The Bridge to Crimea

That’s what it looks like right now.
They say it will be ready in 2018.
Right now all the cars are held hostage by good weather. Any storm or a strong squall, and everyone freezes in expectation. There are many ferries, which means the situation is very different than two years ago when one could spend days waiting to get through.
Now the wait is short, but the sea is the sea.
We got stuck when leaving Crimea during the storm.

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Pining for a failed tourist season

Listen, this is too much already.
In response to my posts about the massive crowds of people in Crimea, I was inundated by a whole slew of “evidence” from who knows who purporting to show there are no tourists in Crimea. “Crimean banderites” are rubbing their hands in Schadenfreude. Bad weather, photos of empty beaches at closed resort beaches, proving the absence of tourists.
Whom are you trying to convince?

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The conflict around Artek

There was a public meeting last weekend in Yalta concerning Artek’s beaches and lands.
This is a very complicated situation.
Gurzuf’s inhabitants want to keep the beach which Artek wants to use for yet another youth camp.
The conflict is over the legal status of this sizable and important patch of coastal land.

View on the Artek camp from the Lenin monument square
(без названия)

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“Are those your kids?”

–Young lady, are those your kids?
–What kids? Where?
And I take off running through the gardens.
There is a certain type of woman in the world who considers it her duty to be horrified by barefoot kids in the streets, or kids swimming in the sea during a storm.

A shark will come and get you!

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This kind of Gurzuf

I am fed up with the usual “will the tourists come or not” debate over Crimea.
It’s been two years, and it’s still the same discussion, as if the peninsula would obtain some sort of enjoyment from the price of sausage and the arriving crowd.
Our internet battles change nothing.
And here is one of the most beautiful places on Earth, no ands, ifs, or buts.
This is “Leningradka,” Gurzuf’s central street.
A mountain looms in the background. I know every tree on it. I remember, when I was 14, my sister and I climbed it. We didn’t know they way so we simply went up. We got only halfway because our legs were scratched bloody by the vegetation. Like fools we wore shorts. We conquered the mountain the next time, and since then the mountains of Crimea have been a home to me.

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