I changed apartment again today. As I walked with my life once again on my back I saw a thick roll of US one hundred notes on the ground, wrapped in clear plastic. No-one was nearby but I didn't pick up the money.
As I waited for the lights to change a man rushed up beside and picked up the cash. "Founded money", he cried gleefully, as he walked with me across the intersection. "What's your name? We share. 50/50". I could see a fifty euro note on the other side of the roll. "No", I say, "you found it, it's all yours".
He offered to share a couple more times then gave up and walked back the way he came. What would have happened if I taken up his offer or picked up the money myself? Then the "owner" would have rushed up to ask for it back. We would have happily obliged but then he would have checked and found some "missing". "You've taken some", he would have accused. The innocent foreigner then takes out his wallet to prove that he hasn't: "Look, no hundred dollar bills". The wallet is snatched and both guys take off.
Luckily I'd heard about this scam already. But it still takes some will not to pick up what looks like several thousand dollars lying on the street with no-one around.
...are sometimes wrong.
I've changed my mind. I like Kiev after all. Flew in from Tbilisi on a Yak-42D. What a plane. When I got on I thought half the seats were busted, but no, they're supposed to fold flat down forward. Why? I don't know. The guy next to me had never flown before. He celebrated this by falling asleep after talk-off and missing the excellent in-flight meal of a couple of bits of soggy meat and a huge wafer biscuit. I don't know what the orange juice was made of but it wasn't oranges.
Hopes of a speedy immigration at Donetsk were quickly dispelled. One hundred Georgians, one immigration officer, and a scrum that would embarrass an Italian. I had just an hour to the next flight. I managed to squeeze past a few people and waved my ticket around. A nice lady let me go ahead of her at the front. Officer was carefully scrutinising everyone and typing all the information one-fingered in to the computer. Arkooda? he asks, holding my passport with full arkooda information printed right on the front. Ireland, I say. Blank look. Try some variations: Earland, Eire, EU, Europe, European Union. Nothing. He calls over another guy, who'd previously spent his time loudly saying "pazhalsta" in an attempt to stop the crowding at the window. Everyone ignored him.
Finally I'm through and racing for the gate. I don't need to get my bag since it's checked through to Kiev. I reach the waiting room for the next flight to find it empty. Have they left already? Just wait says a lady. I wait. I get a drink. The young drink lady doesn't seem to be wearing very much. Welcome to Ukraine. Where are all the people? I wait. I finally see a clock. It's an hour behind. I've got plenty of time.
Ten minutes before the flight departs I vageuly hear "Tbilisi". Turns out my bag has been forlornly waiting for me way back at the immigration spot. Of course, it wasn't checked through despite the assurances in Tbilisi. I go and collect it and bring it around just in time to board.
Arrive in Kiev. Picked up at airport and driven in to town. Apartment dominated by double bed with tiger skin motif. Interior decorating they don't know. Head out at 9pm to find some water. Find instead that the main street of Kiev is closed to traffic and is full of buskers: folk music, rock music, fire twirlers, and a poor old geezer playing Orthodox music on a wind-up grammophone directly across from the tattooed rock band. Totally change my opinion of Kiev. I like this place now. Eventually head back to the flat to see the gold-clad roof of St Mikhayil's Monastery over the satellite dish-clad roofs of the apartments.
Sunday. Try to buy milk. Almost fail. It's there. In the shop, under the counter. But will anyone serve me? No. Three staff members stand around watching me until finally the one in charge of this three feet appears and can sell me the carton. Buy some juice also then return to find that the apartment has a full complement of vodka glasses but nothing for juice.
Did a bit of apartment-hunting today. Saw three places. First quite okay in an old-fashioned kind of way. Second rather bizarrely laid out. The fridge was in the hallway. Third was simply bizarre. Owned by a guy from Munich. The bedroom was pink. And I mean pink. Pink walls. Pink bed. Pink curtains. The phrase "cheap brothel" managed to find it's way on to my notepad. But then the living room was sort of Mad King Ludwig meets a Greek temple. Entered through fluted columns, featuring 19th century straight-backed chairs, full-sized reliefs of Greek goddesses on the wall, a widescreen TV and an upright piano. Yours for a negotiable US$2000 a month. "Don't you want to negotiate?" asked the rather desperate vendor. I just wanted to get out.