Poncho visits Yalta
Ah Poncho, my drinking alter ego who comes out to play from time to time, decided to make his first appearance during this cruise in Yalta, Ukraine, just a few hours East of Stavastopol.
Since we got such a cold reception in Stavastopol I was surprised how different things were two towns over in Yalta. Ninety years ago, the last Czar of Russia built a palace in the cliffs above the Black Sea. To support this palace a small town was founded at the base of the cliffs. This town became known as "Yalta", the local term for warehouse. Over the years the town has grown into a medium-size resort community that caters to the regions upper-middle class.
As the R/V Endeavor approached the pier, a line of officials stood in wait. I wondered if this time the captain was prepared to "entertain" our guests in hopes of not being accused again of smuggling over-the-counter drugs. Lucky for us, this town's port authorities were a bit more receptive to guests and after a much less painful customs visit, the crew was granted permission to descend upon the town's waterfront.
The group I was with proceeded inland into the town's market district. First order of business... a beer. Eric, Brennan, Armando (the first mate) and myself found ourselves a little red tent and a server who spoke enough English to bring a round of brew. Ah, beer after being on a dry ship. Although it wasn't like in the Galapagos where this was my first drink in a month, it still went down pretty smooth.
After this first beer we decided to continue exploring the town. It was far too early in the day to commit to a location. Although the market scene was nice, we knew the waterfront was where we wanted to be. Along the way we passed a liquor store. Our original intention was to ask if there were any open-container laws but that changed when Brennan's eye caught a glance at a cabinet containing bottles of a mysterious green liquid... Absinthe. Now I'm still not convinced but some say there's something too this hallucinogenic liquor. All I know is that there's a reason you are supposed to take it with a cube of sugar... it tastes awful... and don't forget to watch out for those crawly spiders. 
Now we didn't actually spend the rest of the evening in an Absinthe trip. Instead we picked up another round of beer and continued to the waterfront. (oh yeah, no open container law!)
As we entered the waterfront area, the small streets and alleys that were crammed with cars and motorcycles opened up into a large waterfront plaza with a statute of Lenin at one end and at the other end... a McDonald's. After you walked through the plaza the way narrowed to the width of a wide street, with the Black Sea to the South and restaurants, shops and boutiques to the North. We walked half the length of the boardwalk before the rain started. And by rain I mean a downpour, within seconds we were soaked. Not to be deterred by a little bad weather, we grabbed another beer and slowly started walking back to the ship. Along the way we ran into other members of the crew. They weren't hard to pick out in a crowd. Everyone here was very well dressed, especially when compared to myself and most of the crew who went out in whatever they were wearing when the ship pulled in.
It was getting into the early evening and the group thought it would be a good idea to catch a shower before dinner. Just as we were walking through the port security checkpoint we ran into the captain, a large group of the crew and members of the science party. This called for another beer. It was here that tragedy struck. The Absinthe bottle that Brennan had been guarding this whole time was knocked over and cracked on the stone patio. About 3/4 of the bottle spilled out. As for the rest, he poured it into a cup and passed it around. This is how I know how bad the stuff tastes.
Eventually I did make it back to the ship, showered, changed for dinner and whatever might follow. Whatever might follow turned out to be a little more than I bargained for. It started out with dinner... pizza of all things at a place called the Potato House.
At the pizza parlor, this crazy Canadian introduced himself. He was so excited to hear English that he could hardly contain himself. I forget his name but I do remember his purpose in the Ukraine... to pick up his mail-order bride. I met the woman and she was quite stunning even though she seemed slightly confused about what she was getting into. The Canadian was pretty in the know when it came to Yalta and recommended several places we should go. Top of the list was a club called Matrix. Several other locals recommended this place so the crew I was with started moving in that direction. On this particular night Matrix was closed but as always, another opportunity arose almost immediately. As we were walking back to the main drag, our group ran into another group of our science party as well as two of the Ukrainian observers that had been on the ship since I got on in Crete. One of these observers grew up in one of the neighboring towns and was quite familiar with the Yalta. He knew exactly where we should go... next stop, the big-ass pirate ship.
I'm not kidding here, the place was actually a Spanish galleon replica permanently chocked up on the beach complete with masts and rigging. Now for whatever reason we were the only people on this ship. Despite the oddity of our environment we soon accepted our plight as when out of nowhere the wine and vodka began to appear. Of course when the only thing to do is drink wine and vodka people don't tend to last long. This problem was compounded by the fact that half of us are still on EST time and the other half had arrived on a dry ship with no means to "practice". So before long our party began to falter and make their way back to their respective bunks.
Thank God for the Ukrainian observers! Just as the few remaining scraggliers (myself included) were starting to leave, our Ukrainian guests ask us if we wanted to go to a disco. Sure, I'm exhausted but why not, how often do I get to go to a disco in Yalta? The first disco we tried was about a 20-minute hike up into the surrounding mountains. When we got there we discovered the disco was hosting a private party and would not let us in. Our guide's second choice was on the other side of town so it would be much quicker to take a taxi.
This is a perfect example of why taxi trips in a foreign land are one of my favorite activities, picture this: We had to take two cabs, one cab has three Americas and one English-speaking Ukrainian guide, the second cab contains me and three Ukrainians I have never met in my life. I wasn't sure if any of them spoke English, whether or not they were going to the same place as the other cab or if they even realized there was an American in the car. Making the situation more clamorous was that the cab we were in was twice as old as me, held together with whatever hardware was available, and driving well in excess of it's maximum safe velocity. I just had to laugh as I was completely at the mercy of my fellow occupants and our driver who should really consider competing on the World Rallye Cup racing series.
When the cab came to a stop I was anxious to see where I was and whether the other cab was behind us. As luck would have it the other cab arrived moments later and the eight of us entered the "Cactus Club"
The Cactus Club was a single large room with a bar on one side and a small stage on the other. In the middle of the stage was a single brass pole. Securely attached to the brass pole were two VERY attractive professional dancers. Ok, so I guess this is the place? Despite the workload I was already placing on my liver I still wasn't at the point where I felt like that I could dance, but I was working in that direction.
In addition to the VERY attractive dancers on stage, the dance floor between the stage and bar was filled with only the very hip of the Ukrainian youth. Not to leave the United States unrepresented, I took one more shot of vodka a proceeded onto the floor.
Did I mention the two VERY attractive dancers? About 30 minutes later they disappeared into the dark, leaving the stage empty. About 10 minutes after that, in a move reminiscent of my early-twenties clubbing days in D.C., I stepped up on stage (it was really all Poncho's fault). Lucky for me, my wingman Mike soon followed. Shortly after that, two lovely ladies from the crowd also jumped up and four of us proceeded to rock the stage (and that single brass pole).
Now Poncho wasn't so drunk that he thought he was actually dancing well, he just thought that dancing on a stage (with a brass pole) at a club in Yalta was too much to pass up. After a few songs I relinquished my position and proceeded back to the bar where I was cheered (and a little laughed at) for my dancing prowess. In any case my efforts were rewarded/consoled in the form of several shots of vodka. The night and the dancing continued but I never made it back on to the stage.
Now at some point during the night I must have taken a bad step because I could tell my left ankle was tweaked. (never go out dancing in running shoes, always a bad idea) I hobbled back to the ship, made a huge ham and cheese sandwich and put my ankle on ice. I wasn't sure how bad I had twisted my ankle but I was completely surprised the next day when I discovery I was unable to walk.
Ah Poncho, when will he learn my limits?
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