With our Friends

---

Until a few weeks ago we had been riding through countries so massive that border crossings, when they so seldom happened, seemed interestingly quirky at worst. When we met with our dear friends in the Crimean, we knew that one way or the other we would be crossing several international boundaries in only a few days. We thought this quite irksome as Julie and JP had to be in Bucharest for a flight by the morning of the eleventh and delays were not needed. We planned to take a ferry from the Crimean to Odessa in order to skip the few hundred kilometers of backtracking on major highways that would be required to ride to Odessa. Left to our own devices, the two of us would have probably just ridden this section but the thought of spending all of our riding time with our friends (who had travelled far to ride with us) on a sketchy highway dodging aggressive trucks did not appeal. Even more unappealing was the fact that, should we not make it so far as the Romanian border (likely) they would spend the last two days of their "cycling trip" jumping from bus to bus in order to navigate the mayhem that is public transport on the outer frontiers of the E.U.
We arranged a small homestay with a snappy character of a babushka in the coastal town of Alushta, Ukraine and took the world's longest trolley bus into Simferopol to meet them at the airport. The views were nice and it was interesting to see such a relic of a 1950's Soviet electricky still making the daily run over a formidable pass. The pickup went off without a hitch and soon we were heading for the coast - the two of us elated to have some (English speaking) additions to our social lives and the two of them excited at having been plunked right smack into the middle of a very, very foreign place.
The first snag in our plans came as they assembled their new bikes and found that the journey had been less than gentle on their bags. Despite careful packaging of their new collapsable bikes, one of the wheels had taken such a blow to the spokes that the resulting tension had broken the hub flanges. After a few jokes about JB Weld and the like we set off on a mission to find a new wheel in town. This failed and so, in the morning, we found ourselves again aboard the world's longest trolley bus bound for Simferopol. Not five minutes after we had arrived we found a willing helper in the form of a young man with a mountain bike and a smile. He led us around from shop to shop until, adjacent to the site of a new velodrome, we found a quality replacement wheel at more than a fair price. Our big-hearted guide rode away with a smile and a broken wheel to add to his parts pile and we skipped away to the trolley terminal.
The next day the four of us began riding from Alushta, headed for Yalta. We had numerous leads for a ferry service from there to Odessa but could find no exact schedules despite hours of internet searching. Alushta and Yalta are tourist traps in the most antiquated sense. Rickety old ferris wheels, dunking booths, cotton candy, and the odd tamed raccoon make for a boardwalk feel that is similar to Ocean City or Daytona in the 1960s. Everything is tacky, especially the droves of middle class Moscovites who have not faired well enough in the capitalist era to vacation elsewhere. Folks in these towns are wary of foreigners as much of this part of the penninsula was closed to outsiders until recently because of Russian military bases in the area. This added an additional strain to our relationship with a local population that is already jaded by the Russian tourists whom they hate though their livlihoods depend on them. It is an all too typical paradox that we have seen in tourist towns across the world.....including our own fair home.
The next snag for team James Frames came at the seaport of Yalta where the port clerk tried his best to laugh us out of the building following our inquiries about the ferry services offered there. When he left for lunch we resisted the urge to send him on a voyage to the bottom of the merky harbour and approached his counterpart. She was very kind and revealed another version of a sad story which we had heard again and again. As we strolled about in the cavernously empty voxall she told of the many ferries that used to sail daily between Crimean ports and Odessa. With a deep sigh she gave us the sad news that, nowadays, all such services have been suspended. There was a moment of silence here where all of us hung our heads in reflective lament. Even the dusty voxall itself seemed to slump at the reflection of the bustling affairs which had once transpired between its walls.
We left Yalta with a steep, switchbacking climb past a pretty, onion-domed kremlin with panoramic views of the sea. The rest of the day found us skimming along through quaint villages high above the water and over the Crimean crest as the sun began to drop. We were reminded that, through our whole journey, riding has been itself the answer to all feelings of sorrow and defeat. The next day brought us into the naval port of Sebastopol in search of another ferry. Again we were laughed at for merely inquiring. It was the same cynical laugh imbued with the thoughts of what once was and is no more. Then, again, a friendly lady informed us that all such services had, to the best of her knowledge, been suspended. She also told us of an overnight bus going to Odessa and now we were left with a decision that in retrospect we took far to heavily. The two of us have long considered land transportation with our bikes to be a nightmarish proposition, especially given the large amount of time we have to ride to the Atlantic. Until this moment we had sworn it off completely but given the consequences of such doctrine for our team mates we soon found ourselves at the bus terminal ticket window. With heavy hearts the four of us removed our panniers and our wheels and waited in a small park filled with feces waiting for our driver to arrive. The ferry sounded so romantic but a bus?! Ironically dispicable. Looking back it is odd how we hold onto such religious ideas and bring ourselves down under their weight.
The driver arrived on schedule and turned out to be quite dismayed that we planned to put four bicycles in his hold. After a discussion with the cashier and some patient insistance on our part we were off and his attitude towards us had slowly warmed by the time we arrived in Odessa. It felt surreal to be in a place that we had not ridden to. We were lost and still kind of pissed at the whole sordid affair but soon enough we were on our way with avengance and to our delight the traffic loosened to an acceptable level before we had even left the city limits. Overall, the bus experience had been a success and had taken almost no time from our precious hours of riding as a pack. Over the next few days we crossed hill after hill, passed vinyard after vinyard, and managed to pass through all of those "bothersome" borders as if we were ghosts. Indeed the questions were few and the stamps fast in coming. Together we traversed some of the most obscure lands in Europe including the Ukrainian side of the Danube/Dniestr delta and the Moldovan autonomous republic of Gaugazia. On the morning of the ninth we crossed into Romania and thus the E.U. Immediately the traffic became heavy, food became expensive and the Russian language, our saving grace for nearly three months, was no longer understood. In twenty kilometers navigating the culture became a complicated process of pathologically reducing Spanish to the Latin root and playing with the variations. Also gone was the classic eastern block attitude towards foreigners, replaced with two handed handshakes and an overall feeling of warmth.
Later that day our two comrades packed their bikes in a dirty lot in Buzau and took the one hour micro bus ride into Bucharest. We felt a bit melancholly and quite lonely as we watched them roll away. It was an honor to have them ride with us, especially considering how far out of their way they went to do so. The whole week had for us been a reminder of the immense importance of friendship in the human condition. As we slowly pedalled off towards the Carpathians we could not help but feel as if we had turned to yet another chapter of experiences, out in the big wide world, all alone together.

---

Comments

[Laura Seligman]

WoW!
What a great read...Thanks for taking me away from all the hassles of managing life and nursing school. Sweet observations made amidst the challenges and adventures you are experiencing. It will be great to see your smiling faces whenever you get back. Have an ochen xorosho rest of your trip. From Laura

[Louise Bultman,Julie's mom]

What a challenging adventure !
So glad the pictures look so charming....even though the adventure in the Crimea had some rough spots! We are impressed that the 4 of you seem to have just made the most of it and kept going. News from Julie and J.P. in Greece sounds enjoyable and relaxing. Our best to you on this last part of your journey !