This is straight from my journal, a scattered record of my experience in Simeiz. It is written in sort of an experimental style, so please excuse my treatment of grammar, especially my teachers out there. Enjoy!

 

On the train

Lying on possibly the dirties floor I have ever encountered in a space roughly 5 ft by 10 inches (a tad irritating to a 6 ft. person), molested by an tangible odor emanating from the railroad toilet, which is oozing though the conjoining cracks to our cabin, I am absolutely giddy with joy; and I have no idea why.

Yes, I was supposed to have a bed; yes, I could have forced this girl to squeeze in with her enormous father to sleep on a 6’x 3’ bed, but I am glad to be where I am. On this 18-hour train ride to Crimea, with a Ukrainian man eating dried fish and jamming to Whitney Houston and Richard Marx on Maurie’s headphones. Where Maurie bought her ticket later so she was put in a different car, and the lone Ukrainian man refused to exchange beds with her after seeing three massive shirtless men occupying the proposed trade; and then a daughter appears, most likely bribed on to the train and asleep in “my” bed when I finally go to check, not wishing for any of my traveling companions to have to venture into the shirtless realm. Then, I did not have the heart to force this not small daughter to attempt to occupy the few inches of space her father did not consume; it made me sick to consider the option, so now I am sick here on the floor, smelling the wonderful aroma of the train toilet. I love it, though – playing phase 10 and deluxe UNO, complete with a new card-shooting machine, attempting to learn Ukrainian card games, each one “simpler” than the last and ending when people throw cards everywhere. Attempting to play “Fool” while Anya, our companion scolds us for not understanding and Igor, our Ukrainian coach mate, excitedly instructs Joshua which card to play. Eighteen hundred bubliki (pretzel type snacks) and 8 apples made for an interestingly full stomach, especially when ice cream, cheap Ukrainian beer, and an unknown soft drink are added for good measure. What more can a person ask for, though, than all this life? Staring at eerily close Mars, pointing out the Big Dipper and North Star through the sole cracked window, wondering if all that space, and creation of unknown chaos and/or order has any purpose. Could we use Saturn’s gas to heat ourselves someday,” the naïve, searching question asks. I’m cramped and sick, starving, yet full, bored, sleepy and wide-awake. I’m writing by my flickering, tiny flashlight and listening every 30 minutes to the whistle blow announcing each stop and the rails bump in between. Seeping smell, caress of stell, whistles and snores, blinded sight and abhorrence of taste – I have all five senses stretched and penetrated. I’m living; it’s new; and I’m happy.

Twelve hours later

It’s now roughly twelve hours later and somehow I have escaped the former circumstances in which I was writing and then re-entered them in an entirely different manifestation. Now, I am squeezed in the middle of four in the rear of a marshutka – half bus and half van, no space. Of course, our tickets were for the 1st six seats, and, of course, we are not sitting in any of them except Anya and Olya who are up front together. At first two of us had to move for a woman and her child who were coming, but after Sergiy smoothly made a switch, we were somewhat altogether again. That somewhat agreeable arrangement, of course, could not last, and when the expected lady and child arrived, they, of course, had a third, unexpected companion, who, with the approval of the driver, blatantly sat down in the seat I had just vacated in order to allow them to enter the van. Standing outside the van, bewildered and looking at Sergiy for assistance, I saw the driver point me, with his authoritative moustache set firmly, to my current seat, miles back from my crew who were now separated into two by the prestigious and comfortable child with two mothers. However, bumping along, unable to rest my head too high to enjoy the breathtaking view, I am loving it. This guy is hurtling past everything in the road – wrecks, traffic lines, pedestrians, other marshutkas, buses, and lights. He just keeps gassing it, blowing down the mountain unafraid. The young man next to me speaks once to my memorized reply that I do not understand Russian, and then no more between us. He and his female companion stoop in their seats to soak up the mountain vistas and ocean stretched below. Sad huts and houses, teeming and exuberant, frolic up the hillside and people mill everywhere, loving and wanting nowhere to go.

The third day

What can I say about Simeiz and my accompanying troop? All I can do is attempt to express my manifest smile and glowing visage in pitiful words like “happy” or “content.” A brief rundown follows: freezingly clear water, crystal with goggles; boulder beach after a thirty minute hike; nude bathers in profile and every other way wherever you avert your gaze; shashlik, shashlik, shashlik (pork shish kabobs) and then a new restaurant and more shashlik; random climbs and planned hikes; pirate flags flying over beachside campfires while we hunger at their innovative picnic; red champagne and freshly grown Crimean sweet wines; dancing under Mars, always Mars every night before bed; No water from 9 to 5, no quiet ever; flippers, goggles, jellyfish swarms. Did I mention the nude bathers, siesta naps, refreshing watermelon, endless UNO and Phase 10, our host had five wives, wishing to make Maurie his sixth, disco music ruining the songs of the spheres, alarms went off at nine am, chocolate ice cream cones come in packages, and meat comes in pancakes. That is the up to date summary, though quite lacking in detail. If I could include it all, which I could after many hours of writing, I doubt I could express the joy of discovery, laugher, physical exertion and challenge, and relaxation that Simeiz has brought.

One day left

I have slept on the floor every night, listening to the men below snore from their belly straight through my pillow; I have yet to have a pleasurable shower experience – cold drip, moist heat, knocking invaders I don’t understand, sudden lapses of water, etc, - and I have had to schedule my bowel movements around the four working, hours of water for which I am awake - 5-9pm. Again, though, I am unexpectedly, undeniably, and palpably happy – unexpectedly because I am not happy as in agreeable or perhaps not unhappy, but unexpectedly in extent, on pure experience of sweet joy and love, beauty, peace, all these majestic words that fail so miserably to convey any portion of my emotions. Wild winds whipping through “our spot” amidst the boulders; crazy Frisbee throws, extreme descents – it all continues to congregate in my reservoir of irrepressible smile. The owner of our Gregorian discovery of a café, attempting to convey a story to me about Muhammad Ali, apparently the president of Uzbekistan at one point, whom he fed one of his hearty, felicitous meals. The pesky home rat, boy wandering his parents’ unexplainable boarding house, stealing UNO, desiring only a few Frisbee throws, the second to note the apparent likeness of myself to Mike Tyson. The nudists and unabashed bathers, the pirates roasting kabobs and proudly flying their flag as they pop the champagne. My companions, hiking, sun burning, swimming, diving, eating, living, laughing, breathing, sleeping and walking. So much life here- densely excreting from the pores of the littered rocks, the abandoned, picturesque future 5-star, the sea battling the cliffs for your eyesight and awe, for swimmers and hikers; relax or enjoy the fruits of hard labor? Vital energy, devoid of money, of influence, of knowledge. Internet? Yeah, we don’t have that here. Wine? We sell it in recycled Sprite and water bottles.

About to leave for home

The trip is coming to a close, sitting in a littered park in Simferopol, renting our own marshutka in order to stay in the crystal clear, jellyfish laded waters. The first didn’t show up at three, as planned, so we bargained another and made it in plenty of time to our destination. Alas, alas, alas, I am saddened to see the loss of such sweet time. Fools, we made ourselves, fools for life. Same restaurant ten times, each new and exciting. More Crim and toasts, Phase 10 with the whole crew and a relaxed day at the rocky base for our beach adventures. Men’s conference, two male companions and me, discussing politics, wars, death penalties, stores of youth and masculine foolhardiness; laughing. Mars neighboring the halo of the Moon, talk of writing, creating, owning, exerting our selves onto the tangibility of existence. I panicked, “female” freak-out amidst the swarming jellyfish. I could not swim, could not look, handfuls swept aside wherever I stroked, instantly replaced and endured. Oil painter on the beach – lone man creating. Throwing our stones, aiming, competing; P-I-G, one of us becomes winner and loser, laughter, near-death and injury falls, laughter, our sole ally. Man wants to switch pants with me, I want to, truly I do, but I would have had to commit, wear them out. I could not imagine or endure their filth, I hesitate and avoid. A night of food, playing, competing, finally understanding the card game “Fool.” Russian, Ukrainian, cultural foreign phenomena. 4 am – sunrise? Eyes set? Sleep. Over the ocean? – I would watch. Behind the mountains, though. Thankful for dreamy decision. Dreams of past, home, present alchemized into dream of future glory. Vision of splendor, peaks and teeth, beams, light, weightless joy and dance. Deserted for quick plane, left in the park, three remain to live on the train. 20 hours – fools we are, and will be; life we have, all a part. Wholeness, coherent living day, night, day, night, daynight, sight continuous. Reading of theories, mathematics and cosmos, quantum and creator. Why? Not how. Living in the sun, cloudless hiking, rock stepper reborn in youth remembered. Smell, no shower; walk, no car. Eat, drink, laugh and sleep. Dreams and sleep. Crimea, America, Ukraine, Uzbekistan, Russia, Turkey – what? Who cares? The water was cold, really cold. Like fools, we swam.