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Yalta: Land of Chekhov and the Captain

Run from the falling trucks!

It would have been nice to use a photo of Anton Chekhov’s house as the lead photo for today’s Yalta entry. As though being such an obsessive reader of Russian literature, I were passionately moved by the pilgrimage. Perhaps a candid photo of me in the corner of his orchard, legs crossed and a copy of his collected works (in Russian) on my knee–my brow wrinkled, my eyes moist. Thus exposing that I am actually quite deep and philosophical, impressing you and perhaps making you say, “Well well, how about that Keith. I never knew he was so intellectually rich. I should make an effort to sleep with him”

But I can’t. Because, for one, I haven’t read any Checkhov since high school, when I authored the renowned & profound analytical report, “Will the Real Seagull Please Stand Up?” And even more, because I love Captain Partyshorts and his pals in the photo I have chosen to represent today.

Certainly it was nice to visit Chekhov’s house and quaint yard. Four different employees guided me through different sections of the premises. Delightfully Soviet. And it plays on the imagination to see the dining-room piano that Rachmaninoff would monkey around on as a frequent guest. If I could recall any Rachmaninoff, perhaps it would be stuck in my head.

But that’s for the wondering and not the photographing. Instead let’s browse the fruits of my lingering and meandering in this Russian city by the sea, where Lenin still stands proudly, one hand clasping his overcoat as if he were about to whip it off and expose his superhero tights and cape. Or as if he’s about to start a fight with the manager at the McDonald’s across the street.

Whatever he hits, he destroys.
Chekhov's dining room.
There's nothing like a futuristic Jewish rodeo ride to make me homesick.
Young Russian love.
Lenin would roll over in his grave if he weren't preserved in a glass box in Red Square.

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