Most of my current acquaintances are intelligent people, many already established and comfortable in life. Their idea of “rest” is radically different from mine, leaning toward maturity and European refinement. When they hear the word “vacation,” they picture crossing Europe end to end with a week-long pause on the Aegean coast. Paris, Milan, Florence. Garçon, l’addition, s’il vous plaît. Bulgaria, Turkey, Egypt? No. A Schengen visa is just another page in another passport, Lithuania is a layover, Poland is a weekend grocery run, Finland is a ham sandwich and an espresso. Real rest exists only with a Louvre check-in and a pilgrimage to the Ferrari Museum.
And it makes sense. That’s probably how you’re supposed to vacation. And if you’ve just sunk all your savings into a 1999 Audi Quattro, there’s a chance you shouldn’t have. You could’ve seen the world.
I’ve loved water since childhood. The dream of seeing the ocean wasn’t satisfied by a single visit to California. And I honestly can’t remember the last time I saw the sea. Seven or eight years ago, maybe. My best vacation? The village of Hrybivka in Ukraine, a “luxury” room with a bed and my own nightstand. Accessible sea, fried walnuts, and catastrophic diarrhea.
Today the sea is totally within reach. A bum package — as my friends would say, “For that money you could have gone to Barcelona for a week.” But even my friends don’t know that this is exactly the vacation I want. Fruit, alcohol, the sea, more alcohol, the pool, more fruit, the sea again. Zero museums, zero landmarks, zero Instagram moods.
There might be encounters with the krymnash and tagil crowd — inevitable. But even that doesn’t outweigh the sea. Alcohol makes me active and antisocial, but overall I’m for world peace. I’ll be happy to chat with anyone, try not to harm any sharks, and gladly help any lifeguards towing my inflatable mattress back to shore from open water.