Rudz from Europe

My gallery opens in Ukraine tomorrow

2009-06-21T17:52:00.002+03:00

Ukraine Catholic University Gallery - Images by Mike Rudzinski

Tomorrow will be the grand opening of my gallery at Ukrainian Catholic University in Lviv, Ukraine. The event kicks off at 2 pm and will feature 30 photographs from 9 months in Ukraine, from September 2008 to May 2009.

Thank you to Petro Didula, my friend and mentor, who organized the event and has set up the gallery, to Professor Jeffrey Wills for helping organize, and to everyone at UCU for this wonderful year.

If you cannot make it to 17 Svensitskoho in Lviv tomorrow, then you can see the photographs on my website.

Thus ends the Best Year of My Life (so far)

2009-05-24T19:47:00.002+03:00

I'm home! I'm writing this in my parent's house in Rockford, Illinois. I arrived in Rockford last Friday, and in Boston a week before. I surprised my sister, Carrie, for her college graduation, it was great!

I'm currently working on establishing a garden, fixing my computer(so I can blog more), and being Mike. Life is great!

I had a very emotional departure from Ukraine. I will explain in detail as I am able to post photos and videos, but the short story is that this was the best year of my life. However, my philosophy of life might best be summed up by a poker tournament that goes well. If you play your cards right, each hand should be better than the last. Thus, the last day of your life, the day you die, will be the greatest. I'm being completely sincere when I say I could die today and feel content.

Love you all, and more to come!

Computer Busted

2009-05-10T23:31:00.002+03:00

Readers,

On my return from Spain a few weeks ago, I discovered my Macbook Pro was suffering from something bloggers call "Random Shutdown Syndrome." Only affecting Mabooks and MBPs, this nefarious disease causes your laptop to randomly shutdown and restart without warning. A techie in the Netherlands(or thereabouts) pinpointed the cause of the problem to a small wire connecting the video card and the motherboard that would expand when too hot and cause an overload.

In other words, the small intestine is trying to eat the stomach and I'm out of photos and videos until I return to America(and Apple Stores). I'm upset, but there's nothing I can do. My last mac laptop lasted 5 years after I dropped it several times, cracked the casing in 3 places and dropped a drawer on it.

When I return home in June I will get it fixed ASAP and then upload the photos and videos that are overdue. I apologize for not posting sooner, but these past few weeks have been eventful. Thanks for keeping up and love you all!

Rudz

Shevchenko vs. Lenin: The insanity of too much reason

2009-04-26T13:30:00.006+03:00

At the southern entrance to Taras Shevchenko Park in Odessa, Ukraine stands a statue of the park's namesake. His massive chiseled shoulders top a monstrous frame clothed in perfectly-pressed trousers and jacket. A face meant to either inspire or strike fear into the common worker is mandatory for Shevchenko, an Ukrainian poet, artist and humanist who is credited by many for the creation of modern Ukrainian literature and even the language. In the west, presidents and war veterans often take credit for founding society. But in the east, the poets are the heroes.

What is most striking about Shevchenko's statue in this southern port town is his eyes and his mustache. Evidenced by his portrait, Ol' T.S.'s cookie duster is the envy of World War 1 veterans and mustache enthusiasts the world over, but this statue's exemplification was unique. As were his eyes. They were so cold, so huge and yet dwarfed by his massive brow. And then it became apparent his shoulders were not his own, either.

It was Lenin. The enemy of patriotic Ukrainians everywhere, the destroyer of worlds himself, Lenin's statue had been altered into a beefy Shevchenko. How incredibly ironic and yet unsavory: turning Communism's godfather, the man responsible for a regime that enslaved Ukraine for half a century, into the hero Ukrainians credit as the patriarch of their very language and culture.

Reflecting on the laziness of statue redactors everywhere, I have begun reading G.K. Chesterton's Orthodoxy in order to make sense of why the world is so mad. In his first glorious chapter, Chesterton addresses the question of insanity, and what exactly keeps a man sane or expunges him from it. The answer, of course, is not that he has lost reason altogether, but that he has lost everything but reason. Insanity may very well be a problem of too much reason, which is what every tyrant like Lenin suffers from in the first place.

Chesterton's grandest example of this is in the contrast of exactly those two men in the Odessa statue: the logician and the poet. The problem with the all too reasonable logician, like Lenin, is he tries to understand everything in the infinite universe, and realizing he cannot, makes it finite. He intentionally limits his view of the infinite because he cannot explain it, making it finite and incomplete.

The poet, Shevchenko, accepts the universe as the infinite sea that it is, Chesterton says, and merely attempts to float his raft on it. Accepting the universe as something outside of his control, as something infinite, the poet makes a place for his finite self in an infinite universe and finds he has all the space he needs. Realizing his view of the world is not complete, he is free to wander about and look at everything, and is never bored because there is always more to be discovered.

Chesterton says the poet merely pokes his head into the clouds to have a look around. The logician attempts to fit the heavens into his head, and it is his head that splits.

Perhaps this is why the insanity of Lenin's ideas are now dying in the godforsaken aftermath of the Soviet Regime. The tyrant attempts not only to understand everything, to reason everything, but in doing so he attempts to control all. This might be best exemplified in Tsar Nicholas I's order to exile Shevchenko to the Ural Mountains for writing critically of Tsarist Russia. Nicholas' words were to keep him under the strictest surveillance, without the right to write or paint.

The poet gives up control of his surroundings and his existence and merely attempts to enjoy and observe it. Shevchenko died in exile at the age of 47, but not after producing numerous paintings, poems, writings and drawings that live on today in Ukraine as works of a national hero.

The tyrant is insane because in his power he attempt to stretch his finite being over the infinite, to reason and control it. He creates a reasoning perfect in its simplicity, a perfect circle if you will, but a circle that is limited by its size. As his control and reason is found wanting, the circle shrinks, its owner running around it faster and faster and always ending up at the same place he started. The tyrant finds this reasonable because all apparent contradictions to his perfect circle must be left out if it is to work.

Shevchenko managed to retain sanity in the the bitter cold of the Ural mountains, of physical labour, and of the tortuous punishment of his oppressors. It would seem logical to us he should have gone insane. Yet he withstood the cruelest punishment and harshest conditions unwaveringly until death. But his oppressors could not withstand even his simple poetry or the sight of his art, it was too beautiful to fit in the circle, and it was too infinite to be snuffed out even his death.

Apparently, you can receive monetary compensation for blogging your butt off

2009-04-22T01:10:00.001+03:00

This was in my email inbox about 2 hours ago:

Hi ,

I came across your blog at Blogger.com. It is very well written and interesting. I like how you have explored the topic. If you are interested, I would like to extend an invitation to join Allvoices. It's a citizen journalist site. We discuss, debate and write about everything under the sun here.The site has a lot of people who are passionate about writing and use this as a tool to make a difference.

Allvoices also has an incentive programme for writers who can earn up to $10,000 cash. You can visit http://www.allvoices.com/journalism for more details and do register if you are interested.

Thanks,
Tara

Spain another fabulouth thucceth, love Barthelona

2009-04-15T14:58:00.002+03:00

I will post my trip in full in a few days, but it´s been a while since I´ve updated on my trip to Spain. I arrive here last Wednesday, went to Valencia on Thursday and returned to Barcelona on Saturday for Easter Sunday. I´m in Girona right now after I dropped my friend Amanda off at the bus station.
I´m typing at an internet cafe with my friend Bozena from Canada and a new friend, Brenton, from Texas, who we refer to as 'Dallas.' Dallas and I have been mimicking the Catalanian accent the entire trip, tho we keep thaying thingth with a lithp. Stop it.
We´re couchsurfing here in a small town before Bozena and I catch a plane to Poznan, Poland and Dallas goes to France. Life is wonderful and I´m doing well. We are staying in a farmhouse that looks like a morgue in a horror film. We were a bit surprised when our host pulled out a dried pig leg and carved us some ham. It was tasty and very dead.

France Last Day

2009-04-13T12:00:00.000+03:00

Above, top to bottom: One of our hosts enjoys a cigarette as he explains his struggling photography career. I was surprised he keeps professional photo and studio equipment, prints and his computer in the squat for safety reasons, but it strangely put me at ease; Timothy preparing a wine carrying case during our final hour or so; the squat in all its glory

France Day 7: Paris

2009-04-10T23:46:00.001+03:00

Above, top to bottom: smoking a cigar on the Champs-Elysees in Paris, France on March 30th, 2009; Brett in his bed at the squat we slept in; Pierre showing me his photo studio, one of the permanent squatters of the building(name has been changed, they are living illegally); Ahhh, Paris. Ahhh, the Seine. Oui! France! Carpe Diem, world! Live vicariously through me!
"Are you sure this is the place?"
"Damned if I know"
"You have this girl's number?"
"I already texted."
We were waiting outside a small bookshop near Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris for our host, a friend of a friend, to let us into her flat. When the door finally opened, a short, round-faced girl with tired eyes blew a thin stream of cigarette smoke out the crack of the door and pushed it open.
"Mike?"
"Yeah."
"Claire."
I was not expecting to squat illegally in an abandoned flat turned art commune. But I did. Tim, Brett and I were a bit surprised when we walked into what looked like the utility closet of the building, a red door with some tape and a name over it. Although they have permission from the courts to stay till August, I felt I should not advertise their presence over the internet.
Inside, we were greeted with a multitude of superfluous art materials, canvas and building materials. There were at least 12 bicycles, only two of which worked. The room was completely black, but I was aware of a huge cart holding some mammoth wooden frames, nearly 15 feet long and eight feet tall. There were scraps of insulation strewn about the floor, things I mistook for rats at first. Perhaps it was wishful thinking.
"We're on the second floor," said Claire.
For the first time, I notice the bits of colored cloth tied in Claire's partial dreadlocks. We follow her up a creaky staircase and into even darker rooms. She leads us to a makeshift room that looks more like a landlord's afterthought than an artist's accommodations. Claire fumbles for the light, as if she cannot remember where it is in the room.
When she does find it, I wished it was off again. The four-foot tall teddy bear staring at me is in the midst of a pile of clothes, used plastic bags and wrappers, coathangers, half a coffee table, wires, and a bed covered from ceiling to floor by red drapes. There is no floor space.
"Shit, I have to clean," said Claire.
We drop our bags and head to kitchen to meet the rest of the residents.

France Day 6: Paris

2009-04-09T23:30:00.000+03:00

Above, top to Bottom: Oscar Wilde's grave inside the Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, France on March 29th, 2009; Frederic Chopin's grave, he was a Polak!; the Mauthausen Memorial, a Nazi, WWII concentration camp in Austria; Tim inside in the colombarium, where the graves of the cremated are; and would you really put a Simpsons-esque character on your grave?

Day 5: Lyon

2009-04-08T21:46:00.000+03:00

Above, top to Bottom: the view from Basilica of Notre-Dame de Fourvière in Lyon, France on March 27th, 2009; the interior of the Basilica; Tim inside a Russian Orthodox Church in Lyon, the same church of our hosts who let us sleep in their rectory(in a different location); after lunch with our host, Francois, at far left, the parish priest, and Francois' family.

France Day 3 and 4: The Saint

2009-04-07T11:48:00.005+03:00

Above, top to bottom: Marie-Jean, Brett and Tim say their good-byes and thank-you's in French after a wonderful day and several gourmet meals on March 26, 2009 in Cavaillon, France; Jocelyn, Tim, Marie-Jean and Brett outside their home; Jocelyn, myself, Marie-Jean and Brett; a quiche Marie-Jean baked for us during our 24-hour mega-feast and lesson in the finest of French dining; stuffed tomatoes Jocelyn made for us. I was licking my plate.

"Il y a un fete dans ma bouche," I proclaimed to the lunch table and one of our hosts, Jocelyn.
The blond-haired widow and mother of two from Normandy stared blankly back at me as she contemplated the meaning of the phrase. She looked at the stuffed tomatoes we were eating and burst out laughing.
"You have a party in your mouth," Tim said, giggling.
And it was quite the fiesta. Stuffed tomatoes, delictable quiche, choice red wine, fresh dates and apricots, grilled pork-chops, and assorted cheeses nearly burst the stomachs of three young men. We were humbled buy the physical feast, but only filled by the words of our host, Marie-Jean.

My friend Teresa had arranged for our accommodations days before this lunch, and we had assumed the floor and sleeping bags would be the logical accommodations. After all, we're young and poor, we should earn it. But the week before we came, Teresa met a woman at church and mentioned to her that we were passing through Cavaillon via car. She offered her driveway for the car. Oh, and I have a few beds by the way . . . have they eaten? etc. etc. etc.
Four hours late, we pulled into the driveway of Marie-Jean's house at 9 p.m. on the 25th to see an elderly woman with gray hair standing in the driveway. She spoke warmly to Teresa in french and directed us to the side of the driveway.
"This woman's a saint," Brett said.
Never have I been so humbled by a single person, nor have I felt such a strong connection with an individual. I realized I was no longer a guest, but rather a newborn member of a family I had never known before. I was not staying in her house, but rather entering her sphere of influence. Everthing we did, said, thought, ate, breathed, slept and saw was in reference to her kindness. A consecrated widow, Marie-Jean took us in as one of her own, and without understanding any french myself, I knew I was adopted. I knew I could bring my family and friends back to this woman and have deep conversations without words. I felt changed just standing in her presence.
Despite being four hours late, she had patiently waited to serve us a four-course feast. We talked until two in the morning, and then took showers. She let us sleep as late as we wanted, and when we awoke, breakfast was waiting.
I should mention the only sight-seeing we did this whole day was to a church in the downtown area, and to a flower shop to buy our host some flowers. We spent the whole 24 hours with Marie-Jean eating, sleeping, and mostly talking. It was liberating.
I will never be the same. I cannot fully describe here what we talked about, it was too much to put into words and too beautiful, but if you ask me again when I return home, I'll be happy to relate it all.

France Day 3: wine, chocolates and Peugeot rental cars

2009-04-04T18:00:00.000+03:00

Above, top to bottom: Tim and Brett are so excited to get a rental upgrade to a Peugeot, they celebrate by immediately jumping on the hood and dressing like tourists from countries their not from; Monsieur Tim Malone II poses for a portrait outside Jenna's apartment in Aix-en-Provence on March 23rd, 2009; Jenna, myself and Tim shortly before we leave for Cavaillon; the delicious gourmet chocolates we sampled together, I don't remember what they all were, but the seashell one was creamy, soft, warm and delicious(I wanted to buy a chocolate cat and pass it around while we stared at Chamallow, but I was outvoted); from left to right: Tim Malone II of Rockford, IL, USA, Alanna Karpa of Vancouver, Canada, Brett McCaw and Jenna McIntyre also from Rockford, and Veronique, host mother and apparently smelling someone's fart, of Aix-en-Provence.
I hear there's a lot of fine wine in southern France, but we didn't try none of it. Shucks.
In truth, we quickly dispensed with the sightseeing pleasantries and focused on just enjoying the people with whom we were staying. It really is the best way to travel: relationships, not sights and things.
We spent the afternoon of our last day in Aix-en-Provence bumming around the countryside looking for a place to do lunch. Apparently Guistine, Veronique's daughter, has a friend who lives inside a castle. Whoever he/she was, they weren't home, but we felt very important for about five minutes while waiting inside the gates. We found a vineyard, but the owner's were too exhausted from bottling to give us a tasting. So we played with their five dogs and drove away.
Hershey's and the occassional Ghiradelli bar is the extent of most American's chocolate education. After biting into a lilac syrup-filled dark chocolate, the strong aroma of a spring breeze in my nostrils, I new what I was missing. The chocolate we sampled was some of the best in France, and perhaps in the world.
It was a pity we had to leave Aix and the girls so soon, but the trip was well worth it. Thanks, ladies!

France Day 2

2009-04-03T22:00:00.001+03:00

France Day 2: Aix-en-Provence

2009-04-02T01:33:00.015+03:00

I spent my first couple days of the trip in Switzerland with my aunt and uncle(Thanks Bob and Kate). After looting my father's wine supply, helping Kate bake cookies and enjoying delicious leg of lamb, I set out for France via eurail and arrived in sunny Marseilles to find Brett, Tim and Jenna waiting for me on the platform. We had a splendid time staying with Jenna, Tim's neighbor from Rockford, IL, her roommate Alanna and their hostmother Veronique over three days. They were wonderful to us.

On day two, we decided to go for a hike to some sort of mountain, and spent the majority of the time blazing new trails, getting cut and bruised and giving blood to the forest floor than we did actual hiking. But we had a blast nonetheless, and the view from the top of the mountain we did climb was excellent. So was the cigar.

That night, we had a heated debate about the Pope's comments on contraception in Africa, and then we finished my(dad's) bottle of wine and opened another. Ladies, if you are reading this, you are all excellent conversationalists. What a way to start a trip. Read Tim's rather humorous morning moment below in my post from last week.

The most infamous member of Veronique's flat was a overweight, orange Persian cat with a chainsaw-snoring disorder. Chamallow, as they had named the beast, got its name for the french for cat, "chat" [chah] and "marshmallow."But for imagination's sake, if you could coat a marshmallow in orange fur, give it the body type of the Chinese Buddha and the personality of Madonna, you could clone Chamallow.

Fearing a dog-bite is quite natural, but the fear human beings experience when they know there is a cat waiting to pee on their possessions is like hearing the artillery fire and waiting for it to land on your only pair of shoes you've brought to France for a week-long trip. It just when I thought I had escaped the Persian's gaze, I sat down on the toilet and came face to the face with the "Cat Show, Marseilles" poster on the bathroom door, and those yellow Persian cat eyes. Ick, cats.

Where I was last week

2009-04-01T01:55:00.002+03:00

View Larger Map

The thrill of renting a car in a foreign country is like getting a pony at age 6. You're convinced you're getting underwear, but you get an upgrade to a 4-door for free. Mom and dad seem hellbent on giving you coal, but then the AVIS guy in Paris writes the gas charge off your car and give it to you for less than you expected. You think "hmm, won't driving in France be hard?" and then you end up delegating that to your best friend, who is a great driver and drinks coffee like Juan Valdez.

I often find myself in strange situations, like being 6 inches from then-Senator Barack Obama in Milwaukee without reliable photographer credentials. Eating bagettes and cheese while driving on French highways, squatting illegally in a Parisian flat, and smoking a cigar while walking down the Champs-elysees definitely rates up there with my top 10 unbelievable situations.

But beyond the visceral travel experiences, my two closest friends and I went through a profound transformation during this trip. It quickly gained "best trip of our life" status, and for more reasons than just experiential. We were getting a tour of humanity, of the good Russian Orthodox parish in Lyon and the bad side of French secularism, the unconditionally loving French widow who took us in as her own sons and the Lonely-Planet hating host we had in Blois, the believers and friends we found in Aix-en-Provence and the French anarchists we stayed with in Paris.

This week I'll post photos on what exactly transpired over the last week, but it's a bit too difficult to explain in one post. I'll have to take it one day at a time. One thing is for sure, I'll never look at the world the same way as before France in 2009.

I'm squatting illegally in Paris in an art commune

2009-03-28T13:25:00.002+02:00

The onion is a layered vegetable, best chopped from the side and into slices. As Francois quietly explained the commune life to us in the kitchen of his squat, he calmly pulled the sticky onion skin from the knife and rubbed it between his fingers into a pile. This place is illegal, he told us, but we do have an agreement with the landlord.
"yes, the government forbids it," he says. "But we do pay the landlord for this place. The judge told us we could stay till August."
Jaja, a Senegalese immigrant, lives elsewhere in Paris, but comes to the squat daily to hang out. No one ever really knows who is going to show up, which is how we came to live illegally in a Paris squat.
"This is your key," Clara, our host, says. "Make sure you only use the keyhole on the top, the bottom one doesn't work. Oh, and the shower, you have to use the screwdriver to turn it on, it's really broken. You can make coffee in the morning, the italian coffee maker is best since we never wash it."
Francois slices the last of the onion into a pile of finely chopped pieces.
"Maybe you will make us dinner tomorrow night," he says. "I hope you sleep well."

France is C'est Bon!

2009-03-26T12:31:00.003+02:00

Bonjour! France is great! We have rented a car and are driving from Marseilles to Paris, we're in Lyon today and will have to find a place to sleep in Orleans tonight(we don't know where!). In the meantime, enjoy this story:

The first night we spent in Aix-en-Provence, we stayed with Tim's friend Jenna from Rockford, Illinois. Being the great host that she is, she gave us her queen-size bed and some blankets for the floor. I think she was assuming that we would go two on the bed and one of the floor. But being the old friends that we are, we all slept in the bed together.

The next morning, Jenna's roommate Elaina asked Tim, who was walking around the apartment with his shirt off, "so, how'd everyone sleep? Who ended up on the bed?"

There was a long pause before Tim replied "Le Troix."

My sister's poetry team took 4th place in the nation!

2009-03-24T10:27:00.000+02:00

My sister Carrie has been a slam poet for several years now, and just last week she went to the National competition in Philadelphia with her team of friends from Boston. They took fourth place in the nation! Congratulations!

You can listen to one of her poems here.

Here's Carrie on youtube:

Winter Just Won't Quit

2009-03-23T12:00:00.000+02:00

Above: There was a complete whiteout in Lviv on Wednesday afternoon, as snow pummeled the western Ukrainian city with nearly four inches in a matter of hours on March 18, 2009.

Scrabble: it'll have 'em begging to learn

2009-03-20T12:00:00.000+02:00

Above: Yura and Khrystyna play Scrabble against their teacher on Monday, March 16, 2009 at Ukrainian Catholic University in Lviv, Ukraine.
The head of our English Department recently introduced a Scrabble board to the office, spurring a fight to the death between teachers on who would get to use it first. It was so popular among students that we've already had one Scrabble tournament outside of class times, complete with prizes, scoreboards and refereeing. Scrabble, it turns out, is an excellent teaching tool.

I've discovered a couple of other good teaching tricks that have worked very well. I brought a Calvin and Hobbes book back to Ukraine with me after break, and it has been a phenomenal success with the classes. The combination of pictures, dialogue and new vocabulary lets me help them with pronunciation, but is far more interesting than reading the dialogue from the book aloud. I remember not understanding the intelligent vocabulary used in this popular comic when I was a kid, but I could understand the idea of the story from the pictures.

The last tool I've introduced is the weekly quiz and vocabulary list. Students have wanted more vocabulary for some time, and the best way to make them study is through a weekly quiz format, as far as I can see. They have responded well to the structure and their vocabulary has improved.

The Schizophrenic Currency

2009-03-19T01:54:00.002+02:00

I posted earlier this month about the erratic behavior of the Hryvnia, Ukraine's currency, and how dire things have gotten here. The currency continues to fluctuate every day. My landlord refused to take the online quote I had found for my apartment payment in Hryvnia, and called a friend to find the selling price. He then asked me to exchange my money to US dollars before the rent was due, because one could never tell what the exchange rate would be the next day.

My canadian friend, Bozena Hrycyna, considered running to the bank last month to exchange all of her money to either Canadian or US dollars. The Hryvnia has been predicted to rise as high as 15 to the US dollar, devaluing the currency to 1/3 of its September 2008 price.

Birthday Video, Part 2(Day 3)

2009-03-17T13:38:00.002+02:00

The second party(a surprise) and third day of my birthday festivities. It was a blast. Please watch the last interview if you watch nothing else, it was one of the greatest compliments I've ever received. In order of birthday wish appearance: Bozena Hrycyna, a Canadian from Toronto and a fellow English teacher; Tania, who works for the Ukrainian Greek Catholic Church and has recruited me to be a reporter and photographer for her; Olenka, an opera singer who regularly comes to our weekend salsa parties; Irene Danysh, a Seattle, Washington native who has been teaching and living abroad in twelve countries; and Petro Didula, the UCU photographer and videographer who has become a close friend of mine. I have Petro's son in my English class.

I haven't had a cake in a while, and this was my favorite: Kremowka! (Kreh-moov-kah) A polish original and the favorite cake of Pope John Paul II.

A Very Good Year, Part 1: My birthday party

2009-03-16T22:12:00.001+02:00

Video from my birthday party and photos from this year in Ukraine. It's been an incredible 6 months. I have to say, I don't know if I want to go back, life is great!!

New Year's 2009

2009-03-14T14:59:00.001+02:00

My Talented Photo Class

2009-03-12T23:19:00.003+02:00

Above Credits: Photos 1, 3, 5 by Roman Fihas

Photo 2, 4 by Ira Patronyk

I recently started teaching a Beginning Photojournalism class here at UCU. Apparently, this is the first of its kind in the area, and my class became popular quickly. Everyone I talked to wanted to take it, even people who don't go to my university. Although only one student showed up today(not uncommon in Ukraine), I normally have 8-10 students and there are two friends coming next week.

This week we covered some camera basics and their next assignment, The Decisive Moment. They are fascinated by photography critique, as I was when I first started. Students bring their work on a flash drive, I put it up on a projector with a laptop, and then the one being critiqued has to remain silent while another student critiques the photos. Then the discussion opens to the class, and I finally add my own two cents. Some get more out of it than others, but they all seem to get the idea and some people have really blossomed quickly.

Some of my personal favorites from the first month are above, check out their group on flickr here: http://www.flickr.com/groups/984072@N20/

The Most Ridiculous Show on Earth

2009-03-11T21:26:00.012+02:00

Above, top to bottom: Young circus fans watch as a the trapeze artist balances atop a metal pole at the "Circ" in Lviv, Ukraine on February 27th, 2009; these pictures pretty much speak for themselves. I thought I might be saddened by dancing bears, but it was hilarious; an interesting cultural difference, these are the gymnasts who held aloft metal poles while the girl on the right performed on them. The gentleman on the far left is wearing a mock Yamaka, and they played yiddish-sounding music when he climbed up one of the poles, clearly meant to be Jew of the act, and thus the Ukrainian scapegoat. The other two men are dressed like Russian sailors, with the implication that all three are clowns and womanizers; the Poodle cha-cha.

Last week I had the privilege of attending the Ukrainian circus, commonly mistaken for the Ukrainian Parliament. The debacle was held inside a circular concrete structure that looked like the MetroDome, sans football and beer. The only public entertainment events I've attended so far have been operas, dances, and orchestras, which are dirt cheap and full of culture.

But then I saw the posters for the Ukrainian Circus, beckoning with dancing bears in clown costumes and a line of cha-cha-ing poodles waving their paws. It was catnip. I had to go.

I've always wanted kids and I have a special love for big families since my mother comes from a family of nine. But when I walked into a circus arena filled with 2000 screaming children, I realized I was not quite ready for the responsibility of cleaning a nacho-cheese covered toddler eating cotton candy. At least, I was not ready for the class of seven year olds that kept climbing over my knees during the performance.

The Ukrainian circus is a bit like real life in Ukraine, but with clown costumes and gymnastics.

It was mostly a normal circus, but I don't ever remember bears being a big part of Barnum & Bailey's routine. As I sat near the top row of circus, peering through my 200mm lens at the floor below, I was convinced the bear running out on stage on two legs and doing summersaults was a guy in a bear suit.

Almost certainly a bear from the Carpathians or from Russia, these brown bears were big, but closer to six feet when standing on their hind legs. The rode motorcycles, juggled fire on their feet while riding on the back of an All Terrain Vehicle, danced and walked a high beam.

Other crowd favorites were the cat that suicide-jumped off a 30-foot pole into a blanket, the clown that threw a fake rat into the audience and almost caused a stampede, mullet-sporting trapeze artists, and a muscle-man/gymnast who did an interpretive ballet version of the Iron Cross to the Eurythmics. Bravo.

One act I didn't get to see that day was Brett's personal favorite: the parachuting puppies. That's right, miniature "Benji" dogs climb a series of ladders to the top of the arena, and then run and jump off a ramp, seeming to fall some 200 feet to their death until a parachute opens. I laughed so hard I cried, but I would love to photograph it.

New Website and Business Cards

2009-03-10T10:42:00.005+02:00

It's time to put away childish things. I've upgraded my website to http://www.rudz.net/ , and now my full online archive is available for purchase. Click on any image on the website and you can purchase prints, posters, digital copies and even coffee mugs!

My good friend John Tadelski told me I should make a "Best of Rudz 2008" album. This website is answer to that request. Happy shooting.

Death of a friend

2009-03-07T13:31:00.010+02:00

"Camera?" I said, motioning to my bag and looking at Sasha with pleading eyes.

Sasha turned and translated my request to Brother Jaroslav, the 23-year old monk who was hosting us. After a brief exchange, Sasha turned to me and shook his head.

"He's almost dead, you know?"

I scuttled down the hall after Sasha and Jaroslav[Yaro-slav], as the smiling brother opened a door just 3 rooms down from where I had been sleeping. The silence of a universally recognized stench hit us as we entered the inner room. It was more than just urine or the familiar stink of sweat, this smell was unique to the dying.

Not once had Jaroslav's impervious smile left his face during our three days at Univ Monastery, not once had he frowned or winced with the frustration of our American ways or our terrible Ukrainian. But in that room, as the three of us stood around the bed of Ananina, we looked again into the eyes of this now dying monk and were speechless. Jaroslav's smile was gone.

I remember photographing this monk in September, shortly after I first arrived in Ukraine. During evening prayer, he had waddled into the sanctuary, oblivious to the chanting and the pairs of eyes following him, and sat next to the singers. I knew there weren't any photographs allowed in the sanctuary, but the intricate design of his robe and the black cusp of his hood captivated me. As he sat in a beam of sunlight, clothed in black and surrounded by the wail of Ukrainians worshipping, I saw him as a pillar, an aging foundation of something I was only beginning to understand.

I asked him after Vespers(evening prayer) if I could photograph him, and he agreed. After I snapped a few shots, he thanked me and then kissed my hand. If I had been in America, I would have awkwardly giggled. But I understood what he was communicating, something deeper than the clumsiness of language. Brett told me that in Ukraine, people only kiss the hands of a Bishop.

As Brett, Sasha, Jaroslav and myself stood with Ananina's caretakers last weekend, five months after I first visited Univ, we stared blankly into pale blue eyes that couldn't stare back. The cancer in his lung, they said, had left him so weak he was unable to stand or talk. He stared blankly at the ceiling. His chest rose and fell with short gasps from an open mouth, and it reminded me of the panting of the hamsters I had as a kid.

Jaroslav told me Ananina hadn't eaten anything all month, just water. We all bowed before we went out, and feeling out of place, I forced myself to touch his bed. I knew I couldn't offer him any comfort than what he already had, I knew he was tougher than me. I knew he had left the monastery in his 20s to fight in the war, and when there was no one left to fight, he married and had another life. When his wife died, he came back to the monastery and donated all of his possessions to the monks.

I knew I could offer him nothing as I touched his blanket, searching for his bony ankle in the sheets to show some shallow sense of compassion. I knew it didn't mean anything, and that's what disturbed me most of all. I knew I couldn't pay him the same respect and return the kiss.

The rumors are true: things are bad

2009-03-05T23:24:00.003+02:00

Above: Joseph Sywenkyj for The New York Times in Kyiv, Ukraine.

I planned on the Decisive Moment, the photo story, light or something equally harmless as our assignment for my Beginning Photojournalism course at Ukrainian Catholic University. As with all classes in Ukraine, word-of-mouth is the best advertising, and students don't really show up till the third week. But today, the assignment was a surprise: in five pictures, explain the banking crisis of Ukraine.

I've received two emails thus far from friends asking about this article from the New York Times concerning the economic crisis in Ukraine. For those that don't know, Ukraine had the fastest depreciating currency in the world in 2008 next to Iceland, whose entire banking system collapsed. People want to know: is this just hype, or is Ukraine really this bad?

In short, it's true. It's worse than you think. I told my students today that I saw the perfect picture standing on the street the other day, looking at one of the money exchange signs. A woman in her 50s was staring at the exchange rates for the Ukrainian Hryvnia, US Dollar and the Euro, shook her head, and gave an exasperated sigh, her frozen rosy cheeks puffed out.

That's how everybody feels here. I hate to say it, but what you read is true. Ukraine is really in a crisis, far worse than Americans can imagine.

Although I can't confirm the speculations, several people I have spoken with expect riots within the next 2 months. People are very frustrated by the fall of the currency and feel powerless, and they are getting restless. My roommate has been approached by several coworkers asking to buy American Dollars off of him. They aren't looking to con anyone, they just want their hard-earned salary to be worth something by 2010.

What they play on the bus

2009-03-01T22:52:00.002+02:00

Just listen to this track and imagine riding in a small van, with seating for 20 people, packed with about 35 Ukrainians who haven't discovered deodorant. Everyone is either eating something or drinking beer. The road is full of potholes, so many that the driver swerves into oncoming traffic to avoid them, stopping every 20 minutes to push a babushka out the door.

That was my weekend ride to and from the monastery.

Don't Hate Me Because I'm Polish

2009-02-28T13:29:00.000+02:00

Above: My Polish teacher, Bartek, speaks English, Russian, Spanish, Ukrainian and, of course, Polish, fluently. He wants to expand his English vocabulary, which is how I barter for free lessons. When I suggested he pose for some portraits after he donned my Irish cap, Bartek said "bułka z masłem," or "piece of cake." He's a character.

Dale Ahlquist, where are you? We just started the first Ukrainian Chesterton Society

2009-02-27T11:18:00.003+02:00

"Religious liberty might be supposed to mean that everybody is free to discuss religion. In practice it means that hardly anybody is allowed to mention it." - Autobiography, 1937

Last night was the first meeting of the first Ukrainian Chesterton Society, as far as we know, that is. For those of you not in the know, Gilbert Keith Chesterton was a well-known British journalist and Catholic author who has amassed quite the following in the United States. Brett and I attended the 2005 summer Chesterton Society Conference at St. Thomas University in St. Paul, Minnesota. We've been hooked since that weekend of heated theological debate and homemade beer, and since reading Dale Ahlquist's The Apostle of Common Sense.

You can find a few Chesterton quotes on my facebook profile, and although there's nothing documenting it, my college roommate, my friend Margaret and I helped start the Marquette University Chesterton Society in the spring of 2008. That learning experience made this first meeting easy and highly enjoyable. We read the following article(English for the Americans and Canadian, Russian for everyone else):

http://www.cse.dmu.ac.uk/~mward/gkc/books/success.htmlhttp://www.chesterton.ru/essays/25.asp

The Fallacy of Success was a huge hit and our 1 hour meeting turned into a 2 hour heated discussion with contributions from all 11 participants.

"I think the oddest thing about the advanced people is that, while they are always talking about things as problems, they have hardly any notion of what a real problem is." - Uses of Diversity

Couchsurfing, a way of living and traveling for free

2009-02-24T15:11:00.002+02:00

Well, almost free. Couchsurfing.com "is a worldwide network for making connections between travelers and the local communities they visit." In short, it's facebook for people who want to sleep on your couch.

I joined this website while living in Rome in 2007, but never used it. I was not very keen on the idea of sleeping on some stranger's couch, no matter if it was in Turkey or Illinois. Nonetheless, I was talked into attending a Lviv Couchsurfing meeting this past Saturday, and I no wholeheartedly give the website my approval.

The goodwill of people is often underestimated. There are almost a million couchsurfers out there, from families in France looking to host traveling groups to college grads like myself looking for a safe, free place to say. Not surprisingly, there are a lot "open-minded" types in the network.

At the Saturday meeting alone, I met 10 Ukrainians, a mellow Belorussian, several chatty Poles, a wiry Romanian, an American who has lived all over the world and I somehow made it past the cover charge for the bar. I was surprised at how easy and generally nice the group was. In such a context, I would normally expect to find at least a few blonde bimbos and a couple of bachelors looking to host cute foreign girls. I'm sure they exist.

The point is, this seems to be a reliable way to find people to stay with around the world. There are numerous people who have traveled all the way around and have only paid for food.

You can find me on couchsurfing today.

The Ukrainian Sauna

2009-02-21T18:22:00.004+02:00

Above: The homemade Ukie sauna is a delight. We were disappointed we didn't get to hit ourselves with tree branches, but that's for wet saunas only.

"Mike, I have better idea," Petro, the university photographer, said in response to my proposal of a Friday night photo shoot. "We will go to sona!"

"Sona?" I said.

"Yes, the place where you get hot to sweat."

"Oh, sauna."

That night, Brett, Petro and myself made the journey to Petro's house on the outskirts of Lviv. There we went ice skating(my feet are too big for all of the skates in Ukraine), ate fresh honey and drank tea made from herbs Petro picked in the Carpathian Mountains, talked about GK Chesterton, and then slipped into our swimtrunks(or speedo depending on which country you were representing that evening) and ran into the subzero night. Petro had built the sauna himself, but waited until we were inside to tell us that the last one he built burnt down. I wasn't sure what to expect from a homemade, Ukrainian sauna, but it was phenomenal. I had always experience the sauna in a 'sweat, then get out' context. It's not a ritual and does not seem as serious in America.

We were serious about this process. After 15 minutes of sweating in 90 degree Celsius(190 degree Fahrenheit) dry heat, I began to drip. Petro jumped to his feet and charged out the door, jumping into his sandals in the process. We barreled out into the night and dove head first into a bank of snow.

After rolling around for a couple minutes, we came back inside and entered the sauna again, without drying off our bodies. We repeated the process, this time taking pictures, and then went back inside to eat dinner.

Beer, Petro told us, is the best thing after the sauna. I managed to eat 10 meat cutlets, a heap of sauerkraut, and a pile of noodles in one sitting, before biting into a minnow for desert. While holding the tail and head between both hands, you bite into the abdomen and eat it, bones and all. We retired to a movie, more beer, and a cuban cigar. Life is great.

This was the best day of 2009 I've had in Ukraine.

Depression Food

2009-02-20T17:56:00.003+02:00

Above: mmm, mmm. Home Cheese. Goes well on bread and crackers.

As I was biting into a piece of bread the other day when my gag reflux suddenly kicked me in the gut and I dropped my meal on the plate, staring in horror. A slice of white bread, cut freshly from a loaf, had been smothered in butter, then covered in another layer of mayonnaise, topped with a slice of cheese and splattered with the logical choice of garnish: ketchup.

"What the hell am I eating?" I said aloud to an empty room.

Sometimes in Second World countries like Ukraine, the foreigner encounters what my roommate has deemed "Depression Food." In places like Ukraine, and in First World countries in the midst of depressions, people often use everyday, sometimes strange, household condiments to add flavor to boring, repetitive meals. I never met my great grandfather, but I'll never forget the stories of ketchup in his cereal.

Most cultures, if you search hard enough, have found ways to make the food around them into tasty, often original and delicious, dishes. But when you are eating potatoes for 50th night in a row(not uncommon here), and onions just are not doing it for you, the ketchup and mayo look pretty good.

The picture above shows something I was, literally, just eating minutes ago. This "Home Cheese" is a fat-free, dry cottage cheese variant with a very unique taste. It's a bit peculiar and bland by itself, but one quickly develops a taste for it. Here I added carrot and horseradish shavings, mayo, sour cream, hot sauce, salt, white and green onion and dill. I usually throw in a pickle, too.

Every now and then my American sensibilities rush back to rescue my palette, and I feel as if I'm going to wretch as I pop an oily, yogurt-covered grape leaf in my mouth. But then I bite into the olive and the juices explode over my tongue and I go right back to what I was doing before: enjoying myself.

The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People

2009-02-18T01:01:00.003+02:00

When I started writing my own eulogy the other day, I quickly ran into a problem: I don't really know what to say. The second chapter and its respective habit had me stumped; I didn't know how I wanted my life to end yet when the beginning was so bittersweet. I admitted to my good friend Tim Malone that if this were all I was to get in, just shy of 24 years, then it would alright with me. For nearly 24, I have done pretty damn good, I think.

Epiphanies are few and far between in life, and perhaps that's why they are so precious. Sometimes literature, even when it's on the Self-Help shelf, can hold pages of printed paradigm-shifting revelations. As I read this book, I felt a bit like someone caught in a lethal quicksand trap while in the midst of a juicy novel: I couldn't turn the pages fast enough as the sand was giving out beneath my very feet.

And yet there was this eulogy of mine. How did I want my life to end? What would people say? Where would I be by then? How many children would I be Godfather to(see below post, there's still time to sign up)?

The author, Stephen Covey, reasoned that if one could determine how they wanted life to end, then they could start down that path. You need to see the light at the end of the tunnel before you walk to it. Once you had the ending down, the Mission Statement was the first building block to be laid, the first guiding candle to be lit.

Sure, the 24-year run has been good, and I hope it goes on for many more. But Covey made me think twice about the life I've led when he wrote about what he calls "alternative centers" for one's life. The Mission Statement, your core values and beliefs you discover through exercises like imagining your own funeral, should ideally be the center of your life and the guiding light. But all too often we choose false centers for our lives: family, spouse, friends, money, possessions, self, work, etc.

You'll have to actually read the book to learn more, but as I delved into chapter 2, it became apparent I've not been making life decisions based on what I value and believe in. For the majority of my life, I've been changing those centers, which made sense when I matched the roller coaster my life feels like to the 7 Habits. Does life feel like a rollercoaster for you?

Do you ever feel like your not in control? Like you don't have any say over what happens to you?

I did. Enough. I want to be in control. I want to determine the course of my life, not someone else, not the people around me or my job. I should decide where I want to go and what I want to do.

If you don't already have a copy, find one in your local library or bookstore. This book is the most worthwhile thing I've done in years.

They're lining up: get your dibs on my Godfather blessing soon, before I'm booked!

2009-02-13T23:06:00.005+02:00

Above, top to bottom: This man could be the godfather of your next child! Hurry, offer expires soon; Mike attacks sister Julie at computer; Mike gives excellent and memorable Best Man speech; Mike and best friend/roommate Brett eating BBQ in St. Louis, Missouri; Mike and college roommate Nate Dog ride a carousel made for children 1/3 their size; c'mon, you know you love me.
My good friend Amanda has deemed me the Godfather of her first child in her Leeds Blog. This makes me a best man, a soon-to-be Godfather(whenever you wanna start, Amanda), college graduate, Eucharistic Minister, Eagle Scout, handsome, and humble to boot. I'm just missing pimp, father of 9, a t-shirt with 'world's greatest Grandpa' on it, Scoutmaster, Polish Citizenship(which I'm applying for, FYI), and a Medal of Honor. Thanks, Amanda!

From the backyard

2009-02-13T22:49:00.003+02:00

Walked to the top of a tall hill behind my house the other morning at sunrise, around 7:30 am. I finally gave up waiting for the sun to come out from behind the clouds for the perfect light and walked down the mountain. Murphy's Law still applies in Ukraine, and the sun came out.

Still, I got something interesting out of it.

Today in Lviv

2009-02-11T21:32:00.006+02:00

Above, top to bottom: Roman reaches for another block of wood to lacquer for an icon the Faith and Light center will eventually sell to raise money for activities, like going to the circus later this month; Roman, a member of Faith and Light, a Catholic community for the mentally disabled, shows the icon he is working on at the moment; Brett, standing second from right, is introduced to the finer side of wood working and icon making by Natalia, the coordinator of the Faith and Light Center in Sihiv(Sih-heev), a suburb of Lviv, Ukraine on the morning of February 11th, 2009. In the bottom photo, from left to right: Bogdan, who asked me if I was shopping for women, Petro, who is very quiet and was in charge of the stretching exercises today; Roman, whose best friend is also a Faith and Light member and who is inappropriately and gratifyingly loud, Brett, and Natalia.

"Are you ready for this?" I whisper over my shoulder.

"I guess," Brett says, shrugging.

I gently push the door open to the Faith and Light Center and peek my head in.

"MISHA!"

There are some 25 coordinators and members of Faith and Light, the university sponsored Catholic day program for the mentally disabled, gathered in a circle with chairs. Moments ago, I heard one of them, I guessed Anton or Roman, reading a book aloud in Ukrainian. Now everyone is looking at me.

Before Brett and I can find a seat, everyone breaks into the welcome song and soon the whole room is clapping. I don't really know what the song means, but I feel 6 years old again.

FOUND: family in Poland HAPPY BIRTHDAY: To my sister, Carrie

2009-02-10T18:36:00.003+02:00

This from my mother about their recent visit to Arizona to see friends and my great aunt and uncle, Janina and Julian, respectively:

Mike-
Janina in AZ is a big fan of your blog- pretty faithful reader and enjoys reading your updates. Here is some info from Julian and Janina:

Grandpa's hometown was Zagorz which is northeast of Krakow, and south of Kielce, and south of Pinczow where Janina's family is from. Matgorzata Cedro is a niece of hers(so related to Grandpa) in Pinczow (phone #). Anna and Beata Korecko are other cousins living in Opole (phone #). These cousins have come to visit almost every year- have even bought cars in the US and shipped back to Poland- Janina plans to return to Poland when she is alone.
The cousins in Opole speak fairly good English- she says some of her relatives teach English in Poland, but she said they are not very fluent- she figures she can make a living tutoring over there.

View Larger Map

This is the area of Poland in question via Google Maps.

I need to confirm Zagorz is the city we are talking about(Janina, I hope you are reading this!). It fits the name, but does not fit with her description of northeast of Krakow.

This is the town's website

Here's the irony of it all: I studied in Krakow in the summer of 2005, I now live in Lviv(where my grandmother is from and just a few hours from the area in question), have friends in Katowice(where my grandfather studied), I have hiked in Zakopane(south of Krakow and similar in terrain to Zagorz) and in Turka, Ukraine(look at the map, just south east of Zagorz and very similar area), and I've been passing through Przemysl to go to Lviv since I arrived in September, 2008. I've been in this area the whole time and this has all been under my nose.

If Zagorz really is the place, then I am just a few hours from the hometown of my grandfather and my family history. I'd type more, but I need a stiff drink.

Proof we(the world) don't know anything about Ukraine: the gas never went off and I'm still warm

2009-02-09T11:53:00.006+02:00

"Do you know what my American friends asked me?" I said to the history students in 2nd period English. "They asked me if I still had heat, if we could cook or if anyone had gas."

"Really?" said Lubomyr.

"Yes," I said, "they think you are all freezing."

The class burst into laughter and giggles at the ridiculous notion. When I arrived in the United States for Christmas in late December, Russian gas giant GazProm shut the natural gas lines going through Ukraine to Europe. Russia accused Ukraine of stealing gas, Ukraine fired back saying Russia was blackmailing the country in order to build a new pipeline around Ukraine. I began getting emails saying "are you going to have heat?"

Standing in front of my students last Thursday, I realized I had been thinking the same thing for a while and I felt embarrassed. The heat never went off. Ukraine, the largest country in Europe, also has the largest gas reserves. During the reign of the Soviet Union, Ukraine was the principal natural gas reserve holding for everything under the Iron Curtain. Those tanks didn't disappear when the wall fell, and Ukraine has made good use of them.

According the Kyiv Post, Ukraine had enough gas reserves to supply the entire country for 9 months without relief. Businesses and some individuals did suffer from lack of gas, but as one editorialist in the Post pointed out, shutting off the gas was never a real threat against Ukraine. Kiev has enough gas already.

So why did we(Americans, The West, the world) think Ukrainians were burning their furniture?

In a nutshell: we don't get our news from Ukraine, we get it from Russia.

Unbeknownst to me, and anyone who's never traveled to this part of the world, the west has adopted all sorts of fun Russified words and names for Soviet satellite countries like Ukraine, George, Bulgaria, etc. "Lviv," where I live, is the Ukrainian name. But type that into Orbitz.com or United Airlines' website and it will draw a blank. You have to type in "LVO" or "Lvov," the Russian name in order to book a flight here.

It's the same for news. According to one of my students who is studying Journalism at Ivan Franko University in Lviv, her college is conducting a study on the western media and where they get their sources. According to Ivan Franko, most western journalists know Russian journalists or Russian news, so they call them first. Most of the coverage in the U.S. of the gas crisis came from Moscow, not from Kiev.

As many Ukrainians will tell you, and as the Kyiv Post likes to point out on a weekly basis, Russia and Ukraine have strained relations to say the least. A very smart editorial from that online publication noted how countries surrounding Russia pay staggered prices for natural gas, depending on how loyal they have been to the Kremlin. Belarus(or Bielo-Russia meaning "White Russia") pays the least, less than $200 US. Ukraine pays closer to $500 US for the same type and quantity of gas.

The Best Cure for Jet Lag: not Vicodin and a bottle of wine

2009-02-08T16:18:00.003+02:00

The conspicuous lack of posts in the past week is probably killing all of you(since there's nothing better to do than read my blog, right?). The suspended animation of a dysfunctional circadian rhythm(your sleep cycle) has left me dazed, drained and unable to concentrate all week. I finally fixed my jet lag problem today with a most unusual remedy: I stopped eating.

The first day I fell asleep at 10 am and slept till 4 pm, and then I fell into a strange cycle that would have made sense if I had been on Tokyo time. I was crashing at 6 pm and fully awake at 4 am. I felt like hell.

I finally looked it up on the internet when my sleeping pills had no effect and discovered that much of the sleep cycle is dependent on when you eat. Your first meal sets your morning cycle, so changing when you eat will determine how you sleep and when you crash. Twelve hours of fasting should do the trick. For example, if you want to change your waking time to 4 am, then stop eating at 4 pm. When you wake up to your alarm at 4 am(or if you haven't slept at all), eat right away.

After a week of terrible sleep, a single meal changed my whole day.

Safely Back in Lviv

2009-02-01T18:50:00.003+02:00

Above: Warsawians( Var-sha-vians) enjoy the ice rink outside the Galleria downtown near the Central Train station on January 31st, 2009 in Warsaw, Poland.
I arrived in Lviv this morning at 5:30 a.m. Ukrainian time, after a grueling trip that started in Chicago at 7:55 p.m. on Friday, January 30th. Twenty-seven hours later I was back in my old apartment, fixing something to eat. I found Brett still awake with the coffee pot and his computer, furiously typing away at grad school applications, and a strange flicker in the lights we still can't pinpoint.

On the way I stopped in Warsaw to get on the bus, and snapped the above picture near the new Galleria mall. Winter is at it's best when there's ice skating and the snowfall is just enough to make the city almost silent and the air still.

"Oh, Ukraine? THAT'S interesting . . ." : On what not to stay to abroad teachers/students

2009-01-14T23:08:00.003+02:00

My students seem to like Americans, but they unanimously singled out a single American attribute they hate.

"When I greet Americans, they always say 'hello, how are you?'," said a 2nd year english student of mine. "And then they just walk away without waiting for an answer. If you didn't want to know, why did you ask?"

Ouch, I thought. I wanted to object with a reason, but he was right. How superficial. It seems I get a lot of superficiality from Americans about world issues these days, in fact, about anything not directly related to themselves.

My roommate and I have a running joke about Americans we talk to when we come back from traveling and living abroad in Ukraine. We might be at a party, a family get-together or some sort of social function, but inevitably people ask: "What are you doing these days?"

Depending on who you're talking to, they may be positive and supportive or rather skeptical and cynical of your accomplishments and dreams. Or, if they are in the group I'm singling out, they're really not that interested in other people.

"Well, I'm teaching/studying abroad, in Such and Such country overseas," you might say.

"So, how's that stuff working out for you, y'know, over there?" says the ignoramus.

"It's great . . . . I really like these people and this country, I've learned a-"

"Well, that's interesting. You have fun with that," as they gulp the last of their beer and duck out of a potentially boring conversation.

I don't mean to pick on my fellow Americans. In fact, I've never felt prouder to be an American than I do now. However, we have earned a very deserving reputation around the rest of the world as having great influence, but little to no awareness.

I applaud projects like National Geographic Glimpse and STA travel for their efforts to expose Americans to more cultures and the rest of the world. I don't expect Americans to know where Ukraine is or to even know most countries in Europe. We just don't interact with them enough to make it necessary.

It's not the lack of knowledge that concerns me, it's the unwillingness. A fool is someone who acts stupidly and doesn't mind. Ignorance doesn't bother me, what bugs me is willing ignorance.

It drives me crazy when people know they could learn more but choose not to because it impinges on their lifestyle. That's a fool.

So when someone comes back from a potentially enlightening experience in their life, either serving our country abroad as a soldier, from working in a humbling environment with the poor and sick, or from a paradigm-shifting travel experience, don't say "well, we just don't know how lucky we have it," and change the subject. Ask them about how they feel. Take an interest in someone else's life and what they are doing. They could be struggling with the greatest lessons and experiences of their waking lives.

Who knows? Both of you might learn something.

My Brothers

2009-01-10T04:34:00.003+02:00

Above, top to bottom: from left to right, starting with the bald gentleman, Gerry Wiltfang, Brett McCaw, myself, Mike Banwell(back to camera), Andy May, Dave Anderson and John Rudzinski at Casa Rudzinski for the annual Guys' Get-together on January 2nd in Rockford, Illinois; from left to right, John Rudzinski, Jim McCaw, Gerry Wiltfang, Mike Banwell, and Andy May yell a greeting to Dave Anderson as he arrives late to the dinner of venison, spaghetti, pierogis, borscht, beer and other manly foods; Ross Laloggia and Bud May watch the bonfire burn embers into the night sky as John Rudzinski enjoys a cigar while sitting on cardboard boxes; Tim Malone and Andy May listen to Brett McCaw tell a story; and the fearless Tim Malone kicks a cardboard box into the fire(don't try this at home).

I once described friendship like the rings on a tree: each interior ring is smaller and contains less people, and the exterior rings, being the broadest, are also the most easily shed. That harsh reality is usually realized when you leave a community, like graduating from college or leaving a job.

This is my innermost ring. The men in these photos are probably the closest to brothers that I have, and they know me well. We first bonded at Philmont Scout Ranch in New Mexico while hiking for two weeks on a high adventure trip. Every year, we either take another trip or have some sort of get-together at one of our houses, and every year we go stronger.

I was thrilled to have them over the night before I left for Los Angeles, and the food was so rich I didn't have to eat for a day. To the men of Troop 23, the Phil Group, and my closest friends, you're the best friends a man can ask for and I am blessed to have you. Thank you.

World's Largest Ketchup Bottle

2009-01-05T18:27:00.004+02:00

Above, from top to bottom: The Rudzinski Children with the World's Largest Catsup Bottle in Collinsville, IL, just outside of St. Louis. In order of appearance: "hey Mike, lick the ketchup bottle, Lick it like you WANT IT!" said Carrie as I burst out laughing; Julie, 20, holds the bottle in her hands, she's currently at Suffolk University in Boston for art; and the reason for the trip, Carrie, soon to be 22, is going to finish her final semester in college at Emerson College in Los Angeles.

The Blog Break is over, I'm back and postin'

2009-01-04T19:04:00.002+02:00

Apologies to all faithful readers who have been looking for posts from me since I've returned stateside; I have been taking a rather prolonged, unannounced break from rudzfromeurope. I'm currently in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, driving across the United States with my two sisters as we take Carrie to college in Los Angeles. She's a film major and will be spending her last semester in L.A. Here's her blog: http://palmscoopcrayfish.blogspot.com/

Photos to come tonight, my siblings won't let me spend the time! We're shooting for Albuquerque tonight, and Phoenix tomorrow evening. I'll keep live blogging as we go. More to come tonight!

Mike

Damn London Fog: Flight Delayed from Heathrow, but home at last

2008-12-18T04:37:00.002+02:00

All,

I'm typing this in front of the family Christmas tree in my living room after a vicious 72-hour long hall from Lviv, Ukraine to Rockford, Illinois. I took the overnight bus on the night of the 15th at about 9:30 pm, Ukie time and arrived in Warsaw, Poland early the next morning. My flight to London was scheduled at 12:30, but because of heavy fog in the London area, they held the flight for 2 hours. We didn't take off from Warsaw till almost 3:00 pm, and despite the great time that we made, I missed my 4:25 flight to Chicago. I still had 15 minutes left, but they wouldn't let me on.

Me and 5,000 other people. Literally. That's the figure the officials gave me when I asked. I was given a hotel and and meals for the night and a flight out the next morning at 11:30 am. I arrived in Chicago at 3:00 pm today and my mother picked me up. I had a Jamba Juice Immunity Booster and a Chipotle Burrito at Woodfield, mmm, mmm.

All is well with the world, but I am exhausted and perhaps a little under the weather. Love you all, it's great to be back!

Mike

students, grades, the end of the world and then home!

2008-12-15T09:33:00.002+02:00

As I type this, I am only 5 hours away from leaving for the United States. At 9:30 pm, I will board a bus for Warsaw, and arrive the next day in the capital of Poland where I will get on a plane to London. I'll fly British Airways to Chicago and arrive around 6 pm.

It will be glorious. I spent all day today handing out grades, finishing tests, and figuring out the end of the year. For some students, it was great. For some, not so much.

I am thrilled to be done, I literally just handed the grades to the office secretary, and now I'M OUT!!!!

Love you all! I'll soon be home in the states, so you can stop holding your breath! Love you all!

Mike

This is (Polish) Jazz

2008-12-11T15:49:00.004+02:00

Above: the members of Fortuna Bartholomew International(FBI) Jazz Project toot, blow, strum and drum their way to a standing ovation, encore and arguable the best jazz show I've ever seen in Club Picasso on the evening of December 10th, 2008 in Lviv. Five different musicians from Lviv, Krakow and England, they sound brilliant just one year after their formation. You can find their music here: http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendID=405801983

Bye, bye Tribune Co: why a journalism degree is still smart despite the collapse of my industry

2008-12-08T14:50:00.005+02:00

Dear journalists, readers, editors, and anyone else who is interested in the news,

http://www.bloomberg.com/apps/news?pid=20601087&sid=akiceI_0gQxM&refer=home

Here's a slightly dated list of Tribune Co. assets: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_assets_owned_by_Tribune_Company

The Wall Street Journal just blew the whistle on a collapsing Tribune Co., owner of the Chicago Tribune, LA Times, Baltimore Sun and various assets around the country. It recently went private underneath billionaire Sam Zell, but the Tribune company is still shedding profits faster than Indian terrorists are killing hostages. Long story short, there's not enough advertising to support the newsroom staff of the 90s, and there's not enough income to support a news industry's largesse of stories.(witness Google News' 4901 articles on the Pakistan connection to the Mumbai attacks. Who's going to read all of that? Google is eliminating the need for multiple news sources)

So what do you do when you graduate from college a year over schedule with a degree in an industry that is flopping like a Spice Girls' reunion? You teach english abroad for a year and stall. Well, almost. The better answer is that you exploit, exploit, exploit.

Journalists, this is the greatest opportunity of our lives. The world is in turmoil, economies are failing, stocks crashing, jobs disappearing and opportunities are supposedly drying up. And if you're an aspiring photojournalist/journalist like myself, who is encouraged because of his talent but finds that recent newspaper layoffs have left the photography business flooded with out-of-work talent, you feel even more out in the cold. Yet, this is still the greatest opportunity we have ever been handed.

Yes, there is no work right now.

Yes, we are all going to suffer.

Yes, there are no jobs and *gasp* we may have to work for free for a bit just to make our names.

But yes, things are going to get better. If 4 years of journalism school has taught me anything, the vast majority of old hands in the industry have no idea what is going on and are just as confused as we are. Worse, they may be more in the dark. That's why now is the time to pounce! Now is the time when the new leaders of the industry will make their names, develop new directions and theories, new ways of selling and creating content for news. If history has taught us anything, this fall of the Old Ways is making room for the New Order.

Newspapers are still trying to make sense of the internet and how to use it effectively. Too many of them seek the same content control they are used to in a print form, but fail to use the internet's tools like google, youtube, facebook, and twitter to their advantage. Many of them are trying to win subscribers on a macro level, when they should be focused on the micro level made so easily available by the web. The old methods aren't working anymore, and the industry is still struggling to confront the problem. Perhaps it's just the economy dropping another egg, but the results of the news industry's tactics are showing: we're losing, big time.

If you are a writer, a journalist, a photographer, or anyone who is out of the job because of the economy, now is the time to work harder than you have ever done in your entire lives. Now is the time to exploit the weaknesses, the holes left by companies like Tribune Co. There is tremendous opportunity for the next generation, and the old is going to make way for the new.

Take advantage of the gaping holes that are being left by traditional news and attack them head-on, forging citizen journalism networks and alternative ways of telling stories. The internet is affording people the opportunity to report stories themselves, and although that isn't very profitable right now, it will be. Now is the time, folks. Pounce.

Our Kitchen

2008-12-07T18:57:00.000+02:00

The Vasa, Pride of Sweden

2008-12-07T16:48:00.000+02:00

Above: several views of The Vasa, a swedish warship that sank right after it launched from Stockholm's harbor on its maiden voyage in 1627. The ship is in great condition and most of the parts are genuine, with some portions of the ship being replaced after it was recovered in 1961. More on Wikipedia.

I was convinced that I would not like Sweden, mostly because I come from Rockford, Illinois, a city known for having one of the highest immigrant swedish populations in the United States, and because Sweden and Poland fought a series of wars from the 1600s-1800s. Knowing that my reasons and cultural convictions were both ridiculous and immature, I decided to stubbornly hate Sweden like any American hating France for reasons he/she cannot identify. I've never liked my hometown, and I knew that I could always count on this prejudice to back me up. And I could never openly admit to anyone that I didn't like Sweden because of some silly war, but I could bash their obnoxious accent, the lack of daylight and those ridiculous swedish white shirts with the frilly cuffs.

My dislike of Swedes paled in comparison to my dislike of Russians(justified, of course, by Russia's previous transgressions against Poland. And being roughly 25-50% Polish, it's easy to hate a group of people who have offended half of you), but I was determined to dislike Sweden nonetheless. What public monuments could I litter on? Could I break some law to irritate a passive Swedish police force? Could I 'liberate' some silverware or towels from my hotel in defiance of the establishment?(I became infamous in college for sneaking into the memorial union and refilling my soap dispenser in the bathrooms)

By the end of the first day, I just wanted to stay in Sweden. The country was so well organized, clean, and friendly that it instantly reached my top 5 list for European countries and I didn't want to leave. In truth, I never really hated Sweden, but I did develop a strange, quiet prejudice against the Swedes before even arriving in the airport.

Sweden makes 27 countries for me, and even today I fly to new places with thoroughly ridiculous notions and prejudices about the countries and people I am going to meet. I am eager to go to Russia, because I feel conflicted about the place. My grandmother raised me with a healthy hatred of the Soviets, Stalin and anything red. But I have no real convictions or experience of my own to base this on. I just hear things, see things and have been conditioned to believe that this country/people are somehow bad.

We need prejudices/stereotypes to survive in some sense(or we convince ourselves that we do), but quite often our prejudices are unfounded. Sweden was great by all accounts and I had a wonderful time. By the power vested in me as Prince of Poland, I forgive Sweden for all its transgressions against the Poles. Or, at the very least, I'll be back.

Did you do your Black Friday Christmas shopping while eating chocolate waffles? I did

2008-12-06T14:35:00.002+02:00

Above, top to bottom: Karl serves up a tasty chocolate waffle with extra whip cream at the Christmas market in downtown Stockholm; a panoramic view of the market from the steps of the Nobel Museum; a woman works the game booth where you can win candy bars the size of small Swedish children; I might have bought one of these ornaments for a relative, but maybe not. You'll have to wait till Christmas, mom; a typical Christmas booth's inventory included ornaments, bowls, candles, woodwork, meats, breads, clothing, and gigantic heads of elk and huge salmon fillets. Mmm, mmm.

2008-12-05T14:27:00.000+02:00

Above, top to bottom: Brett in front of a Polish billboard in Warsaw that says "and what do you know about the European Fund?" We can't figure it out, either but we like the guys; Brett wearing his swedish scarf wtih his swedish bike; Thumbs up, Stockholm!; Brett seems a little too excited to be reading a National Socialist Party flyer.

What I want for Christmas, and what the D3x means for travel photographers

2008-12-04T17:37:00.000+02:00

I'm a traveling photojournalist who's always on the move, and shooting on the road isn't always easy. So when I saw that the release of the Nikon D3x, the next installment of the pro Nikon bodies, was leaked online, I jumped at the thought of trying to shoot with one of these on the road. Would I?

In a nutshell: probably not.

I currently carry a NIkon D300, a 17-35 mm lens, an 80-200 mm lens, a 50 mm(portraits), a flash, a light meter, a rain cover and the grip for the D300. In other words, any time you see me with my camera bag, I have about 30 pounds of photo equipment strapped to me. It's a pain. I am going to spring for a lightweight camera backpack soon, as the side pouch I currently use, while great for lightweight assignments and easy access, is going to give me major back pain in the future. I can't imagine trying to stuff a Nikon D3x in there with everything else and lugging it around.

I say this to illustrate a point about my style of travel and how I photograph: less is more. I need to be comfortable when I travel, and an extra 25-30 pounds doesn't help. Plus, one of the greatest pains of on-the-cheap travel photography is checking in your bag. If I go on a backpacking trip across Europe and don't bring my photo equipment, I can haul my bag right onto the plane and never check a bag, never pay a fee. But once I bring the camera, I have more weight, more liability, and I have to check something.

I'm a young photographer who shoots with a D300 and a D2x. I didn't bring the D2x to Ukraine this fall because of liability, and because it's just too damn big.

For those photographers reading this who know the specs of the D3x, you also know this is entirely impractical for anyone but serious landscape and portrait photographers who want to move into medium format.

For guys like me who need lightweight gear that can bang out images fast, this is mostly useless. Not to mention the $8000 price tag

You want that pancake with lingonberries or pickled herring, lars?

2008-12-03T21:43:00.003+02:00

Above, top to bottom: A candle globe holds dozens of candles inside the Storkyrkan Cathedral, a Lutheran Church in Stockholm, Sweden on the evening of November 28th, 2008; A swedish bachelor party gets rowdy with mullets and Burger King crowns near T-Centralny station in downtown Stockholm; Members of the National Socialist Party stand outside parliament to stump for representation with signs, flags, suspiciously close-shaven heads, and a lot of white people; on a bridge near parliament, from left to right: Amanda Sheaffer, Brett McCaw and Theodora Dryer; Skaters enjoy an afternoon on the ice near the bay in downtown Stockholm. The sun rises after 9 am and sets by 4 pm, leaving most of the day dark.

2008-12-02T17:00:00.002+02:00

Above: shots from election day a month ago, hard to believe it went so fast! Notice the menu items in the last shot.

A (Belated) Thanksgiving Apartment Tour

2008-12-01T15:21:00.002+02:00

Brett Dances Merengue

2008-11-30T01:23:00.002+02:00

View from my window

2008-11-28T23:38:00.004+02:00

Above: a panorama view from my balcony of lviv after a fresh snowfall.

Khutorivka Seminary Panorama

2008-11-27T14:59:00.002+02:00

Above: a panoramic assembled in photoshop of Khutorivka Seminary, where I took these photographs. If you look at the lower right hand corner between the towers, you can see the beginning of my old neighborhood.

What First Snow on a Ukrainian Doorstep Looks Like

2008-11-26T17:00:00.000+02:00

Above: Various Ukrainian apartment buildings that are on my route to work in the morning. I live in the center of the city, and woke to a blizzard blanketing the city in close to a foot of snow. Just lovely. Looking forward to sleeping in tomorrow and watching the snow fall.

Faith in the East and What the West Has Wrong

2008-11-25T14:59:00.000+02:00

Above, top to bottom: A Dominican monk waits with a basket for alms after the Youth Mass at 7:00 p.m. outside Holy Trinity Church in Krakow, Poland on November 23, 2008; Bozena Hrycyna, an english teacher in Lviv, Ukraine, explores Holy Trinity Church, which is connected to a Dominican Monastery, before the Youth Mass; the halls of the monastery are open to the public during the day.

Coming from an American Catholic background, I usually expect church pews on a Sunday evening to be half full with last minute churchgoers, the church to echo with watered-down, feel-good hymns from the Oregon Press, and the sermon to be less than engrossing. In the spirit of the confessional, I'll admit that up till about a year ago, my sisters and I would often challenge each other to thumb wars and regularly break into the church giggles. I consider myself to be a fairly devout catholic that goes to confession if he misses mass on Sunday, but I'm no saint. After Krakow, I want to be one.

As the splish-splash ring of polish hymns drowns out the howl of a blizzard outside, it seems like the poles might have a monopoly on piety in the Roman Catholic Church. They are here in droves on a Sunday evening, packing the aisles, the stairs, even the altar, and surprisingly, they are almost all under 25 years of age. It might be the famous Dominican Church Youth Mass from George Weigel's book "Letters to a Young Catholic," but it surpasses all expectations. This mass will change your life.

Poles get it. They seem more alive and comfortable as a catholic culture than any group I've ever had with the pleasure of praying. Sure, they have their problems. Not everyone sings, not everyone goes to church(more than 95% of the country is catholic, and almost all of them attend church on a weekly basis), and they don't always do as they pray. But they are a far cry from France, where the Catholic Church is openly ridiculed, Notre Dame is like the Batman ride at Six Flags, and the people are proud their culture gave birth to secularism.

I've never been in a Catholic Church with open-mic intentions. Churchgoers of all ages walk up to the pulpit to state their intentions, and everybody keeps it short and appropriate. No one laughs, and everyone listens to the sermon. I was struck how the church was packed, shoulder-to-shoulder, and during the transfiguration(when the priest consecrates the bread and wine into the Body and Blood) you could've heard a pin drop. I realized that there is almost always background noise in American Churches, and rarely is the congregation silent.

I love Poland, and in Krakow, where John Paul II(then Karol Wojtyla) was a student, priest, then bishop and later cardinal, you know you've seen the soul of the country.

Your friendly Polish tour guide

2008-11-24T14:25:00.006+02:00

Above, top to bottom: Krakowians navigate slippery sidewalks on the evening of November 22nd, in Krakow, Poland on Ulica Sienna; Me in the Rynek Glowny; Bozena Hrycyna, a fellow english teacher at UCU, and Robert Marko, a fulbright professor from Michigan, outside the Franciscan Church in Krakow; Josh Marko trying to not get smothered by falling snow near the Sukinnice; the dark, candlelit underbelly of Awaria(Avar-ria) Bar was filled with smoke and the sound of an old gravely voice singing softly over piano music "see ya lata, alligata. In a while, Croc-o-dile," while we smoked Cuban cigars and sipped spicy hot wine. My lens was fogged from the cold.
I left for the First World on Thursday night, otherwise known as Poland. A member of the European Union since 2004, Poland has held the title of 'fastest growing economy' within the E.U. and the home of Pope John Paul II, who once served as Archbishop of Krakow. We took the overnight bus from Lviv to Krakow, an all-night fiasco that starts at 10 pm and ends at some cold, dark outpost in the early morning.

Ukrainian border crossings are like a peek into an oppressive childhood: you're not really sure what you did wrong, but by God, they are going to find something. Ukrainian border guards vacillate between two extremes: bitter, corrupt, ex-soviets and the prissy, drop-dead attractive women wearing strong floral perfumes that burns your eyes. Hey, don't you have to frisk me? Or did you want to bring me in for further questioning?

The poles, by contrast, might actually go out for a drink with me if I asked them. They are always polite, addressing everyone in the light southern polish accent that I admire so much, and are quick, business-like and punctual. They don't have the hard edge of the germans, but retain the organization.

This trip, I was taking a fulbright professor, his son and another english teacher on a tour of Krakow. They raved about the city by the time we were done, and just as my friend Amanda Sheaffer, and she'll tell you just how wonderful Krakow really is, and how much of a surprise Poland can be.

I feel so alive and happy in Krakow, and I fit in so well, that I think I just might move there. After this weekend, and after going on a tour with a Pole who spoke near perfect english, I think I can be a travel guide. I would love to live in Poland for a year, or even a summer, time-permitting. If the opportunity should arise, I think I would pick Krakow, move there, and spend a year learning polish, teaching english, giving tours and freelancing. I love the people, I love the city, and I'm an American speaking better english than most poles. Come the 2012 EuroCup that will be hosted in Krakow, there will be a great need for guys like me.

The Backyard

2008-11-23T17:02:00.000+02:00

A huge slap sound sends me jolting out of bed, and I realize it's the sound of my phone crashing into the floor. The obnoxious rhythm of the 'everlasting' ringtone style thumps at me mockingly from my bedside, and for a moment, I consider just leaving the phone on the floor and rolling over. But mind and hand are too distanced by lack of sleep, and I find the phone at my ear before my brain can protest.

"You up?" It's Irene, my American neighbor from upstairs.

"Yeah yeah yeah, been up for hours," I say, smacking my face.

"You wanna go for a run? I'm going to show you the park," chatters Irene in her upbeat Seattle accent.

Jeans, sweatshirt, fleece jacket, hikers and skullcap come barreling out the door with me and my Nikon D300. We go soaring up a hill as Irene explains the gothic building to our right was the meeting place of the Ukrainian militia, named after Hutzel tribe leaders. Her father was one of them.

I shake off flashbacks of our old apartment that was firmly entrenched in the Soviet nightmare we called Hasheka Street. Marveling at the woods around me, I realize I've swapped concrete buildings and rotting sidewalks for towering pines and oaks, a forest floor covered in brilliant shades of fall, and the tallest hill in Lviv which is literally right behind my apartment.

"Wysoki Zamok is that way," says Irene, pointing off to the left, "and Shenchivski High is over to the right."

Wysoki Zamok(High Castle) is a huge lookout point and has the best view in Lviv. Just 15 minutes away is Shenchivski High, a tourist park filled with Ukrainian cultural houses, animal pettings zoos and another gorgeous forest. Did I mention the main square is just 5 minutes walk from my door?

We reach the top of a hill in the thick fog, a sort of look-out point for us.

"This is what I wanted to show you," says Irene. "This is our backyard."

In Krakow again!

2008-11-22T17:47:00.003+02:00

Above, top to bottom: A remake of a photo I took in 2005 on my first trip to Krakow when I was studying the polish language at Jagiellonian University through the University of Iowa, before I transferred to Marquette that fall; A couple posing for wedding pictures in Wawel Castle in Krakow, September 28, 2008; The grounds of the Wawel; and Wawel Castle from the outside(we declined to climb the bell tower, which I think I've done 3 times. What a number on my back); And finally, Jagiellonian's main courtyard in the old campus near Krakow's center.
I'm going with a fullbright professor here at UCU to meet his son in Krakow for the weekend. Should be a good time. I plan on taking lots of Krakow pictures, finishing my story on my grandmother, and planning my photo class for next semester.

Dobrze!

The Greatest Generation Revisited

2008-11-21T17:37:00.000+02:00

Above, top to bottom: a man checks out a .50-caliber machine gun on a B-17 bomber from World War II in Rockford, Illinois in August, 2008; A box blur panorama from the top gunner turret on the B-17; children exit the aft door of the B-17; the "Betty Jane" P-51 Mustang. Words fail me. Lovely plane.

They call me "Misha"

2008-11-19T23:41:00.004+02:00

Above: Portraits of members of Faith and Light, a catholic day program for individuals with disabilities, including mental and physical. In the second frame(taken by my canadian friend) I am laughing as the room applauds my successful pouring of 5 candles, which was a lot of fun, I must admit. Best part is the free candles for my apartment(just kidding). I have since become "Misha,"(a diminutive form of "Michaelo" [Mee-hi-lo] my Ukrainian name. "Misha" is close to "Mike") and they insisted I come back to photograph again.

Ukraine's Forgotten Disabled

2008-11-17T17:06:00.006+02:00

Above: members of Faith and Light work on arts and crafts for the morning until snack time in the afternoon. We visited two of the four centers for the mentally disabled run by the group.

I recently began photographing for the Faith and Light Program that works with the developmentally disabled. For the sake of brevity, we can say that Ukraine has a 'minimalist' approach to mental health care, i.e., it barely exists. My previous post on mental health described a seclusion room where the unmanageable cases are kept. Basically, 30-50 people stuffed inside a three rooms about the size of a medium ranch house.

Not the case with Faith and Light. The program was founded by Henry Nouwen, a dutch priest, and has several campuses scattered around Lviv. We visited two groups this past week, one that was older ranging from roughly 30-50 years of age, and another of teenagers and young adults.

As my previous projects with the mentally disabled have taught me, this is some of the most rewarding work you can do. No one cares where you're from, who you are, what your background is or what baggage you might be carrying with you. Forget all that.

Do you want to pour some wax into this tin and make a candle? Because that is the greatest thing in the world, next to turning on the kettle and watching the wax melt.

Do you like to make scarves? Stretch? Drink tea? Eat chocolate?

Life has never been better for these people. I might go so far as to say that they enjoy life better than most people I know, regardless of their disabilities.

A canadian was with us for the trip, and as we sat down to afternoon tea, each of us with our own cups, I realized I had a cup different from everyone else's. Mine was flowery and white, while everyone else got a bland blue, green or red mug.

"I have a special cup," I said, nudging my canadian friend.

"Now now," he said. "We all have special cups here."

Last view of Fall

2008-11-17T14:36:00.000+02:00

Above, top to bottom:A woman walks in Strisky Park in the thick fog of early morning; the last seeds of a flowering plant wait to be blown away by the freezing winds of winter, near the outskirts of Strisky Park; A group of band players in their white uniforms walk through the Russian Cemetery on Lychakivska Street; and a woman calls her dog during a walk in the early fog in Strisky.
More to come with this series, fall is so beautiful here and it's over! No more, but oh well! I got some great pictures from my first and probably last fall in Lviv.

Bye bye, neighborhood

2008-11-16T22:24:00.003+02:00

Above, from top to bottom: 1)this building is right next to the prison in the old neighborhood. I've seen guards with AK-47s hanging around in towers there, and there is always black smoke rising from its innards. I've heard it's horrific. I would love to visit and photograph. 2) Right down the block from me is this produkty(shop) in the lower left-hand corner of this image. In the fog, these buildings are beyond imposing, they become oppressive. 3) Some men dangle from wires as they put up styrofoam as insulation on a building near the prison. They turned away when I pulled out my camera, as most Ukrainians do. I took their pictures just to piss them off. 4)A woman walks to the bus station in the fog near the road outside the neighborhood. In order to reach my workplace at 8:30 for class, I have to leave at 7:45 to avoid rush hour. If I don't get on a bus by 8 am, I might as well walk and be 15 minutes late. Traffic's so bad you could wait an hour in it.

Brett and I have officially moved out of the old neighborhood and into the new one. I will post photos of my new, splendid accomodations soon enough, but till then, revel in the images of a soviet-envisioned, communist-version of Mr. Rodger's Neighborhood.

Portraits at the University, I'm going to be in a gallery!

2008-11-14T17:38:00.004+02:00

Above, top to bottom: Bozena Hrycyna, an english teacher from Toronto, Canada, with her class at Khutorivka(Holy Spirit) Seminary in Lviv, Ukraine. Robert Marks, a Fullbright Professor from Dominican University in Michigan, poses for a portrait with Greek Catholic nuns at the seminary.

I like assignments. As a photographer, I can either shoot for myself(which often doesn't produce much money, at least not now) or shoot what someone else wants. The first is evermore gratifying, and the second is evermore lucrative, but rarely do they intersect.

I've been shooting for RISU, a university department that functions as a type of religious news service. But really, RISU does just about everything. I've been editing stories for them, designing a yearly brochure in InDesign that goes out to every donor by Christmas, and photographing on occasion.

I'm currently pursuing a story on mental health recovery in Ukraine that started with a wild car trip with a priest two months ago. I'm currently photographing for the Faith and Light program that runs several mental health workshops around the city. In a country where just a few years ago, the horrific collaboration of pimps and corrupt administrators allowed mental health patients to used as sex slaves for money, the university I work for is performing miracles. Someone actually cares what happens to these people and the quality of life they live.

In February, my work will hopefully be displayed in an art gallery in downtown Lviv as a part of the project. We shall see, but I don't have a specific date yet.

On this busy week, why I'm behind on posts

2008-11-14T15:53:00.003+02:00

Readers,

I have been unusually busy these last few weeks, and am running behind on several stories. I wanted to let you all know that I am fully aware of the problem and am, by no means, going to become lax and a "once a week blogger." I am making up the missing posts and will continue to post every day with new photos, videos, stories and multimedia presentations as long as there are readers.

The arrival of my grandmother and father in Lviv, giving my first test, moving out of my apartment, the election, and many other factors have contributed to my missing posts. Not to worry, I'm not welching on you!

Thanks for reading,

Mike

Election Day Portraits

2008-11-14T15:29:00.002+02:00

Above, from top to bottom: Vlad Polikhun, 22, of Kiev, Ukraine is a trainee at Promova, a company that organized the election party in Lviv, the first of its kind in Ukraine. He's getting his bachelor's in marketing at Kiev University. "I'm glad Obama won . . . he looks like nice person to me . . . I don't know[if he will positively impact Ukraine] . . ., because, as for me, the government doesn't function at all in Ukraine," said Polikhun. ; Linda Knudsen Mcausland, 60, of Seattle, Washington, has been in Lviv working with the Peace Corps since June 2007 and will be staying till July 2010. "In this world, change happens in one day, like the 60s, this will be a catalyst . . . a huge majority of people will begin this process of change," said Mcausland who voted for Obama. "It will be really interesting five years from now to look back and see what this has changed."

Irene Danysh, 48, of Seattle, Washington, USA lives in Lviv, Ukraine as a volunteer at Ukrainian Catholic University where she works with the mentally and physically disabled in the Emaeus department. She voted for Barack Obama, and says the election is so exciting for everyone because "the Ukrainians are excited that we had a good process, and we're so excited that we had a good process," said Danysh. "At this moment in time I feel so good and prouder to be American than I have been in my entire life."

Brett McCaw, 23, of Rockford, Illinois is working for the Institute of Ecumenical Studies at Ukrainian Catholic University as the administrator for the distance learning program. McCaw voted for John McCain while visiting family in the United States in September.

The Palace

2008-11-14T12:50:00.004+02:00

I have moved into a gorgeous, renovated apartment just built in 1962(recent, considering most building here were built 80 years ago) on top of an old Austrian apartment building. It is lovely and fabulous. Our friend Irene at the university lives right above us, which is perfect when I need to borrow a couple eggs to make potato pancakes.

A quick recap of this week:

Saturday: I showed up at Irene's apartment ready to salsa dance and realized I was getting ripped by living 30 minutes outside the city in a horrible little apartment in a bad neighborhood. I decided we were moving out and Brett was unanimous.

Monday: "She is an average muckler," says Natalia about the agent who showed us around our first apartment. "Don't believe anything she says, it is all lies. She wants you to pay her right away for the apartment, but I lied to her to get away."

The first apartment showing, with Brett's girlfriend Natalia as our translator, is a fluke after we spent hours combing the periodicals for listings. We narrowed down our price ceiling to about $450 max.

Tuesday: Squeezing through the doorway of apartment number two, I have to duck and slide sideways. It's smaller than our current dump of an apartment but doesn't have any beds.

Number three is huge, and Brett and I think the Coca-Cola sign over the bathroom is a psychological thing to get you to pee. However, it's run down, the paint is coming off the ceiling and the landlady is clearly doing very well by the look of her diamond rings and pearls.

When we arrived at Irene's building for apartment four after waiting 30 minutes for the agent to get through traffic, we're met by a burly man who looks like he drinks hard and plays harder. His hair is cut in a style that reminds me of a fourth grader that I know. He's not the landlord, but another agent.

Brett and I fall in love with the place as soon as we walk in and an hour later we call them back to say we'll take the place.

Wednesday: We sign the rent deal, spend 30 minutes interpreting the contract into english, pay the agent and the landlord and move in. I'm so excited once they leave that I run all over the apartment jumping on furniture and break the bed. Woops! Still, I am elated and Brett and I know it's just the boost we need to make it through the year. I almost don't want to leave now.

I'm on Wikipedia!

2008-11-10T21:58:00.006+02:00

Soledad O'Brien takes a moment to talk with Catholic Herald Reporter Amy Guckeen after her lunch with students at Marquette University on February 7th. O'Brien shared how faith has deeply influenced her and how faith, family and motherhood has played a role in her career.

In my email box today:

"Hi, I sent you a message on Flickr, asking if I could use your images
from Flickr on Wikipedia.

Here it is again:

Hi, this is a great photo you have taken: flickr.com/photos/rudz1985/2360089849/

I was wondering if you'd be willing to allow us at Wikipedia to use
the photo for Soledad O'Brien's biography, here:
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soledad_O%27Brien

The page currently has no image, and yours would be perfect there. All
you'd have to do is change the copyright on the image from "All rights
reserved" to "Attribution Creative Commons". This would allow us to
use the image.

Thanks in advance!
Gary"

The image was taken when Soledad O'brien visited Marquette this past spring and gave a speech on catholicism in the workplace. Surprisingly, she is not only sweet, an excellent reporter, and attractive, but overall down-to-earth and a good person. I was impressed by her genuine personality and had a brief conversation with her while taking pictures for the Milwaukee Catholic Herald. You can see the series on my flickr page here: flickr.com/photos/rudz1985/2360089849/

She does a great job on CNN and I was impressed by her speech. Great person.

Salsa Dancing! . . . in Ukraine

2008-11-09T13:26:00.006+02:00

"We used to play this when I was a kid growing up in El Paso," said Irene as she held up a vintage Sons of The Pioneers' vinyl record.

She gently drops the needle of her 50's era Soviet record player and the sweet southern twang of classic American country music floods the room. A cowboy croons about his lost mexican love as we practice tango, my fifth dance of the night.

"So he leaves her," said Irene, explaining the lyrics, "after he kills the man she was with, but then realizes he can't live without her and he comes back."

We're sitting on the wood floor of Irene's apartment just north of downtown and right next to the Wysoki Zamok("Vih-sohk-ee Zam-uk") or "High Castle," which is a big hill with a radio tower overlooking the city. We've been salsa dancing for over an hour, and my curiosity led to an explanation of childhood memories of Herb Alpert, why the radio can tune into Rome, Moscow and Athens, and the benefits of vinyl.

In short order I am merengue-ing to "El Solo Toro" and avoiding the dangerously low chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Salsa is all endurance from what I can tell, practice is the most important thing for me.

"I only have four records from home that I keep with me," Irene, who's been abroad most of her life, said. "These are the best memories."

Wanna meet me at the airport? I'm coming home!

2008-11-09T12:13:00.003+02:00

YES, it's true; to know me is to love me.
Friends and Family,

I will officially be home for Christmas from December 16th, 2008 till January 30th, 2009. During that time, I will be busy around Christmas, December 25th. I will also be gone from New Year's Day, January 1st, till roughly January 8th because I'm driving my sister out to LA. Otherwise, my time is fair game.

I would love to see everyone and at least have a chat with everyone who reads this blog, all my friends and family, and those few of you who consider cigar smoking and a beer to be the best damn homecoming a man can ask for.

So, if you'd like to get together, have me over, visit me, buy me dinner or just hang out, please shoot me an email at mikerudz@gmail.com. After December 16th, you can reach me at 815-968-7934.

Love you all!

Mike

Khutorivka Seminary

2008-11-08T00:16:00.003+02:00

Above, top to bottom: (top 2 photos) Ivan, a fifth year seminarian at Khutorivka Seminary, talks to me about life, the choral concert the seminary is putting on soon, and delays his meeting with a teacher to ask me how I am, pose for portraits, and to exchange cell phone numbers and email. He is also from the heart of the Carpati and is native Hutzel, the mountain people that inhabit the southwest of Ukraine and live in the mountains; This centerpiece of the seminary is where the chapel is, the entire seminary revolves around this centerpoint in a huge semi-circle; Seminarians walk to Khutorivka in the evening; A panoramic view of the sky at 5:30 pm outside of the Seminary.
After the fall of the Iron Curtain, Ukraine gained its independence in 1991. That year, the Ukrainian Greek Catholic Church came out from hiding after half a century in the underground. There were roughly 200 priests to serve some 10 million faithful, and overnight the church began a frantic search for more priests.

Enter Ukrainian Catholic University(where I work) in 2002. My grandmother is Ukrainian Greek Catholic(one of several orthodox, eastern faiths in communion with Rome; i.e. they follow the Pope but practice like orthodox) and has been donating to help Khutorivka seminary, the largest seminary in Ukraine and the backbone of the new priests in the country.

The people at this place are great. In general, I can count on seminarians to be some of the warmest people, as is anyone who makes the most difficult decisions possible in life.

Most impressive is the building itself, complete with skylights, solar panel heating, computers and a gorgeous chapel.

Why we don't vote for communists

2008-11-06T20:25:00.004+02:00

Before this historic election in America(which I covered in Lviv, photos to come with slideshow), I was out wandering around, taking photos on a sunny afternoon like I always do. Sometimes I forget that I'm living in a post-soviet bloc country that has been devastated by communism. Then I look out my window at the identical, concrete, human-filing cabinet across the road and I realize "hey! There's no creative expression in a totalitarian society, in fact, there's no expression/dissent/freedom at all! Yippee!"

This is why we don't vote for communists. I'm not making a political comment on the American election, please don't misinterpret me. Instead, you should know that this week I have never been prouder to be an American than these past few days. Words cannot describe what I've seen here, how devastated this country is because of secular communism, and how cynical the people are about change, politics and any sort of freedom in their lives.

As Brett picked up a book on the history of Lviv a student had gifted me, he flipped open to the page from 1992, shortly after the Iron Curtain fell and Ukraine won its independence.

"Hey, look at this," he said. "This is the first store opened in Lviv in 1992."

Let me say that again. The first store was opened in 1992. Before this time, there was nothing to buy. Nothing. You waited in line everyday to collect one loaf of bread, one piece of meat and one piece of cheese to feed your entire family. That was it. People went nuts here when the hot dog vendor was introduced. The first signs of capitalism were people sitting on the sidewalk with an umbrella, a few thermos' full of lemonade and coffee, and some cheap hot dogs served on a slice of bread. It was like Beanie Babies and Tickle-Me Elmo walked into a preschool and handed out Skittles. People went nuts, they had never experienced free enterprise before.

A colleague described how his father was a miner, a well-paid position in the Soviet Union. he made a very good wage, but realized that there was nothing he could use the money for, nothing at all. There was nothing to buy, there were no stores for groceries, clothes, electronics, etc. Everyone had the same thing, everything was provided by the government. He put all his money in Soviet banks, and when the Union dissolved, so did his bank account and he lost everything.

It shows in the city. Looking at the pictures above, you can see a few examples of the dilapidated structures of the city. Lviv is the most western city in Ukraine, in fact many Ukrainians tour here because they literally think it is Europe. Yet, the sidewalks are falling apart, completely broken with bits of concrete strewn about. Everyday, the little old ladies have to navigate stairs like the ones above, stairs that haven't been repaired in 50 years and are practically wheelchair ramps now because they've disintegrated. There are abandoned buildings, like the one above, that were built by the soviets, never developed, and left to become ghosts of a failed regime lurking in the past.

The infrastructure is nonexistent here, evidenced by the lack of proper roads, transportation, healthcare, fire and police safety and numerous other deficiencies. Yet, Ukraine has been free for 16 years. But it will live with the scars of communism for lifetimes to come.

America, Thank God for what you have

2008-11-04T23:32:00.004+02:00

Above, top to bottom:John McCain(R-AZ) speaks to supporters at a fundraising event in Milwaukee, Wisconsin on February 17th; Sen. Barack Obama(D-IL) speaks at the Democratic Party of Wisconsin's Annual Gala at the Midwest Airlines Center in Milwaukee, Wisconsin on February 16th; John McCain(R-AZ) waves to supporters as his wife Cindy and students from Marquette College Republicans cheer during a rally at the Sheraton Hotel in Waukesha, Wisconsin on February 19; Hillary Rodham Clinton(D-NY) greets supporters at the Democratic Party of Wisconsin's Annual Gala at the Midwest Airlines Center in Milwaukee, Wisconsin on February 16th; Sen. Barack Obama(D-IL) answers questions from reporters before a rally at the Midwest Airlines Center in Milwaukee, Wisconsin on February 15th.

Have Americans pondered just how long this grueling election has gone on? Since February of 2007. That's almost two years, two years, that Obama has been campaigning, and McCain doesn't fall far behind. Quite frankly, I can't stand it anymore! Enough I said! I'm going to Ukraine where I can escape from all that!

And I came to Ukraine looking with interest at the escalating political drama between the president and the prime minister, the apathetic masses, the dissatisfaction and the corruption. I came to my classes within 2 weeks of school and asked "What's your opinion on politics in Ukraine?" Thrilled to finally be interested in politics that were distinctly not American. And now what do my students ask me?

"What do you think of Obama?"

"Who are you voting for?"

"Who do Americans want to win?"

I suppose I'll never get away from it all.

Overwhelmingly, Ukrainians support Obama over Ukraine. Of those students I polled, at least 60% that voted chose Obama over McCain. Many of them were unaware(I educated them) of the current political situation in America, what the issues are and who's running. Ironically, many of them are willing to get behind a candidate with absolutely no knowledge of what he/she stands for in the election.

But they are far more optimistic about America than they are about their own country. Many Ukrainians don't get pumped up, flustered, or even angry when I ask about politics. They just sigh and shrug, roll their eyes and say "we don't care. What's the point? Nothing ever changes and everyone is corrupt." Which is true.

America, thank God that you have what you do. Just a month ago, Ukrainian President Victor Yushchenko called snap parliamentary elections in defiance of his Prime Minister, Yulia Tymoshenko. The elections are actually illegal and defy the constitution of this country. Although the move has been labeled as a maneuver to undermine the Prime Minister, she has done no better by challenging the national elections in a city court, also illegal. Ukrainians, at best, are not surprised and don't care. People go on with their lives as if it was any other day.

There was just an article in the business journal here about how Ukraine is ready for adversity and hardship, for a lack of trustworthy government and economically trying times. That's what Ukraine has specialized in for the past 600 years! This country has been used and abused in so many ways, it's no surprise that the president and new, democratic, pro-western government are doing it again now.

In Russia, Putin called up the head of the United Russia party and announced he was going to be their new leader, effectively making him the new Prime Minister(the post he currently holds). The ex-KGB agent wasn't even a member of that party until he decided they needed a new leader. Imagine if Bush called Howard Dean this evening and announced he was replacing him! America would tear itself apart, riots would happen in the streets, the press would have a field day and there would be anarchy. In Russia, no one bats an eye.

Be thankful, my fellow Americans. You are truly blessed.

Testimony #1: The Jewish Family Upstairs

2008-11-03T23:39:00.003+02:00

Why Ukrainians Are More Patriotic than Americans

2008-11-02T15:03:00.002+02:00

This may rub a few of my fellow Americans the wrong way, especially right before the election, but after living in Ukraine for two months I have concluded that Ukrainians are more patriotic than Americans. That includes me. Never have I appreciated the USA more than now when I am living abroad, but I am ever more impressed by Ukrainian pride and their knowledge of their history and their country.

The dark figure singing in the video above sews his own clothes, in an ethnic Ukrainian style, sings Ukrainian folk songs he knows by heart, cooks Ukrainian dishes, has his hair cut in a style similar to the mountain peoples of this region, and plays in a band that sings, you guessed it, all Ukrainian songs. He's 19. How many teenage Americans do I know that can recite the Pledge of Allegiance or the Star-Spangled Banner by heart? How many of them know their country's history back and forth like Ukrainians do?

I innocently made the egregious error of asking what the 'Holodymyr'('Ho-low-dim-mir') was to a ukrainian friend. I was lectured for 20 minutes on the history of the Holodymyr Famine mandated by Stalin in 1929. Ukraine, the 'breadbasket of Europe,' was underneath soviet control and despite a dire drought throughout the west of Ukraine, Stalin still demanded his yearly grain quota demanded of outlying soviet territories. Thousands perished because of Stalin's artificially created famine which lasted for three years. Ukrainians haven't forgotten it, and if you make the mistake of bringing it up, they'll make sure you never forget it either.

Ukrainian historical memory reaches back as far 988 when the Kyivian Rus(the people of Kyiv) were baptized and Christianity was brought to the country. This event is so central to Ukrainian history that it is still celebrated every year on the same day. Ukrainians go so far to dissociate themselves with their pagan past before 988 as to use the word for pagan, "pohany," for the word for 'bad'("Pohano").

But what shocks is the number of Ukrainians familiar with this history and the number who identify with it. Everyone knows what you are talking about if you bring up "Kyivian Rus" or "Holodymyr." How come? How come they feel so strongly about their own history and many Americans can't tell you which century WWII was in?

Things are very different in Eastern Ukraine, which doesn't identify at all with this history and is far more Russian than Ukrainian. Still, the very idea of these people remembering their history as a means of self-preservation is astounding. I am impressed.

A Happy Ukrainian Halloween to you, too

2008-11-01T21:43:00.003+02:00

Above, top to bottom: Some newly-made friends have a smoke during the halloween house party; some new friends, clockwise from top: Yazid, an Algerian who lives in Lille, France and is teaching French in Lviv, Sophia, an Australian who's attending high school in Lviv, Gabo, an Ecuadorian attending the Polytechnic University for engineering for the next four years, Bozena from Toronto, a fellow english teacher, and Mark from Toronto, who taught english at UCU last year; the house party is hopping at midnight, but I'm too old for that kind of stuff and I went home by 1 am; from left: Robert from Michigan who teaches at Benedictine University and is on Fullbright at UCU, Irene who spent 8 years teaching in Ghana, Tanzania and several other African countries, Russia, England and now Ukraine, and Brett who I live with.

If you have a peculiar holiday that requires everyone you know to dress up in a ghoulish costume, parade around town like a drunken idiot in the middle of the night, collect candy and eventually pass out, how do you explain that to someone who's never done it? I spent 15 minutes explaining the concept of 'hay rides' to a student I tutor, and she could not, just could not, get over the idea of the horse not living in my neighborhood.

"So, dee horse lives in the neighborhood?"

"no, he's trucked in."

"Trucked in? You eat him?"

"No no! They put the horse in a trailer and the bring him to the neighborhood, and he pulls the cart around."

"Why does not the horse walk to you?"

"Because it's too far."

"The horse does not live with you?

I eventually had to accept that this holiday was completely foreign to Ukrainians, and to anyone outside the US. In fact, we don't even know why we celebrate it(halloween is actually religious- All Saints' Day is the following day, and dressing up was a way of 'scaring' the 'evil spirits' present to prepare for the saints) and so Ukrainians are pretty confused. That doesn't stop them from making complete fools out of themselves, though.

I was bemused by two clowns that walked into the city center, posed in front of a fountain, and took turns taking pictures of each other. Costumes aren't plentiful in Ukraine, and neither is money, so cheap, poorly made getups provided great entertainment.

I spent the first part of the evening out with two Americans, Irene and Rob, and my roommate Brett. We had a great time, and it was wonderful to talk to other Americans. You really don't appreciate your own country, or the people that come from it, until you leave.

I was invited to a house party later that night by one of my english teacher colleagues, Bozena from Toronto. She has wonderful friends who were great fun, and I look forward to hanging out with them again.

What To Do When The Well Runs Dry

2008-10-30T13:42:00.005+02:00

Above: Workers assemble the roof of a stage in the Rynek Glowny of Krakow's main square in Poland on September 27th, 2008.
After the emotionally, mentally and physically exhausting visit of my grandmother last week, my creative juices were sapped. Not only had her presence been tiring, but I felt so disappointed and drained by the visit that I lacked the motivation or inspiration to photograph. Doesn't happen very often.

Next week, I will post the grandmother saga in full, a three-act drama, comedy and tragedy. I've been struggling to even write, and my journal has helped motivate me to keep penning my thoughts. What's a blogger to do?

"Writer's Block," as my creative writing teacher at the University of Iowa used to say, is a myth. There's no such thing. We think we can't write, that some math equation has left our brain so constipated that it can't even form a cogent stream of consciousness. But no, not the case.

I had my graduate students practice what's called a "freewrite." We(and I use 'we' in the most inclusive sense) use it in the writing world as a way to break up the mental logjam plaguing the penniless author who's on deadline, or the biology freshman who can't get his term paper conclusion to evolve, or some tall, dumb polish kid who took creative writing because he thought it was an easy elective and pulled an all-nighter before the final.

To do a freewrite:

1. Get a pen and paper, find someplace where you won't be interrupted. Quiet isn't always good, you might need some inspiration.

2. Time yourself. Give yourself 30 seconds to 2 minutes. The clock starts when you press your pen to paper.

3. Write. Don't think, just write everything that comes to mind(or better, things that you aren't thinking but magically appear on the paper), even if it's "jibberjabberwockyfoolypoolypants." In case you were wondering, that's normally what I'm thinking.

4. when the time is up, read over what you wrote. Chances are something in this jumble of words is going to give you inspiration. If nothing else, it is going to force you to write something down, even if that something is jibberish.

Creative writers use this in stories all the time(at least, all the creative writers that I know. Namely, me) to get things going and start writing again. That's what I do when I don't know what to write here.

Despite doubts, I'm alive!

2008-10-30T01:59:00.000+02:00

So, do they have internet in the Ukraine or are they still using Carrier Pigeons?

2008-10-27T14:45:00.003+02:00

I was cooking dinner the other day when Brett walked out of the apartment and took the internet cable in our wall with him. He tripped over the 20 foot long cable and pulled it out of the wall, killing our internet. I thought "gee, I'll just have to plug the cable back in," but then realized that it was really just exposed copper wiring held together by a dirty Band-Aid.

So yes, I do have internet, and it runs on Band-Aids. I managed to piece it back together after much swearing in polish, and connecting green wires and red wires to their respective partners. Apparently, the phone is running on the same line, so I knew that *ring ring* meant I had the right wiring matched.

The internet at the university is wireless but notoriously slow(test by Speedtest.net). The internet at my apartment is faster, but I have more problems with the power going out than I do with the connection. The ISP throttles the internet everyday in the evening(i.e., they restrict the bandwith at high-traffic times of day, slowing your internet down) which is annoying, but it otherwise works well. I can download something from the internet at about 100 kb/s, but uploading usually runs around 50 kb/s.

Other teachers don't have internet at home, so they have to stay at the university to use it. Luckily, I don't, and my internet is fast enough to skype and video chat with people. For those of you interested in a skype chat(it's free!) you can download skype here. Just email me and let me know when you're interested.

MMM, Pork Fat

2008-10-27T12:12:00.000+02:00

Enjoy these foods, and think of me

2008-10-26T20:32:00.002+02:00

My father and grandmother's visit to L'viv ended yesterday when I dropped them off at the airport. They're in Rome right, and although I wish I could be with them, I need to catch up on blogs. Since I've missed the past few days due to their visit, I will be writing multiple posts to make up, keeping true to my blog comments and promise. I'll post the 3-act story on my grandmother's visit in full later this week.

My dad brought some sorely needed goodies for me to play with and/or eat. Although I eat well(the best part of my Ukrainian stay has been the food, which is incredible), I rarely eat meat, have a limited fruit and vegetable diet and usually eat carbohydrates. Every ex-pat and traveler has a list of comfort foods, like my aunt Kate who has been abroad for over 10 years and often charges Nilla Wafers, Pop Tarts and peanut butter for room and board if you visit her house in Switzerland(by the way, sorry AK- I did bring you pop tarts, but I broke down and ate them in Greece after starving for a day. They were crumbly anyway!)

My list includes: Tabasco, pancakes, maple syrup and peanut butter, among other things. My dad also brought Macaroni n' Cheese, energy bars, Clorox Wipes(which you can't get here), hand sanitizer, clean needles and medication.

Although I do enjoy a good Ukrainian vodka, the honey beer they serve here, chocolate butter, and a good borscht with just the right amount of sour cream mixed in, I will thoroughly enjoy egg nog, apple cider, real orange juice, a cold Fat Tire or Leinie's, peach pie and turkey at Thanksgiving(which I will probably miss). If you are stateside or anywhere in the world where you can kick back with apple cider or a cold beer, make a toast and think of me, I miss it!

I HAVE COUSINS HERE?

2008-10-24T00:15:00.003+03:00

Above, top to bottom: one of four dogs that came out to harass us on our way into the bush; from left, Brett and Yura discuss the finer points of Ukrainian beer from the top of Bald Mountain as they pause for rest; a white flower in a field near our camp; Brett and Yura climb a hill in search of wild blackberries to eat; the view of Turka and the surrounding region from Mount Baldy.

My dad and grandmother arrived in L'viv yesterday around 4 pm. It's the first time in 65 years that my grandmother has been to the city, she left in 1943 when she was 13 years old, fleeing the communists with her family. She spent the next 5 years in Germany in a hard labor camp for displaced persons with mostly poles, where she met and married my polish grandfather(who died in 1994), who was a United States citizen. They moved to the United States in 1949 when she was 18, and had my dad in 1955.

Now, all three generations have returned to L'viv for a whirlwind tour. I'm a bit surprised. She seems disappointed that the city hasn't been repaired and in denial about it living under communism(hence the lack of renovation) for nearly 40 years. Of course it's run-down.

The trip has not been without twists either. Before I left for Ukraine, I asked her, point blank, if we had any relatives.

"Yes, but I don't know where they are, Michael," she said. "I don't talk to them. Besides, you don't want to meet them."

Yeah, why would I want to meet long-lost relatives that I've never seen before and might have family history? Why the hell would I come to the old Soviet Union, to corrupt, dilapidated, dirty Ukraine and learn a language that is completely impractical in my future life and try to reconnect with my family roots? Doesn't have anything to do with you, Grandma.

We arrived in the hotel, and after resolving the taxi issue, a scheduling conflict with the front desk and finally settling down in the room, she asks for my phone.

"Why do you need my cell phone?"

"To call my cousin, I'm going to visit her."

"I HAVE UKRAINIAN COUSINS?"

Ukrainian Village Life: you gonna eat that fungus?

2008-10-21T20:05:00.009+03:00

Above, top to bottom: from left, Sasha Yasinsky and Brett McCaw eat breakfast at the Yasinsky home in Turka, Ukraine on October 18th, 2008; Yuri Yasinsky with his siamese cat; an outhouse in Turka; panorama of the countryside around Turka(Best viewed large); and Yura at 8 am on October 19th, as we descend Bald Mountain.
With a severe case of the numb-butt, I stumbled from the lemon-yellow mashrutka bus to find a smiling young man with shaggy hair and a bicycle grinning at me. The three and a half hour ride from L'viv to Turka in a vehicle designed only for short distance(30 minute) trips meant no sleep, no lights or reading, and no food except for the greasy, smoked kovbasa domashna(home sausage) I stuffed in my pocket before we hopped on. I spit the processed bones and un-chewable parts out on the floor, but couldn't stifle the stench of greasy sausage seeping from my pocket.

The guy with the bike was Yura, our host who was picking us up, which I assumed meant a car. That's what you pick people up in, cars. But this is Ukraine, and we walked the mile or so back to Yura's home using his bike light. Brett's friend Sasha, a student at the L'viv Polytechnic University and one of the most humble, generous and gentle people I have ever met, was putting us up for the weekend in Turka, a small village on the Ukrainian border. The "Carpati," or Carpathian Mountains, are revered by everyone in this region, both for the identity, beauty and culture they provide, and because UPA(the Ukrainian resistance movement of WWII) operated in the Carpati. The Carpati form the wildest region of western Ukraine and the heart of village life.

I soon realized that everyone in Turka owns one of those dogs that never shuts up. We climbed a muddy hill till we reached Yura's gravel road, and were immediately introduced to Sam, the family german shepherd. I wanted to pet Sam, as I haven't petted many dogs since leaving the states and I miss my dog, but sensed the cuddly guy was more interested in chewing my hand off than in affection.

Sasha and Yura live with their mother on a hill overlooking the city of 10,000 at the foot of Mount Baldy and several other small Carpathian mountains. I admit, my stereotype of 'village life' included toothless neighbors chewing on bones, an anti-indoor plumbing epidemic, and huts made of twigs and mud. I was only right about the outhouses.

The family we stayed with was delightful. This was, by far, one of my most rewarding cultural experiences as I got to experience Ukrainian culture firsthand from a good family. They took us in as their own and immediately made us at home. Not wanting to impose, Brett and I had brought enough food to feed us for the weekend; we were expecting to camp out. Within 15 minutes of walking in the door, we were seated in a warm kitchen, tea made from freshly picked leaves in hand, stuffing ourselves with fish soup, a warm mushroom sauce, bread and cheese.

We were given our own room and beds, and were invited to take more clothes to keep us warm. My only complaint was the outhouse, something I hadn't the pleasure of using since my boy scout days. Luckily, Sasha escorted us outside to let us 'do our business' and held Sam back as we took turns going inside a 5'x5' wooden stall with a tin roof. The terrible stench of latrine smacked me across the face as I realized there wasn't a hole in the ground, it was really a pot. This thing had to be filled, then pulled out by hand and trucked away to God-knows-where. I've been through much worse in the toilet department, and after my gag reflex I felt a little more comfortable.

We were awoken in the morning to Sasha's mother cooking a full breakfast for us and their siamese cats rubbing against our bare legs. Although it lacked indoor plumbing, the house was surprisingly cozy and warm, and felt like more like a Swiss chalet to me than a village home. There was running water and a modern kitchen, and I sympathized with Yura when he spent the next morning deleting viruses from his computer. He made it a point to show us the best spots on the mountain to play paintball.

I don't usually eat meat, rice, cheese and mushrooms for breakfast, but I would eat anything Sasha's mother put in front of me after that weekend. And the best tea, I learned, is picked fresh from the mountains, boiled, mixed with a scoop of sugar and wild blueberries which are stirred in as sweetener.

Something Ukrainians have taught me is that the human spirit has an incredible ability to overcome adversity. The dilapidated infrastructure of Ukraine, leftover from the Soviets, has left the roads in terrible condition, houses full of failing Russian wiring and centralized heating(which has to be turned on by the city at a specified date), pollution and people with little faith in their government. Yet life still flourishes and people still find ways to be happy in the everyday. Villagers, by far, are some of the happiest and most at peace people I have ever met. The know the meaning of a life well lived.

Turka, foothills of the Carpathian Mountains

2008-10-21T17:42:00.001+03:00

Above: Star trail exposures taken on top of Mount Baldy in Turka, Ukraine on the Polish border. To shoot this, you'll need: 1. a reliable tripod, 2. a camera that can expose for at least 30 seconds, 3. a wide angle lens, 4. a cable release cord or remote, 5. a cigar, maybe a beer, warm clothes and free time.

I exposed these using my D300's 'Multiple Exposure' option, allowing me to take up to 10 exposures at 30 seconds each and then combining them in-camera to make a single 5 minute exposure. Quite efficient. If your camera can also shoot at intervals, it will save you the trouble of having to press the shutter each time, which can shake the camera and ruin the image(I had several failures). If you have a cable release, this will solve all of your problems. I didn't, so I used the 'shutter delay' option, which delays the shutter by a second after the mirror is raised in order to reduce shake. This also let me press the shutter release each time without shaking the camera. This is surprisingly easy to do once you get the hang of it, like fireworks photography. Dress warm.
I swear I'm sitting in someone else's spit, but in the freezing wind on top of this mountain, I don't really care. Puffing my cuban, I force my icy hand through 7 layers of clothing and light a match inside the tupperware container I use to transport cigars. Yura takes his first-ever puff of a cigar, and in the near pitch-blackness of the Ukrainian night, over the howl of inhumanely icy wind, I swear I can hear him smile.

"Dobry," he say, his face glowing orange with each puff.

Hearing my camera click as the shutter ends another time exposure, I roll back and press the shutter release. I'm trying to nail the star trails on my left, but the men are getting restless in this terrible cold.

"We go sleep now?" Yura suggests for the fifth time. Yura, a diminutive(nickname) form of Yuri(Ukrainian for "George"), came grappling up the mountain with a machete he must have borrowed from Rambo(he actually made it himself, which made me even more afraid of him), full camouflage, two sleeping bags, pork fat and potatoes in a tiny sack. Brett and I, being Americans, weren't going to put up with any of this 'amateur' B.S. No, no.

In addition to my 20 pounds of camera gear(body, 2 lenses, flash, video camera, tripod and tripod head), we managed to pack enough clothing for a week, a pot, food for 4 days(we stayed for 1 night in the woods), a frisbee, sleeping bag, hand sanitizer and three cuban cigars. I can hear my scoutmaster saying "be prepared," and "laugh and scratch," his unique term for "goofing around." Laughin' and scratchin' was exactly what we did around the fire when Yura's brother Sasha arrived.

Sasha brought a bottle of wine and promptly announced he was going to boil its contents. OK, Sasha, I just digested half a pound of pork fat. You do what you want.

They cook the wine with cinnamon and squeeze an orange into the pot. The spicy, aromatic liquid that came rushing over my tongue a moment later like a pack of wolves redefined my reasons for coming to Ukraine. It was possibly one of the most thrilling things I have ever tasted, best described as a liquid form of Thanksgiving turkey, stuffing, cranberries and jello mixed with real eggnog on a Christmas morning.

Insides burning from the hot wine, I curl up in a wheel rut and flatten out on the ground to hide from the wind. I'm surprisingly warm, and although Sasha reiterated that he'd prefer we come down the mountain and stay another night in their house, we stubbornly stick to our mountain defenses. The tent we have is only for two people, and we learned later that night why they don't usually squeeze 3 people into a two-man tent. I never thought spooning could be considered a survival method.

Taking full advantage of the crystal clear, moonless night on top of a mountain, I reach over to the camera and click the shutter again. I pray the wind won't shake the camera, and roll into a ball. Sure is cold.

Leaves and Berries

2008-10-20T11:40:00.004+03:00

Above, top to bottom: Delicious blackberries picked on Bald Mountain in the Carpathian Mountains outside of Turka, Ukraine on October 18th, 2008; "Edible?" I asked Yura. He picked a small piece off the stalk and put it on his tongue after smelling the fungus thoroughly. "Ta, Edible. But not very good," he said, before tossing my precious mushroom into the forest, where it shattered into a million pieces over a log; Blackberries and many fruits are readily available and easy to pick, but you have to know what you're eating. Some are best for teas and boiled, while others are safe to eat right away. Mushrooms are even more difficult to distinguish, but if a small piece burns or irritates the tongue, it's generally not edible; Juniper Berries; these red berries are the first ones described below. They have a hard outer shell and are ripe in autumn.

"Can I eat this?" I said, holding up a red, diamond-shaped berry.

He chatters something in ukrainian at Brett, and eventually I get "nie recomenducja" out of his slur. Brett nods and confirms: "sure, but I told you so." I bite in anyway, and Yura was right, it is bitter, dry and falls apart in my mouth as if I had bitten into a packet of flour.

Using the forest as your grocery store is a practicality that takes some getting used to. I love eating out of the woods, it's the closest thing to childhood. My teeth stained purple by blackberries, I bite into another mountain fruit Yura has selected: a red, orb-like berry bunch that he says goes well in "Chai," Ukrainian for "tea." No Starbucks here. It pulls my lips into a pucker faster than a lemon, and I spit out the pit and skin on the ground.

Near the peak of the cliff, Yura explains that the next delicacy is quite expensive in stores. Brett and I recognize the pea-sized, stiff, purplish balls to be juniper berries. The juniper branches are prickly and sting in the cold, but it's worth a handful. Yura slaps his stomach and explains in Ukrainian that these are good for your liver. Don't eat too much, they'll make you sick.

Along the same path, Brett and I gorge ourselves on blackberries, push a dead tree down for firewood, and find a giant mushroom. While hauling the wood back to camp, a local man comes running up the mountain and jogs past us. We realize he's hiding an 8-inch Bowie knife look-a-like in his right hand as he runs past. Yura's machete, which looks more like a scimitar, is home-made and gruesome, but our only defense in case the mountain man has seen Deliverance. Yura hold up the blade handle and laughs, he shattered the blade on a tree stump. I munch some juniper berries and hope the wolves find us before the locals do.

A weekend in the Mountains with Brett

2008-10-20T00:46:00.004+03:00

My first memory of Brett was from the top of the slide in kindergarten. I was checking out the Montessori school to see if I liked it, and while standing on top of the slide, I watched as my future best friend ran down from the school doors, hands in the air, screaming "RECESS!!!!" We were six. We've been best friends ever since.

Above: 1, 4, 5- Brett at 7;30 am in the freezing cold wind of Bald Mountain in the Carpathians after camping out for a night; 2- Brett pretends to eat a beetle we found on the ground while picking wild blackberries to eat, all were delicious; 3- Brett mugs for the camera. He hates this picture, but since he keeps making these faces when I take his picture, I will keep posting them on my blog. Love you, Brett.

How to take great fall color pictures and UPA, The Ukrainian Resistance

2008-10-17T13:29:00.003+03:00

Above, top to bottom: fall colors on Lychakivska Street(see below for explanation); the moon right after sunset from the Wysoki Zamok(high castle); dog owners let their bulldogs socialize in the park on a sunny day; the faithful waited in line for over 30 minutes to get holy water after Tuesday's mass, many of them drank the water, an Orthodox tradition; a woman holds a portrait of Christ to be blessed while taking part in the procession around Pokrot Church in L'viv, Ukraine on October 14th, 2008.
I was supposed to cover a pro-life event on Tuesday, the anniversary of UPA, a national holiday in Ukraine. Instead, I never found the group, took pictures of the baptism, watched Ukrainians drink the holy water, and wandered into the adjacent woods. I especially liked the one of the fall colors, and in response to some recent comments asking for photo instruction, I explain the shot below.

UPA, or the Ukrainian Insurgent Army, began as a resistance movement in the spring/summer of 1943 and developed into a guerilla force. They fought in the best interest of the Ukrainian people, according to Wikipedia, and challenged the Nazi Waffen SS, Wehrmacht, the Polish Underground Army(Armia Krajowa), and a variety of Soviet forces including the Red Army and the NKVD. They also fought with the Germans against the soviets and the poles.

Tuesday was the anniversary of its founding, and the leader of UPA, Stepan Bandera, is a huge national hero. For Ukrainians, this is like the Alamo, the Revolutionary War, and the resistance all rolled into one. I find it fascinating since my grandfather fought in the polish underground. The UPA was unique because it fought the Nazis with no foreign support, unlike most resistance movements. UPA was most active in the Carpathian mountains and in Western Ukraine, near to where I am living. Another reason why Western and Eastern Ukraine are entirely different worlds.

In order to take a zoom photo like the one above, you need a manual zoom. I used a 17-35mm lens, but you can pick anything that isn't fixed(so no 50mm prime). Then you set it to either extreme(17mm or 35mm) and then set your exposure to somewhere around 30 sec-60 sec. It can be faster or slower than this, depending on the desired effect. The top photo was shot at 1/40, f/8, ISO 200. Before pressing the shutter, begin zooming in or out and then press the shutter button simultaneously. The camera will expose the zoom and create an effect similar to this.

Be careful how you use it. It can be used to bring emphasis/life/action to an otherwise dull subject, but it's also disorienting. Here, I wanted to emphasize the color of the trees, not the details. Zooming helps me do that.

Is this blog any good? Readers' review!

2008-10-16T23:46:00.007+03:00

Above: Traffic has increased substantially in L'viv over the past few years as Ukrainians finally have the income to pay for cars. "There was barely any traffic here 10 years ago," said Matthew Matuszak, an UCU employee. "Now they don't have the infrastructure to deal with the cars. Glad I don't own one."

As of today, I have been in L'viv 44 days, or 1 month and 2 weeks. In that time, I've been keeping this stellar blog going by posting photos, stories and videos every day I've been here. I haven't missed a day I've been in L'viv. Thanks to all who have sent compliments on facebook or directly on blogger, it means a lot.

I asked my friend Mark Kane if I was posting just to get more traffic, if this was the real deal. Ever so frank, Mark said,

"No, you're actually doing your job. You post every day with real material that is interesting and I actually want to read. Your not just posting every other week, you're doing it every day. You're doing what every blogger should do."

Thanks, Mark.

Some from facebook and emails:

Meredith Mahoney wrote

I want your camera! Love the blog too (and so does Mint)!

Danielle Littrell wrote

Hey cuz! I looked at your blog and it's amazing! That is so cool waht you are doing! I'm jealous... even though you are only surviving on 19 cents a week. Hope all is well otherwise! :)

Amanda Sheaffer wrote

Mike, you're the national champion of hacky sack? How come you never told me?

Nicholas La Joie wrote

mike, good to hear from you... and i enjoyed perusing your blog a bit-- i especially appreciate the video clips-- the one of "l'viv in september" put to music was an especially quality piece. in particular, the shot of the decrepit soul on the park bench just billowing smoke out from his innards. strong stuff.

Catherine Curley wrote

Hey Mike! I just checked out your blog for the first time, and your trip seems SO COOL! Both intimidating and inspiring at the same time - how awesome. Anyway, I hope you stay safe, and keep growing/learning - and posting! You have this CTW DR living vicariously through you :)

Emily Brunner wrote

Your blog is so stinking good! Once you've completed this round of adventures, you should script it and talk to some movie folks. If it is that good to read, it could be great to watch!

"at the risk of sounding redundant...awesome blog. really. you have a great layout and a fabulous mix of quality photography and well written prose. basically, you're a badass."

"Just read your latest blog post, Mike. Look who’s the new “sexy foreign exchange teacher.” HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA Yet another highly entertaining tale from your life."

"I saw your blog today, nice stories, keep it up.
I'd say "How's life?" but that's what the blog is for, I guess.
How ever did you get involved with the seminary? It's like going back in time.."

For those of you that sent compliments via email, I apologize for not getting your permission to publish this(email, I think, should be private). That's why I excluded names from the email quotes. I was flattered you sent me that, really, this is the reason I keep blogging.

I keep track of blog hits through Google Analytics, and that's why I keep modifying my posts. Some people read all of some posts and sometimes they just want to take a look at the pictures. The point is, when people do read it all, I notice and I try to play up more of that material. If you send me an email at mikerudz@gmail.com, I will reply, and have been pretty good about it so far(apologies to anyone I haven't gotten to yet). I read them all.

Some stats as of October 10th:

Hits to date: 541

Pageviews: 1804

Visitors: 221

% of visits that are new: 42%

74% of visitors are from referring sites(facebook)

24% are direct hits(people who have bookmarked me, cough cough, nudge, nudge)

Thanks to you all!

The First Lady of Ukraine is a White Sox fan sigh

2008-10-15T16:07:00.011+03:00

Above, top to bottom: Me with Kateryna Yushchenko, First Lady of Ukraine on October 11th in the Hyatt Kyiv Hotel in Kyiv, Ukraine; Yushchenko and the Ambassador from Lebanon(notice the awkwardly smiling woman in the background who ruined this picture); the most attractive Ukrainian woman I have ever seen; and the posh Hyatt Kyiv Hotel, which will run you about 400 euros a night($600 give or take).
"Those are olives," I said to Petro the Video Guy as he stabbed a toothpick into a bowl.

"Ahhhhh!" he smiled with delight and nodded vigorously, his face suddenly puckering as he found the pit. "And this?"

"Those are rice wafers," I said, pointing to the bowl with the white, cup-shaped crackers used to cleanse your palette.

"For spitting!" he mumbled, hawking an almond-shaped olive pit into the rice wafer and tossing it on the table.

I tried to tell him it was for eating, but I was buckled over in laughter under the table in front of a dozen millionaires, choking on my olive.

"In photography business, we must have no serious," said Petro.

"A sense of humor!" I said.

He nodded his approval of the new phrase and waved a hand towards the auction room. Photo and Video made their way back into the auction room and began documenting the handshakes and blank smiles of politicians, millionaires and VIPs . After a few dozen pictures, I slid out and made my way to the door to await the arrival of the First Lady of Ukraine.

"You know, you're not exactly dressed to be standing there," says an older woman with the university. "You're going to be the first thing the first lady sees, we can't have you standing there. We don't want to give a bad impression. You should move over there, stand in the corner. No offense or anything."

"Oh, none taken," I said, plastering a wry smile on my face and biting my tongue, knowing I hold no weight at the university. "I'm sorry, I don't think I caught your name."

"Svinka."

She's an american, about 60 and looking it, and I instantly understand that she enjoys what limited power she wields. Having been up for 24 hours, being anxious for the First Lady, and already irritated, I pop a brilliant question: "is that Mrs. or Ms?"

"Honey, you just don't ask that question in 2008, that's so rude," she said and walked away.

I decide that if ever given the opportunity, I will duel with her to the death. She ranks right below a few high school classmates on my revenge list, but a glass of champagne quickly erases her from my memory.

Kateryna Yushchenko was born in Hyde Park, Illinois near Chicago where she went to high school(this is per our conversation) and is married to Viktor Yushchenko, President of Ukraine. She mentioned her last trip to Chicago, earlier this year when she attended "a sox game." I take this as her being a fan of the Chicago White Sox, which is unfortunate.

Although the night was filled with donations, pictures of donors, donor awards, donor auctions, donor recognitions, and a donor dinner I stuffed my face with, the spotlight seemed to always be on Yushchenko. I waited until there was a free moment, handed my camera to Petro and walked up to her and introduced myself. Since we are both from Chicago, we had much to discuss, and she remembered a friend of mine who translated for her(Kate! where are you?!). I had a pleasant conversation with her, and I felt she meant every word.

Even in the posh Hyatt Kyiv Hotel, she has the grace to mingle with the upper crust of Ukraine, talk to every millionaire in the room and still have a down to earth, meaningful conversation. I was genuinely impressed with her, and she was sincere. I told her about my career dreams, and that I'm a volunteer at the university she donates to regularly.

"Good luck to you, Michael," she said, squeezing my hand before she left.

"Big Blesz," holy man of the east

2008-10-14T23:22:00.003+03:00

Above, top to bottom: Cardinal Lubomyr Husar, or "Blesziniscie," of the Ukrainian Greek Catholic Church and me at the banquet in Kyiv on Saturday, October 11th, 2008; Cardinal Husar reacts to a question from an interviewer after an interview for UCU on Sunday, October 12th; Husar and the Archbishop of Kyiv, center, and an archbishop from Rome at the Hyatt Kyiv Hotel on October 11th; and Blesziniscie in his home outside of Kyiv after the interview on October 12th, 2008.
His black cassock sweeping the floor, Blesziniscie(bleh-zih-nee-shee), "Your Beatitude," silences an entire room of Ukrainians by lifting his hand in blessing, then rumbles a greeting beneath a snowy white beard. An icon of the Virgin Mary swings from his neck by golden chain, like a pendulum pitching back and forth with each plodding step. He is already tired and weary at 6 pm, and only lasts for a couple of hours till his speech. He doesn't disappoint.

He is a warm man, and even though I reiterate what an honor it is to meet him, the leader of an entire faith, he insists that the pleasure is all his. Born in Lviv, Husar fled with his family to Austria in 1944, and eventually settled in the United States where he attended St. Basil College Seminary in Connecticut. He later taught there, and eventually returned to Ukraine where he now resides.

I was impressed by his humility and sincerity as many church hierarchs, I hate to say, emanate a political savviness and elitist air that is less than charming. Although a minority church, the majority of western Ukraine is Ukrainian Catholic, and it's the only eastern church that is in communion with Rome. I feel lucky to have been in the same room with him, and even luckier to have met him in person.

Kyiv, Kiev or however you say it

2008-10-13T11:23:00.006+03:00

Above, top to bottom: Fr. Ihor Boiko watches the Ukrainian countryside pass as he sips his Chai, or "tea," on the express train to Kyiv on October 11, 2008; tourists and passerbys hurry past the main square in Kyiv, where the Orange Revolution took place in 2004; a couple poses for a wedding portrait, imitating a statue in front of St. Michael's Cathedral in Kyiv; two men light cigarettes while walking out of St. Michael's Cathedral in Kyiv; the escalators in Kyiv's subway are especially long, taking several minutes to descend to train level in some areas.

I shot a "grab-and-grin" as we call them in the business on Saturday in Kyiv(pictures to come). It was a fundraising banquet for the university in Kyiv. Easy gig, but lighting can prove to be the bane of an evening. I had the opportunity to meet both Cardinal Lubomyr Husar(Or Blesziniscie as they call him, "your most blessedness"), head of the Greek Catholic Church, and the First Lady of Ukraine, Kateryna Yushchenko. More on that later this week.

Anyway, Kyiv(Ukrainian for "Kiev," the capital of Ukraine) has a population of about 3 million. It's a nice town, but bizarre in the same way that Istanbul is; it's a cultural cocktail of eastern and western cultures. It reminded me a lot of Istanbul, and if I could compare it, I'd say Kiev is something like a version of Paris that has lived under communism for over 100 years(which it has, and is thus run down and has Russian "classical" architecture, think concrete beehive) crossed with modern Istanbul. I do miss Istanbul. But they serve Kebabs in Kiev, too.

You pronounce it 'Keev," but quicker, and you don't pronounce the syllables as you do in English. There's a ton of money in Kyiv, and I saw more Mercedes there than anywhere else in Europe. The banquet was held at the Hyatt Kyiv, a ridiculously expensive and elaborate hotel that runs you 400 euros a night(about $600).

Kyiv is worth a visit, especially for its historical significance and role in the Orange Revolution of 2004. I had a great conversation with the First Lady of Ukraine and with Bleszinisie, which I'll post in the couple of days.