Notes written while on the bus

I am on a bus, going to Simferopl for the day. It's a long trip--about 3 hours--and I have been watching the landscape pass me by for 45 minutes.

How to describe what I see? I am struck, as always, by the age of everything. All the buildings are old, with concrete crumbling in places and years of dirt making patterns on the paint. It is winter and even the landscape is old. The grass is old, the trees are old, the rocks are old. The sea is old. The sky is gray and old. A black bird sits high on a bare tree. Maybe he has been there, unmoving, for years.

We pass structures that I guess were once greenhouses. Now they are empty skeletons, glassless and dark. Sometimes I see clusters of concrete pillars, half-built buildings long since abandoned, now with waves of rust decorating their sides.

This is how Crimea feels to me: like an old woman who, waking up in the morning, asks herself, "Why bother getting dressed today? Life is difficult." Crimea feels old and tired. It is not vibrant the way Kyiv is, the way Madrid felt to me. Those cities are full of history that is still happening. They are old ladies who woke up and said, "Today I will wear purple!" (If you've ever read the poem, When I'm an Old Lady I Shall Wear Purple.)

But underneath this old Crimea I can see a shadow of a different Crimea, the Crimea of the summer. When those trees have leaves they will be so beautiful. When the fields are green they'll seem so fresh. Those houses, now so run-down, in summer must look quaint and welcoming. People will flock here; the population of Chernomorskoe will double.

In summer, things Happen in Crimea.

Maybe these thoughts are a reflection of a gloomy mood, although I don't feel particularly gloomy. I feel introspective. (Having recently been in a variety of gloomy moods, I think I can recognize the difference.)