May # 2 || Marazli, Zhanna and Sheridan.

The airport looked like an old bus station, the marshrutka seemed hot and exhausted when we tried to talk to the driver, who didn't think it was worth the trouble to turn his face to us, so his back informed us where we can go with the number 17 – or maybe it was 117. It cost two hryvni and fifty kopiyok. In the seat in front of me there was a woman in a leopard-print blouse, next to me the wind played with a curtain slightly burnt with a cigarette, over my head there was a hornet flying circles; U. was running away from the insect. I was taking photos of it all.
Among the Ukrainians a discussion broke out about where we're supposed to get off. Ma... raz... lyev... ska... ya street. A flaxen-haired girl, way too mild for a Ukrainian, asks me in despair whether I know where that street is. It's nice to be mistaken for a Ukrainian on the first day already, but I think to myself that it's time to change clothes. We get off, on the streetcar station a monstrous woman with a mustache directs us to the streetcar number 28. A. has GPS in his mobile. It becomes our substitute of order and orientation. Then an elderly man takes us over. Students travelling alone is still a rare thing to see, so we evoke protective instincts wherever we go.
Here we are. Marazli's monument. The owner of the flat we rented is nowhere in sight. We can't get through to her either. Ant. and A. go to the address given in the emails we received. The place is being redecorated. No one living there. In the door, they find a letter of reminder from the power plant. A young man living in the neighboring flat gets interested in our case and he calls our landlady with his mobile. Our Ukrainian lawyer. Ms. Zhanna from the Internet got it all wrong. The landlady will come again to see us, but no sooner than in three hours. This is Odessa sending to us its first sign that we should not stick to the plan, to the promises or the principles of savoir-vivre. Because the people here just don't give a shit.
In the flat we find only four beds instead of the five agreed, the air conditioning mentioned in the emails does exist, but is long out of order. Also, we shouldn't leave any valuable stuff in the flat, because the Russian guys who rented it before us left without having returned the key, so if they're still in town, they might get back to the place and make themselves comfortable. Hasn't she changed the lock? No, she hasn't. My friends suggest I should take my frame rucksack with me each time we go out. The landlady leaves, we open our Sheridan we bought in the duty-free at the airport.
The question about who Sheridan was is asked for the first time.