Dreaming of Crimea

Whenever my mother started dreaming about Crimea, it meant that the cold days of winter were soon over and spring was on its way. And every single year, since I was born and until I moved away, we would go to the Crimean seaside, even if only for a couple of days.

I grew up respecting the roar of the Black Sea's waves as they crashed into rocks and Yalta's seaside promenade. And as they shone on calm sunny days, I marvelled at their embrace, diving with my eyes open, not knowing yet that other seas are not as gracious. In my fantasy world, I followed the legend of Bear Mountain, befriending the giant bear and mourning his turning to stone. I wondered which stories could be told by the walls of the Khan's palace and those of the old monastery mountain caves. I grew up knowing: where there are mountains, there, of course, must be the sea!

We would take a cableway up the Ai-Petri and stare in awe at the view below, where the mountain walks into the water, and the sea feels endless, continuing into the blue of the sky. And we squinted every time the cable car wobbled, even though we'd done it countless times, and it always did that. We would climb up trails, and when I was still too small to walk all the way, I'd sleep on my mum's back. There's a photo in a family album where my older sister is fearlessly hanging from a tree above a green abyss of a forest. I think it's an optical trick, but I'm not entirely sure. She is the brave one, always was. Another memory: chuckling with my dad at a sign reading “cows crossing the road” when the road to both sides was framed by steep cliffs. We imagined cows in climbing gear, and nothing could have been funnier in that moment. But also, I vividly remember the unsettling feeling from that one time the fog was so thick, we couldn't even see where the cliff was. Oh, and the never-ending turns of Crimean mountain roads echoing in my upset stomach! Regardless of my state, everything was forgotten with heartfelt, delicious Crimean Tata