Traveler, Writer, Aquarius, Peace Corps Volunteer
The evidence
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David Lynch�s classic film Blue Velvet begins with several images of pleasant life in a typical small town. Cherubic children ride bicycles down scenic streets while a cherry red fire engine passes by, the firemen waving to the neighbors watering their luscious green front lawns, everyone smiling. But then the music turns ominous as the camera pans down and moves through a vacant field, delving deeper and deeper, until under a tuft of grass we see hundreds of ants covering a severed human ear.
What we are left with is the idea that while things on the surface may appear normal, serene, and even picturesque, underneath there festers a certain evil and darkness which is not always seen, but just as real. So far, I haven�t found any human ears while walking around Donetsk, but life here is not all farm-fresh foods and warm receptions for a foreign guest.
Last night I went to Garage, the hot new club in Donetsk which is all anyone who�s in the know has been talking about for the last two weeks since it opened. Donetsk is interesting in that every bar, club, or restaurant for that matter has to have a theme. One place, called Bikers Bar, is motorcycle themed. There�s a restaurant that�s like a firehouse. A discotheque called Fort Knox has American flags up everywhere and bourbon signs adorning the walls. Garage, as you might imagine, is automotive themed, kind of a hybrid between NASCAR and a �50s diner, with girls dancing in open-roofed cars and racing lights running up and down the aisles.
The evening did not get off to a �racing start.� First, the friends I went there with were unhappy and having a fight and decided not to even go in. I was fortunate to find other people I knew already in line, so I hopped in with them. But once inside, they hated it and decided to leave. I, however, was determined to have a fun Saturday night. I had seen one of the teachers from my school there with her friend Christina, whom I met before, so I figured I�d find them and hang out a bit. It wasn�t long before I saw them at the bar.
Though my colleague wasn�t around, I met Christina, a typical tall, beautiful Ukrainian blonde, and her friends Olga and Julia (basically, every girl in Ukraine is named Olga, Julia, or Anya, with a few Tanyas and Oksanas mixed in). Christina�s English is pretty good, and we talked a bit about how she was trying to go to New York to study for the summer, and I frequently parried against her insisting that I kiss Olga, who I wasn�t at all attracted to but apparently had amorous intentions for me.
Soon Olga and Julia left to go dancing, and Christina moved up to the bar. I was behind her when I saw this gruff-looking young kid in a Versace Couture jeans jacket put his arm around her and start to make a move. I leaned over to tell her something in her other ear when I felt a stiff hand brush me back.
�This is my girlfriend,� said Versace guy in English, his sauced blue eyes vacant orbs on a rather listless palette.
�Yeah, well, I just wanted to ask her to get the barman�s attention,� I replied, somewhat haughty and irritated. Young Ukrainian bulls have a way of putting me on the defensive.
�Where are you from?� he asked. His delivery wasn�t slurred, but had the drunken timber of an alcoholic trying to convince the bartended he was fine for one more drink. It was also clear he just wanted to show off his knowledge of English.
�I�m from America. I moved here from New York.�
�Oh, America,� he began. �Your president is a fucking piece of shit.�
�Really? I didn�t realize you were so close with our president. But you are certainly entitled to your opinion.� I hoped for a cleverer riposte, but my discomfort weighed on my tongue.
�President Bush and Tony Blair are fucking pieces of shit,� he continued, undeterred. �Iraq is shit. I was in London on September 11th. Bush and Blair are pieces of shit. What do you think of your president?�
�Look,� I said, �you�re entitled to your opinion. But I�m not allowed to talk about politics here, okay? So this conversation is over.� I slapped my hands together signaling �enough� and tried to wedge myself into the bar, unsuccessfully.
�You�re an American, no? You�re a man? How old are you?�
�31.�
�You are not a little boy. You have opinions. If you are a man, you will say what you think.�
At this point Christina decided she had enough of this and stood up in-between us. �No politics!� she cried. �We are not going to talk about politics!�
Which was, in turn, my cue to make a rather ungraceful exit to an open space a little further down. Why I thought this would end things, I have no idea.
�So you will drink vodka with me now, yes?�
�Um, no. This conversation is done. We are done.�
�We will drink vodka to friendship. You are my friend.�
I barely turned to acknowledge the last comment and made only the briefest of eye contact. �I said this conversation is over. I�m not talking to you. Done,� once again, slapping my hands together as if I was wiping them of the situation.
I went on my way and left them to do the standard Ukrainian couple�s dance of the man getting more violently drunk and the woman yelling at him for it. About an hour later, I ran into her in line to get back into the club (the bathrooms, for some reason, are on the outside, and every time you exit to pee or fix your hair you have to wait twenty minutes to get back in). �Hey Christina,� I said. �Come here for a second,� pulling her aside. �You know, your boyfriend is a real asshole.�
I was shocked by the passion of her reply. �He�s just drunk, but he�s ambitious and hard-working!� Give her points for standing by her man. That�s when we saw him coming from the other direction, trying desperately to kiss her best friend, hands and face all over her. �Yeah, he�s a great guy�� Points cometh, and points get taken away.
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