UKRAINE
A City I’ll Never Go Back To
I still hate it. Why do I still miss it?
These travel notes aren’t typical for me: fewer pictures, more text mixed with personal memories. I found only about 100 images (and the quality of most of them is poor). Usually, I can take so many photos in one day in exciting places. There, I took them for almost three years of permanent residence.
Because I hated this city, and it’s normal not to take photos of anything disgusting for you. I still hate it. In the bad moments of life, I can recall that I’m not there and never have to return — and it’s enough to improve my mood.
Today, we’ll walk around Simferopol, the capital of Crimea.
Disgust. It was the first impression during a trip from the railway station to the city center. There, I had to be interviewed. It was January (when almost all our cities didn’t have the best look, honestly). But all that combination of architectural and human greyness with adding ice and mud killed me. I fooled around during the interview; despite this, they agreed to hire me for some reason and proposed to start searching for accommodation once I’d accepted the offer.
The photo below was taken on a street where the office was located. My primary association with Simferopol’s architecture remained a mix of neglect and modern chaos like this.
I had almost a whole day before the train back. I didn’t know smartphones or online navigators then: I had only a paper map bought specially for that day. That was the classic map in warm colors where I was interested in blue and green places. At first glance, there were enough parks and water in Simferopol, but bleak grayness and desolation waited for me everywhere.
A botanic park near Tauride National University looked pretty good. I don’t know why I never returned here in better weather.
I had to change something in my life. That’s why I accepted the offer and moved to Simferopol.
I shan’t go into details about how difficult it was to adapt to a new job while starting life in an unfamiliar city. Anything annoyed me. People who speak an alien language. Strange bus routes. Long red traffic signals for pedestrians. Winter winds and humidity (thanks to it, -5 C felt like -20). Labyrinths of always crowded underground passages. Ugly communist street names: Proletarskaya, Krasnoznamionnaya, etc. Fuck, damn.
It’s worth admitting this city has its flavor and curiosities, but I didn’t notice it then. If I go there now like a tourist, I’d have something to visit for a few hours or a whole day.
There is a lot of old provincial architecture in the city center. Most of it is located on two pedestrian streets named in honor of Alexander Pushkin and Karl Marx. They intersect at right angles; that’s why that place is called “Krest” (“cross”). Also, young people simplified the name of the 2nd street to “Karla-Marla” because they had no fucking idea who he was.
A small square with forged figures is located not far away. There are some interesting creations, but I found only this one in my photos:
North of the center (past two old churches and a monastery), we could go to the central park on the Salhyr river bank. It looked great against everything else.
A specific neighborhood, Staryi Horod (“Old Town”), is located east of the center. Somewhere in Europe, such a name can be associated with historical beauty, but not in Simferopol. This neighborhood is ancient but a surprisingly shabby piece of neglected buildings on chaotic, twisted streets. My colleagues characterized it as a gypsy-addict ghetto where walking is dangerous even in the daytime. I listened to them, but now I regret it and realize that I’d have an excellent chance to return from there alive and even with a survival camera.
A bald hill is between Staryi Horod and Petrovskaya Balka (another marginal neighborhood). Once, here was Napels-Scythian — the capital of the Scythian kingdom in the 3rd-2th centuries BCE (yes, they were not only nomads). Chroniclers of other nations gave the name “Naples”; we’ll never know what Scythians called it.
A ruin of mausoleum dominates above the hill. I thought it was authentic, but it appeared to be a plausible stylization of 1982–83. There, I took many photos (both of the settlement and the city panoramas), but they possibly died with the HDD of my previous laptop.
I liked to take photos of water at most, and the city was poor in this context (like all of Crimea, if not take into account the seas). The main river in Simferopol (and the longest on the entire peninsula) is called Salhyr. It looks tortured everywhere and always.
I can say for Salhyr’s justification that the Simferopol water reservoir takes most of its water.
I was inattentive to details there, but I can say that the city doesn’t have small curiosities that draw attention. Most of the graffiti on the walls was meaningless squiggles. I remember exciting street art only by one author (under the pseudonym Sharik).
Due to all I said above, it’s logical that my favorite places in Simferopol were the railway and bus stations. Anywhere, just to be far from this city. Moreover, when 2–3 hours on a bus in any direction led to the sea. I regret that I paid little attention to mountains (when foothills begin just outside the city’s southern border).
In the strange city among strange people, for me, it was easier to find “my” people. Most of the bright acquaintances in my life happened in Crimea. Not to be overlooked, of course, of girls. Two of them appeared to be the best interlocutors I had met then (I got to know them not for friendship, but it happened).
Albeit, it was a virtual friendship. I never met the first girl. Although, I could detect her exact address by verbal descriptions. One evening, I put a bouquet with a note under her door, rang the doorbell, and escaped. I did this not with a romantic purpose but to shock or scare her (succeeded).
Nevertheless, I invited the second girl to a farewell date a few days before my departure. Just to make sure she was adorable and I had a great taste.
But not only good feelings remained after acquaintances. Sometimes, they turned out to be what people called “love.” They say it’s a nice feeling, but I can recall only hopelessness and depression after it.
Those hopeless feelings kept me for so long. We broke up, she forgot me, but I couldn’t forget. I left Crimea forever, but I couldn’t forget. I couldn’t forget even after she had got a big ugly belly and gave birth to a small fugly.
Through months and years, I saved the memories of her inside me. As time passed, they had less in common with the real prototype. I couldn’t meet new girls because they looked grey and unattractive compared to her. I realized all but couldn’t stop wallowing in my sorrow and killing myself from the inside.
The most adorable voice I had ever heard, so silent and pacifying. The brightest, perfect angel. The black beast that poisoned so many years of my life, years sacrificed for my fiction. “To your bright, pure image,” as it was said on an old gravestone.
I became free only when I met my future wife. How well to realize now that I seldom think about that person and feel already nothing to her.
But (as in all other cities), I better get along with cats than people. I remember the old cat Marquis from my yard. He used to wait for me under my door until I returned from work and gave him something tasty. I didn’t take photos of Marquis, so here is a random Simferopol cat:
I used to walk to work past the Council of Ministers of Crimea. One winter day, this way appeared to be closed by police: unknown people seized the building. That day, they raised the Russian rag above it. That day split everything into before and after.
Police took a passive-waiting position first and later took the side of the occupants. They left the square before the building soon. So we could see those “green men” closely: hung with weapons and masked faces. I can’t say Simferopol people were pro-Russian; they were opportunists. Those who saw profit in the upcoming changes came to the forefront. They were the skeleton of pro-Russian forces and created the needed media image.
They removed Ukrainian flags on the square and raised Russian ones in windows. They took selfies with “green men.” It became popular to wear “Georgian ribbon” (despite selecting incorrect colors). Almost all hobos and drunks also wore it, possibly to look solid.
In addition to well-equipped “green men,” some local pro-Russian “self-defense” appeared. They were fed and clothed by concerned citizens. My inflamed brain had the idea to poison water in bottles and bring them with other help. However, I knew that I’d never dare this.
Pro-Ukrainian citizens declared their presence by gathering at meetings near the Taras Shevchenko monument. I visited it once. I took a Ukrainian flag but hid it under my jacket on my way to the square. The meetings didn’t have any program or final goal. People were confused and wanted to show that they existed. I remember we sang Ukraine’s national anthem and some analogous songs.
Meetings continued every day until the “referendum.” After that, they became dangerous: in Ukraine, you could have different opinions, but not in the ugly totalitarian regime that replaced it. I stayed home during the “referendum” and a few days more to avoid provocations and celebrations.
We lay low but could recognize “our” people in crowds. I was pleased to realize that most of my colleagues (and many young people) were on my side. The colleagues began to escape to the free part of Ukraine. People from Russia and the warfare areas of Donbas appeared instead of them.
The last Ukrainian flag in Simferopol remained on the Crimean Tatar Majlis (parliament). But spontaneous illegal flags appeared in different places occasionally, showing the occupants that not all welcomed them. I set the photo of such flags in the park as the main one. This mural also survived at least half a year of occupation on the city outskirts.
I let myself be in Crimea for one more summer: visit a few new places and farewell to my favorite ones. I traveled over the peninsula on weekends and prepared for new job interviews at nighttime. I didn’t have time for walks in Simferopol again, and I don’t remember it in 2014.
I tried to feel the support but discovered that most of my old friends were not for or against it; they didn’t care. I cut ties with many of them that year, and this cleaning appeared necessary: I got so much time leaving the people who thought about me only to use me. Fuck you one more time; I have no regrets about you.
I left Simferopol on October 31. Possibly forever. I still hate this city; it only remained to figure out why memories of it still hurt me from the inside.
I can return if Crimea will be liberated. Not only to see missed exciting places, but I also wish to trample fallen Russian flags in Crimean cities. But I want this without exerting my efforts; therefore, this desire is not patriotic but vile and despicable.
It would be logical to publish this on the tenth anniversary of the occupation of Crimea or the date of my escape. But at the current time, I can’t say for sure I’ll survive until that.
I also want to leave a dedication for all Crimeans who waited and still wait for liberation. First, for all who laid down their heads in fights with the horde, but not only for them. For all who acted in hiding successfully and those who were uncovered and went to Russian jails. For those who escaped and still dream about coming back. For those who were stuck in Crimea, lay low and waited silently. I so want to tell you that your efforts and expectations are not in vain. If I’d myself believe in this.
