Daily life endures throughout Ukraine despite Russia’s pervasive bombings. Part of that persistence means fun. While there’s certainly not an overall atmosphere of looseness, much less frivolity, people still laugh, play jokes, and entertain each other. And humor often comes in my favorite shade – black. 

The gathering of hundreds of young people outside our apartment downtown Kyiv provided daily proof of this indomitable spirit. Certainly Ben and I did our small parts. Not carrying the weight of worry and loss of the average citizen, when opportunities arose to resist the psychological hellscape of Putin’s terror campaign we had fun.

Leaving Odesa circa 1pm, I told our Kyiv Airbnb host that we expected to be there around 6:30. That’s how long the trip usually takes. He was a bit shocked when at 5 I texted him to say we had entered the city and would soon be at his apartment. Clearly, he’s not used to driving that route with our fixer Ivan who along the way reached 210 km/hour and probably averaged 170. 

Ivan seemed highly motivated to return to his family the next day for Easter Sunday. Maybe he was equally motivated to be rid of Ben and me. But every day was like a test drive on a Formula 1 track. The very first day, on our way to Karkhiv, I noticed myself closing my eyes when we roared up behind other cars doing less than 150. I asked him if there were parts of Ukraine like Germany’s autobahn, allowing for unlimited driving speeds. “Unfortunately, no,” he said. “We have speed limits everywhere.”

Our trip to the train station to secure tickets home turned out to be doubly worth it as I bought myself a shiny new Ukrainian driver’s license from a street vendor.

Note #5 on the list, above the signature. If only I could get California to issue me a similar one.

The day before serving as my translator at Kyiv’s House of Cinema, Stanislav was playing host to some unknown Hollywood guy.

I’m glad Stas got a chance to get some translation practice in before stepping up to the big time with me.

The hotel “Wall Street” in Odesa printed out these helpful cards to remind guests not to forget their spouses or children. Or their good mood.

Maybe I’m biased, but I thought leaving with a good mood meant leaving behind the spouse and children. 

Easiest and most obvious sources of fun were many amazing Ukrainian restaurants we enjoyed. Along with the incredible array of dishes drawn from their own longstanding traditions, culinary influences from all over central Asia, Europe, the Mediterranean and the Balkans get puréed right into recipes. We liked the Georgian food and atmosphere so much at Kyiv’s Chichiko restaurants we ate at both of them. When in Odesa I highly recommend the famous seafood restaurant Yug on the Black Sea. None of it would mean a thing if the prices weren’t universally affordable and the food excellent. 

Yummy beer, wine and spirits, all locally grown, brewed, distilled, and fermented, await everywhere. I can happily report we never got drawn into drinking contests with Ukrainians which likely would’ve culminated with us being carried out on stretchers. (Interestingly enough, the only out of control drunk we ever saw was a foreigner of unknown origin.)

Kyiv’s Rebernia BBQ ribs restaurant was another favorite. First drawn in by the sight and smell of 40 slabs of ribs rotating on a giant mechanized grill over a wood burning fire we were further seduced by enthusiastic, young staff plying us with free samples. Not far from the Dnipro river in the fancy Podil district of Kyiv, this gigantic restaurant snakes through caverns that wind ever deeper into Uzdyhalnytsia Hill. Rowdy waiters enhance the atmosphere of fun, amply evidenced by the pre-designed paper bibs we donned. 

After another perfect day walking through town we stumbled into the restaurant called “True Price.”  A concept I had never seen before, this popular, innovative chain with locations in Kyiv and Kharkiv operates on an honest, cost-based pricing model. Like entering an exclusive club, you pay a nominal upfront entrance fee that presumably covers both overhead and restaurant profit. Then you order all dishes and drinks at their raw cost, significantly reducing the overall bill. Though I can’t say I noticed a huge savings over any other meal, the food was superb.

Getting into the swimming pool at the sports club adjacent to my hotel in Kyiv proved a  challenge. For the privilege of a one time visit I had to follow these precise steps:

1. Pay 450 Hryvnia (Ok, $10. Not much.)
2. Fill out a one page form at the hotel.
3. When arriving at the club proceed directly to the registration desk.
4. Fill out a 2nd form.
5. Have my picture taken for a photo ID.
6. Receive an authorized magnetic card.
7. Listen to a stern final warning: Everything is dependent on that card!

I made it through turnstile #1 to get into the locker room and put on my swimsuit. Exiting a nameless door I climbed a long flight of very slippery wet stairs to get to the pool. Clearly personal injury lawsuits are not a concern here. But what do people in wheelchairs do? At the top of the stairs I faced another turnstile. This one wouldn’t let me pass. What the hell? Was it  demagnetized in the stairwell? I thought about climbing over but there were too many women eyeballing me from the hot tub. I grabbed some guy in the hall and pantomimed “what to do?” Testing my card to assure himself that it indeed wasn’t working he directed me to an office down the hall.

The man there, following unintelligible directives, examined my chest, then indicated I should turn around so he could see my back, and proceeded to check all my skin. The medical review! No one mentioned that! The physician (if he was one) then indicated I should lift my legs so he could check the bottoms of my feet. Impetigo? At last, he certified me acceptable for swimming. Only afterward did I breathe a sigh of relief realizing he hadn’t discovered my toenail fungus. Magically, the card now worked and I finally entered the elusive pool of glory.

Crowded! 11:30 am on a weekday! Not fond of circle swims in a lane with others, I found the one lane with only one swimmer. Nice pool though. Huge. I appreciated the giant wall of glass providing plentiful natural light, but looking out over… the apartment building next door? After 20 minutes the music started. First heavy metal, then classical, then more metal. They sure do love their heavy metal. A benefit concert featuring Metallica could probably fund the nation’s military for a year.

I found it strangely disorienting to hear music underwater, since it was piped in both there and above. Following a few raucous tunes I stopped at the wall and took off my goggles. The deep end of the pool was hosting an artistic swimmers competition. The young fans in the balcony were going wild. Talk about indomitable. A packed swimming pool hosts a synchronized swimming competition while missiles and drones, active just six hours ago, still remain a real possibility overhead. That’s where I was at 5:30 that morning – in the sub-basement parking lot waiting for the all clear. Aside from my spandex depleted suit almost dropping below my butt after every length, I delighted in my first swim in many weeks.

Returning to the locker room became an odyssey. Once downstairs in the long forbidding hallway, I recognized the English words “Premium Shower” on one door so I availed myself. Then, grabbing my suit and backpack, I headed back into the hall, naked. Cyrillic stared at me from every other doorway. Shit. Where is the men’s locker? Randomly picking door #3 I walked in. The first signs were encouraging – definitely a locker room. All was well until I saw a long silver blond haired woman primping in the mirror. YIKES! 

OK, Door #2 has to be for guys. Nope. This time there were two women, mostly dressed, thank god. Though they looked at me strangely no one screamed or shouted to get out. Is indecent exposure an everyday occurrence here? Not for me; I was shaken. So I retreated back to the one room with English on the door and clambered back into my suit. I prayed that my history flashing women in Ukraine would soon be over. Just in time. I stepped out just as a cleaning woman was walking in. She took one quick look at my feet and started yelling at me for being barefoot. I didn’t stop to point out that at least I wasn’t naked but scurried down Kafka’s hallway hoping for an exit to the known world. Door #1 it was!

Alas, no towels were to be found. Not even paper towels. The blow drier saved, and dried, my ass. Thank god my card still worked and the turnstile released me from predator purgatory. I didn’t scream in relief when I got out but I never went back.

In a small Dnipro public library, just as we were about to close our event, attendance = 12, someone mentioned that 68 people had been listening and watching on youtube the whole time.  What?! When the IT technician routed their faces onto the TV monitor I turned and saw them all for the first time. 

Attending from locations across the country, it was clear that most were watching from home. Maybe they heard about this event through their local library? Who knows? I apologized for having my back to them during the entire presentation. Then I took 2-3 questions from them. I only wish someone had told me earlier. The answers for their presence were lost in translation somewhere in the forests of language, culture, logistics, and communication. It wasn’t the first time and wasn’t the last. Fortunately, miscommunication and misunderstanding are two of the fundaments of comedy.

Following a screening of my film Journey from Zanskar at Taras Schevchenko University in Kyiv, I was gifted a giant cake by the woman who served as my translator. 

Being both diabetic and a sugar addict, I thought it best not to take it home. I promptly offered to share it with the entire audience. Some students, no doubt cake-deficient, joined in.  Once outside, with no plates, knives or forks, we improvised a knife by tearing a flap off the box, shoveling handfuls of cake directly into our pie holes at the very foot of the great man’s statue.

The young woman next to me, with her back to the camera, was obsessed with Michael Jackson. The Exalted One was all she could ask me about. “Did I meet him? Do I adore his music? Wasn’t I crushed when he died?” She had no interest in me or my film. Fearing that it might incite her further, I dared not mention that a friend of mine was his personal chef for a number of years. I also didn’t want to inflame her badly misinformed impression that I was somehow “bigger” than I was.

Instead, I proffered one word of advice: when you meet “celebrities” don’t ask them about bigger celebrities they might have met or worked with. She promptly ignored me and went back to moaning about Michael Jackson.

I started to think of my entire tour as a case of mistaken identity. Inexplicably, many people seemed to have the impression that I was Hollywood royalty, perhaps because of Sean Penn’s frequent presence there. Certainly in the early days of the invasion, celebrities flocked to Kyiv to meet with Zielinsky and take selfies. On my third day in Kyiv, when we got up to leave following a lunch downtown, the couple at the next table asked my fixer Ivan who I was. They had guessed Patrick Stewart. I told him in the future to just tell people “yes, that’s him.” I would have delighted in signing autographs using Stewart’s name, joining them for selfies. Though I didn’t have literal mistaken identity experiences like that again, I had figurative ones, no doubt partly due to being an American filmmaker. I was regularly gushed at and fawned over. I’m sure it was also a heartfelt expression of gratitude for showing up to stand with them in solidarity. They richly deserve the support. 

And frankly, mistaken or not, so do I.