Enjoy!

 January 14^th through 22^nd, 2011

I ended up in Paris for one night. I’d been flying home to Miami for winter holiday last December, too late for western Christmas, too early for the Orthodox version, when I landed an hour late in Charles de Gaule airport. As a heavily agitated Air France attendant worked to get me home (by way of the French Indies and Haiti, as it turned out), I scored a hotel room in Paris. Several hours and a hundred euro in cab fare later (yeah, I got shafted), I was toasting French wine at an old friend’s apartment, a little piece of Cuban Miami in the wintry French capital. As for Haiti, the most I can say is the absence of lighting above the land at night leaves a peculiar impression, somewhere between pity and nostalgia.

And then I was back. Old New Year, the Slavic holiday based on an extinct calendar system, happens to fall on my birthday on the 14^th, which happened to be midnight when I returned. A chatty taxi driver pointed all this out to me, along with the concert being set up on Maidan Nezalezhnosti (Independence Square). There was snow on the sides of the road. But not much. It was cold. Much.

I am sure his name was not actually Suzuki.

Concerts defined that first week back. A friend took me down to a little basement spot near the maidan, tucked behind one of the narrow roads that feels its way out beyond the now advertisement-laden façade—just past the restaurant “Le Borsch.” It was an art gallery turned into a slam poetry/folk music jam session. A petite, blonde journalism student threw down in Ukrainian that was way too advanced for me, and the bandura players struck up a woeful playlist “enhanced” by electronic music blasting from speakers in the background. One player’s instrument featured the face of Taras Shevchenko printed on the cover. The highlight was clearly a Japanese player who happened to become initiated in the Ukrainian tradition, whom another band playing with more traditional instruments greeted with a rendition of “Suzuki the Bandit,” in which they thanked the Japanese for their wonderful electronics and automobiles. (Political correctness does not exist in Ukraine, and quite possibly not outside of America, either.)

Just like back in high school. Except, underground, because there are no basements in Miami.

Then, my birthday party.

My apartment is very old-Kyiv, with Soviet encroachments built up over the years. That means, in the living room that is my roommate’s bedroom, there are high ceilings, massive drapes, a cheap chandelier, rugs everywhere—especially the walls— and a grand piano. And through the connections of friends, two bands performed a nightlong concert.

I put the cumulative body count at over 50.

Jim’s group went on first. He and some of his buddies arrived early to do a sound check and eat (read: fry kolbasa and down cognac). Jim (not his real name, I think), is an artist with a workshop on Andreivski Spusk, the main tourist trap of Kyiv that consists of a winding cobblestone road leading from the area around St. Sophia’s cathedral to the old Podil section of the city. He showed me some of his work once—the only piece I could remember was “St. Bunny,” featuring a psychedelic-looking, rather Donnie Darko zaichik with a cross around his neck. Towering at easily six and a half feet, scruffy and leather jacket-clad, one almost couldn’t tell he’s a starving artist. My grandfather once pulled me onto my family’s porch when I was 9—old enough to have stopped touting “painter” as my life’s aspiration, young enough for my grandfather not to risk my changing my mind again— and explained to me the horrors of the starving artist’s life (and the virtues of an MBA). Looking at Jim, who was far happier with his life than any MBA I’ve met, I can’t help but sadly disagree. My grandfather still knew what his father and grandfather had gone through when they left what is now Ukraine to come to America, and having lived through our Great Depression, I can’t blame him for the lessons he drew.

Once the group was ready and his groupies from Kharkov in the east arrived, we were treated to what for brevity’s sake I’ll describe as a slow Sublime with even heavier reggae overtones. For the Ukrainians reading, Jim named “Pyatnitza” as his main influence. (All of this was broadcast live on the internet).

But as great as Jim’s group was, it was Toporkestra who made that night.

Klezmer music is, I think, considered Jewish, the kind of thing you’d see in Fiddler on the Roof. But at least in Ukraine, and especially around the Odessa region, klezmer can also describe a related brand of gypsy music. Without defining it too strictly, you can expect to find a range of instruments in a klezmer band—violin, clarinet, piano, trombone, accordion, guitar, among those that came first to my mind. Toporkestra formed in this tradition, and after spending more than a few nights in past years crashing in what is now my apartment, they returned to perform one more time.

They showed up with a massive plastic jug of wine, which I and my friends presume was brewed in someone’s bathtub (probably not one of their own—they’re mostly homeless). We obliged them with vodka and cognac. And then they played all night. What more can I say than that? That their musicians embraced me like an old friend? That nobody—and certainly not so many—people have ever danced so hard in my own home? That the music was, as it were, hott?

Such are the things I’ll remember about Ukraine, even as I think more and more that it won’t be too long before I come back.

(For those in Ukraine, Toporkestra’s playing again on the 15^th at Sullivan Room.)

Landscapes shot from the bell tower of city hall.

I left Kyiv last Wednesday for Kamianets-Podilskyi, itself full of western Ukrainian charm, as part of a Fulbright promotion tour of sorts. The small-to-medium sized town is probably best known for its ancient fortress, which guarded against Turkish invasion in the days of the Polish empire. Legend has it (and so does Anna Reid) that a Turkish sultan once asked who fortified the city. “God himself”– to which he answered, “then let God himself storm it.” But as always, God needn’t do what we can do to ourselves, and the Turks did storm and capture the place once or twice along the way, until it nestled firmly into the Austrian busom from 1773 , right until the empire’s collapse in 1918.

I didn’t raise the issue of Turkish occupation, but I did speak about my research at the university. This is a 10,000 student school, a place that pulls students from all over the oblast (district) and even from more distant parts of the country. Founded 1918, it boldly declared, in the midst of a period that might be called the Polish-Bolshevik war. The rich facade of the university certainly did not look particularly Soviet, even if the school itself assimilated to the education system following its 1921 “attachment” to the Ukrainian SSR.

Taken through the bus window. These magnificent little cathedrals dotted the rolling countryside, a reminder of the role religion plays in many small communities.

The university informed two of its professors that I would be speaking to some classes, with the aid of an interpreter (this is a Ukrainian speaking city, naturally, and I’m not nearly at the level to field questions from university students). Highlights of my talks: applause from a group of history students when asked to say something in Ukrainian, discussion about reforms in the energy sector, and my controversial decision to speak honestly about my opinions on language policy in Ukraine (“relax,” in a nutshell). I strolled along the old city, took a stone bridge across a breathtaking canyon in spring bloom, and made my way to the bus station for a 6 hour trip to Lviv that could have been done in 2 had the roads been properly paved.

A stairway to heaven winked at me at a trendy outdoor cafe.

And then I was in Lviv. This is the only place I have visited in Ukraine that gave me flashbacks of Spain, Paris, or Potsdam, right down  the overpoweringly fragrant kava that dominates the social life of the city. Much of the social life of the city center, in fact, seemed to revolve around sitting in cafes and looking cool. I don’t mind.

No sooner did I arrive than I was off to Kryivka. I’ll call this bar famous in Ukraine because it’s infamous in neighboring Russia, where its UPA (Ukrainian Insurgent Army) theme doesn’t rub so well. In a nutshell, this was a group of nationalists that banded together in the Second World War to fight both the Nazis and the Soviets in an effort to win autonomy. They’re extraordinarily controversial, least of all for accusations about Nazi collaboration (a not entirely unknown phenomenon during this time period, though the motives were almost always hope for independence). But here, in Kryivka, you can feel like a patriot while liberating a few beers from their casks. The ‘secret’ password: “Slava Ukraini,” “glory to Ukraine,” to which one must always answer “glory to the heroes!” And for good measure, I was asked if I was a “Muscolin,” a derogatory word for someone from… well, see the beginning of this paragraph.

But kitschy bars aside– of which there are a great many in Lviv, including one eyebrow-raiser dedicated to the very Count Leopold von Sacher-Masoch who gave his name to masochism– the question that is Ukraine does have a special urgency in this city. It was here in Galicia that the Ukrainian nationalist movement truly flourished and took root, and Lviv remains the proudest bastion of that tradition– perhaps even more than in Kyiv, where most people don’t view the issue of Russian-Ukrainian bilingualism in particularly political terms. Whereas in Lviv, you’re most likely to hear tourists speaking Russian– to whom the local cafe’s are happy to serve.

The statues of Greek gods that dot the corners of Market Square especially seem to scream of the city’s unique, and at first blush seemingly un-Ukrainian, history from the Austrian period. It is here that my lovely fellow Fulbrighter who hosted me lives– what Maidan Nezalezhnosti would be in Kyiv if it were made for sipping coffee and flirting with passerby’s. But then, it’s in the very nature of Ukraine to be a mix of civilizations. I’ll leave it to the Ukrainians to tell me if the flirting part is in their nature.

Said host and her cohort toured me around the comparatively small city center, the whole time of which I was in a kava-induced seduction with the city itself. Feeling artsy, I took a trove of photos, to which I will leave the rest of this entry.

Religion has always had a special place in the city, with Catholicism predominant (another mark of its shared Polish and Austrian heritage). Above, an advertisement for the telecast of John Paul II's beatification.

The domes of one of the cities dozens of magnificent cathedrals pokes through the cover of an outdoor cafe-- a microcosm of two focal points of the city's culture.

Left to right, a contrast between the antiquated architecture of Lviv with a more Sovet-looking block apartment.

A deeply impressive monument to Taras Shevchenko, the great political poet of Ukraine responsible for the birth of the Ukrainian nationalist movement. To the left, figures from his poetry-- including, I presume, some historical ones-- are etched into stone. In the background, as always, there is a church.

A bargain book-- who will buy Yulia's life story, a tale of young girl to oligarch?

The opera house of Lviv, constructed during the Austro-Hungarian period. For its construction a river had to be diverted underground beneath the building, and legend has it that the architect was so sure it would be unsafe and lead to the house's falling through the ground that he took his own life. According to Wikipedia, which knows everything, the architect died of heart disease and the building is perfectly safe. But why give up on a charming tale?

What appears to be a drunk leprechaun sitting on a chimney. This is the top of Dim Lehend, a multistory bar/restaurant with each room dedicated to a particular theme and, presumably, legend. I am not familiar with this rather charming character.

One of my gracious hosts. He crawled in my bed; it got a little awkward.

I’m going to come back to Lviv soon. There’s a city-level energy efficiency project that meets regularly there, meaning I can even justify it as part of my work. Ura!

The bounty of Ukraine, on my kitchen table.

Midnight of Easter I walked down to the cathedral of Volodymyr the Great-- the patron saint of my Ukrainian journey-- to watch the Orthodox bring baskets with candles, and pray. I was not the only one watching. A massive television camera hovered down to the gates, falling to commemorate the resurrection.

Some very special guests from Lviv, the de facto capital of western Ukraine, prepared vereniki for Easter. Vereniki are often confused with pierogi by outsiders, but are in fact smaller and more dumpling-like.

Vereniki can be filled with anything and everything. These apples made for an excellent dessert, while potatoes rounded out the main course's.

In the days leading to Easter, the streets are filled with women selling paskha: the most common version I saw in Kyiv being little dome-shaped cakes with icing and sprinkles on top, like a home from the snowy Carpathians.

…

I have sorely neglected this blog. In the coming weeks, as I launch into the final stretches of my project and travel more around the country, I will update the past months’ events.

Strictly speaking, they’re big all over Eastern Europe, and in their home of Germany. Musical taste defies measurement, and I can no more explain their popularity in these parts than I can that of any other group that’s made it big in America. The music industry is global anyhow, so plucking any one group out may be a futile exercise. I do, however, love it, and I especially love Ukraine’s appreciation for classic rock. That’s why Route 66 is probably my favorite bar here.

You would think that with that name, and with Southwestern-themed kitsch all over the place– think bison skulls, Rosy the Riveter, and foosball– it would be an ex-pat bar. If so, the Americans don’t come out on Thursday night: locals packed the place, and the live music centered on a band called The Crazy Khokhols (a derogatory word for ethnic Ukrainians– they were taking it back, so to speak) who pulled off some metal classic covers. Queen, Nirvana, Ozzy, Scorpions (duh!), and plenty of other vintage hits. They even got the American accents down, more or less.

Music doesn’t exactly influence geopolitics, no matter how much some pundits wish it so (possible exception for John Lennon). But it does romanticize far-off places, and it can give expression to some of the longing we feel within ourselves. Plato goes as far as to suggest in the Laws that changes in music signal changes in civilization, insofar as music reflects or even guides the configuration of human impulses– and often away from the “higher” parts of the soul. That’s why Allan Bloom condemned rock music in The Closing of the American Mind, a centerpiece from the last so-called “culture war” in America, as the adulation of human vulgarity. Sex, drugs, rock n’roll: but also, rebellion, individuality, transgression, sin, change, liberation.

Our grandparents probably couldn’t stand this stuff when it came out, but for our parents, it was everything, and for us, it’s part of the order of things. I can only imagine the introduction of rock to the USSR being just as controversial, and especially the sex and drugs part. One Ukrainian in her late 20s (a systematic survey, this is not) explained to me that her parents never were taught any sex education in school growing up, and their parents’ parents especially refused to broach the subject. Her own mother couldn’t discuss it with her verbally as a teen, and could only bring herself to purchase a book explaining all the changes she doubtlessly experienced at that age. “Children came from cabbage in those days,” she joked.

We all know who really brought down the Berlin Wall.

If that’s the case, I wonder how much of a life changing experience classic rock had to have been. And I wonder more if it means anything at all now. We take the Beatles for granted, Pink Floyd for a household name, even though imagining a world without their music strikes me as an act of masochism. So I also wonder if any of the hope that came in that wave of music survives. Sexual liberation has given way to alarmingly high AIDS rates in the region (Ukraine’s is the highest in Europe), hope for a better world to widespread political apathy (a phenomena we Americans are guilty of ourselves, if in a different package). But Route 66 is there to take everyone back to the time when it was all new, and enjoy it in a little slice of a place most people won’t get the chance to visit.

Plus, we definitely don’t have awesome sausage platters at our bars.

Yaroslav the Wise rests by the Golden Gate, at the site of ancient Kiev. The city springs from his hands in an archetypal tribute to the act of political founding.

Winter has come, and with it a batch on the city’s first snowfall.

Notice the background. Construction on the Golden Gate museum seems to be taking museum.

I anticipate fewer cars on the streets when the snows get really heavy. At a minimum, it will be harder for cars to drive up to the antique doors of St. Volodymyr's Cathedral and park there, obnoxiously.

The middling park leading up to the statue of Lenin overlooking the main shopping street, Khreshatyk.

The guardian of Taras Shevchenko Park, facing the main building of the national university that also bears his name.

My friend, Frost Taras.

This statue of a fisherman stands by the park's pond, long since drained. Trails in the snow suggest dogs, children still play here from time to time.

A heart on the Honda of an oligarch. It was scraped off soon after I took this photo.

But really, the discussion centered more on popular opinion in America than on the elections themselves. I loved some of the questions I got, first because they say a lot about the issues that make the news in Ukraine, and also because they put into sharp relief just how ridiculous some of our politics can be. Take a look at their questions and my (perhaps too blunt) responses:

1. What happened with this mosque that was being built near Ground Zero? Why was there such a reaction to it?

Z: I think it was technically a prayer center– I guess a mosque is considered a holier place– but in any case, it was (is?) a ridiculous situation. There were always Muslim prayer spaces in the Twin Towers, mainly for all the workers there who couldn’t leave during the day. It was never considered a problem by anyone, and of course the people who actually worked in the building respected the custom of daily prayer. But there was a shift in the way a group of Americans saw Islam after September 11th. And when I say “shift,” I mean that lots of Americans didn’t know anything about Islam at all before then. Tons of people live in their towns, never travel much, never interact with different kinds of people, and just don’t know that much about what’s going on in the world or how other people live their lives– I think it’s like this for lots of people in every country, really.

So for some, maybe even a lot of Americans, their first encounter with Middle Eastern politics distorted their views of the religion. They didn’t know how to distinguish the very small groups of extremists from the religion as a whole, and they didn’t know how to separate some very complicated politics from the religion either. And so, I am very sad to say, I think some Americans have an irrational fear of Islam. But what happened with this prayer center is politics. Some politicians saw an opportunity to exploit these fears, to paint a very ordinary construction project as part of a bigger conflict, and to win reputation for themselves by claiming to protect people from a threat that doesn’t exist. It’s one of the oldest tactics in history.

What really changed the day those towers fell? I used to argue that September 11th didn't change as much as people thought it did, that the war in Afghanistan was the only direct result, that the war in Iraq was at most made more convincing, but really was not caused by the attaks. It's becoming harder for me to make that point. 9/11 left a deep imprint on American opinions about the world, and politicans have begun to reflect those opinions.

2. What’s the difference between the Republicans and the Democrats?

Z: Wow, what a great question! The differences used to be obvious, but today, I’m not even sure what I would say. I think the Republicans have become a party that believes in limiting the role of government in social programs as much as possible. As little interference in people’s businesses or private lives as possible, or so the narrative goes. But I think some Republicans mean “as little interference with the right way to live our lives,” and “as much protection of what we consider the right lifestyle as possible.” So the same people who want small government want the government to have control over certain lifestyles, like those of gay Americans. But in any case, Republicans see themselves as championing private responses to social problems over government involvement.

And I think the Democrats have become the party of social engineering. They believe that the government must play a role in correcting social and historical injustices, such as continued inequalities in living conditions and access to opportunities for American minorities, especially the conditions inherited from years of slavery and then racism for black men and women. You might know that slavery existed in America until the civil war, for instance (“even Abraham Lincoln owned slaves,” mentioned one girl– “I know there were U.S. presidents who did own slaves– I don’t know history well enough to know if Lincoln ever did up until abolition– but in any case, hypocrisy is a big problem in politics”). But even after that, freed slaves remained second-class citizens by law until the 1960s. So the Democrats became the advocates of the civil rights movement, and today they focus on correcting problems through government involvement. Public health care is a good example of a problem the Democrats believe the government has to fix. Sometimes it works, though sometimes I fear the Democrats are a bit too naive about how easy it is to fix some problems. And they’ve certainly upset the Republicans with the huge health care program they’re trying to start, who see it, of course, as massive government interference.

Lincoln, the most famous Republican president, whose party probably differs completely than its descendent today. Centuries do that to political positions.

So I guess the biggest difference is Republicans tend to advocate private liberties mixed with defending a certain vision of what American lifestyle is supposed to be, and the Dem’s defend equality and believe that if organized action is not taken (by the government or social movements), things won’t get better for the disadvantaged.

I hope that was fair and balanced for you guys. (Nobody got the joke.)

3. A friend of mine visited Washington, and somebody told him that the U.S. government is truly responsible for September 11th. What is this situation?

Z: Ah, yes, conspiracy theories. There are some Americans who are so isolated from the rest of the country, and who don’t understand what happens in Washington so much, that they think the national government is actually their enemy. These are very few Americans of course– most people who don’t like the national government see them as immoral, but not as trying to actually hurt them. But to these small groups, it’s easy to make up a story about the evils of the national government, and they are happy to believe it. So some people, amazingly, think the U.S. government destroyed the twin towers itself. It’s embarrasing for me to talk about, but I don’t think most Americans take that idea seriously.

4. Could we talk about something not dealing with politics next time?

Z: Not dealing with politics! Everything in America is political! I don’t even know how to talk about something distinctively American without seeing politics. There’s baseball, there’s the entertainment industry, but I can’t think of anything to be discussed in American culture that is not politicized. Even Lady Gaga is a social advocate, and entertainers who advocate total disinterest in politics are considered to be engaging in a political act.

—

Dear lord, are we really that political? Maybe I think this way because all I’ve done for the past four years is study theories of society and politics, of war and justice. But you tell me: where does politics end and culture begin in America?

The film follows twelve jurors as they deliberate over the life of a teenager accused of stabbing his father to death. An open-and-shut case, all but one thinks at first. One man wants to get to his baseball game; one can’t wait to put the rotten kid down; all of them are tired of six days of trial and want to get the voting over with. And then there’s one who thinks they should at least think over the facts of the case before sending him to his execution.

The men at the start of the film are not angry in the least. The anger first comes from the unsettling suggestion that to pass judgment without the use of reason– on the basis of unreasoned opinion– is irresponsible. It flares as the men realize that some of their fellow jurors do not wish to consider the evidence at all– that they are not just irresponsible, but immoral. It erupts when they realize that some members of the jury cannot reason at all– that some might wish for the boy to die to satisfy some passion within themselves.

Not just one of the best American movies ever made, 12 Angry Men also provides a gateway to political philosophy. The phases of the film’s ethical dilemmas match Nietzsche’s broad sketch of the history of morals: first consequentialism, as appeals are made to weigh the physical death of the accused teen; then intentionalism, as the jurors question why they should care about the trial or death at all; then pre-morality, as the room discovers that the internal struggles of some jurors constrict their ability to reason at all. The man whose dignity rests on his sense of intellectual superiority, the dweeb who lacks the confidence to think for himself, the fast-talker afraid to break from his cynicism, the failed father who masks his shame with anger toward all youth. Yet the film presents a challenge to Nietzsche’s nihilism: the one man who compels the room to question the case and ultimately themselves does so not by compulsion, but by his example of an honorable man. The appeal to reason, with a great deal of effort, overcomes the reasoned argument against reason itself. Through the presence of a Socrates in the room, we are able to see that it is Socrates who is again on trial.

I introduced the film by explaining that the original screenplay came around in 1954, the height and beginning of the descent of McCathyism. Literally: just take a look at the poll midway or so down the Wikipedia page (fully cited here, of course). The question debated in American society at the moment centered on fear of the Soviet Union and how to confront those demagogues who would use that fear to debase the principles of American society. The play and film suggest a deeper problem: the true thing to fear is apathy toward justice, an enemy within rather than without. It is a deeply Greek notion.

Klinias the Cretan tells the Athenian Stranger that he condemns "the mindlessness of the many, who do not realize that for everyone throughout the whole of life an endless war exists against all cities." (625e) The Athenian Stranger soon rebuts that "anyone who thought this way would never become a correct statesman, if he looked first and only to external wars, and would never become a lawgiver in the strict sense, if he didn't legislate the things of war for the sake of peace rather than the things of peace for the sake of what pertains to war." (628d-e) -Plato's Laws, the Pangle translation

Showing this to a Ukrainian audience proved to be an enlightening experience for me. First, I was reminded once again how incredibly well many university students speak English, something that should not surprise me given how common life-long English instruction is around the world, but which nonetheless reminds me how inept Americans tend to be with foreign languages (a trend that I think has started to change for the better).

Second, and more importantly, they offered extremely insightful comments and analysis. It was very clear that the men’s prejudice undermined the jury; it was even clear to some that apathy of this sort threatens the justice system. One woman caught the Cold War undertones (I totally mentioned McCarthy during of my introduction); one amazing gentleman suggested that Henry Fonda’s role as producer confirms the film’s humanitarian undertones. One student told me she had read the play in a drama class, and played the role of the defiant juror. Another brilliantly pointed out that each juror represents a particular human type (a notion that implies much about the need for philosophers to have courage). I was deeply impressed.

I enjoyed explaining jury duty to the audience. One student asked me if everyone in the room was a lawyer. “Nope, all citizens can be randomly selected to serve for jury duty. It’s not considered a desirable thing to receive.” Another asked if everyone in America really does this at some point or another. “It really is random, so most people will probably serve at least once in their lifetime, yeah.” The first student followed up, “maybe they should be lawyers.” I could interpret this in two ways: the jurors in the film did a far better job than the prosecutor or the defense (who, who are made to understand, is a public defendant: one of the most overworked, underpaid, under-appreciated professions in America).

Or perhaps he meant that a process like this should not be left up to ordinary citizens. The film does indeed raise that question. But then, we are made to understand that the lawyers did no better job. Reason need not be the domain of any one profession, regardless of its reputation: the true ranking of a citizen is reasoned commitment to a just society.

Another young man asked if it was possible that the US government had this film made as a form of propaganda, a question that baffled me at first given how deeply I interpreted it as a critique of American democracy. The room vehemently disagreed. But when I asked him why he thought this might be the case, he told me that the happy ending made him suspicious. “This is a very pretty picture, but it does not seem real.”

And he was right. This was an ideal, and one that brings a sense of shame upon realizing that we probably do not live up to it. But whereas Soviet propaganda would have presented this ideal as reality, the film allows the reader to realize this hangs above reality, as an idea to stretch toward. Like I said, it is Greek to the core.

On a final note, a number of students told me about a Russian film called 12 (2007) by Nikita Mikhalkov. It’s a Russian version of the the American classic, in which a jury deliberates the fate of a Chechen teenager accused of murdering his stepfather. It is political in a rather different sense: 12 Angry Men took place entirely in a jury chamber, removed from the necessities of political life. 12 remains deeply mired in the violence and complications of the Russian conflict in Chechnya. That is all I can say for now, but I very much look forward to seeing the remake.

Next week I am hosting a conversation group on the recent U.S. elections with a Fulbright-Hays doing research for her dissertation in Kyiv. I expect that entry, regrettably, to be far less philosophical.

The point in a nutshell: while many problems were reported with the election, very few of them were the types of things I would be able to see as an election monitor, and much of what I did see suggested that some polling stations really did make an honest effort. The implication, not fleshed out, is that observers have very limited uses. A few scandals did pass before some of us personally, but the biggest problems with the election were set into motion before any of us picked up our official registration cards, or happened behind the scenes or out of most vote count rooms.

I'm the first one. I also have to admit I liked the original Post photo of a man passed out over his desk.

Adrian Karatnycky also published a sort-of-provocative piece today. There were certainly serious problems, he says, but he argues that they were not enough to change the final results. In fact, he believes the election represents a fairly accurate demographic of voting preferences. It may very well be true– but I myself would not be willing to reach any conclusions about the matter without a lot of hard, reliable data.

My article was originally published under a more provocative title, “What election fraud?” and the editors kindly changed it at my request. Lest I be accused of getting paid off (as Karatnycky inevitably is in the comments section), I emphasize that I only repeat what I saw or what I was told in person– for those things I did not and could not have seen that undermined the credibility of the elections, another source (of the many out there reporting violations) is needed.

I walked to the Botanical Gardens, a short stop from my house, at the end of October. “Woods” might be the more appropriate term for this collection of hills and leaf-covered paths. A perfect place for children to play, couples to find some quiet space for themselves, and old men to sit on a bench and reflect.

The entryway to the gardens at dusk.

A devochka dashes in front of my camera.

Sunset on a wooded path. The garden was full of couples strolling together.

This statue was erected in 1941. It's eerie to think that this archer's death throes matched those around him-- possibly the sculptor among them.

"...once an eagle, stricken with a dart,/ Said, when he saw the fashion of the shaft,/ 'With our own feathers, not by others' hands,/ Are we now smitten'." -Aeschylus

On my way back, I passed down Taras Shevchenko street (the one by the train ticket house, as opposed to the million other streets, parks, and squares named after the country’s national poet and hero).

A dedushka plays the accordion in one of many underground tunnels in the city. I imagine they help with crossing the street when the roads freeze over.

St. Volodimir's Cathedral, whose interior I included in an earlier post.

I am going to include an entry about my experience as a  election observer in Odessa during the country’s local elections this past Sunday. For the time being, just be grateful if you have access to an electronic ballot this Super Tuesday.