Wednesday was Alexia’s birthday, and
we woke up slowly just after 9am. The conductor seemed to be in a much better
mood by then and brought us hot tea for just 4.50hrn (35p) each. At around 10am
we pulled into Simferopol Station, where we would have to buy return tickets to
Moscow for the end of the week, which already seemed disappointingly close.
After a lot of hassle with debit cards
and decisions, we bought return tickets for 6pm that Friday at a price of
1030Hr (£90) each. It was a stretch for all of us but we had little choice; we
could have bought third-class tickets for £30 less but the thought of
twenty-three hours in those conditions was unbearable. Half an hour later and
considerably less-off, we made our way outside and began to barter with taxi drivers,
eventually settling on a price of 35hrn (£30) to Yalta, an hour-and-a-half’s
drive away. Just as in Kiev, there were old ladies outside too, holding up
advertisement boards and loudly trying to sell rooms in apartments to tourists.
The Crimea is a popular tourist destination with the Russians, Yalta in
particular as it’s a sunny seaside town within relatively easy reach of Russia.
The Crimea actually used to be part of Russia, and most people speak Russian
rather than the Ukrainian which the government tries to enforce. The signs are
nearly all in Ukrainian and Russian, and sometimes even in English following
the EURO Championships. Despite the prevalence of the Russian language, however,
the feel of the place is still distinctly more European than Russian, an
interesting twist.
When we’d finally got through the
mountains and into Yalta, our driver realised he didn’t actually know how to
get to the address on the leaflet of the hostel we’d picked up from Dascha, so
we swapped cars for no extra cost. This guy turned out not to have much of a clue
either, and his SatNav, which was ‘showing him nonsense’ was useless in the
face of the maze of windy streets and yet another address that didn’t seem to
make sense. Luckily, he seemed pretty relaxed about the whole thing, and was
joking with us about it. Once we even went up a one-way street, which he
nonchalantly acknowledged whilst hurtling round the corners at full-speed. The
funny thing was, the drivers coming the other way didn't seem to have any
objections to this clearly reckless behaviour or even to see anything unusual
in it.
We stopped a few times to ask for
directions in the usual abrupt, Russian way (opening with “Tell me, where is…”
and carrying on in much the same vein). Eventually, we found the tiny side-street
leading to Sobaka Hostel, said our goodbyes and wandered off down the hill,
hoping there would be space for us in this bizarre little place. We reached the
correct number but still couldn't see any sign of the hostel until two young
guys, who had been watching from the third-floor balcony, shouted down
casually, “Are you looking for a hostel?” Thank God.
The owner, a skinny, long-haired nomad
type called Simon who, for reasons which will soon become clear, soon became known
to us as Jesus, showed us into the hostel, which was tiny and once again, more
like a home than a hostel. Once we’d showered and got ready he showed us the
way into town and warned us to remember where we’d gone as “everything looks
very different at night”. Oo-er…
The way into town, down a tree-lined
avenue along a canal, was lovely and gave us the impression of being on a
European sea-side holiday. There were stalls selling arts, crafts and
souvenirs, and even palm trees. When we reached the seafront it felt like
paradise; the air was even warmer than it had been in Kiev and the feeling of
the sea breeze was blissful. We walked to a wooden gazebo overlooking the sea
and the shops and restaurants along the seafront, whose lights had just begun
to twinkle in the dusk. We wandered all along the boulevard, and for Alexia’s
birthday we chose a restaurant called Apelsin, set in a raised wooden ship over
the sea with views all across the harbour. We ate gorgeous food and Crimean
wine, and even though it was getting a little chilly by then, it felt like a
proper summer holiday.
Over dinner we had yet more debates,
this time about the priority physical health seems to take over mental health
in free medical care systems, and in particular about the situation in Spain.
It was nearly ten o’clock by the time we left, and on the way back we decided
to stop for coffee at a quirky-looking place on the main avenue. Afterwards we
bought a bottle of red wine to share at the hostel (I decided that even though
I don’t really like red, I didn't mind drinking it since it was Alexia’s
birthday). We were all happy by this stage and things only got funnier when Alexia
fell down a ditch after numerous warnings from Sean. When we got back to the
hostel we were the only people still awake, and we chatted and drank a while
before heading to bed; it was going to be a long day tomorrow.
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