Megan and Phil Almost Get Kicked Off A Train in Slovakia/Soldiers, Part 2

Hello all!

Happy New Year! I hope everyone kicks off a prosperous and healthy new year with a wonderful time tonight! Have fun and be safe! I write to you from Vienna, where all the men wear button-up shirts with pullover sweaters, you must open metro car doors yourself, and Phil has trouble with nearly every normal door he tries to open or close. We arrived two days ago, after a relatively quiet train ride from Budapest. Given our track record with trains, I was very nervous, but our only problem with this train was that one of our seats simply didn’t exist. No #57. Some general confusion followed, as a middle school Austrian girls handball team thought they had our seats as well. Their coach was asking me if we had reservations, and though he initially asked in German, he switched to English when it was clear I didn’t quite understand. However, I am still not used to not answering in Russian, especially if I hear a foreign language. It is just my default second language. So when he asked if we had reservations, I answered in a mix of Russian and English, and he said, “English?” I said, “Yes.” And probably to judge how well I spoke English, he then asked sternly where I was from. I responded, “America.” At which point he probably thought, “Oh good, so it’s not a language problem, this girl is simply an idiot.” But we got it all worked out (turns out they had switched trains to one with 6-seat compartments instead of 8-seat), and the coach told us all sorts of things about Hungary and Vienna. But that story is NOTHING compared to our train ride before that, from whence comes the title of this story.

So, Phil and I just have remarkably bad luck when it comes to trains. You know about our experience with the Polish soldiers. Our next train was a night train from Krakow to Budapest. We knew things had started well, when, at the Krakow train station, we ran into none other than one of the soliders from the ride two days before. I couldn’t believe it, and I doubt you readers would either, if I didn’t have Phil and a picture to back me up (see attached).

Anyway, we then got on the train and were pleased to discover that we had a two-person sleeping car together. It’s what we ordered, but we’d had doubts as to weather or not it would actually happen. Things seemed too good to be true—and they were. About 30 minutes after boarding, as we were getting ready to go to sleep, the conductor knocked. He had no idea what our European East Rail passes were, and was claiming that we didn’t have valid tickets. We tried to explain, but to no avail. He didn’t speak English, but said that he understood Russian, so he was arguing in Polish and we were arguing in Russian (while being panicked I was still very proud of us). We got nowhere and ended up paying 82 Polish zlotys, which isn’t a whole lot, but annoying because a) we’ve already paid a fortune for our train tickets and reservations, and b) we’d already gotten rid of all of our Polish money! Phil only had Euros and Dollars, and I had 140 Russian rubles. The conductor wouldn’t accept Euros, so then we had to go knocking on other compartment doors asking if people would be willing to trade us zlotys for either Euros or Dollars. Super sketchy, right? If that had happened to me, I would have refused, that’s for sure. Thought it was a scam or something. But I guess we don’t look too threatening and one nice American around our age traded us, and Phil gave him plenty more than the zlotys were worth, just to be on the safe side and so to know we weren’t ripping him off. So then I found the conductor and paid, and after the transaction, said in Russian, “Everything’s okay?” and he said, “Well, until we get into Slovakia.” I was like, “WHAT?!” The train went through Poland, then Slovakia, then into Hungary, and we had paid our way to the Slovakian border. At this point we were both pretty mad and Phil called his dad who called the rail company which said that the passes were definitely valid for all of our countries of travel, and that they had heard of some conductors who just didn’t know what the passes were, but if we had to pay we should just get a receipt and then we’d be reimbursed. So we did that, and went to bed. We were woken up at 3:15 for Slovakian passport control, and then after that I guess they decided our passes were fine, because we didn’t have to pay again and they didn’t kick us off the train. But every time the train stopped in Poland, we waited with baited breath, terrified that they were going to kick us off. I guess the conductor just thought that our pass wasn’t valid for Poland—every other country in Europe was fine, but not Poland. Even though we’d used the same pass to go from Warsaw to Krakow. And correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure both of those towns are in Poland. So whatever. We made it through the Slovakian border and then at 5:30 through the Hungarian border, finally arriving in Budapest around 9:45. However, just seeing Budapest on the ride to our hostel cheered me up. It is an amazing city—the most beautiful city I’ve ever seen, hands down. I didn’t think St. Petersburg could so easily be topped, or so quickly, but Budapest was wonderful. I definitely want everyone to go! Now we are in Vienna, and yesterday we saw all of the great Hapsburg sites here as well as a number of Starbucks. The first time I saw one I nearly cried. I know, I know, that is such an awful symbol of American culture, but when you’ve been in Russia for four months, even something like Starbucks makes you feel at home. This is the first time in months that Phil and I have been on the other side of the Iron Curtain, and boy, is it obvious.

Again, I wish you all a wonderful and happy New Year’s Eve and Day (enjoy those bowl games for me, please! Even maybe tape them…), and the next time you hear from me I should be Stateside. I love you all!

Megs

Megan, Phil, and Six Polish Soldiers
Greetings from Krakow, Poland! An adorable and pretty town, but absolutely deserted on Christmas Eve! Today, however, the main market square was hopping with people and we mingled with the natives, drank their spiced brandy-tea-wine concoction, ate gingerbread, and got attacked by pigeons. Our hostel is nice and our room has purple walls and is decorated with cast-offs from Cindi Lauper’s wardrobe. Phil fits right in. We left Russia two days ago, and already I have amazing travel stories.

The best happened yesterday. We took a 2:00 train to Krakow from Warsaw, which was by far one of the most interesting experiences of my life thus far. Turns out that catching a Polish train is kind of like running with the bulls. Yes, you may have a wagon and seat number, but other than that, there is no order. And the fact that many people had luggage (Phil and I did not stand out remarkably) does not slow anyone down. Our bags ended up just staying in the hall outside our compartment. Phil and I were fortunate to be in an 8-person compartment with 2 Polish soldiers and their 4 drunk buddies, all young guys. Possibly the most awkward 3 hours of my life. They spoke very few words of English, and our Russian did not get us very far. Kristoph, who was drunk, was the first to take a liking to me. The exchange went something like this:
“Megan,” he told me numerous times, “you are good. Very good. You are okay. Wonderful. Beautiful! Yes, beautiful.”
Me: “Thank you.”
Kristoph: “I. You. My house. We…hungry.”
His friend: “Dinner. He wants dinner. With you. That is all. Maybe.” (laugh)
Kristoph: “Polish-Polish-Polish.”
His friend: “Jesus Christ. Shit.”
Kristoph: “Polish-Polish-Polish.”
His friend: “Say no.”
Second friend (taps me on the knee): “Smile!”
Third friend: “My friend—he tell me—you have beautiful smile.”
Second friend: “Smile!”
Kristoph: “Megan. Megan. Good. Hungry.”
Me: “No thank you.”
Second friend: “Smile!”
Kristoph: “No?! Why no?”
Third friend: “You have boyfriend?”
Me: “Yes.”
Kristoph: “Martin, Polish-Polish-Polish.” (Martin turns off the light in the compartment)
All boys: “Ooooh!”
Third friend: “Romantic!” (moves across the car to sit next to me)
This went on for three hours, no joke. It was pretty much just three hours of six Polish guys hitting on me. Kristoph later made a very indecent proposal, which his friend translated into perfect English. And not once, during the entire trip, was one of them not smoking. Or drinking and then crushing their beer cans in a display of grisly man-strength. The only good to come from this (well, besides Phil’s and my amusement) is that the two soldiers (who have very dapper green berets) carried our bags off the train for us. And the good news? We get to do that three more times!

And to start with, leaving Russia, we had one of the most harrowing airport experiences of our lives. I feared for a while that we would be unable to leave the country! The cheap-os at Polish Air only permit 20 kilos of luggage (45 pounds). Not each bag, but together. Including carry-on luggage as well! I’m surprised they didn’t weigh us as well. Naturally, having spent 4 months in Russia, Phil and I were each over 20 kilos, so we had to fork over quite a bit. And I’m sure you all know my card drama, and my cards weren’t working so I had no cash. On top of that, Phil’s ATM card was either lost or stolen. Thankfully we scraped together enough cash and finally bordered our plane. We landed in Warsaw with only 30 zlotys to our names (about $10). And no map. But we found our bus and hostel with relative ease. And that evening I plugged something into a wall and blew a fuse (causing quite a few sparks and some smoke). The adapter was fine, but I did mess up the electricity in the hall. We spent the evening and yesterday morning wandering around Warsaw which had a very cute old town in addition to a very modern downtown. It was amazing to think that only 60 years ago, Warsaw stood in complete rubble. It had been systematically destroyed, block by block, by the Nazis and has been entirely rebuilt.

And now that my time in Russia has come to an end, I’d like to take a few moments to reflect on the last four months.

Overall, this has been an amazing experience, and I think it goes unsaid that I believe everyone should study abroad. I wish I could make this a year. My Russian has improved immensely (though, given where I started, it still isn’t great, but I’ve survived) and I’ve made some wonderful friends. I had expected, after listening to study abroad advisors and other friends, to have a rough period for a while. However, I am fortunate to have only had one or two really awful days when I really wanted to return to the U.S. There were some bad moments—most of which involved trolleybus #33. Even on the last day, it couldn’t cut me a break, as it spontaneously changed its route because of a tram stuck in an intersection. So I had to get off and walk nearly a mile to school. Uphill and in the snow, truly. I may not have been carrying my baby brother on my back, but I was carrying a heavy bag of gifts for professors which, apparently, is obligatory in Russia, even in the university. This bus adventure seemed to be Russia’s way of saying goodbye, but reminding me that I may be leaving, but I haven’t left yet. Otherwise, even with the grease-soaked potatoes I would get for dinner (only in Russia do you hear the phrase, “It isn’t fattening, it’s only sunflower oil”), I’ve loved my time here and want to return as soon as I can!

St. Petersburg is a gorgeous city with real personality. It has been great to have even a small glimpse into Russian society and life. My belief that the Russian experience is a very complex one and should be more deeply explored by observers and students in the West was re-confirmed, and I feel privileged to have been able to observe first-hand the Russian reaction to international events like the deaths of Anna Politkovskaya and Alexander Litvinenko. Essentially, I have become more of a Russophile! ;)

It is of course very easy to pick up on the differences between Russian society and my own in America. And while it may be clichéd to say so, living here has enabled me to see that really, we are all just people. I’m not singing “Kumbaya” over here, all I’m saying is that while we may not necessarily understand each other’s culture or society, we don’t need to wonder what people in another country “are like.”

I hope all of you have enjoyed this blog. I’ve enjoyed writing in it, simply because I love to talk! Please check back occasionally, as I will continue to post any Russia-related ideas I have in the future on this site. And I will definitely add the many mishaps Phil and I are certain to have on our whirlwind Eastern European trip! Da svedanya!

As I do, I managed to get myself into the stickiest, most bizarre and movie-like situation last Thursday night. These things only seem to happen to me. Here goes. I shall not bore the reader with details of how I came to be acquainted with one Dr. Alexei, simply suffice it to say that I know a man who practices physical rehabilitation for children with cerebral palsy and people with sports-related injuries. As part of volunteer work, I cleaned up his English resume for him, and he then invited me to his clinic to see his work for myself. So I went. We went into one of the exercise/exam rooms, and he was telling me about his work, when he remarked, “You’re not wearing your athletic uniform.” I was like, “No…I’m not.” He then said (this is all in Russian, by the way), “Well, okay, no problem,” proceeded to grab me and sit me on a bouncy yoga ball and then stood behind me and pushed down on my shoulders and suddenly, I was bouncing. Taken about, I managed to sputter, “Oooh!...O-kay…what are we doing?” Then he proceeded to flip me on to another yoga ball, on my stomach, and bounced me on that. So I’m bouncing and flailing about, and he is pushing and making me do all these resistance strength exercises. I had NO idea what I was doing! And because I didn’t really understand his Russian instructions, he was basically just grabbing me and flipping me around and what not. Occasionally he would yank me on to my feet and lead me around the room by the arm saying, “Now we walk, now we walk!” Meanwhile, I’m actually biting a cut into the side of my cheek trying not to laugh. As foolish as I know I looked, I really wished that what was happening was being captured on tape, because words simply don’t do it justice. Then he finally told me (after at least seven really awkward minutes) to relax. So I’m leaning on this yoga ball, and he then again flips me over on my stomach on this ball, has me put my hands on the back of my head, and proceeds to tickle me. And it wasn’t nice tickling! It hurt! It was hard and really got to the muscle. And he went all over my back and down my legs and then flipped me over, and did my stomach and legs. And I was totally wiggling and squirming and was slapping his hands away and saying “Stop, stop!” Awkward, no? And then, suddenly, he went back to telling me about his work, and I’m sitting there, hair completely a mess, and saying, “Oh, uh-huh, really, interesting!” and trying to act like nothing bizarre had just happened. I really wish I had it on tape. Whatever your image of me is, face down on a yoga ball, slapping away a Russian doctor who is tickling me, I guarantee the reality was ten times funnier.

As soon as I land in the beautiful U.S. of A. and am safely home, I plan on dumping all of my clothes at once into a washing machine, after which they will be dried in a drying machine. As my clothes are being cleaned, I shall drink water straight out of the faucet, probably just putting my mouth on the spigot. Then I will go for a run at midnight in complete safely to Starbucks and purchase a BIG, TO-GO, BREWED cup of coffee.

Old Spies and Old Suspicions Die Hard (my thoughts on Alexander Litvinenko's death and other musings...)

When Alexander Litvinenko, Putin critic and self-exiled former Russian FSB agent, died in London on November 23 of radioactive polonium-210 poisoning, talk instantly turned to “whodunit?” and “why?” Indeed, all throughout his long and undoubtedly painful death that began after falling ill on November 1, speculation ran wild and it was hard not to feel that we were living out some fabulous Cold War spy flick. The intrigue! The mystery! Well, most members of the Western press have succeeded in removing the guess work for us and almost universally accuse one person of masterminding the murder: Russian President Vladimir Putin. In fact, they are so adamant in their assertion that Putin must have done it, that Scotland Yard should have a pretty easy task ahead of them.

For most people, it is easy to accept the suggestion that Putin was responsible. It seems like such a ‘Russian’ thing to do. After all, what is Russia? A snowy, anti-democratic country steeped in corruption and mafia types chugging vodka and offing each other in a battle for oil and gas money. Oh, and bears. Lots of bears. So this Litvinenko murder fits right in. However, the accusation that Putin is to blame lacks one important element: logic.

It is very possible that we will never know who killed Litvinenko, but Putin’s involvement is highly unlikely. He simply does not stand to gain enough. On the contrary, after Litvinenko, Putin is the one suffering the most from this scandal, as his leadership ability has been called into question by even more level-headed commentators not quite ready to point any fingers. The fall-out from Litvinenko’s murder could have been predicted, and any rational leader would see that the benefits don’t outweigh the risks. To his credit, Putin has over the last six years proved himself to be extremely rational. He is a logical and methodical man who acts, as a national leader should do, in the interests of Russia and Russians, and of extreme interest right now is Russia’s international political clout. This is seen as an incredibly important moment for Russia. In the last year, Putin and his government have pushed very hard for Russia to be recognized as a significant world player, hosting the G8 summit this summer in St. Petersburg and recently signing an agreement with the U.S. regarding Russian ascension to the WTO. Putin’s focus right now is on international affairs, and murdering Litvinenko would put at risk everything so delicately constructed within the last few months. It couldn’t be worth it. Litvinenko may have been a critic, but certainly not one of any importance. There are many dissenters, some of whom pose a much greater threat than Litvinenko. It does not make sense for the Russian government to bother with someone of Litvinenko’s consequence, or do it in such a long, drawn-out way that would garner so much attention. The huge onslaught of criticism Putin is facing now from the world is a hundred times greater than the criticism he received from Litvinenko.

Larissa Ivanovna Moskvitina, a professor of mass media at Saint Petersburg State University’s Center for Russian Language and Culture, agrees that it lacks logic to assume that Putin was to blame, and believes that Litvinenko’s murder is another result of the unending and shockingly complex war between secret Russian organizations. If one is to accuse Putin of cronyism and associating with shady characters, it is absolutely necessary to acknowledge that his self-declared enemies do the same. They are running in the same circle, just on the opposite side. However, it is easy for people who love black-and-white issues to disregard the dark and tainted past of men like Litvinenko and his colleagues, as long as they die proclaiming to do so in the name of freedom and democracy.

Litvinenko’s murder and the subsequent press reports have served to perfectly highlight a long-running negative trend in Western reporting on Russia. Whether it is a mindset left over from the Cold War, or simply laziness on the part of reporters to find a new story, Russia is always portrayed in Western media in the same way. Rarely is an article published about something other than corruption, oil and gas, anti-democratization, or murder. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if there were at least a variety of stories on these subjects. Unfortunately, all we see are the same tired tales about Russia’s ‘backward slide’ and the promotion of a very marketable image of Russia as an unpredictable mafia state. Readers can’t help but get the impression that, as the St. Petersburg Times appropriately put it, “Russian security services are running amok.” Even if one were to agree that it is unlikely that Putin or the Russian government was involved in Litvinenko’s death, the accusations and negative press coverage have taken their toll. Additionally there seems to exist a desire—almost a need—to demonize Putin. We are no longer talking about the Evil Empire; it’s time to get some perspective.

Good things are happening in Russia. Slowly but surely we can observe the development of a civil society. The government is also taking steps to more closely integrate with Europe. They want to prove that they can play with the big boys, and do so fairly. However, murders like Litvinenko’s and journalist Anna Politkovskaya’s are going to make it difficult for the Russians to convince the world that they are a modern, democratic state, and they certainly won’t be helped by unceasing negative Western commentary. This is certainly not to say that things in Russia are perfect. There are many problems, but it is important to not allow the recognition of such problems to turn into vast generalizations about Russia and Vladimir Putin. It is crucial that we demand not only a more sophisticated discourse, but also some critical thinking and simple logic when it comes to reporting on Russia.

Smuggling Food
I have developed what in America, could be considered signs of an eating disorder. In fact, we all have. Many of us living with Russian host mothers have become excellent Food Smugglers. Here we agree that it is a matter of necessity, and much of our conversations tend to new methods of concealing what you haven’t eaten. The main problem we have is that we are simply fed too much. But unlike America, we truly are not allowed to leave the table until we have cleaned our plates. Entirely. All 16 courses. More like 5: salad, soup, hot dish, bread, tea, and sometimes dessert! It’s simply impossible to consume it in one sitting, but if you don’t, you will be lectured on the Siege of Leningrad and be reminded that “my father barely survived on a small morsel of bread to last him days! Now Esh, Esh!” I’ve often thought that if the moral of the story is not to waste food, then don’t give me so much to begin with. But instead I have a sneaking suspicion that the real moral is that you never know when you will eat again, so you should eat all you can when you have the opportunity. At any rate, not only are we faced with eating mountains of food, some of it far from tasty. I am certainly not a picky eater; in fact, I’ll eat almost anything that is put in front of me. But there are a few dishes that I simply cannot stomach. I refer mainly to the cold carp with its eyes still intact that I must tear apart myself. Yum. However, I also dislike the grey meat that made me throw up, the zucchini patties that are also grey and have a strange non-zucchini odor, and the bright orange tiny caviar spread on my bread for breakfast. (I thought it was cheese and bit in so eagerly.) My friends also have their kryptonite. For Jeannine, it would be the stuffed peppers that madder her sick. For Allison, it is the squash for breakfast. Laurie also gets strange breakfasts, which often consist of eggplant or frozen chow mein. Not only are we faced with the prospect of eating these foods, but eating copious amounts. This is where our sweet smuggling skills come in. Preferred methods of disposing food are:

-Flushing down the toilet. It would end up there anyway, in some form or another, so I’m just eliminating the middle man (my stomach).
-Bringing a small bag to the table and sneaking the unsavory morsels into it, then putting it in your rucksack and taking it to school the next day to throw away. We all have, at some time or another, pulled a sack of days-old meat from our bags and showing it off before tossing it.
-One of my personal favorites, pretending to blow your nose and spitting the food into the napkin.
-Wrapping food in a napkin and then digging through the trash to place it at the bottom, concealed by banana skins and tea bags.

Those of us fortunate to have host mothers who are occasionally gone when we eat makes all of this much easier. Others must wait until they go and do something like walk the dog. If they are there, the blowing the nose trick works best, or wear a giant sweatshirt with a pocket to dinner for optimal sneaking. And just last night, I was almost caught red-handed with a bag of strange meat. I was about to hide it in my room when I heard someone coming and I quickly put the bag down my sweatpants to conceal it. These food games are all quite unhealthy, this we know. It’s mentally stressful, having to spend whole weekend vacations worrying if host mothers will find the bag of food hidden in the bedroom. And while certainly the important thing is to be grateful for the food and acknowledge that yes, many people died without bread during the Great Patriotic War, and yes, there are starving children around the world, I challenge anyone to that carp.

Thanksgiving
So do any of you remember the Great Stir-Fry Fiasco of last June? If not, it is basically what it sounds like: I made some stir-fry that went horribly wrong. In my defense, however, I was not solely responsible for the failed dish; my uncle was complicit in the disaster as well. So when I, along with my friends here in Petersburg, decided to make our very own Thanksgiving dinner last week, I was preparing for Stir-Fry Fiasco: Part II. I figured, not only was I going to attempt to cook, but do it in Russia, which could only magnify my ineptitude. The day before Thanksgiving, three of us went to an upscale foreign grocer to see if we could find Thanksgiving stuff. But I could just tell that this was probably not going to be a very good meal.
One: I was involved.
Two: None of us had ever prepared Thanksgiving foods before. And we didn’t have any recipes. So if you happened to understand English, you would have heard three girls wandering around this store saying things like, “Do you just plop the can of pumpkin stuff into the crust? Do you add stuff?...How do you make a pie crust?”
Three: Despite being at an “upscale” “foreign” grocer, they didn’t have many of the things we were looking for (did you know you can’t find brown sugar or baking soda abroad? And the can of pumpkin was brought by Laurie’s parents last week). So we were improvising. Which, as we all know, can be very dangerous. Especially since we weren’t improvising off of a recipe to begin with. The day of Thanksgiving, one of my friends and I left school early to go to a large outdoor market and try and wrangle us a chicken. That was fruitless, but we did get plenty of catcalls from the foreign produce men. We ended up buying a bucket o’ chicken at KFC, which worked just as well. I had a feeling that after hours of slaving in a tiny kitchen, we’re going to end up sitting around a loaf of bread and chocolate bars and the sparkling apple juice we bought. We were surprised we found the sparkling apple juice. And we’re not really sure if it is what we want, but it looks right. It says ‘Sparkling Apple Juice,’ but you don’t trust that kind of thing in Russia. One friend suggested, if we couldn’t find any, mixing sparkling water and apple juice. Which is a whole lot better than my idea of blowing bubbles through a straw into the apple juice.

However, much to my delight, the dinner was not a disaster! It took 3 hours, yes, to prepare relatively simple foods, but in our defense we were in a tiny kitchen that overflowed with just four of us and had to keep reusing pots. We had the fried chicken, mashed potatoes from a box (which were actually very tasty—we made a chicken-mushroom soup, also from a box, to use instead of water and the result was delish), sautéed vegetables, seasoned with BBQ flavoring (it was either that or plum sauce) and stuffing. The stuffing was perhaps the most difficult and unique dish. Unable to work the oven, we started to cook our stuffing (essentially just brown bread that Jeannine and I tore quite excellently, if I say so myself, and green onion, with the egg and some of the soup mix) in a big pot on the stove, but we then forgot about it and it burned the bottom. So we resorted to a smaller pan. In the end, it tasted rather burnt and gross, but it wouldn’t have been Thanksgiving without it. To top it all off, a can of cold green beans that took Allison maybe 25 minutes to open and in the process completely mauled the can, as can openers apparently don’t exist in Russia. All of that on our classy KFC plates, with sparkling apple juice and Soviet Champagne, and we had us a lovely Thanksgiving meal. At was, at least, interesting and will be one of my most memorable Thanksgiving dinners ever. Afterwards, we watched Christmas movies to get the season started off right. Please enjoy the attached pictures of our follies.

Free "Pakiets??" Surely you jest!

We recently discovered that in Granada, Spain all the bars there still give you a free tapas when you order a drink. Apparently no other place in Spain still does that. This excites people living in Russia, where you have to pay for a plastic bag at the grocer. We’ve all started hording “pakiets” and get really, sadly excited when they are either a) free, or b) of excellent quality. In Moscow we were at a grocer that had free bags, and at first we didn’t take any, but then as we were carrying them out our items in our arms, the cashier was like, “Do you want a bag?” and we were like, “Free?” and she said, “Yes, of course.” And we legitimately flipped out and were like, “Oooh, becplatniy pakieti!” We totally all triple-bagged too, so we could use them later. I’m going to be so weird when I come back. So note to everyone out there NOT in Russia: enjoy your free bags (or tapas) whenever you can!