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.
