Crimea is like a beautiful nightmare

Over the last few weeks everyone whom I’d encountered through both work, social engagements, dates even (not Tinder dates though, that level of convo is just asking too much of some people) only had one question for me – ‘What do you think of the Crimea situation?’, quickly followed by: ‘Don’t worry, I have very radical views on it myself…” and then awaited my response with a look full of anticipation and psychotic kind of curiosity, somehow accurately resembling Jack Nicholson’s in The Shining. As if once heard: ‘radical views’ I was going to rip open my shirt and reveal Putin’s face tattooed on my chest.  If only I lived in a fantasy world where that sort of self-expression and dedication to the cause was acceptable.

Regardless of who’s Crimea is now, after some time, power in Russia will change: whether this will happen from above or from below, in any case, the new government will have to "unscrew the screws" and renegotiate with the West. Inevitably the question of Crimea will arise again, the return of which even the nominal allies of Moscow are slow to recognize. That will have to be tackled by the new Russian diplomacy.

 I always thought Crimea belonged to Russia, may be because I was never told otherwise, may be due to my geographical or political ignorance. Whatever. Regardless who eventually claims ownership, it will never resemble the imprint I have from the summers spent there when I was a kid.

The train from Moscow to Yevpatoria was always a nightmare. It was of course summer, it was hot, the windows did not open. That train resembled all the circles of hell. Unreserved seats, trampling human dignity. The smell of sweat, fume and nauseating aroma of melons purchased on the road. And the cleaning lady with a bucket of bleach, which she pours out unceremoniously on the floor.

In a four-bed coupe the passengers are suffocating from the heat right from the start because the conductor did not want to 1) open the windows, locked with a key, 2) windows did not open – they were jammed 3) the air conditioning only came on when pregnant woman about to give birth begins to fall faint.

A trip to Crimea is always a test.

If in the 90s you could spend a week there for about 100 bucks, including accommodation. Now the prices resemble good European hotels and hospitality resembles something you would get in a hostel in Riga.  The outside loo, the summer showers – basically a bucket of water heated by the sun, hot snacks made from either beef or cat – you’ll never know. It all seems very barbaric, un-evolved, un-European.

Seventeen years ago however, that was a dream; a rare occasion when I spent time with mum and the only occasion when I spent time with granddad. Crimea was always his favorite place; the Soviet literary and creative elite used to go there regularly, mainly I think because there was no way of going to vacation abroad. But then who knows.

I do not know whose Crimea is- by law or by conscience, but it once was a significant part of my childhood, and even more so of my memories. 

Hedonism is the new Patriarchate

Hedonism is the only intrinsic good. Gaining any sort of pleasure is what drives life. All life, even if vegetarians tell us otherwise.

Women gain pleasure from shopping mainly. Sometimes sex. But still, mainly shopping. Celine store in Mount Street is the new orgasm.

Naturally, there are species (a sect of underground believers in patriarchate if you like) that by any means would love to spoil those moments (mainly through excessively deep breathing and rolling of the eyes) – they are called husbands and boyfriends.

When you work in personal shopping you get a chance to observe the above behaviors in its natural habitat (Dover Street Market/Matches/Browns). The Hs and the BFs hang around by the suede sofas, trying to snatch a seat, rather resembling the hyenas/non-specials fighting for the last free seat on the public transport with a pregnant woman.

They tend to engage in that fun activity of musical chairs right up until the point their beautiful, successful, wealthy other half (read better half) is asking the shop assistant to wrap each item individually. At which point the homo-sapien (I presume that what the Hs and the Bfs call each other in their smoking rooms. Either that or tigers and samurais.) and pays for all the individually wrapped items with a look of drastic loss on his face.

Obviously any woman can pay for her purchases herself. For example in 2010 30% of women were the main breadwinners, paying for everything from mortgages to horse-riding lessons for the twins to the retirement home fees for the mother-in-law. German ladies don’t let their partners pay for them in restaurants and the Russians excel in building their own business. Nonetheless, the Hs and the BFs still feel the need to hang around outside the shops with tired, wry and judgmental faces.

Even in those moments when inspiration covers us, like cigarette smoke, and the foretaste of how beautiful and sexy we are going to look in our new clothes, makes our hearts tremble, they break our dream world by strident remarks such as: "Why do you need another bag?"

A woman always gets a feel of guilt for satisfying her indulgencies. If you have a H or a BF you will never feel relaxed again. Bought your ninth leather jacket? You’ll get that little angel of guilt eating away at you every second. And it doesn’t matter if your guy owns thirty pocket squares, all exclusively purchased ‘made to order’ in Savile Row, you will still be considered the shopaholic on the verge of insanity.

Waiting around during long business meeting, tolerating their illegitimate children from some Ukranian exchange student/escort, ‘agreeing’ to buy that seventh 3D TV – it’s all considered ‘normal’. Shopping on the other hand is considered the height of hedonism and egoism.

Let’s however not forget that patriarchate died (sorry boys) when Madonna’s ‘Material Girl’ came out, and thereafter hedonism, narcissism and a new pair of Loubs every month became the norm, not an ‘indulgence’ or ‘deviant behavior’ for which you need to be stoned to death.