese Pho.
Z= Zodiac Sign: Aries / Pisces.

Thanks to Beccy, from whom I pinched this.

Holy holes in my socks, Batman!

2007-02-15T22:15:00.000+02:00

It's official. I've run out of socks.

One of the downsides of wearing boots is that they give me a bad case of 'holes in the socks'.

My flat feet have been pampered their whole lives. They've never been shoved into high heels for more than a couple of hours at a time. They're kept free of shoes as much as possible. And when they're forced into shoes, it's usually a pair of nice, soft, comfy trainers.

Then came the time to buy boots in Kyiv.

There are boots everywhere in this town, but nary a pair without six-inch heels and lots of tassles and studs. So when I found a pair of flat-soled boots, I snapped them right up. What I didn't consider was that the toe of the boot was rather low - unlike my toes. So my toes are constantly rubbing on the inside of the boot.

As a result, every sock I own has two holes in it - one from when I wore it on the left foot. And one from when I wore it on the right.

I occasionally get embarrassed about the holes when I doff my shoes in posh people's houses. The other downside is when the holey sock I'm wearing has a giant hole, which cuts off circulation in my toe.

But I had to wonder if it's time to pull out the sewing kit when, visiting my friend's house, her three year old daughter ran up to me, sighing with disappointment. "Little Miss Moi," she said. "You don't have any holes in your socks today!"

That a three year old noticed that 'holes in the socks' is the norm is worrysome in itself. More worrying was that I'd purposely worn these un-holey socks (my only pair) to cover the ten holes in my stockings underneath.

I felt like I'd been outsmarted by a three year old.

My brother has shacked up with a dyevushka... and he doesn't even know it

2007-02-14T22:58:00.000+02:00

I'm becoming so eloquent in my Russian that I can introduce my whole family.

[In Russian] This is my sister. She has a husband and a daughter. This is my brother. He has a wife, a daughter and another on the way. This is my brother. He has a.... [In English]... "How do you say girlfriend in Russian?"

"Oh," says my teacher. "Dyevushka."

At which, I dissolve into giggles. Ongoing giggles. I simply cannot stop. Tonya, my teacher, looks at me like I'm crazy. I try to offer an explanation...

"My brother has a 'young lady' oh har har har."

Never mind that the word 'dyevushka' stirs up in me all the bad things about Ukraine I can imagine: break-neck stilettos, slutty mini-skirts, sleazing onto western men, vying for green cards. Thus, I consider dyevushka a naughty word.

And never mind that my brother has been going out with his 'dyevushka' for longer than us three married siblings have been married... combined. She's not of the 'let's nab a westerner' dyevushka ilk. I think my brother should marry her just to save her from this shame in my Russian lessons.

To top it off, my teacher then set me a task to answer her questions. "Please only answer these questions in the third person singular," she said.

Well, that was the end of the lesson. I just couldn't stop laughing. Too much blog-world for me today.

A cold and the cold, and more on Simon & Garkfunkel

2007-02-12T21:22:00.000+02:00

A wise friend in Kyiv told me yesterday, "Be careful if you're sick. Every new country is a new bug."

I've developed a cold. I've never been concerned about colds in my life. They didn't inhibit my lifestyle in anyway: you don't worry when it's a 20 degree winter day and you have a trifling runny nose.

But now I understand what it's like to have a cold, in the cold. You can't be bothered doing anything. In fact, I took a 'day off' today and slept. Never mind that my 'day off' is simply opting out of the Monday Morning Coffee/gossip fest.

And so, because of this cold, today's unentertaining post draws to a close... But one thing further.

It seems that my post the other day has brought a few S&G fans out of the closet. The band really does have universal appeal, and I think between the S&G back-catalogue and the Paul Simon solo one, there's almost a song for every mood (and every movie).

For the record: I do love '59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin' Groovy)'; it earned a couple of extra brownie points after the wedding. While it's not my favourite, it's probably their only non-slit-yer-wrists song, so we deemed it suitable for the wedding.

So to continue the conversation... Introducing:

The Very Predictable Little Miss Moi Top 10 Simon & Garfunkel
(in no particular order and subject to weekly change)

Scarborough Fair/Canticle (love that it's sung in round)
For Emily, Wherever I may Find Her
Wednesday Morning, 3AM (and I like the use of same lyrics in 'Somewhere They Can't Find Me')
The Boxer (like the sax)
Richard Cory and A Most Peculiar Man (I always associate these with one another, so they're listed together)
59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin' Groovy)
The Dangling Conversation (I like the harp)
A Poem for the Underground
A Simple Desultory Philippic (Or how I was Robert McNamara'd into Submission)
Leaves that are Green

Any errors, oversights, omissions, etc?

Just so you know. I do listen to other music.

Blog reading 101

2007-02-08T19:09:00.000+02:00

For those octogenarians* among my readers - oh, oops, sorry mum and dad, I forgot you're not quite there yet** - here's a guide to reading blogs effectively:

Reading blog posts

Blog posts are listed most recent at the top, older at the bottom. There are older blogs on other pages, so when you reach the bottom, click on the link that says 'Older Posts', and you will see the next five oldest blog posts, from newer to older. And so on and so forth. When there is no more 'Older Posts' link, there is no more blog. You've reached the start... or the end, so to speak.

You can also navigate through the archives. See that list to the right, titled 'Blog archive'? All my blog posts from the current month are listed there. If you click on the little triangle next to a month that is not this one, all the blog posts from that month will drop down in a list and you can click on them and read. Handy, da?

Only the content in the dark green box changes on a regular basis. The light green box is only my archives, which I've specifically moved to the top of the page for the ease of octogenarian navigation, and links to blogs that I enjoy reading. You may click through to these if you like, and go blog-walking. But don't cheat on me behind my back. I will blog stalk you.

Leaving comments

If you would like to leave a comment telling me how wonderfully witty I am, like good paren... er, members of the reading public, click on the link at the bottom of the post that says '27 million comments' or some other inflated number that proves my enduring popularity.

You will then land on a page with a big box where you type your comment. There's an option to log in to your blogger account to comment. Ignore this. If you had a blogger account, I wouldn't be forced to take time out from my busy schedule and write this how-to guide in the first place. Click on either 'other' or 'anonymous' , and type your message. You do not have to submit a name, webpage or email address. These are optional.

For those people who have trouble deciphering the verification code, I am going to disable this feature. But if I get spammed, you're in big trouble. And I will reinforce the verification code and insist you have no right to complain to me about it anymore, thank you.

Handy blog hints

If there is something in my blog that's underlined, this is a link. You can click on it and find out more about that general subject area, but remember to click the 'back' button and read the rest of the post.

If you think a particular post is funny, you can forward it to your zillions of friends by hitting the little envelope at the bottom of the post.

If you can't be bothered remembering to log in and read the blog, click on the 'Posts (Atom)' link at the bottom of any page. I think this means that you get notification when I add a new post. But I'm not entirely sure, and can't be bothered finding out. So if you do subscribe, and it does work, please let me know.

Happy blogging, oldies.

* Actually, I don't think any octogenarians read the blog. I just like that word.
** I should note that my parents are nowhere near 80. In fact, mum hardly has wrinkles or grey hair, and dad is so fit he recently walked 100 kms in 22 hours. But gee they can party hard. Which, perhaps, is why they find it hard to navigate the blog.

It's alright, God's on my side

2007-02-07T22:14:00.000+02:00

The purveyours of all things Godly, religious, and spiritual - John Safran and Father Bob Maguire - gave us a shoutout on their show (and podcast), Sunday Night Safran. In, like, the first three minutes.

You see... In Australia, Mr Moi and I fell asleep every night listening to the radio, usually ABC Newsradio, which, during the night, switches over to NPR or BBC. Here in Kyiv, we fall asleep to podcasts.

Mr Moi and I survive Kyiv on podcasts, and every Tuesday we download the podcast of 'Sunday Night Safran'. It's a radio show on Triple J with John Safran (an Australian Jew) and Father Bob (and Australian Catholic priest), who previously collaborated on a funny show about religion, 'Speaking in Tongues' (look at those competition winners).

Last Wednesday, I woke up feeling absolutely buggered, because Mr Moi and I could not sleep for the entire duration of the hour-and-a-half podcast the night before. We were laughing too hard at Safran and Father Bob to think about sleeping.

Imagine Mr Moi's surprise last night as we listened to this week's podcast and heard Safran and Father Bob greeting their podcast listeners in Ukraine. And explaining the concept of drought for listeners in Ukraine....

Little does Mr Moi know the mischief a bored wife with broadband and an email account can create. Fan mail (stalking?). It obviously works.

You can download the podcast here or, for the next week or so, stream it through the program site. Funny stuff.

Slip slidin' away...

2007-02-06T21:41:00.000+02:00

My first love was Simon & Garfunkel. To the extent that, when I walked down the aisle to get hitched, I did it to 'The 59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin' Groovy)'.

My theme song for this week is 'Slip Sliding Away'. This song plays in my head every time I'm outside, negotiating ground covered in black ice. With enough snow hanging around to melt during the day then freeze, it makes for some entertaining walking along the footpath.

On Sunday, I went to get milk from a shop about 300 metres away. The return journey took half an hour, as I was walking so gingerly over the ice. As I returned to my building, I was hip-hip-hooraying the expedition survival. Only to then slip on a patch of ice on my doorstep...

The other hazard of being out at this drippy time of year is melting ice/snow falling on you from above. Walking along a street yesterday, I heard a crack and a split second later, something hit my head and I was covered with ice.

It was more embarrassing than painful. The incident was witnessed by two fat Ukrainian men who insisted on pissing themselves laughing, coming right up to my face to do so. When I laughed 'har har har' back at them, they said in broken English, "Funny! Very funny!"

Imagine my fate had the ice been a pointy stalactite. At least I would have had something to extract and brandish at the pompous laughers.

I'm b-a-c-k

2007-02-05T22:01:00.000+02:00

Today I went to the monthly general meeting of the International Women's Club. All I can think is... what was I thinking?

The club does work hard to get a guest speaker every month, to their credit. The only other meeting I've ever been to was really interesting because they had a Ukrainian lady who lived in India for five years, learning how to do traditional Indian dance. The dance was interesting but I was more interested in the fact that she picked up an Indian-English accent. She talked like she was fresh from Bombay, it was great. She even had the ubiquitous Indian head-wobble.

Today the guest was a cosmetics consultant from Dior. She was Ukrainian. She had heavily accented English which was not quite fluent, and she was trying to engage about 150 ladies in her sales pitch, with no microphone and no visuals except microscopic cosmetics bottles.

Now to give you a bit of background into my facial cosmetics routine, here are the four last occasions on which I deemed it necessary to paint my face:

- My wedding in October 2005
- The media launch of wizardwomen.com.au in March 2006
- My friends' G & L's wedding in April 2006
- A job interview when I first arrived in Kyiv in November 2006 (my only job interview. Obviously didn't look dyevushka enough for them)

About five minutes into today's presentation, I was lost. I had not idea what she was talking, what was going on. This is the downside of er... not wearing makeup very often, I guess.

When the lady started banging on about 'cleansing, toning, moisturising', my friend M leaned over and said, "Little Miss Moi, I can tell you're totally interested in this presentation". I had no option but to be rather rude and discuss what I did on the weekend.

This begs the question - why do all people, including women, suppose all other women are so interested in cosmetics? Sure, I probably look like an ugly hag, but I'd rather do it for free than spend $300 a month on the pleasure with the same result.

And even if I was a face cream fan, I wouldn't be able to afford Dior. And, to their anti-credit, the sales pitch was up there with the best Ukrainian service I've ever received. For example: the lady was touting a hand cream. Now, since I'd practically run to the meeting then downed about 20 cups of coffee as a desperate pep-up, my hands were a little swollen.

So when the reps giving out hand creme, I shamelessly shot my hand up - my hands were desperate for a bit of moisture. For my effort, I received a dollop of creme about a quarter the size of a one-kopiok/kopeck piece. When they gave me the toner, I didn't realise it was so runny and spilt it all over my skirt. I was a right mess.

To get back at them, I took two bags of samples. That's my big 'up-yours' at all cosmetics reps and women who expect all other women to be into spending their husband's hard-earned money on useless cosmetics.

And when they're 80 and I'm 50, I'm sure they'll have the upper, smooth-skinned hand. But you can only think you're a cool rebel once. So I'm happy to be a bare-skinned hippy for the moment. And those two bags of samples will last me the next two years.

Don't go to Australia. It's too dangerous

2007-02-05T08:08:00.000+02:00

In the Murdoch empire's never-ending quest to change 'news' to 'sensationalism' in Australia, which is a relatively calm and news-less country, they published an article on their online portal news.com.au, talking about how many tourists have died in Australia in the past seven years.

Of course, when you read the article, they define 'tourist' as someone who would normally reside overseas - which means students, expats, relatives on long term visits... as well as your average tourist.

And what are the causes of death? one may ask. Street gangs with machine guns? Drivers who don't stop at traffic lights so they don't get shot? Kidnapping? Black market slave trade? Err... No.

The most common cause of death is drowning. Other causes include animal incidents (sharks, crocodiles and eye-gouging koalas), natural causes and car crashes. It seems that a big problem is foreigners adjusting to driving on the left side of the road (when Mr Moi and I were in France in a hire car, there were a few hairy moments as we drove into oncoming traffic).

It is very sad that people lose their lives in Australia. But people die in other countries too. And in the past few years, we've even gotten a bad rap from Lonely Planet, whose most recent edition of the Australia book talks about how dangerous the country is. So people go to New Zealand instead - pooh!

Yes, someone disappeared in the outback, never to be seen again. And yes, backpackers perished in a hostel fire that was deliberately lit. These are tragic events. And there will always be tragic events associated with travel.

News.com.au should leave the Australia bashing to other countries, not instigate it against their own. To me, this article is akin to Australia trying to show off its big guns when really, it's just a geek with big thick specs and a pocket protector.

"Ohhhhh a spider! Run away, run AWAY!"

(If you're reading this, don't go to New Zealand. They talk funny).

The adventures of Mr and Little Miss Moi

2007-02-04T08:45:00.000+02:00

One day, not so long ago, Mr and Little Miss Moi got up sorta late, feasted on delicious Chinese instant noodles for breakfast, splashed some water on their faces, and scooted out of their flat.

They were going to watch football at a friendly place called 'The Pub'.

Although both Mr Moi and Little Miss Moi were looking forward to watching the football, they had varying degrees of enthusiasm. Mr Moi was banking on an all day-er. Little Miss Moi was planning a pouting tantrum around afternoon-tea-time, which would trigger the pair's departure.

Mr and Little Miss Moi decided to dodge the snow and travel to 'The Pub' by metro. They think that descending on the Kyiv metro is a little like going into the depths of hell.

It goes a long way down.

Once they were down down down, Little Miss Moi snapped a cheeky photo of Mr Moi. See? That's his cheek. She also snapped some Kyiv winter fashion. Many Kyiv-ites are wearing big coats with fluffy bits all over them.

If you look closely, there's even a couple of big furry shapkas in the photo too.

Mr and Little Miss Moi were transported by metro to Little Miss Moi's favourite station: Maidan Nezalezhnosti. She often copies the announcing man in order to perfect her pronunciation of her blog name. She didn't take a photo of the metro, as the camera was safely tucked away against theives.

Once off the metro, Mr and Little Miss Moi took the escalator up and up and re-emerged from the bowels of the earth.

Before they knew it, they were at 'The Pub'. Here, Mr and Little Miss Moi met up with some fellow rugby lovers, and watched what seemed like match after match. First they watched Mr and Little Miss Moi's home team Queensland play the Hurricanes. Then they watched some soccer.

The soccer was a real low-light, because all of a sudden, 'The Pub' filled up with people of the pommy persuasion, dressed in red jerseys. They were so loud that Little Miss Moi had to yell, and it hurt her throat.

The mid afternoon pouting tantrum was blithely unrecognised by Mr Moi, so Little Miss Moi ordered some hot chips instead. It's funny how the tomato sauce bottle looks only a little weird with Russian writing on it.

Then, the room started to fill up with lots of people from the lovely country of France. They were here to watch their team, The Frogs, play their next-door neighbours and the inventors of pizza, the Italian Stallions. It was rugby time again, and this was the third game all day that Little Miss Moi had been subjected to. She was getting a bit cranky.

So she bought a couple of beers and took some photos of the punters with her ever-steady hand.

After the Frog vs. Stallions match, which The Frogs won, it was time to watch England play Scotland. There were a lot of people in the room in their white English jerseys, drinking a lot of beer. Including a few twelve year olds.

After nine hours in 'The Pub', it occurred to Little Miss Moi that her bottom was really sore from sitting on the one seat for so long. It was time to go home.

Walking down from 'The Pub', Little Miss Moi was struck by how pretty everything looked in the fresh snow that had banked up in her nine-hour absence from the world. She walked through Independence Square, looking about wonderously as the snow sparkled in the streetlights.

Mr and Little Miss Moi, despite eating all afternoon, agreed to join their friends The Chenkos for dinner at Mokka in The Passage. Little Miss Moi discovered that Mokka had nothing to do with coffee, and was rather amused at the black tiger spotted uniforms the waitstaff were forced to wear. Mokka was decorated like the inside of a ship.

After two mohitos and some food in between, it was time to leave Mokka. Little Miss Moi drank so much that she almost thought this Bentley was hers. Even if it was, it had probably been parked there for too long to get out of the snow.

While she pondered why someone would leave a Bentley out to rust in the snow, she took some pretty pictures of the punters in The Passage.

It was quite snowy indeed.

Then it was time to go home. Luckily being with someone who can talk the local lingo, Mr and Little Miss Moi didn't have to face either the sloppy snow, or the bowels of the earth metro in order to get home. They got a cab.

Little Miss Moi snapped this photo at the same time she got whiplash from the driver pulling a U-turn at Maidan.

When they got home, Mr and Little Miss Moi were very tired indeed. They drank some water and a few Neurofen and went to bed. And Mr Moi still hasn't woken up.

This post is dedicated to enid. It's too hard to read her blog without wanting to write in third person.

Bang, bang. My phone is dead

2007-02-01T11:36:00.000+02:00

Even in Australia, with the conveniences of online banking and the presence of fridge magnets at home for putting messages at eye level, I was bill-paying challenged. Not out of any malicious, corporate-hating sentiment, just because I forgot.

Life in Kyiv was always going to be a challenge. But, with my SIM sorted out by Mr Moi's work, I thought the magic phone bill fairy (or Mr Moi) would pay my phone bill for me.

In the past couple of weeks, I've been getting many a frenzied text message, in Ukrainian, from my provider. Seeing as I don't know Ukrainian, I figure if it's so important, they wouldn't be telling my by text message. Deleted!

Over the weekend, the intensity of these messages increased. Despite getting two per day, I still thought they were just trying to tell me that I'd missed a lot of calls (from my imaginary friends). Budlaska, dyakukye!

But yesterday afternoon, between the hours of four and six, my phone stopped working. I tried ringing Mr Moi, but instead got a pre-recorded voice that lambasted me about something, I'm not sure what. But she sure went on for a while. I should have just hung up, but I didn't, so I listened and felt guilty, like a scolded school kid.

This morning I gave the phone to Mr Moi to take to work with instructions to 'please fix'. There, his colleague-cum-translator listened to the lambasting message (minus the guilt), and told Mr Moi he hasn't paid the bill. Since November. That's fine, said Mr Moi to his colleague-cum-translator. I'll happily pay the bill. If only I'd received one.

I've racked up a couple of hundred dollars worth of calls. To the UK, to Kazakhstan, to Ukraine. From Kazakhstan, from Ukraine.

So I'm currently without a phone, and likely to be until we figure out how to actually pay the bill...

DAMMIT!

2007-01-31T23:04:00.000+02:00

Another blog post down the drain. All because I tried to select all with ctrl-A. It's 11:30pm and I was cranky and tired anyway, and now I'm even more cranky and tired.

Today I went on a 'ladies who lunch' tour to a Babi Yar memorial for the 37,000 Jews who were murdered over a two-day period during WWII, and St Cyril's Monastery, which is an old, Kiev Rus period church with great artwork inside.

I know the following reasons don't really justify my crankiness, especially considering I went to a very sobering memorial for tens of thousands of murdered Jews and a church that was ruined by atheist-Soviets. But to sum up why I became cranky and tired:

Was late to the rendezvous point by 10 minutes because the buses and taxis wouldn't stop for me
Once with the group, we caught a zillion marshrutkas to get to St Cyril's, I'm not kidding. I hate those suspension-free-zone minivans
My toes froze about three times. I'm surprised they are still on my feet
I had two cameras. One of them is big and heavy and a pain to carry around. For most of the day, neither of them would work
After you have dwelt on the injustice of the previous point, imagine my annoyance when it turned out neither would work as a result of my own stupidity. One camera didn't have a battery in it. The other has a dead battery, and the spare was in the wrong place so I couldn't find it for the majority of the day
Got yelled at by a trolleybus full of Ukrainians for getting off at the wrong stop
After all of this, I had to go to the supermarket and purchase about 30kgs of groceries which I carried home on my back.

Add to the mix freezing cold temperatures - it was minus nine, and about minus 20 windchill. The final straw was blogger mysteriously deleting my long and descriptive blog post.

Grrr. Well, I've just finished taking out the double-spacing blogger inserted into this post when I uploaded the pics. It's time to go to bed.

How was your day?

A job opportunity

2007-01-30T23:08:00.000+02:00

My enterprising mind sprung on an enterprising way to make some money: copy off other people's enterprising ideas.

I've always been a bit of a foodie. I really love cooking and using fresh produce to create really yummy flavours that both feed and really impress people at the same time. So in my current employment-drought, I thought perhaps I can get a foot in the food industry here in Kyiv. And once again, I look to the source of all things wise: babushkas.

These women are survivors. While their husband-muzh throws back the vodka in the village, these ladies are up with the birds, on the train to the big smoke to sell their fresh farm produce, before going back to the village to haul her husband-muzh out of his vodka stupor and into bed.

The only thing about selling vegies is, they have to buy them first.

So on the way from the train-vagzal to the market-rinok, they detour to the local supermarket to buy up a day's worth of vegies. And then onwards to the rinok to sell said vegies at highly inflated prices to useless foreigners (like Little_Miss_Moi).

Ukraine is a land where the food flows a-plenty at generally cheap prices (probably to make up for the occasional say, pebble in one's yoghurt). But when you're asked to pay $12 for a single cauliflower, you know the joke's on you.

(Lucky for the Bessarabskii Babushkas, I'm a total pushover. With my head bent in shame, I paid the dosh and exited the rinok. If I'd turned around, I'd have seen those wily old tarts giving each other high-fives and circulating a picture of me for future reference with the caption: 'She can't say no'.)

Ukraine is a happy go lucky sorta country. I'm sure no-one would care if I entered the fruit-reselling market. Except the scary babushkas.

I fell off the (daily blogging) wagon

2007-01-29T08:36:00.000+02:00

I was seeking some creative inspiration for the blog yesterday afternoon so when Mr_Moi suggested we head to the nearby Arena Bar for an aperitif, I agreed wholeheartedly.

Trudging through the snow, we arrived there at about 5:30pm, and we ordered a beer (500mL cloudy something-or-other that was brewed in the premises), and some sausages from the aptly named "Meals for Beer" menu.

After working non-stop all weekend, Mr_Moi was keen to have a couple of beers and go; in his words, "Early out and about, early home". But so engaging was our general chit chat that it eventually led to another beer, which lead to us philosophising about how darn perfect we are, another beer, and strategising how we can make the world as perfect as us.

Five hours and five beers each later, we asked for the bill (in my by then perfectly fluent Russian, which they totally comprehended), went home via McDonald's (the sausages weren't enough), and, with some more philosophising about the 'international language of fast food', skated home on the snow like loud obnoxious foreigners.

The only thing we didn't theorise a solution for was: what does 'democratic pricing' mean?

Dear Augie March - is it over between us?

2007-01-26T17:54:00.000+02:00

Happy Australia Day. You'll have to excuse me if this is a lacklustre post, because I've written it three times and managed to delete it three times too.

Aussies observe a number of traditions on Australia Day:
1) Lots of icy cold beer
2) A couple of snags on the barbie
3) The Australia Day one-dayer from Adelaide Oval

and the left-wing hippy student minority observes the following tradition:
4) Listening to the Triple J Hottest 100 countdown.

Now, number 4) has always been a rather fringe exercise. Not only would my parents not tolerate the Hottest 100 being played in the house, but they banned us from using the car if we ever left the dial on Triple J.

(I still classify number 4) as one of my traditions, as I hang onto the last vestiges of my student days. And my twenties for that matter...)

So I was rather surprised when I rang my brother's house, in hippy left-wing paradise, and heard my mother in the background not only tolerating, but listening to and enjoying the Triple J Hottest 100.

And when they annouced that Augie March's 'One Crowded Hour' won the number one spot, my mother postively squealed with delight.

Augie March has long been one of my favourite bands. Their style can best be described as 'avant-garde' rock, and there's very few cool people I've met who know the band, let alone my mother being a fan.

Later today, I logged onto news.com.au and was shocked to see the band staring at me from the most prominent photo-spot on the page. I took a screen shot as I'm not entirely sure it's not a mistake.

Since when have the Australian masses cared about who won the Triple J Hottest 100? Never mind the Murdoch Empire plastering the winning band on their flagship Aussie news site.

But the heftier question is: can I continue to love a band that my mother has acquired a taste for? Her taste and mine parted ways in 1990 (not before she could instil a love of Billy Joel in my young, impressionable mind). This time a year ago, she was singing the praises of James Blunt, so I'm struggling to determine whether her taste in music has improved, or if Augie March have just become mainstream crap.

I guess you can listen yourself and decide if the song is any good.

Unfortunately, we couldn't get any Aussie branded beer here, but we figured чернігівскье преміум was close enough (well, it tastes like beer). In order to keep our Australia Day beers cold, Mr_Moi and I have popped them on the balcony where they're cooling down in a balmy minus six degrees.

Advance Australia Waltzing Matilda Aussie Aussie Aussie Oi Oi Oi. Happy Australia Day.

The slush has arrived

2007-01-25T15:03:00.000+02:00

Today has been a rather uneventful day, so I've had time to reflect on the snows that finally hit yesterday (but were almost melted by today).

Yesterday I woke up to the sound of cars driving along a wet road. What with winter being so late this year, I really believed it would never come, so when I checked out the 'rain' and saw that it was 'snow', I was actually shocked.

It seems that winter may have finally come to Kyiv. Unfortunately, it was so long in coming that the people who are employed in winter-orientated occupations seem to have left town. There were no babushkas out sweeping the paths at the crack of dawn (8am), and very few snowploughs on the roads.

Throw into the mix above-freezing temperatures by mid-morning, and it was almost time to go swimming.

As you can see, there's there's a bit of slush on the roads, and with the Ukrainian tendency to park on the footpath, it's hard to distinguish where the road ends and the footpath begins. The hilarity of twisted ankles and a big a-over-t stack ensues. Not me personally, of course.

As I earlier mentioned, most of the snow had melted by this afternoon but the days are still short, so most flat surfaces in town didn't see the sunlight today. They're still very wet, and tomorrow the temps are dropping below zero for a few days. I'll have to pull out the ice-skates.

The art masters of Ukraine

2007-01-24T23:00:00.000+02:00

Today I went on a tour of the National Art Museum of Ukraine (or something like that... National Museum of Ukrainian Art? Not sure). We had an English speaking guide who was great; a little over-zealous about some of the religious pieces, God bless her and her love of the saints.

There were three rooms and two antechamers of icons. I'm glad they didn't expect us to kiss them, as they do at the Caves Monastery, or Lavra, although, I've been assured by a Ukrainian that scientific studies have been carried out and found that no germs are transmitted by kissing a picture that a million desperate sick people have kissed (God bless the Ukrainians and their undying belief in their own superiority).

I have a theory that Ukrainians kiss icons to make up for the fact that they can't relate to people they encounter at any other period in their lives. If you make eye-contact with a Ukrainian, expect a sneer at best, but potentially a fist in the eye. Don't even attempt a smile. And yet, Ukrainians don't mind getting up close and personal - they are severely lacking in any awareness of personal space (God bless the Soviets and their lack of privacy).

The number of times I've been walking along a street, only to realise there are two fellows within one centimetre of my handbag... Well, it's alarming. But they just elbow past you (even if it's an empty street. Any excuse for physical contact), leaving your handbag alone in their quest for a one-litre bottle of beer, a pack of fags or some other mildly anti-social behaviour. Ah, except on the metro. If anyone's that close to you, they expect to claim ownership over anything they find, oh, in your handbag, pockets or on your general person. Bit like those Devonshire scavenger folk.

But. I believe deep down that Kyiv is the city of love. Everywhere you look, you see amorous youths indulging in a public pash, a bottom grope or generally draped over each other. As The Beatles said in "Back in the USSR", those girls from Ukraine really knock you out, they leave the west behind.

And in honour of that sentiment, I would like you share my enjoyment of one of the best paintings I saw today, by a fellow called Pymonenko.

This painting depicts a scene from a Kyiv village around the turn of the century, I think. It encapsulates the Eternal Kyivian Juxtaposition: Kyiv is the city of young love, where people can't talk to each other but touchy-feely runs free.

And... Whatever you do, expect the wrath of a cranky babushka with a big stick.

God bless Ukraine.

This is a Clayton's post

2007-01-23T11:02:00.000+02:00

I would like to dedicate this post to my little brother, Clayton. He was named after the non-alcoholic spirit, Clayton's: The drink you have when you're not having a drink. Being born six years after the four other well-spaced kids in the family, my parents deemed him the baby you have when you're not having any more babies. Growing up with this stigma, it's a wonder he turned out normal.

This is a pic I took of myself in London's Regent's Park in September. In many ways, the weather pattern we experienced there was one I've experienced here: unseasonably warm, lots of flowers where there should be dead foliage, and people out and about, making the most of the weather. Of course, one major difference between London in September and Kyiv in January is that the sun was out.

I look at these photos from time to time when I need to remember what a shadow is.

So why is this a Clayton's post? Two reasons:

1) I want to put a pic on my profile without using the crappy Hello software recommended by blogger. That software just does not work for me. I have circumvented the need to use the software by posting this, and using the URL from the pic above to put a pic of me in the profile section. So darn smart of me.

2) This post has nothing to do with anything. It's the post you post when you're not posting a post.

POST SCRIPT:
I am a bit concerned on reading the Wikipedia entry on Claytons, that my readers will think I am an unloving daughter and older sister. One of the definitions given for Claytons on Wikipedia is:

... Subsequently, the term "Claytons" entered the vocabulary of both countries [Australia and New Zealand], used as an adjective to signify a compromise which satisfies no-one, or any form of inferior substitute or low-quality imitation, largely synonymous with the word "ersatz". For example, a hasty or temporary repair may be only a Claytons solution to a problem.

I would like to point out that I'm not trying to make a commentary on my parents' decision to have another child after they reached perfection (Little_Miss_Moi). Simply make reference to the second definition provided on the page.

Just one of the crowd

2007-01-21T23:02:00.000+02:00

The International Women's Club organises a lot of groups, and one of them is Monday morning coffee (MMC).

Today I had a lovely MMC session, but hitherto I haven't been entirely convinced it's my scene....

Before Christmas, I went to my first Monday morning coffee at the residence of a tri-colour flag ambassador (not the obvious one). It's a little out of the centre of town, so I dressed in my Sunday best, with pearl earring and fob chain to boot, and caught the metro over.

At the metro exit, I took the wrong street. After walking for at least 20 minutes, travelling further into a nameless native suburb, I was evidently nowhere near ambassadorial residences. Consulting my map, I realised I'd gone so far in the wrong direction that I'd almost walked all the way home.

I retraced my steps and found myself on a road six lanes across, that descended steeply down and around. Seeing a construction site snaking off this road instead of the street I was looking for, and being now an hour late, I rang Mr_Moi in desperation and tears, and demanded he look up the map online.

"It's fine. The construction site is the street. According to the map, it's the eighth house on the right." And sure enough, it was. Past the construction, the street was a boulevard of national flags, marking various ambassador residences. I found the house I was looking for, with a flag blowing above a 10-foot high gate guarded by a stern military man.

I was impressed. The closest thing I have to an armed guard at my apartment is the security guy outside the casino two doors up. At least he's there 24/7.

The guard let me in and I was greeted at the door by a grinning maid-babushka who whisked off my coat, took my 'shapka' and had me out of the foyer and into the reception room in a flash.

And there were all the 'ladies who lunch', munching on pastries and elegantly discussing life in Kyiv. The dining table was adorned with 30 of everything: 30 fine-bone china cups with real-gold trim and matching saucers, 30 crystal juice glasses, 30 cake plates, 30 silver forks and 30 silver teaspoons. Overseeing all were 30 (okay, three) servants, dressed in black with frilly aprons and white caps, serving food and drink.

I sipped Perrier from a crystal glass to cool down after my pilgrimage from the metro, then grabbed a coffee and headed off to talk to someone. Anyone. I was by far the youngest in the room - by about 10 years. But on average, by about 25 years. I gravitated towards the one person I knew, and proceeded to stalk her for the next hour.

I found it hard to keep up with the chit-chat about finding drivers and housekeepers, trips to Switzerland for skiing and Paris for shopping. But I dutifully nodded or shook my head sympathetically where required. I chatted to people about this and that, and cracked a few jokes to prove that I was a 'crazy Australian' and worthy of social interaction. By the time the gathering ended, I'd talked to a lot of people and as a result was very pleased with myself.

As it was time to go, we moved en masse to the door, thanking the host for her hospitality. I donned my coat from the nice babushka, put on my hat and walked out among my new friends, laughing and chatting as we walked down the steps, past the military man and out onto the street.

It felt nice to leave with the crowd. It was like being at school again, yearning to be accepted and then actually making some friends. I felt like I was one of them - I was a lady who lunches! I threw my shoulders back and turned on my heel to head towards the end of the street. I took about five steps, then turned to ask someone a question, and realised... I was alone.

As I stood looking around for the vanished crowd, I was blinded by a blur of tinted windows and metallic paint as my fellow 'ladies who lunch' flew past in their luxury cars-with-drivers. My heart sank as I realised I was alone on the long walk home.

I set my shoulders to the wind, trudged up the hill and caught the metro back to my little one-bed flat with no babushka at the door. As made a cup of tea to cheer myself up, it occurred to me that I don't even have four matching coffee cups, let alone 30.

Luckily, things have improved. Now that Christmas is over, no-one is discussing holidays I'll only get jealous of. And most importantly, I found out MMC is usually walking distance from town - no driver required.

Further proof the 80s are here to stay...

2007-01-21T18:51:00.000+02:00

Pull out the synth-pop keyboard and play a victory march! The 80s are here to stay.

Yesterday I realised I was plum out of currency, so it was time for a trip to the money changer. As I was waiting at the window of my preferred babushka (consistently good rate, short walk from home, located in a rather unsuccessful, thus quiet, mobile phone shop ergo low post-exchange crime rate), I was surprised to find myself not only humming, but also bopping along to the song on the radio.

Hello 1989! It was 'Pump up the Jam' by Technotronic.

I don't remember much of the 80s, but I did achieve a lot in that decade: I learned to talk, walk, dress myself, chew food and eventually learned to wipe my bottom, to my mother's joy.

There were some drawbacks to being an infant in the 80s, though - my fingers were too small to master the Atari joystick, mum said I was too young to watch BMX Bandits, and when I was five, my sister devised a rather embarrassing dance routine for me to perform to 'Physical' by Olivia Newton-John. It involved big hair, lycra and leg-warmers. I'm still trying to live down the pictures.

Living in the Kyiv-80s time-warp gives me a chance to re-live the 80s as a grown up. Somewhere, in this parallel 1989 universe, on the other side of the world, an embarrassed nine-year-old me is sitting in my primary school library in shame, being forced to apologise to the class after accidentally farting. (In my defence, I had two older brothers. I didn't realise it was taboo to fart in public). Here in Kyiv, however, the grown-up me is getting acquainted with mullets, tassles, and A-Ha; and singing along to 'Pump up the Jam' by Technotronic.

Here's hoping I enjoy the 80s; I can make up for my meltdown in 1986 when, at the age of six, my favourite tune was 'You're the Voice' by John Farnham. There was no dance routine to that one, just lots of heartfelt gesticulation and lip-syncing.

Oh, is that the time? I have to go to my jazzercise class.

Kyiv Day of Prayer?

2007-01-19T18:38:00.000+02:00

The other day as I was resurfacing from the depths of the Metro, I spotted one of my strangest sights to date in Kyiv.

Now, in my time, I've attended some rather fervent prayer sessions at pentecostal church services. So when I was walking through the tunnels of the Kyiv Metro and saw two dyevushkas clinging to each other, heads bowed, whispering intently I assumed they were overcome with emotion and prayer. I felt like I was in a Hillsong congregation on a Sunday morning.

But there were two things that struck me as odd.

1) The dyevushkas were stopped in a narrow tunnel... Not so surprising, as in their endless quest to be noticed, dyevushkas think nothing of stopping suddenly in a torrent of pedestrians. They're probably hoping a prospective husband will trip over their stick-thin legs and whisk them away to a life in the States. But these ones were really putting their lives on the line by blocking 300 cranky Ukrainians who were just as keen as I was to emerge from the hot, stinky Metro.

2) Ukraine isn't the USA - it's not exactly known as a charismatic Christian heartland, or really Christian at all for that matter. At best, a Ukrainian will be spotted strolling into a church to take shelter from the elements and plant a sloppy one on a portrait of a saint. But so removed are the Ukrainians from Christianity in general that they don't have Christmas trees here, they have New Years trees. Although Christmas is a good excuse to take holidays and enjoy public inebriation.

My heart went out to these desperate dyevushkas as I watched them at their prayers. One of the girls was almost crying, she was so upset, and her companion was clutching her, physically holding her upright for fear she would faint... Or so I thought.

Then the devastating(ly funny) reality dawned on me. One of the dyevushkas couldn't move because her stiletto heel was stuck in the pavement grate. Oh, it was the funniest thing I've ever seen! I just hope her prayers were answered, cause all I could see was a $300 pair of boots going, well... down the drain!

Will the real shoe fetishist please stand up?

2007-01-19T00:33:00.000+02:00

I am in a state of heightened concern.

I was just looking at my flickr page and was alarmed to see that the photo of my bew-di-ful legs with their fur-lined boots has been viewed 43 times?! I mean, I know the sight of my legs is enough to set hearts racing, but 43 times viewed is a little alarming compared with an average of six views per every other picture.

All I can say is that I'm scared. Is someone stalking me on the net? Is a so-called 'friend' to whom I emailed my flickr link really a sordid recruiter/spy for a criminal shoe-fetishist ring? Are my precious pins going to turn up on websites that, if they were a phone number, would start with 1800 and end with XXX? And only be advertised after midnight on channel 10?

All I can say to you, Mr/s Shoe Fetishist, is that I'm a humble, unemployed young lady. If you're making money off my legs... I want a cut too.

(If you just happen to be reading this post, and are curious about my potentially money making legs, you can make an appraisal by looking at my flickr site here. But when you're making me an offer, just remember: I won't don my boots for less than $10,000 per day.)

Put your vote in for this year's Loogies!

2007-01-19T00:13:00.000+02:00

It's official. Loogies fever has hit Kyiv. Bring out the ballgowns ladies! Prime your papps, gossip mags! The night of nights is coming.

Since I've been here, I've seen hundreds of legitimate contenders for the Loogies. They're everywhere. Some of the more common Loogie haunts include... Adorning the steps to the Metro, or hanging around the footpaths pretty much anywhere in the city. You'll see the occasional Loogie draped in a cafe or restaurant, with the more dodgy ones hanging out in the loos.

And boy, do the Loogies bring out the best in people. Oh! they make people laugh; they make people cry. They make people dance - especially when they're trying dodge that extra sticky Loogie.

This year's Loogies will fall into two categories - the Slimy Loogie, and the Green Loogie. Unfortunately, due to the late onset of winter and the illnesses that come with it, there simply can't be a Gold Loogie category this year.

I'm in negotiations with people who know people, in order to bring Bert and Patti to Kyiv to host the first official Loogies Night. I really don't think Matthew's recent kerfuffle involving his ex, Brooke Satchwell and her suspicious bruises, has brought the Newton name into disrepute in Ukraine.

In fact, with behaviour like that, Matthew would be considered an upstanding citizen and an exemplary specimen of the male species. Perhaps he should accompany Bert and Patti here and then defect?

He'll have to practice his Loogies.

Merry New Year

2007-01-16T19:57:00.000+02:00

With no snow in this part of the world, one's mind has to resort... either inwardly or outwardly... to other things. Like West Wing.

I love West Wing. And here I am, after a couple of 'card-o-nays', having a giggle over one of the characters saying, "I'm sorry about this mess, one of my assistants just had her thesis published."

Replace 'thesis' with 'faeces' (yes, the audio was rather questionable), and there's my mirth for the day.

I got a Carol Brady

2007-01-10T17:57:00.000+02:00

Getting a decent haircut certainly poses a problem when living in a country where one does not have a mastery of the Russian language, in a land where 'initiative' is not exactly at top of mind of the masses.

Yesterday, after enjoying a huge and cheap business lunch with Mr_Moi, I wandered over to the only hair salon I've ever noticed (the city doesn't lack them, I just don't notice them) in order to bungle my way through trying to book a hair appointment.

I walked and and all I could muster was, "Dobry den. Pa angliskii pazhalsta?" which means, "Good day. In English please?" Yeh. Crap. I know.

Before I knew it, I was sitting on a groovy chair that gives you a back rub to make up for the fact that the dyevushka hardly rubs in the shampoo and conditioner, let alone massages your scalp. Then I have to try to explain to her what is wrong with my hair. She doesn't understand "It's too thick at the moment." She ends up accusing me of having 'fat' hair. Then she wants to know if I want it all one length, or longer at the back (oh, the 80s are so in fashion here). I insist on all one length, thank you very much, and tell her to do something that she thinks looks cool and that looks OK on my head.

So she begins to work her magic, one millimetre at a time, one question per millimetre, until eventually (read: three hours later), my hair is marginally shorter and there is a distinct mullet upon the nape of my neck. Then she thins out my hair - hurrah for that, cause I'm feeling chubby enough as it is, without the hair suffering the same fate. Except she only thins the ends, not the top.

Then she shapes the front of my hair to look like a bowl. I have all bulk on top, thin tendrils hanging down, and a bit fat mull en rear. I look in the mirror and realise - I look like a brunette Carol Brady. The original 70s - not a modern incarnation.

Welcome to eastern european fashion. The 80s arrived 20 years late, and they're here to stay.

Greetings

2007-01-04T11:22:00.000+02:00

Hello one and all. While I have hitherto been successful in relatively keeping you up to date with what's been going on in my life via group emails and flickr photographs, I am, indeed, guilty of 'slacking off'. Partly because there simply haven't been any new photos to add for a while.

There may have been, but I've been a bit lazy on the photo front to be honest. Here are some really good photos that you missed out on, because I was too lazy to take them:

1. A photo of the Kyiv New Year's tree at Maidan. It's 35 metres high and made of the branches of real fir trees. Looks impressive but I just can't be bothered to go out, remember to take the camera, and hike all the way up to Maidan to take a photo. I just keep thinking, "There's always next year..."

2. A photo of the yummy goose I got to munch on a Christmas lunch. We were kindly invited around to someone's house, but there were a lot of strangers there; I felt shy so I didn't take the camera around.

3. Photos of Mr_Moi's Christmas party. He didn't take the camera, and lucky he didn't because, considering he lost his phone that night, there's a very real possibility that he may have lost the camera also.

4. Photos of the New Year's fireworks that banged in the sky for not one, not two, not three, not four, but five - yes, five - hours after New Year struck. And there's another new year coming up on 14th January (Orthodox).

5. A photo of Mr_Moi and me at the pub at 8am this morning, watching the final session of day three of the Ashes on Sky Sport. We didn't have a beer, but it was the earliest we've been up since we've been here.

So there's the lowdown on what's been going on in the life of Mr and Miss_Moi.

To give you all an update on what's going on specifically in my life... The job front isn't looking too great for me at the moment, so I'm looking into kicking my Russian lessons into high gear, and I'm considering taking German lessons too.

I have also joined the International Women's Club of Kyiv (IWCK), where I am hoping to become a part of the cooking group, tennis group, and the Russian literature group. I also go to Monday morning coffee, but not sure I will continue that because, after seeing the inside of a few rich-o apartments and diplomat houses, I just don't think my little box of an apartment will adequately deliver when times comes to reciprocate the horse-pit-ality.

That's about it for now, crew. See you later.