IT IS PRECISELY this vacuum that made the reacquisition of Crimea so emotional for many Russians. After March of 2014, Putin’s approval ratings skyrocketed, as did the sales figures of “Our Crimea” fridge magnets.
For many it was the country’s proudest moment in a quarter of a century. Not least because the President had demonstrated that he was capable of standing up to the West, the same West that had time and again humiliated Russia (even though most people in the West hadn’t realized it). From the expansion of NATO to the east, which was perceived as an aggressive encroachment and a breach of promise, to Barack Obama’s remark that Russia was no more than a “regional power” (which was more painful than Ronald Reagan’s “evil empire,” a label that at least demonstrated some respect). Offended national pride is possibly a more important factor in the current escalation of the crisis between East and West than most people realize. And Putin knows he can bank on the patriotism of his countrymen, particularly at a time when the economy is faltering.
In 2016, pollsters from the Levada Center asked Russians what made them particularly proud of their country. The most frequently mentioned points were: history, natural resources, the military, culture, and the size of the country. At the end of the scale were the health and school systems and economic development; the category “fellow citizens” was also noticeably low on the list. Interestingly, in comparison to previous surveys, there was a steep decline in admiration for Russia’s success in sports, which was certainly linked to the doping disclosures. The military made the largest leap up the ladder.
I always find it a bit strange when pride is directed toward something that has nothing to do with one’s own achievements. But during my travels here I discovered two variants of this that I can understand. One is a great enthusiasm for the Russian language, which is considered pretty difficult, so those who can master it are justifiably proud. The other is an appreciation of being able to cope with the difficult conditions that often come with living in Russia. An if-you-can-make-it-here-you-can-make-it-anywhere kind of pride, rather like a doctor in a crisis zone, a teacher in a high-needs school, or an Antarctic researcher.
YALTA HAS TWO partner cities in Europe: Nice in France and Baden-Baden in Germany. With the first it shares an extensive seaside esplanade, with the second a longstanding affection among spa visitors (although Baden-Baden can’t boast of a monumental building like the Druzhba Sanatorium. In the 1980s, its unusual UFO shape and honeycomb windows made the U.S. Secret Service believe it might be a launching pad for rockets.)
Here there is little evidence of the tension of recent times. Tourists stroll around, the cafés and fast-food stores are well attended, the boulevards have an all-the-fun-of-the-fair vibe. Until, suddenly, the heavens darken and a heavy summer shower begins flooding the streets. In the pedestrian zone, I seek shelter with others under an awning. It’s so crowded that striking up conversation is unavoidable. The women next to me are called Masha and Natasha and are former tournament-level synchronized swimmers (I’m not making this up). “How could you do that if you’re afraid of water?” I ask, pointing at the dark sky. They find it so funny that they invite me to join them in the Grand Café at the next corner, where we wait for the weather to improve. We eat heart-shaped raspberry cakes and drink heart-colored fruit infusions while a projector beams City-of-Love scenes of Paris onto the wall. We talk shop about water acrobatics and book writing and Masha enthuses about the best wine bars in Paris, where she currently lives. Both of them stress that Crimea belongs to Russia, which they feel duty-bound to tell me as a foreigner. The weather front moves on, so we say our farewells and wade off in different directions; the streets have transformed into torrents.
I am exuberantly greeted in a sushi bar; the owner hasn’t seen tourists other than Russians and Ukrainians for years. “Are you enjoying yourself? You’re traveling alone? That’s possible? You’re very brave!” I feel a bit like an exotic animal, but I also feel the hope from people here that soon there will be more non-Russian visitors.
FLIRTING FOR PROS
AT SIMFEROPOL AIRPORT the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in all my travels here is waiting at Gate B6. Mid-twenties, intelligent dark eyes, face like a young Mila Kunis, skin vacation-tanned. The innocence of her knee-length, floral-patterned summer dress contrasts with the wackiness of her four-inch-high platform sandals. Sitting upright, graceful and proud among the dozens of squatting, hunched travelers waiting for announcements, she stands out like a peacock butterfly amid bark beetles.
As experienced womanizers know, when flirting with a celestial beauty there is one thing to keep in mind: these sublime creatures are so often spoken to, smiled at, and attempted to be picked up that one has to find a more unusual tactic—which, owing to the effect of surprise, will remain indelibly anchored in her mind.
I take a free seat six feet away from her; between us there is a gap in the seating and two sockets, one of which she is using to charge her cell phone. And then I ignore her. I ignore her in the most exquisite ways, tapping away on my cell phone, rummaging around in my backpack, checking my flight info, always careful to project an uncomplicated, confident body language. Nonchalantly pulling my passport out of my outdoor-pursuit backpack and browsing through the visa pages, I am signaling: here is a man who knows precisely what he is doing.
She must then ask herself why this aloof, fragrant (Calvin Klein One on the left wrist, Acqua di Giò on the right wrist—I had just come from Duty Free) man in hiking shoes is paying her no attention whatsoever. From the corner of my eye I observe my success: she runs her fingers through her hair a couple of times, once curling a lock around one of her fingers, an unmistakable sign that she’s considering her options.
From a leather designer handbag she takes out a large bottle of Lipton Ice Tea, which I pay no attention to, just as I pay no attention to the delicate tossing back of her head and the almost-caressing contact between plastic and mouth. An ad featuring this scene would triple Lipton’s profits within days.
Now I have four options:
OPTION 1: “Oh, wow! Is that really lemon ice tea? I desperately need some! Where did you buy it?”
OPTION 2: “Yuck! Lemon ice tea! Peach is much better!”
OPTION 3: “Did you know that Cleopatra regularly bathed in lemon ice tea?”
OPTION 4: Continue to ignore. I’m a pro, so of course I select that one.
She disconnects her cell phone from the socket, which I pay no attention to, not even with a glance, and begins to compose some messages. In doing so her face shows not a single sign of emotion, which could have something to do with the fact that her digital conversation isn’t that interesting and instead she’s considering how to start up a conversation with the mysterious stranger sitting next to her without appearing too brash. Who knows the internal turmoil she must be going through this evening at Gate B6 of Simferopol Airport? Well, a bit of suffering is part of the game. So, I tap away at my cell phone with a smile on my face, signaling to her that even at a long distance with WhatsApp I lead a fulfilling social life with my hipster circle of friends, all great-looking, successful people.
She reconnects to the socket; I plug my ebook reader in the socket next to hers. I open up a digital version of Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard, indicating high intellect. There is such strong symbolism in our electronic devices recharging next to each other that I unavoidably envision us together in 2025, driving our new-generation Lada to gather up our gorgeous twins, Masha and Natasha, from their synchronized swimming lessons.