Leaving Ukraine – Road trip Part 2 (Bulgaria to Montenegro)

After two lovely days in Sofia, we set off for our next destination – Montenegro. You see, the Diplomat and I have reached a mid-life crisis point and have become obsessed with the idea to buy a vacation home in the tiny Adriatic country. Nope, we have never been there before. And no, we do not know anyone there. But we had heard stories AND seen pictures of stunning mountains and sea vistas. What more can one need to commit to buying a whole house, right?? So, with this insane idea in mind, we had contacted a (very patient) real estate broker in Budva and asked her to arrange several days of viewings of houses for us. We were convinced that would be enough to acquire our dream vacation home.

We left Sofia after dropping off Son for a three-day cultural trip with his new school in Sofia. We dutifully attempted to engage with some of his new teachers, and peek in the gym to see the classmates, but the eye-rolling youth summarily shooed us away, appropriately embarrassed by our deep interest in his private, 13-year-old affairs. So, with nothing else to do, we took off on the next stretch of our roadtrip, only to get a frantic call from Grandma 30 mins later telling us that we had forgotten to leave the Silly Cats’ passports (yup, cats also get passports to travel internationally) with her. She graciously agreed to come pick them up as we waited for her in a dusty parking lot on the outskirts of the city. Two hours later than originally planned, we were finally on the road, facing around 650 km to Budva.

Traveling by car internationally can be a lot of fun. You get a lot of puzzled looks by border police when you cross into Serbia from Bulgaria, for example, carrying American passports and driving a car with a diplomatic registration from Ukraine. Also, stuffed with 37 suitcases of various sizes and a case of wine. At least, there were no cats this time. In essence, at each border we had to explain our origins, our jobs, our purpose of travel, discuss the situation in Ukraine, and listen to various border police thoughts on the war as I brightly would inevitably conclude – “But it will be OK because Ukraine will win!” While Kosovars were deeply sympathetic based on their own history, the large Serbian customs officer rolled his eyes and lost all interest in checking our luggage.

Another fun game is what stuff you will be asked at each border and whether there would be a border at all! For example, crossing into Kosovo (where we would spend a total of 2 hours on the highway before going to Albania), we had to buy a one-day car liability insurance for 10 euros, which I suppose made terrific sense. While I went to pay, the Diplomat spent his time chatting with the agreeable border guard, pretending to understand his nonexistent English. Typically, when you get to a border crossing you first exit one country (and get the exit stamp in your passport), crossing through a sort of a “no-man’s land” and then line up to enter the other country (and get an exciting entry stamp). Exiting Kosovo at the next border crossing, however, we discovered that there was no exit booth at all; rather, we were already at Albania’s doorstep! The Albanian police were extraordinarily polite, wished Ukraine good luck, and did not even ask us to buy insurance.

Serbia’s highways were superb, Kosovo’s towns and architecture were all new and modern, and Albanian nature - breathtaking. Several Red Bulls and hundreds of kilometers later, we decided to spend the night on the Albanian coast, at an enchanting beach resort town called Shengjin (no, that is not in China). Given that it was mid-May, it was still rather out of season and we were the only guests in the shiny modern hotel (I think that they had to turn on the water and electricity especially for us because other things like towels and TP were definitely missing). The night was topped with probably the best meal of the entire roadtrip, in a romantic beachfront restaurant called Detari.  In a mixture of gesticulating, rudimentary English, and Google translate app, we managed to order a bunch of seafood and astonishingly good Albanian wine for a concerningly cheap price. Two hours later, stuffed with various sea critters, wine, and undeniable romance, we were told that no one takes credit cards, but not to worry, there is an ATM around the corner. I sent the reluctant Diplomat to fetch money while I tried to teach myself various Albanian words from the menu and finish the wine. When 20 minutes passed, it struck me that he wasn’t back yet but I did manage to learn how to say shrimp (“karkaleca”) so I remained in high spirits. Eventually, he came back and confirmed my suspicions that the ATM was not around the corner at all, rather around a kilometer away. I tried to impress him with my newly acquired Albanian knowledge but I could tell it didn’t have the desired effect on him. We slept very well that night.

The next day, we drove on a dazzling highway through the steep, green mountains connecting Albania and Montenegro, and finally made it across the border. Two more stamps in the passports, a little more chit-chat on the Ukrainian situation and we were on our merry way through the coveted Montenegran hills towards Budva. There were no more glistening highways. Instead, we dove into the hills and their hairpin turns, trying not to faint every time a local car would suddenly careen toward us from the opposite direction from behind a sharp turn at 80 km/h! And then we finally saw the sea below us and it was all worth it! The view of the turquoise water, surrounded by the lush green of the trees, and topped by the cloudless, impeccably blue sky was something I thought reserved for tropical islands. The steep mountain backdrop would make even Hawaii jealous.

After an hour, we made it to our aparthotel and were ready to buy houses left and right.

Montenegro developed as a vacation spot a mere few years ago and is still deeply into the developmental stage, judging by the million construction projects around. Most of the hotel space is actually serviced apartments in modern new buildings with swimming pools and gyms and kids’ rooms (of course), ideally within a walking distance from the beach, although that is a bit of a stretch concept depending on how much and how steep you are willing to walk. In addition, the lush hills above the towns are home to many old and new houses, some with incredible views of the sea below. Which is what we wanted.

Three days of seeing house in various stage of building or disrepair and we had chosen THE house. Perfectly perched on a steep hill, engulfed in fruit trees, rose bushes and high grass, it opened a breath-taking vista of the Adriatic from its many terraces. The price was more than right and we were ready to buy. Naturally, it was too good to be true. This is Montenegro, a young country with even younger laws and a mess of urban planning, and it soon became clear that a small corner of the house was illegally built on what could one day be an international highway according to the city plan! Not willing to gamble on future infrastructure madness, we went on looking and found house number 2. Since we only had a couple of days left there, we spent a warm Friday afternoon in the stunning city of Kotor signing a lengthy power of attorney for our broker to compete the transaction on our behalf, hopefully soon. With all this work done, we were ready to relax a bit with our great friends who happened to arrive that evening from Germany to join us for a weekend Montenegro fun.

The next two days were spent eating, drinking, and exploring the old cities and beaches of Montenegro, with an amusing incident on our last night. As we settled in a lovely beach-side restaurant in the picturesque town of Petrovac, I perused the wine list and asked for recommendations. The condescending waiter pointed to the most expensive wine on the list (65 euros, which is beyond crazy there), which I politely declined and asked for a 22 euro local wine. With clear deprecation in his face, he went away and brough the wine. An hour later, I noticed it was NOT the wine I ordered but the much more expensive version of the same, which was around 40 euros or so. When finally the bill came, I pointed this little difference to the waiter, who (correctly) pointed out in turn that we did drink the expensive wine after all. I gave him one of my most murderous stares, and we eventually settled on a price somewhere in between. Apart from this silly moment, our impression from Montenegro is that it has some of the nicest, kindest, fun people ever! Crossing fingers for that house now.

By the end of the weekend, it was time to go and we packed our million suitcases and left for Croatia.

Leaving Ukraine – Road trip Part 1 (Poland to Bulgaria)

 

After more than two and half years working in Ukraine, and another three months working across the Polish border, the Diplomat and I have completed our assignment in Ukraine. An assignment like no other, marred by a global pandemic and brutal war. This is not how we wanted to leave. The emotions are too high and too raw to express here, so I will simply say that we have left physically. Mentally, we will remain in Ukraine until the war is over.

Our first task upon departing was to drive to Bulgaria to see Son and Grandma and to offload the two Silly Cats. (To catch you up on the past 3 months in one sentence – since the start of the war, Son has been in Bulgaria with Grandma, going to school, and the Diplomat and I, along with the Silly Cats, have been holed up on a hotel in Poland).  Our fully loaded car - 4 big suitcases, 2 small ones, one box with wine, three plastic bags with random stuff, one purse, two Silly Cats in carriers, one litter box in tow, and a giant tennis bag – was the envy of any self-respecting nomad caravan. Our route would take is through Slovakia, Hungary, and Serbia before crossing into Bulgaria:

Any ambitions we harbored about making it in two days were quickly dispelled by the two bleating cats from the back seat, who would meow in remarkable unison every hour or so for 10 minutes straight after which would again fall into irritable sleep. As a result, we overnighted in Hungary’s Kecskemet (mostly because I enjoyed saying “Kecskemet” every five minutes) and in Serbia’s Belgrade.

In case you wonder how one drives around with two Silly Cats, it is easy. For one, they hold their bathroom needs and refuse to eat. To test that theory and show my humane side, at a rest stop in rural Slovakia, I took the vehemently meowing Emotional Cat to the bathroom, and unpacked his litter box, which he scoffed at and went on the inspect the suspicious spots on the walls. After unsuccessfully trying to cajole him to use the litter, he was promptly and unceremoniously brought back into the car and the experiment never performed again. It seems that most hotels nowadays allow pesky pets to stay along with their owners, so we would unleash the beasts in the hotel room, set up the cat food and water in the bowls, pull the litter box from the giant trash bag into which it was packed, and put some sand in it. In one хour, all cat business would be done and the two silly creatures would be chasing each other comfortably all around the hotel room but mostly in the bathtubs.

In Belgrade, we stayed at the spectacular Metropol Palace, which features an equally spectacular spa. After driving around 1,000 km, we decidedly enjoyed a swim in the glittering warm pool, with a brief visit to the wet sauna and the ice room. The night was appropriately capped with a dinner at the Madera restaurant, in whose beautiful and cigarette-smoke filled garden we sampled Serbian rakia, and ate cevapi and a giant pleskavica. The next day, the Diplomat was stopped by an amused Serbian traffic cop for speeding quite a lot above the speed limit but then let go with a smile and a reluctant admonishment not to do it again. Penitent, the Diplomat crossed the Bulgarian border and promptly got stopped for speeding AGAIN by an equally amiable Bulgarian cop. Which is all very odd given that, generally, the Diplomat drives like a 75-year old lady. It may have been the bleating cats…

We got to Sofia without much further incident and spent two happy days with Son, Grandma, and the Silly Cats who broke only 2 porcelain things in Grandma’s house by the time we left. We are eternally grateful to Grandma for agreeing (not particularly enthusiastically) to care for the frisky beasts while we continue our gallivanting around Europe for the next one month. Our next destination – Montenegro.

Eat, Drink, Walk, Sweat, Repeat in Tbilisi

A long weekend looming in the distance, and Son away with Grandma, the vaccinated Diplomat and I thought it would be a neat idea to go somewhere in an attempt to pretend that all was like before. There were several perfect flights leaving on a Friday night and coming back on a Monday night – Lisbon, Prague, Tallinn, Helsinki – a dizzifying list of fabulous European capitals. The world, well, the EU, was our oyster! Except that we are still in pandemic restrictions and none of these places actually allow tourists, vaccinated or not. So much for that. And then suddenly I had the brilliant idea to look east and find the practically perfect flights to Tbilisi, Georgia! I guess my excitement was catching, because our fabulous friend Z, upon hearing what we were up to, decided to join us on the trip. I did not know it at the time, but Z is my spirit travel animal. I honestly have no idea how we have ever traveled without him before!

The trip started really well. The airport in Kyiv is about 25 kms from downtown, and it usually takes about 40 mins to get there, which increases to an hour and a bit during Friday afternoon traffic. Cleverly anticipating this, and counting on stopping by the VIP lounge to grab an early dinner and glass of bubbly, we left a whole lot earlier than usual (much to the constant consternation of the Diplomat, I am one of those people who always leaves at the last moment to go to the airport since I detest waiting aimlessly there, so leaving early was a big deal). 15 minutes later, we dove into interminable traffic. It turned out that the Kyiv municipality had waited until Friday peak traffic to begin an enormous reconstruction of one of the key bridges taking folks towards that part of town where the airport is located. And not only that, but it decided to couple that with a profound road construction of the entire highway leading there, cutting 4 lanes to one. After some creative driving (I am pretty sure at some point, the cab driver drove through the fields), two hours later, disheveled and highly irritable, we burst into the airport with about 20 minutes to spare to boarding. I am a planner. If I had decided that I would go to the lounge for a light snack and bubbly, then by golly, I WILL go to that damn lounge and have my (sad looking) snack and bubbly. And so I did. And I even packed a spare (sad looking) sandwich for the plane, just in case. All of that in 7 minutes! Ha!

3 hours later, we descended into the balmy night air of Tbilisi, to discover that Uber did not function at the airport. I understood why when we were asked for the equivalent of $20 to drive the 15 minutes to the hotel – it was called a “curfew price.” You see, it turned out that Georgia had recently introduced a night curfew of 11 pm, which meant that everyone had to be back home by then. We arrived at 11:20 pm. Curfew taxi price it was!

We arrived in style at the majestic Sherton Metechi Palace and headed for the reception desk, hungry, thirsty, and most excited to begin our culinary journey in famed Georgia in our upgraded hotel suite. Not so much. We were coolly informed by the desk lady that the bar is closed, there is no room service, and our only option to get food is to order it, using a phone app. Mike drop! After we made it patently clear just how immensely disappointed we were (the Diplomat can be quite unpleasant when hungry), the poor woman allowed us to order KFC on her phone, and brought us some contraband beer to the room with it. M-m-m, finger-licking good…

The next morning, we set off to explore the beautiful city under the blazing sun. Since we started at 11 am, we soon felt like we should nosh on something to tie us over to lunch. So, nosh we did, coupled with a few glasses of fresh, homemade rose. Then we killed a couple of hours checking out architecture, until it was time to lunch in style at the magical Keto & Kote. Perched on a high street in old town, the restaurant has incredible food and fantastic view. Few bottles of wine later had us taking an afternoon nap at the hotel. We had to prepare for dinner, after all! Dinner was much simpler, at a wine store aptly called 1000 Vintages. It seems the place has two locations and we ended up in the more underwhelming one, without a full-fledged restaurant but still serving amazing meat platters. Meat and wine. Hello! We went through a rapid 12-wine tasting only to deduce that neither of us felt strongly about the traditional Georgian style of wines (they are kept in clay pots, which leaves a distinctive aftertaste). We did feel very strongly about the ones that were done in the classic style and to prove it, bought ourselves a whooping $50 bottle of red for dinner (that is expensive for Georgia but we were feeling reckless after tasting 12 wines in under 10 minutes). I don’t remember much of it though since, well, you know, the 12 wines…

The next day Z said that he would very much like to explore the local public market and buy some spices. We spent almost an hour meandering through the classic Eastern European market filled with ageing babushkas (which actually means old grandmas, not headcoverings) and outstanding produce, while sweating profusely in the rapidly heating day. One thing I will say about Georgians – they are the most loving, friendly, welcoming people. We were offered tastings of pickled vegetables, nuts, honey, spices, breads, by numerous smiling old ladies and gentlemen without asking anything in return and refusing to accept any money for anything. They were delighted to see a real Indian and even more thrilled to learn that were American. In the end, we decided on a particularly fun stall at the far end of the market where (we imagined) the spices smelled even better. After forcing us to taste all 115 of her spices, the portly lady insisted that we eat her sulguni (local VERY salty cheese) and then she whipped out soft, delicious white bread to go with it. Clearly delighted at the sight of us with cheeks stuffed with

sulguni and bread, she brought out a large box of salad which was apparently her own lunch and insisted we finish it all, while cutting more and more bread. Her cup of joy was not full, however, until she pulled out a plastic bottle of home wine from the fridge and filled out a giant plastic cup of wine for each one of us, including herself. For the next hour, we ate a kilo of cheese, two breads, a salad, and drank 2 liters of a most delicious, light white wine. 

Somehow we made our way to Fabrika, an old abandoned factory, which has been converted into an eclectic office/cultural/eating/drinking space. After a lunch of ramen, we rolled back into the hotel for a postprandial, dreamless nap. Dinner time found us in old town, traipsing the shady, leafy, cobblestone streets and peeking into old courtyards, heavy with clotheslines and children playing soccer. Dinner was had in the ridiculously romantic Café Littera, which had equally ridiculously bad/slow service and rather pleasant menu by an award-winning chef.

A visit to Tbilisi would not be complete without going to the beautiful sulphur baths in the middle of old town. So, the next day, in 40 degree heat, we decided to go for a soak in the, um, hot baths. What no one tells you is exactly how hot the sulphur water would be. Which is A LOT. It took some guts to get inside, and it was impossible to stay longer than 5 minutes or so before jumping out of it screaming, read as a lobster, and diving into the cold pool next to it. We also got scrubbed and lathered with cheap soap to finish off the experience. We came out in the sweltering heat weakened and squeaky clean, jumped into a cab and rode to the other end of town in search of the best hinkali. They were!

The rest of our stay was more walking, more heat, more gorgeous architecture, smiling and helpful people, and more delicious food and wine. We capped the weekend with a long and saturating visit to a wine store, which allowed us to bring back 15 bottles of wine and cognac. What a great country!

London Quarantine Days 6 – 10 and beyond

So, I tapped out on Day 6. After trying various makeup styles (who knew there were so many types of smoky eye???), washing my sneakers meticulously with a toothbrush, reorganizing my digital photographs, going to unknown depths of Facebook to see what people are up to, watching shows on the lifecycle of moths, and all kinds of such fun activities, I decided that enough was enough. England allows you to take a test on Day 5, and one you get the negative OK, you are free to roam the kingdom (you still need to take your Day 8 test; because, why not, right??). So, I took the test, and on Day 5, I got up ungodly early (like, 8 am!), found the nearest mailbox with early morning collection and sent it off on its merry biohazardous material way. I spent the next 1.5 days in nail-biting suspense and lo and behold, got the good word that I am cage-free by early evening the following day.

I celebrated by taking myself immediately out to dinner in nearby colorful Soho. Oh, how the depressing grey sky shone above my head. How the chilly air felt against my freezing arms. It took al of my tenacity and hunger for the outdoors to endure dinner in the open that night (at that point, UK still only allowed outdoor dining and restaurants were packed, which given the country’s less than stellar climate, would amaze even a hardcore Scandinavian). I inhaled my obscenely expensive dinner, fortified by two glasses (or three, who knows) of wine, and ran home to take a long, hot shower. But the point was made – I dined out!

As surgery was still a few days ahead, I devoted the next several days to shopping, sightseeing, and friends’ seeing. Mostly, I walked all the time. I had spent a year in London as a student, when I was poor and lived in the not-so-glamorous parts of the city. While I did visit all the important places, I guess I never thought to pay attention to how pretty the city was. Folks, London is a city straight out of a Hugh Grant romantic comedy. It is shockingly green, with huge and tiny parks around every other ornate corner. It sure helped that the hotel was in the swanky Mayfair, and my hotel window overlooked Hyde Park, but apparently 50% of London is green spaces, and it showed. Combine this with the pristine houses, neat facades, pretty shopfronts, immaculate restaurants, and the innumerable Lamborghinis, it made for a stunning walking experience. Speaking of cars, as I car aficionado, I have to say (downtown) London showcases an absurd amount of luxury cars. I began a daily exercise of sending Son a picture of at least one Lamborghini, one Bentley, and a Ferrari, all parked casually around the city, with one surprise car each time – the occasional Rols Royce, Maybach, or even a Maclaren. Even UberX had luxury – several times I was picked by a Tesla (honestly, nothing to write home about) or a Mercedes!

After gallivanting around for a few days, and seeing friends every day, it was game day. Since my insurance was American, I had to pay of our pocket for the surgery and then send for reimbursement. It did not occur to me, however, that I needed to pay in advance. After all, one pays after service has been rendered, right? That’s how it works for manicures, for example?? Apparently not here. The morning of surgery day, I received a frantic call from the hospital that I have not responded to their emails to pay for my stay (they has misspelled my email). With mild annoyance I gave them my credit card details, and went back to getting ready. Next, I got a call from a sullen gentleman, who informed me with some alarm that he will be my anesthetist (with his strong accent, I had no idea what he was saying and hence, utterly confused as to what his supposed role was) and that (of course, what else), I had no paid for his yet un-rendered services.  After some inane back and forth, I finally realized that he was the drugs guy and immediately proceeded to pay him – you don’t mess with drug guy!

Once in the hospital, a nice man showed me around my room and its huge terrace overlooking the famed Lord’s cricket stadium, and gave me an extensive dinner menu to choose from – all in all, a great start! The Drug Guy showed up, and asked me anxiously whether I managed to pay, and even asked me for the receipt?!! The surgery went fine (I was correcting a badly deviated septum, which prevented me to breathe properly for years) and the next morning, still loopy from the anesthesia I went back to the hotel.

The next few days were spent in miserable recovery – I guess no one told me that my nose would be completely blocked from the swelling, and I will spend a week breathing through my mouth, looking like a fish out of water and when speaking, sounding like an asthmatic hyena. Sleeping was a complete disaster (try sleeping with your mouth open and you’ll see). Eating was pointless since I could not smell a thing, and all tasted like paper. Thus, I spent some more quality time watching British television and its amazing commercials, which can be grouped in 3 main categories:

·         Ads to prepay funeral expenses and not saddle your loved ones with them (the ads all had young people in them; do Brits really die that unexpectedly all the time and how expensive are funerals in this country, for Pete’s sake??)

·         Ads for various gambling platforms and places

·         Donating money to save African kids, kids with cleft palates, adopt an orangutan, save an elephant, or find a cure for cancer

·         Very, very garish ads for erectile disfunction and male hair loss treatments and medication. Good to know what England’s main afflictions are.

Once was able to breathe again to an extent, I decided to devote myself to culture and visit the museums. After a very entertaining Banksy exhibit, I felt brave enough to go to Tate Modern gallery. A huge lover of Impressionist and post-Impressionist art, I approach modern art with trepidation. Tate did not disappoint. I saw many delightful “interactive” exhibits, where the artist inevitably explored the relationship of humans with nature, or objects, or space, or air, or something, mostly deconstructing and reconstructing some stuff, that usually took a lot of space. Two things caught my attention – a bunch of hanging mirrors that were deconstructing how we see stuff (it was shiny; I liked it because I could see myself many times, and I was having a particularly good hair day), and a big stone, which was making a statement about having a place in time or some other such crazy thought. All in all, a great afternoon! The National Gallery did not offer such deconstructing delights, but the Victoria and Albert museum sold great jewelry courtesy of the Iran exhibit.

During my last week, the weather drastically improved and to everyone’s shock, the sun came out. I continued my walks around the city, and met with wonderful friends all over. I could sense that the Diplomat and Son were somewhat anxious to have me back, so I bid glorious London goodbye. As I was about to call the taxi, I decided to check which Heathrow terminal I was going to, only to discover to my dismay that I was actually flying out of the incomprehensibly further away Gathwick instead. That was one lucky catch…

Days 1-5 of London Quarantine

Day 1

I was hoping to wake up late, but alas, I didn’t. I woke up at 8 and manage to try to watch TV in bed for a solid hour, but one can take only so much of BBC, BBC International News, BBC2, BBC4 and euronews before switching to Keeping up with the Kardashians, circa 2004, for nothing better on TV. It so happens that I am an elite member of the Marriott, and so I get access to the Members’ Lounge. Because of COVID restrictions, however, the lounge was closed and instead, they would deliver breakfast to the room, in plastic boxes, and an inviting brown paper bag with elegant wooden utensils. So, I ordered breakfast, fixed my bed and decided that I don’t want to stay anymore in the ghostly hotel, but rather change to another one in the chain that has more people and possibly open lounge.

9:30 breakfast arrived, and I ate really slowly to stretch time, while watching some more Shtisel.

10:30 – I decided that I need to lose weight while in captivity. Since I detest working out, I decided to walk 10,000 steps. For lack of better space, I began walking the long, carpeted corridors of the hotel, while watching Shtisel on my phone.

11:30 – I managed to get 8,000 steps or so. Brushed my teeth, took a shower. Explored Deliveroo for lunch options.

1:00 – Lunch arrived, this time delivery without a hitch. Ate lunch, made 3^rd cup of tea.

2:00 – received an email that my COVID tests have been delivered to the hotel. Went to reception where Icy Lady told me she has not received anything. Showed her picture of delivered tests on my phone, and apparently they were delivered somewhere else. Because, why should anything work?

3:00 – rearranged all files in my computer, and deleted old school stuff

4:00 – decided to walk some more

5:00 – spoke to the Diplomat, then to Mom, then to Son

6:30 – emailed and texted everyone I could think of who lives in London

7:30 – ate dinner and watched Shtisel. Then watched one more episode because I could.

10:00 pm – called for ice. This time, Icy Lady arrived with a small bucket of ice. Not to offend her, took all of it. After I made myself a scotch, spent the rest of night practicing tossing the ice in the sink in the bathroom from various distances.

Day 2

9:00 – underwhelming breakfast again

10:00 – spent an hour deciphering how to take the PCR test on my own. After reading the instructions 7 times, I promptly packaged the swab wrongly twice, and then just gave up and mailed it. I used the excuse of the mail run to take a walk and buy food and wine from a neighboring store. Then I came back, super delighted with myself, and ate lunch. 2:00 pm - decided to go to the gym for my daily steps. I figured that I was inside the hotel, so it was OK not to stare at the walls of the room for a change. Once done, I went and took a shower, and just as I was coming out of it in my robe, I got a stern knock on the door.

It was the police!!!!!!!! Checking on me whether I am quarantining in my room! Which I was. In that precise moment. So they do check….Which also came as a surprise to the NHS person who called me that afternoon to check on me and prattle on the same useless narrative they do every day.

All that excitement killed a couple of hours and positioned me well for an exciting dinner with a (cheap) glass of wine and M&S (cheap) dinner. For I have to tell you folks – London is one expensive city. Or maybe I have lived in Kyiv too long.

Day 3 – more of the same, rinse and repeat with one new exciting events. The Diplomat sent me “surprise” flowers because it was Mother’s Day. It was not a surprise for 3 reasons:

1. He told me about it in advance
2. I saw the charge on the credit card
3. It didn’t arrive when he said it should have arrived, so I had to go back to Reception (Icy Lady was gone and I was met instead by Hot Dutch Guy, who was a lot easier on the eyes, to be honest). It took, as usual, 30 mins to track the delivery down. I think that hotel really needs to reevaluate its official address.

Day 4 – I moved to a new hotel in hopes of finding traces of life, the JW Marriot in Mayfair, across from Hyde Park – an address as swanky as it gets in this gorgeous city. Beyond the excitement of the move, the other exciting event of the day was that I decided to try new makeup techniques. For a good part of the afternoon, I smeared and painted, and tried every single brush in my makeup kit, for some truly frightening looks.

And then I walked 10,000 steps in the hotel corridors wearing that makeup, to see what people thought of that. Judging by the expression of the Middle Eastern man who passed me by several times, I must have looked exquisite in heavy makeup and sweatpants.

Then, as I was reading later at night (after having MAYBE 2 glasses of wine), I noticed a small orb of light dancing around the darkness of the room. Blame it on the ghosthunters show I had just watched, but I KNEW it was a ghost. After watching it move around the room for while, and scaring the scrap out of me, I realized it was just a reflection of my watch on the night lamp.

Day 5 – Lather, rinse repeat. Also, I worked remotely and then realized that I was allowed to dine in the restaurants of the hotel, only outside. It was 10 degrees, but I did not care, I got to eat in a restaurant!!! I also got my negative PCR test result. Shocking, given that I am fully vaccinated, and I had already tested negative right before leaving for London!

Quarantining in London

I just flew in London from Kyiv about a week ago to do a simple surgical procedure. In case you wonder why London, it’s too complicated to explain, frankly. Anyway, currently England requires anyone coming on the island to self-isolate for 10 days, taking COVID-19 tests on day 2 and 8 to make sure they are not sick. The National Health Service (NHS) will check on you and supposedly so would the police.

Now let me tell you why this is stupid and utterly ineffective. Before arrival, you have to register with something called a Personal Locator online, putting down critical details like what seat you are on the plane, what your address is, where you have been and where you are going. Fair enough. You also have to buy online from a random (and huge) list of laboratories tests that are to be sent to your place of abode (in my case, a vast and ancient hotel), which you will then self-administer on days 2 and 8. Oh, what fun.

So, let’s see what could possibly go wrong with this super scheme (it is actually called a “scheme” in the UK).

• You have to receive the tests by courier. It took the hotel 30 mins to figure out where they were delivered (not at reception). Great start!
• The tests came with extensive directions and multiple bags and labels. You have to figure out what to put where and how and then where to mail it. I am not stupid. But I did it wrong for the first test. Good luck to you!
• You have to self-swab with a giant stick and then send off the sample by mail. First, that is disgusting (assuming you have already been swabbed for COVID before, you know what I mean, and then imagine doing it to yourself). Second, I’d think that is putting way too much faith into humanity when it comes to public health – ultimately, who’s to know whose swabs those really are?
• The NHS calls me every day to check on me. Full on conversations, repeating the same thing every boring day, telling me what to do if I develop COVID symptoms, asking me if I am quarantining home. Now, mind you, they call me on my cell phone, and for all they know, I could be in Australia petting a koala bear or eating crumpets at Buckingham’s Palace. Recently, they have taken on calling me not once, but TWICE a day. Turns out that since I filled out that amazing locator twice (I switched hotels), they cannot put two and two together, and think that I am now two separate people, quarantining in two different places, and they call me twice. Which tells you how well this “scheme” is working.

So, what does a person do for 10 days alone in a hotel in London? In a thrilling series of several posts, I thought I’d let you know in case you find yourself in the same position.

I arrived on a chilly and rainy Friday. I took an absurdly expensive taxi from Gatwick to the Marriott County Hall at Westminster Bridge, a giant and ornate historical hotel facing Westminster Abbey and Big Ben. Killer view! Upon check-in, I admitted that I was going to self-quarantine, and the hotel lady told me icily that there will be no housekeeping for me. I will need to make my own bed (ouch!), and should not interact with anyone. Which did not seem to be challenging since it looked like it was just me and her in the giant, empty, ghostly hotel, located in the former UK Parliament building. She said that there is a limited dining-in menu and when I order, they will leave it outside the door. All in all, it all strongly resembled plague times.

My room was lovely. I quickly changed into casual ware, and sat down to study the lunch menu since I was starving. Of the 10 items on the list, 9 were fried and one was boiled. Unwilling to believe that, I called “in room dining,” which was again reception Ice Lady, and was told that indeed, that is their menu. She recommended a delivery app, Deliveroo, which I promptly downloaded and excitedly ordered sushi. In about 20 mins, the delivery person began calling me, asking me where I was located. She was two streets over, in a different hotel. 6 calls later, and me having to leave the hotel (the HORROR), I finally found her and got my food. That process happily killed 2 hours of the day.

I realized that I will be ordering more food, so I decided to call Housekeeping and get a minifridge. Turned out Housekeeping also was Icy Lady, which promised to send me one. I admire Icy Lady, I do believe she singlehandedly runs the entre hotel and fries the food behind the reception desk. The fridge soon arrived, and I finished my late lunch. That excitement took another one hour. By now, it was 6 pm, so I decided to take a shower and settle my toiletries in the bathroom. I took extra time and by the time I was done and in PJs, it was already 7 pm!

I settled down to watch a new show – someone recommended Shtisel – and it seemed like a great show. It was. One 1-hour episode later, I was fully hooked. I decided to order a (unnaturally expensive) glass of wine to go with my dinner. Since the room delivery of that glass cost a whooping 4 pounds (around $5.50), I decided to go pick it up by myself. I got it from – you guessed it – Icy Lady! In another hour, I had finished dinner, another episode and was ready for a nightcap of scotch (I had bought a bottle at Duty Free). I called Concierge (aka, Icy Lady) for a bit of ice. She brought me a giant bucket of ice, from which I daintily took two cubes and sheepishly handed the rest back. I don’t think she likes me. With this and brushing my teeth, I managed to get to 11 pm and off to sleep. I cannot wait for the delights of the official Day 1 in quarantine (your arrival day does not count).

In other updates - we are still in Kyiv, but Fat Cat moved on to greener heavenly pastures, and we acquired two new family members: Batman (scrawny, hairy, hyper blackish baby cat, that looks like a sickly bat), and Sedate Cat (an emotionally needy, excessively purry leopard-looking cat, which is consistently tormented by Batman by rough playing). Currently, all four men are turning the house upside down in my absence. 

Impressions of Ukraine

It has been 7 glorious months of peaceful and wintery life in Kyiv. Some immediate and now more long-term impressions for the curious among you:

• Ukrainians are officially the most suicidal drivers and the worst parkers I have ever seen in my life! I know I have said that about many of the drivers in the places we have lived. Folks, this is IT! Ukraine wins the bad driving Olympics! Driving here brings me to such apoplexy that I end up hurling obscenities of the most startling variety during the majority of the ride. In essence, it boils down to this – if there is more than a 5 cm distance between your car and any other object on the road, another car will somehow, magically and most definitely squeeze in that space. The day a guy entered a one-way street from the opposite direction, (which of course forced me to stop my car for lack of anywhere to go as streets downtown are tiny and definitely not designed with opulent SUVs in mind), calmly parked it in the midst of that, and walked slowly away even though I honked so much, I thought the horn will break, I caved in, backed out and never drove again.
• Ukrainians love salo, a beautiful ribbon of white pork fat, which appears to be salted or smoked, or both. I have eaten salo in Russia, but the Ukrainian salo is a whole other thing and seemingly has a cult status in the food regimen of locals. It goes down VERY easily with vodka (what else), and each small piece seems to be about 1000 calories each, which is apparently why I like it so much.
• Kyiv is gorgeous and you can find new places to explore every week.
• The metro is extremely well connected. And clean. So clean. In your face, New York City!
• Going back to cars, I have never seen so many vanity plates. They are not vanity plates the way folks do them in the United States – like, the hearse whose plate said “ U R Next,” or the Corvette with the infuriating “Zro Kidz.” No, vanity here is more like AA1111BB. While most of the time such plates in the United States are delightfully dumb, tough to understand, and cost only a bit more than a regular one, getting a vanity plate in Eastern Europe shows status. It tells the rest of the common folk how important the owner is – the more awesome the plate is, the more important and connected that person is. Ukraine is no different. What is shocking here, however, is just how many vanity plates of the “I am very important” kind one sees on a daily basis. To be frank, they kinda seem to be the majority! And then, yesterday, I saw the ultimate plate. It simply said - A0000A. Dang! Who knew that 0000 is a number. I wonder who is THAT important as to say to him or her-self – “Well, this is it. I have achieved it all – wealth, power, influence, sex appeal (I presume). I have bought a new gigantic Mercedes to match all that and plan to park it over the entire sidewalk to block regular humans come near it. And I shall give it the best license plate – a bunch of zeros!!” I seethe with envy.
• Coffee shops outnumber human beings. There are regular coffeeshops, there are mall coffee stands, there are street kiosk coffee shops, there are the hole in the wall selling coffee places, and then there are back-of-the-van coffee pop-ups. Often, each one within 5 feet of each other. And there are clients for all, all smoking up a storm while they gulp down the bitter brown liquid.
• The vast majority of Ukrainians speak English! After serving in several countries where that was not a given, it can be such a relief to be able to explain to the hair dresser exactly what you want and not walk out of the salon with head covered in white highlights you never wanted.
• Manicurists here are amazing!
• Ukraine is in Europe!!! Which means a lot of easy, fast, cheap travel all over the old continent:    
• In November, we went to Lithuania for a long weekend
• Again in November, we went to Berlin for Thanksgiving
• In December, we went to Spain for the winter holidays (Seville was magical, Gran Canaria – warm, Valencia – filled with bitter oranges!)
• In January, we went to Warsaw for a long weekend
• In February, we flew to Northern (!) Italy for a week for ski

And then it all abruptly stopped thanks to the omnipresent corona virus madness.