Meanwhile Back at the Beach

One hundred eleven years ago when my maternal grandmother boarded the ship bound for America she had no idea she would never get the chance to sun bathe on the beaches of Crimea.  Her little shtetl outside Kiev was burned to the ground in one of the czar’s famous pogroms—picture Anatevka in Shalom Aleichem’s Fiddler on the Roof.  At five years of age she was unable to make a clear assessment of whether the sailors who laughed at her mother lighting candles were from Ukraine or other portions of the Russian empire.  Their amusement arose because they felt certain the red-haired peasant was confused and could not possibly be Jewish. Until most of mine fell out some of the remnants of the recessive gene appeared as highlights among my brown waves.

Crowd leaves beach as sunset approaches.

Speaking of waves, resorts along the Crimean peninsula are already feeling the economic pinch because Ukrainians, who make up sixty percent of their guests during warm weather, are booking in other parts of Europe. All the happy days are here again spectacle of Russian speakers welcoming the unmarked troops of rough and rugged Vladi Putin lose their luster when the rubles dry up. (It should come as no surprise the troops wore no insignia; after all, Vladi was top spook in the KGB.) Even Arseniy Yatsenyuk, who took over as Prime Minister of Ukraine, when Vladi’s buddy Vik Yushchenko was ousted, made concessions to his Russian-speaking constituents earlier in the week, saying Russia would remain an official language in Ukraine. He said it was the language his wife used predominately, "and she, like millions of other Russian speakers, does not require protection from the Kremlin.”  Of course, he can rest easy knowing the U.S. and E.U. will buy up vast quantities of Ukraine’s natural gas, if Russia tightens its grip on its oil supply in retaliation for the sanctions imposed by each.

Sun paints the sky red.
Photo courtesy of debbiedoesphotography.blogspot.com

In the recesses of my mind are many fond memories of times spent with my maternal grandmother during my youth in Milwaukee.  Not one involves a beach—none along Lake Michigan, nor any among the inland lakes of Wisconsin.  Perhaps that is part of the reason I always pictured Russia, and the rest of the countries previously bound together in the Soviet Union, as void of parcels of land covered with sand and scattered torsos lying next to bodies of water.  It was shocking to learn Crimea has long stretches of beach.  Not so surprising was finding out they are popular amongst corrupt Bolsheviks like the bare chested horse riding Vladi, who spent $60 billion on his winter Olympics, and his buddy Vik, who sold the apartment he bought for $100,000 to the people of the Ukraine for a mere $17 million.

Ocean swallows up sun.
Photo courtesy of debbiedoesphotography.blogspot.com

One of the reasons I may not recall ever seeing my maternal grandmother at a beach was the lack of opportunity. The swimming season in Milwaukee is three weeks in July.  Their temperature today will climb to a whopping forty-three degrees.  Certainly this was a factor in deciding not to waste the opportunity the weather provided in Southern California this weekend.  While the thermometer reached the 90 degree mark at home in Yorba Linda, it was a much more comfortable 85 degrees when we arrived at Laguna Beach on Sunday.  We ate lunch on the veranda of the Ocean Avenue Brewery, and sat listening to the various languages spoken by visitors to the beach as we waited for the sunset. Among the litany of voices the sweet sound of Ukrainian was heard. Crimea’s loss is California’s gain.