Y'all to Yalta

So, Yalta. What can anyone expect from Yalta? I’ll tell you what you should expect: Churchillesque luxury, Stalinesque adventure, and FDResque ease of access. Of course, all was laid before me for my birthday, even if I had to scrounge a bit for it. Yalta is in a terrible location. There is no arable land nearby, or much of a natural harbour, or any convenient point of access into the city. As such, the highway does not even go in but skirts the mountains, so buses drop people off way above the city. The small amount of flat surface below was manufactured, and much of it was full of ridiculously-priced hotels and resorts. Naturally, this is exactly my sort of place and I immediately felt at home.   



"We're coming to Crimea!"

With such ample and luxurious offerings, and as I was in Yalta on my birthday, for accommodation I was going to go big. Like, 15 euros big. Via the magic of iPod Touches and McDonald's wifi, I discovered that there was a woman, Lyudmila, who ran a racket of apartments right near the seashore. She asked, “How much money do you want to spend?” and I foolishly replied, “Umm, 10-15 euros.” “15 euros? Perfect.” “Or 10, if you have anything.” “I have the perfect place for 15 euros.” So there you have it, a 15 euro studio apartment, and it was actually quite nice and right in the centre. I then went to the market and bought myself loads of fresh vegetables, iced sweet red wine, and some pomegranate juice (not by choice.  This was a team effort by every vendor at the market to get me to buy this stuff), in addition to freshly blended spices to maximise the flavour and unleash the awesome power of cabbage.  I made some soup and fell asleep watching Russian music videos. This is how I always saw myself spending my autumn years, and I was happy to have achieved this task.

Photo ops.

Naturally, I thought to myself that I could find something cheaper along the waterfront, it being the off-season and all. The only problem I learned after much talk, haggling and intense negotiations, is that I am not cut out for playing the real estate game in the former Soviet Union, particularly because my accent tips people off that I am of the West. This is actually an interesting point to note. I was always under the impression that accents only exist in English, and that when a native English speaker attempts another language, we sound perfect, like a native speaker. Thusly, I suspected I had them fooled and I suppose in retrospect I half-did because majority of people I have met in the FSU have asked me outright if I am a Czech or a Pole. They narrow in on these two and refuse to entertain any other possibilities. 

Lenin and McDonald's have put aside
their differences and are taking turns
watching over the Yalta boardwalk.

I have one theory for this, and I’m certain it is correct: if I were a Ukrainian or a Lithuanian or an Estonian, I would speak perfect Russian; conversely, their pre-conceived notions of ethnic traits and physical characteristics would tip them off that my blond hair and pasty white flesh did not me a Balkanista make; and finally, as an American, Frenchman, ‘Angliski,’ etc., they wouldn’t expect me to speak Russian at all. So there I was, labelled and neatly placed into a nice little compartment in their geopolitical imaginations. Either that or I simply look like a western Slav. It’s one or the other, I guess. Anyway, as it would turn out, I was a shrewd negotiator but they refused to lower the price because they insisted the heat was the main cost driver, despite the fact I didn’t need heat at all. They didn’t believe me. At the end of the day, I was happy in my lofty studio, and decided all this stress wasn’t good for me in my advanced age.



On 2 April, 2010, I said "Yes" to both turning 24 and finally throwing out these shoes.