Different than expected

The pleasant sound of the waves wakes us up to a wonderful, sunny day. Tanja has laid a delicious breakfast table for us on the small balcony. We sit in the September sun and enjoy fresh white bread, fried eggs, coffee and fruit. Sailing and cargo ships glide past not far from us like in a fake painting. Cypress trees stretch up to our viewing platform, lining it to the left and right with their dark green. We enjoy our day off and take it easy before we head off to visit Yalta, the former favorite residence of the tsars and nobility.

In the early afternoon, we set off to visit yesterday’s restaurant again. Today, for the first time, I boldly order fried mushrooms, potatoes, lamb fillet and salad from the Russian menu. “Well, you must be hungry,” wonders Tanja. “Sure, cyclists are hungry on vacation too,” I reply, laughing and in a good mood. As a non-meat eater, Tanja has fish and salad brought to her. “Man, what a lot of mayonnaise they put on it,” I wonder as I inhale my salad. “And how do your mushrooms taste?” “Would you like some?” I offer generously and hand Tanja a spoonful. “Yummy.” “Yes, delicious,” I confirm. “But the lamb is a bit lame. Not the crowning glory,” I add. Because of the heat and our thirst, we wash down the meal with two beers and because of our vacation mood, I tip the waitress a little more than yesterday. Then we set off to explore the sun-drenched city.

As there are hardly any English-speaking tourists at this time, all the sightseeing tours on offer are only available with a Russian tour guide. Our language skills are too poor for that at the moment. We would have liked to learn more about the city where the famous Yalta Conference was held in February 1945, during the Second World War, with the aim of ending the war. “Well, what the hell. Let’s take the town’s little cable car to the top to get a bird’s eye view of this spa and resort,” I suggest, full of zest for action, because we don’t care what we see. It’s just about being here, enjoying the flair and riding the wave of people’s vacation mood. An ideal place to recharge with positive energy before the next stretch to Russia. “Ladies first,” I say and open the door to the small two-man gondola for Tanja. Then I jump into the swaying thing and immediately pull out my Leica to pursue my favorite pastime of photography. Minutes later Tanja laughs at me and asks: “What’s wrong with you? You almost look a little green in the face?” “Really? I don’t know why. My stomach is rumbling a bit but it’s definitely not that. No, I’m fine,” I reply. But as soon as the words have left my lips, I feel a mighty belch coming up my throat. “Now, now, now,” Tanja admonishes me. “You weren’t secretly drinking vodka with your bus neighbor, were you?” she jokes. “Ha, ha, ha, maybe I should have done that,” I reply, giggling. Then I suddenly don’t feel like taking any more photos of the city and am glad when we reach the top. “Would you like a coffee?” Tanja wants to know. “No, not today.” “Maybe an ice cream?” “No, definitely not ice cream,” I refuse and try to hide an even bigger burp. While the mood around me is still great and people are eating ice cream, coffee and cake, my stomach starts to bloat like a washing drum.

“Shall we go back down, my darling?” asks Tanja with a sunny disposition. “Sure, there’s nothing going on here,” I reply as cool as possible. During the descent, I still manage to take the occasional photo, but when I’m overcome by the first sweat, I no longer have the energy to do so. “Well, you’re not talking much today,” asks Tanja. “What can I say,” I start to mumble a little. “No more good humor?” “But it’s fine. I just feel a bit bloated. I think the mushrooms had something.” “What do you mean, they were bad?” “I don’t know.” “Well, let’s walk to the bus stop and see when the buses come back. I’m sure the walk will do you good,” Tanja suggests. I trot after Tanja more badly than right. In the meantime, I feel like someone has pulled the plug on me. Only yesterday I was condemning the burping Russians on the bus and now I’m burping like a whole team of drunk rhinos. I reach the bus station on my gums and on the way back Tanja asks if I need something to drink. “Gladly”, I say, but after the first sip of water I burp not just like a drunk rhino but like a fat hippopotamus. “You’ll feel better again tonight. Then we’ll both sit on our pretty balcony, drink a Crimean sparkling wine to celebrate our wedding anniversary and have a good time. I also had a bloated stomach after lunch, but the walk did me good.” “You only tasted a spoonful of the mushrooms. I think there were a lot of bacteria in those things and they all jumped on me at once. Without a doubt, something was wrong,” I realize when we get back to our dwelling.

All in all, these mean and sneaky bacteria put me out of action for 36 hours, so we don’t see much of Yalta. Without a doubt, I will no longer rant about burping Russians from now on, because in the last few hours I have been even more penetrating as a burping German…

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