Crimea memories pt.2

The second essay in the Crimea series, where I’m sharing my childhood memories and stories from summers by the Azov Sea.

Photo from the family archive, Crimea, the 2000s

I remember long, hot walks from grandma’s house to the town: the sun was shining unmercifully, and the occasional breeze from the sea didn’t help much. The town was about an hour walk away, and we usually went there a few times a week. Despite the long and exhausting journey, my siblings and I were always eager to go there. Grandma needed help carrying bags, while we treated those town visits as entertainment and an opportunity to get some ice cream or sweets.

First, we had to get down the hill by a steep rocky trail. Blackberry bushes were growing in the neighbors' front yards, and I liked to sneak a few berries on the way. I had to do it quickly so Grandma wouldn’t notice because she obviously disapproved of it. Unfortunately, black juice from the berries left dark spots on my hands and lips, and I almost always got caught. Grandma usually said she wouldn’t buy me anything in the town because of my behavior. She sounded threatening, but I knew she would still buy me something, so I wasn’t worried. I was her favorite granddaughter, and I shamelessly used it to my advantage.

I understand now that she had always seen herself in me and wanted to spoil me a little, to give me love and protection that she had never had. My dad was unreliable and abusive, and my mom had been exhausted by housework and attempts to make ends meet, so my life as the eldest daughter wasn’t easy, and Grandma saw it. She had always been there for me and gave me that unconditional support that I hadn’t seen from my parents.

After we got down the hill, we followed the path by the road that led straight to the town. Occasional trees and bushes surrounded the trail, but mostly, it was very open, dry, and dusty. There was a church halfway to town that had a bench by its walls in the shadow. We usually stopped there and sat on the bench, catching our breath. It was a small old church with white clay walls and narrow windows. Nearby was an abandoned grave of unknown soldiers who died in WW2. It had a blue rusty cross, and it was overgrown with grass. My little heart always felt so much sadness whenever I looked at it. I felt so sorry for those people who lied underground, and no one cared about them anymore. Life seemed so long, even endless to me back then, and death and wars were something from the past, something that happened to other people but not to me or my family.

The town had a long avenue that went to the city center. It had lots of trees on both sides and a few shops. There was one particular grocery store that sold the most delicious pastries: white fluffy buns with raisins, poppy seeds, jam, or simply covered with sugar. It also sold many kinds of cakes and candies, delicious Ukrainian soda made from apple juice, and, of course, ice cream. Acacias were blooming around the entrance, and it was always so beautiful. We knew we were close whenever we saw those pink flower clouds. The shop was called “Elena,” which was also the name of my younger sister. It was a coincidence that we often used to our advantage: my cute little sister would ask to go to “her shop,” and Grandma couldn’t refuse. She usually said that she wouldn’t buy anything except for bread or eggs, but in the end, we left the shop with ice cream, pastries, and apple soda in our hands.

That soda is something I wish you could try even once in your life. It’s called “Zhivchik,” and it’s still sold all over Ukraine. It’s the taste of my childhood, Crimea, and long, happy, carefree days by the Azov Sea. There wasn’t anything like that in Belarus back then, and we could only buy it in Ukraine. In the present days, you can sometimes find it in Eastern European stores in the U.S., and I always look for it whenever I shop there. I think everyone has a personal library of smells and tastes that instantly transfer to particular moments in our lives. The taste of that apple soda is part of my happy collection, and it brings me back to my childhood in Crimea.

From the Elena shop, the avenue led to the market located right in the center of the town. The market had two parts: the first one was under a roof, and sellers of milk, cheese, and meat were located there; the second part consisted of dozens of small tents that sold a variety of fruits, vegetables, seeds, and grains. I loved going to that market with my grandma! She worked at the markets and grocery stores for many years and knew that industry well. She was in her element, and everyone around immediately felt it and treated her as the queen she was.

First, we went to buy cheese and meat. Grandma slowly walked by the rows of the sellers, asking questions and allowing them to advertise their produce. Then she asked for samples, which was my favorite part because she always said: “Let my little girl try this one as well. If she doesn’t like it, I won’t buy it.” I felt so important at that moment. I was copying my grandma, slowly chewing cheese samples and pausing before giving my verdict. I had a hesitant look on my face to torture the sellers a little. You can tell I enjoyed the attention I was receiving so much! The cheese I loved the most was called “bryndza’ – a local Crimean cheese made from sheep milk. Huge chunks of it floated in the salty water in metal basins. The cheese was so delicious that whenever I was given a sample, I asked for another one, pretending that I couldn’t decide whether I liked it or not, while in reality, I was obsessed with that cheese and just wanted to eat more of it. In the end, we would try cheese from every seller, and Grandma would buy from the luckiest one. The same was with the cured meats. Needless to say, such market visits substituted lunch for us that day.

After that, we went to the second part of the market to buy fruits and vegetables. That part had always been the busiest and the most colorful one. Rows and rows of locally grown watermelons, cantaloupes, grapes, peaches, apricots, and cherries. Lots of vegetables, greens, grains, seeds and nuts. The prices were written by hand on pieces of cardboard, but you could always bargain, and Grandma was so good at it. She had never paid the initial price for anything at that market. Those handwritten prices were for tourists, not for locals, and my grandma knew it.

There was one tent that sold a variety of cookies and candies. Grandma tried to avoid it, especially if she already bought us something at the Elena shop, but me and my siblings couldn’t miss it. One of my favorite things was cookies filled with dulce de leche, which is caramelized milk. They looked like walnuts in shells, and they were heavenly! All cookies were pre-sorted and sold in transparent plastic bags. I usually took one of those bags and begged Grandma to buy it. My siblings would join me, and sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. No matter how much our grandma loved us, she was still pretty strict, and if she said no, it meant no, and we learned to respect that. Such cookies are also occasionally sold at Eastern European shops in the U.S. I never miss a chance to buy them whenever I see them. They have an honorary place in my collection of tastes and smells that bring me to the happiest moments of my life.

Zhivchik, bryndza, and cookies with dulce de leche

The sunset at the Azov Sea, the 2000s

The journey back to the house had always been long and exhausting. Loaded with heavy bags, we slowly walked uphill, taking breaks in any shade we could find. In the late afternoon, we usually ran to the sea and stayed there till the sun set in the water: swimming, building sand castles, playing cards, and eating giant sweet watermelons, if we bought some that day. We would leave the beach only at dusk. Standing on the hill by the house, we watched the first stars starting to appear above the sea and listened to crickets singing their songs in the grass. We had neither TV nor the Internet. My grandma refused to buy a TV and always said she didn’t need it in Crimea. As a child, I missed TV, but now I’m so glad we didn’t have it there. In the evening, Grandma would turn on the radio on the terrace, and old love songs filled the warm evening air. Life was good and simple, and I miss those days so much.

This is the second essay in the Crimea series.

Read the first part here: Crimea memories pt.1

Warmly,

Darya

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