When I was a child, every summer my family would make a vacation getaway to the Black Sea, the Russian equivalent of Riviera with Turkish roots. We'd stay in a small town named Gurzuf. This place inspired many Russian classics, and Pushkin, probably the greatest of them, used to have a summer vacation house there some 200 years ago. I still remember vividly its narrow windy streets laid with stone going up the mountains, the fruit trees hanging over the fences, the solemn peak of Ai-Petri disappearing in the clouds and the freshness of the air, tingling with peppery aroma of ancient grand pine trees, the tiny bananas I'd eat right from the palms not caring about them being green, which would cause my extreme delight, the hot pebble stones I'd play with by the shore, the dark waters of the sea, as calm as if keeping a secret, and the bronze statue of Pushkin, of course, sitting there in the garden on the bench, projecting a musing look somewhere ahead of the picture of just another small town, ahead of the ancient pine trees, ahead of the sea - into the eternity.
Apres La Mousson smells like Gurzuf after rain painted in watercolors. Dear memories, excellent work of art by Mr. Ellena.
Jul
07
2010