Happy. Together. Crimea.
I remember travelling to Crimea
With friends, to festivals, for wonderful romantic walks
I remember swimming in a star-strewn night
I remember a love that felt endless back then. Not so.
I remember wandering until dawn
I remember wine grapes that tasted not good at all, but were so curiously obtained
Kids with dreadlocked parents, conversations about the sublime and culture
Beaches meant foridling, a sense of abundance, meeting great people [larger than life]
Free will, freedom, openness, love, joy
All of this is Crimea.
And also, how they wouldn’t let us stay for a few days just because they didn’t want to wash the sheets
And the trails — some exciting, some not — and the burning sun
So much wine, so many pizzas for 30 hryvnias.
And all those friends who seemed like they would last forever. No, they wouldn’t.
And the never-ending search for adventure
That’s what Crimea was, and what we were together.
And the Arabat Spit was a love of its own, because my father was there,
Because family and friends were all around, because I was a kid.
Because horses roamed there in herds, and my father chased them off with a sun umbrella.
Because my mother was young, and we were happy.
Because the journey was long,
And we were tired, yet happy, opening our sleepy eyes at 5 am — to see the sea.
The sea felt like a safe place. And now it is a luminous yet tragic memory, for the past remains the past, and we were happy together there.
Happy.
Together.
There.
