Making love or else expecting rain

I think on your first night in Odessa, especially if it's a Saturday night, you're supposed to have a cocaine-fueled orgy on a boat or something. What I did on my first night on Odessa was go to the Irish bar near my hostel, but it's ok because it was to watch Barcelona win the Champions League final. Irish bars the world over are good for one thing, and that is watching sports. ¡Barça!

Getting to Odessa was also pretty much the opposite of a cocaine-fueled orgy on a boat. I know that guide books are full of errors and so you should always double-check anything important, but when the Lonely Planet said that there are at least 24 buses a day between Tiraspol and Odessa, it really seemed safe to assume that I could show up to the bus station any time and a bus would leave soonish. I showed up around ten to find that the next bus left at two. Joder. When the bus finally did leave, it was an oversold, unventilated van with no room for luggage, but everyone had luggage so the luggage plus some people filled the aisles. I was shoved in the very back next to an old man who sweat alcohol, and the bad roads plus bad van made it so bumpy that sometimes my ass left the seat. At the Transdniestr side of the border, they made us all get out of the van and put our luggage through a metal detector. (To make sure we weren't taking weapons out of Transdniestr?) Then once we and all our stuff were packed back into the seats and aisle of the van, they made me get back off (i.e., climb over everyone's luggage) and go to a little building to have an entirely useless conversation with an immigration guy, and so then crawl back over everyone's luggage to the very back of the van... I'm realizing as I write this that it's not a good story at all and I'm just whining. Traveling in poor countries means crappy infrastructure and sometimes border crossings are slow and stressful. Deal with it.

Anyway, by the time I finally made it to Odessa, which so far looks like a lovely city, I was in no condition for any kind of orgy. Some of the other patrons of the Irish bar seemed to be, though. Hot girls in spike heels drank fruity drinks and colorful shots and made out with boys who were only sort of watching the game. Beautiful or strangely-dressed people continually paraded through the bar, and some wealthy-looking people had very important conversations with the manager. So, with the exception of TVs showing sports, even the Irish bar felt like some ridiculous night club. Yikes.