I lived in a little village on the black sea for about 3 months in 2010, staying with a wonderful couple whom I had the great fortune of befriending. The village was at one time an old Soviet military base that while still somewhat active (though controlled by the Ukranian government now), is now pretty relaxed. The village used to be available to only Soviet soldiers, but after the Cold War ended was opened up to the general public. Now, it is a sleepy resort town, mostly full of good hearted people who generally spend their time preparing for the coming tourist season when the nightclubs on the pier open and the hotels and vacation rentals fill up. Most seemed to spend their spare time catching fish, meeting friends at the local pub and relaxing. Living in this village was like stepping back in time – a place where 70s model Ladas (a polish made, box-like car) line the streets and where one can find everything he needs from the small shopkeeper and the weathered farmer at the market. In this village, there were no chain stores, statues of Soviet war heroes lining the streets, and kindly Babushkas who created every delectable piece of Ukranian and Russian foodstuffs one could ever hope to chance upon. Needless to say, despite the long commute to the city, I grew quite fond of this place, and quite enjoyed my time there.
I was certainly an oddity in this little seaside village. Several times a week I would run 5-10 miles and sometimes more – through the village and up the beach, down the unpaved, criss-crossing backstreets, through the forest and the park. There were few runners here, and on top of the fact that I spoke really horrible Russian – I soon developed quite a reputation. As my friend would tell me – “You are famous here, Calvin.” At first, people just stared, but over time – and as my Russian improved – the village folk began to take a more direct interest in me. The good people I bought my food from (and oh, what wonderful food it was) slowly began to initiate conversations with me, the girls on the bus began to to ask me what I was doing here, and the “gangs” of teenage boys began to corner me and ask me to drink a beer with them, take a photo, say something in English, or all three at once.
In the middle of this village, and across from the Lenin statue, was a lone supermarket – and certainly not your average supermarket. This supermarket consisted of 4 rows of Vodka, 2 of beer, and 4 of canned foods, rice, buckwheat, and other staples – and of course – a bit of produce, meat and dairy. This layout was pretty typical for a small Ukranian supermarket. What was not typical was the night club and “hotel” upstairs.
One day, luckily my last day there, I was buying Hurman (hoor-man) at the supermarket – which is basically a persimmon twice the size of your fist (looks like a persimmon, tastes like a persimmon – but freaking huge). While I was checking out, a man walks up to me and says in very broken English, “Boss want meet you.”
“Ok?”
In Russian… “Please, follow me.”
Half from curiosity, and half from not feeling this was an offer I should refuse, I followed the man to the back of the supermarket and into a room filled with computers. The man who occupied the room wore Italian shoes, tight jeans, and a black leather jacket. He was smoking a cigarette and looked to be about 40.
In Russian…
“Hello, I am boss. My name is (we’ll call him Vladimir). I have hear of you – they say you computer guy. This is good, because I am need server administrator. Do you want job?”
Surprised and certainly amused, I kindly declined, introduced myself, and told him how much I enjoyed the Hurman. Assuming I must have misunderstood him, he responds,
“Ok, see man, my wife teacher English. You talk her – you understand she say. Please, one moment.”
He frantically dials a number, briefly explains the situation to his wife, and hands me the cell phone. A woman speaking in understandable English asks me “Do you want job as server administrator? My husband want hire you. He pay 400 hryvna per week (about $50).”
“No, no. Thank you, I have job.” I kindly thank her for her help and hand the phone back to Vladimir, who is still slightly bewildered but now seems to understand that I don’t see this as a stellar, upward trending career move.
In Russian… “Ok, ok,” he rationalizes. “You not want job. I am see. We be friends then, is good?”
“Sure!” I shrugged.
“Ok, please, follow me, friends drink together.”
“No, no, I don’t drink” I explained.
“Oh, please, just a taste, I want show you something. This good Vodka, DOME VODKA (House Vodka). Germans leave in WW2. This Vodka not for customer – only friend drink.”
I told him, “Ok, please, show me what you wish.”
The man leads me upstairs to a small “hotel” and proudly shows me his 8 or so rooms.
“You see? This is hotel.” ..and opening the door to the night club… “And this is club!”
Still gleaming, by this time I’ve noticed that he’s already been sipping the Dome Vodka a bit. He disappears behind the bar for a moment, and returns with a huge, clear jar of Vodka. When he opened it, it was obvious that this was indeed very good Vodka.
You should know that when Ukranians / Russians drink Vodka, they don’t drink from those pesky things we Westerners call shot glasses. They pound mason jars (exaggerating just a bit, but not much) full of the stuff – one after another – and usually eat dried fish or raw pork fat (called Sala). He set my own mason jar in front of me and proclaimed generously “Ok, now we are drink.”
As I pretended to sip my Vodka, Vladimir proceeded to slowly recount the executive summary of pretty much his entire life. He spoke in Russian, so I only caught half of it, but I caught enough to get a good feel for who the guy was. He explained how he had come to the village after an exciting career as a captain in the KGB, and had settled into the quiet life of a local mafia boss. I just kept nodding my head, seeming interested, and assuring him that Americans did not feel animosity towards ex-KGB officers. After half an hour or so of this he was nearing a table-checking state (when you’re drunk enough that your head sways back and forth with your speech and you near headbutting the table), and seemed to have built up quite a liking for me. He said:
“Ah, you are good American. I am like you. Listen, I make you an offer, friend. First, if you need ride, or to be ride to airport, I arrange a Porsche to get you. And if you need girl – just ask me. Also, I am man who solve problem. If you have problem here, you let me know, and mans with machine gun come in car and solve problem.”
In one slurred sentence, he had just crossed the threshold from amicable ex-Soviet Agent with interesting stories to “guy who solve problem with machine gun.” It was time to go. After spending a few minutes looking at the various photos hanging on the wall of the club and complimenting Vladimir on his fine work putting all of this together, I explained that it was now very late, and I must get up very early to catch the bus. After insisting that he arrange a car for me, and me very politely refusing, he finally agrees to having 2 of the supermarket employees escort me across the parking lot. The supermarket employees walked with me across the parking lot, explained that boss is very drunk tonight, and wished me a pleasant evening.
I haven’t been back that supermarket since, but if I ever do find myself there again, I’ll probably avoid speaking and count myself lucky for having a somewhat impressive beard on my last visit. ..and hey, it could have just been the House Vodka talking.
