uzhhorod, i think my feet hate me here (in the best way)
so i landed in uzhhorod with a backpack full of leotards and a knee that's been whispering sweet nothings about ibuprofen for three weeks. the city is all pastel soviet blocks and these wild overgrown vines that climb everything like they're trying to reclaim the concrete.
i checked the weather and it's this damp 6-degree thing that makes your joints feel like rusty hinges, humidity sitting at a flat 78 percent-absolute nightmare for floorwork but kinda perfect for slow, weighted movement. if you get bored, kosice and budapest are just a quick bus ride away, and honestly i might take that advice tomorrow.
the first thing i did was drag my suitcase-which by the way is held together by duct tape and hope-to this hostel called 'caravan' that someone on a dropout message board swore by. Check it out on TripAdvisor. the guy at reception had a tattoo of a metronome on his forearm and handed me a key that looked like it opened a medieval dungeon. "the floor in room 3 is crooked," he said, "but your body will adjust." that's the vibe here: everything's slightly off-kilter and you just have to roll with it.
i spent the afternoon scouting rehearsal spaces. there's this abandoned cultural palace by the river-someone told me the caretaker lets dancers use the main hall for twenty hryvnias an hour if you bring him cigarettes. Local cafe with great pastries on Yelp. i tried it out and the floor was this polished marble that's basically an ice rink in these temps. did a few tendus and nearly ate it. then i found a hidden yoga studio above a bakery where the air smells like rye bread and sweat. the instructor, an older woman with forearms like steel cables, let me crash her contemporary class. we moved to a soundtrack of accordion music and distant train whistles. afterwards she pressed a honey cake into my hands and said, 'in uzhhorod, we dance with the earth, not on it.' cheesy? yeah. but after that bit of cake, i believed her.
overheard at the market: 'the best street food here is the Å‚achance-fried dough with nothing but salt-but only from the lady with the blue apron. anyone else is selling regret.' Uzhhorod food forum. i trusted the blue apron. she was a whirlwind of flour and sass, handed me a paper cone dripping with oil and said, 'eat fast before the seagulls win.' i ate it standing up, watching pigeons execute heist-level maneuvers on a tourist's dropped pastry.
last night i went to this underground club in a former trolleybus depot. the dj spun these twisted folk tracks that made my tendons vibrate. someone leaned over and shouted over the bass, 'the floor here ate three pairs of sneakers last month-watch your step.' i checked: yeah, the wooden planks were missing nails and gaps you could lose a phone in. but the crowd...they moved like liquid, all these sharp angles and sudden drops. i tried to keep up, my calves screaming, and realized i haven't danced like this since i was twenty and broke. it was messy and glorious and i fell over twice. a girl with neon pink hair helped me up and said, 'first time? we all look like newborn giraffes here.'
the weather's still doing its damp thing, and my body is a museum of aches. but there's something about uzhhorod-maybe it's the way the light slants off the river at 4 pm, or how strangers hand you food without asking. i think i'll stay another day. just gotta find a studio with a sprung floor and maybe a massage therapist who works for pastries.
oh, and someone warned me: don't try the 'special' horilka at the bar by the train station unless you want to meet your ancestors. i might still do it. for art.
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