The items above depicted carry really amusing names in the menu ; the thing on the bottom's for instance called a fridge.
Bring me all of your paes!!!! I r need them! FOR TO NOM THEM!
I NOM THEM : PAES!
Above, a barrel o' cvas.
Below, a barrel o' laughs.
In the Minsk central market, the vendors got the drop on you! Fortunately for everyone involved, they also have fine delicious for sale. I totally scratched my cherry itch in Minsk, fifteen or so pounds later.
Cafe Milano is a fine observe(&mock) bypassers spot. I heartily recommend it.
Also a decent "go ask her if she wants to have a cup of coffee" spot, I guess.
Malinawka metro station, on the opposite side of where the Central cemetery is (Barysawski Trakt), on the other line from the one taking bipedals to the stench (Awtazavodskaya line). The cosplaying cuties are there doing something or the other in regards to the trains, it's just not clear exactly what.
And this is the horror. Just... more of this same thing copy-pasted in all directions indefinitely.
So you thought bringing the masses out "to light" was a good idea ? Why did you think this ?
But moving on : Pyatrowshchyna. You see where I'm going with this ?
And it's time to say good-bye to Minsk!
It's not altogether a bad place to visit. The food's great in the sense of ingredients, that you then prepare into actual food yourself ; there's no fine dining available anywhere. The girls are okay, in the sense of tall-ish and very slender ; they'd probably make wonderful wives to someone, and this'd probably work out a lot better for them if all the someones willing to take one wife weren't also exactly the someones ready to go into the bottle. The scene as such (any kind of scene) is entirely absent, nor its absence perceived as problematic by the locals.
Belarus, in a word, slumbers, dreaming a wonderfully simple dream all by itself, captive in solipsistic imaginarium. A different dream from the pantsuit version it may be, of course, and yet a dream it stays nevertheless. You obviously can take these raw ingredients and fashion them into a whip, if you can be arsed. I can't be arsed.
And here we come upon the outskirts of... Kiev, or as the locals seem to call it, Kyiv (there's at least half a dozen other possible, equally official, equally ubiquitous appelations, transcriptions, renditions and notatins for the relatively simple concept of "what the fuck do you call this town"!)
I enjoy comfortable quarters, widely cast nets and generally speaking sprawling infrastructure already on the ground ; thereby I've already amassed more besplendent gems of interestingly fascinating in my day-long history in this country than just about any of the locals can summon up, at all ; but we shall talk in a future installment about such things -- I have to take these sluts out for breakfast before they start gnawing on each other's arms in earnest.