Make use of our tips and find lots of options for entertainment in Crimea’s most diverse city
Okay, first of all, don’t tell anyone you’re going to Crimea. This being my first trip to the revered peninsula, I innocently asked a few people for advice before I left. And more than any other place in Ukraine, everyone seems to have very strong opinions as to where exactly the best place to go is (they’re almost fanatical, too, about what to see, practically threatening your welfare if you dare to miss whatever castle or mountain peak they prefer. Just nod a lot and say, “Oh, definitely. I mean, I’ll totally check that out.”). What’s more, the advice I was given almost always contradicted itself. A rather accurate recreation: “Novy Svet? Don’t be stupid. Sudak’s much more beautiful…” “Sudak? What are you, an idiot? Everyone knows Novy Svet is the best place in all of Krym…”
No one, though, recommended Yalta. And I have to now disagree with them heartily. Sure, there are more out-of-the-way destinations, ones that are quieter, cheaper, less developed. Sure, Yalta is a bit hectic on the boardwalk and more expensive than almost all the other towns on the coast. Sure, it’s kitschy, too. However, if it’s your first time in Crimea – especially if you’re from the West – Yalta is a place that must be experienced, a fascinating blend of Cold War mentalities and decadent Western-style tourism, and all of it located on the shore of one of the most beautiful seas in the world. So get out your sunscreen and grab a few trashy novels, you’re going south – and you’re even going to let yourself enjoy it.
First of all, Simferopol is all but unavoidable. Whether you fly, take a bus or a train, your journey to Crimea will almost inevitably pause in this town that holds precious little interest for visitors. If you’ve got the time, spend an evening in Sevastopol (take a cab from the airport), but if you’re heading straight to Yalta, here’s where the haggling comes in: The exit gates of the Simferopol airport are a rogue’s gallery of screaming scheming taxi drivers. If you’re good at bargaining (like I immodestly am), you can get a cab to Yalta for about Hr 175 or even less if you’re real adept at the language and want to spend some time yelling at people. If you’re a naive foreigner, plan on paying at least Hr 250 or even upwards of 300. Either way, though, it’s worth it: the buses and marshrutkas are slow and overcrowded, and the trolley – though, yes, at 96 kilometers certainly runs the world’s longest route – moves at such a painfully sluggish pace that you’ll soon begin to forget the novelty of the ride and the beauty of your surroundings due to screaming children and ambient body odor.
So get a cab. Relax, splurge a bit: you’re on vacation. And the drive itself is a spectacular reminder of exactly that – a country famous for its fields and forests gives way to vast landscapes of brush and rocky outcroppings that slope precipitously down from cliffs of wind-carved and glacier-hewed stone. Caves dug into the sides of the mountain yawn ominously, while churches perch like flightless birds on the tips of small peaks, and the hills grow larger and more confidant until they tower above as you wind your way to the sea. Many Ukrainians consider Crimea to be the most magical place on earth. On the drive it will occur to you more than once that they might be exactly right.
Yalta itself arises like an oasis – albeit one strewn with ubiquitous socialist high-rises skewering the ground. But the streets curve with enough narrow charm and the Black Sea roils its rich blue surface against the walls of the boardwalk with enough joie de vivre to undo any damage caused by Soviet architecture.
I had a friend in town from the U.S. and we’d had far too much fun in Kyiv to remember to make hotel reservations. So arriving in Yalta on a Thursday, we consulted our guidebook and made our way to the Bristol Hotel (10 Ruzvelta, 80 65427-1609), a lovely three-star affair that actually deserves its stars. And, well, this being a relatively classy place, the clerk took one look at us and promptly gave us the worse room in the house even though we paid $80 for a night. Situated right in between the two main wings, our front door opened onto a separate staircase leading to the exit, as if the front desk was trying to say: “Listen, we’ll let you stay because of your passports, but please use the back entrance and don’t tell anyone you’re sleeping here.” With its central location, however, we were willing to accept the slight. After a quick nap and a champion’s dinner of chocolate bars, we were ready for a night on the town. And, in Yalta, that means the boardwalk.
The Lenin statue at the beginning of the boardwalk (logically known officially as “naberezhna Lenina”) must have once cut an imposing figure leaning into the howling wind rushing off the sea. But now it just looks like he’s determined to lunch at the McDonald’s that now faces him. Though you don’t have to stoop quite so low to get a little food, most of the restaurants on the boardwalk are overpriced and underwhelming. One place, however, that manages to provide good fare is Cafe Pirosmani, a Georgian restaurant tucked behind endless kiosks selling gum and beer. Near nab. Lenina 23a, you’ll see the sign for it and a few young women trying to shepherd eaters towards the entrance. Let them. For reasonable tourist-trap prices, feast on khachapuri, stewed mutton and some of the most accomplished and peppery khinkhali in town. It’s the best you’ll get without really dropping some cash at K. Walter’s (1 Lenina/Morskaya) and Gurman (Lenina 11, 80 65 432-0306), two popular boardwalk joints that actually make food comparable to their prices.
But what’s a vacation without some partying? After sustenance, my friend and I prowled for hours, trying to find the best places to dance (re: meet girls). Because we were there in late April, Yalta’s famed nightlife wasn’t yet in full spring bloom, so mainstay pickup spots Cactus Club (5 Ruzvelta, 80 65432-1614;) and Tornado (Lenina 11, 80 65432-2036) weren’t exactly throbbing. And the club inside the Bristol, “The Black Sea” (how creative), wanted Hr 40 for a dance floor with about half a dozen people on it. The super exclusive club inside the posh Hotel Oreanda (Lenina 35/2, 80 65439-0608) looked like it had stricter face control than Kyiv’s PaTiPa and, judging by our reception back at our hotel, we weren’t feeling lucky. But we were feeling intrepid: Just past the Hotel Oreanda is a densely wooded area, where the boardwalk fades into lovely narrow winding unnamed streets, and smaller and more democratic clubs dot the hills and valleys on either side. Just stroll around and follow the music: you’re bound to find something that suits you. Like a mirage, we stumbled across Podkova, a bar/nightclub done up in a wonderfully terrible Cowboy theme. But don’t be halted by the decor: inside the drinks were cheap and the whole place was packed with bored devushkas and men without the guts to ask them to dance. A perfect location for two stupidly forward Americans fueled by vigor and vodka. Stumbling back to our hotel at dawn, we swore an oath to return.
The next morning, after a wonderful and complimentary buffet breakfast at the Bristol, we asked if our room was still available (we’d considered finding a cheaper place, but laziness and intoxication proved too much for our thrift). We were curtly told that the whole place was full and it’d be $100 a night now even if they did have space. Out of need, we trudged the few blocks around the corner to the Hotel “Otdykh” (Relaxation) (14 Drazhynskoho, 80 65435-3067). A room was not only available (and this on a weekend, mind you), but was only two-thirds the price ($65) and twice as big as our place at the Bristol. Certainly, the hotel wasn’t quite as up to par with Western standards, but “Otdykh” was certainly a quieter, more casual and generally – in my opinion – better alternative. What’s more, our large bay windows were completely filled by the Black Sea. Also, once you’re off the boardwalk, a whole new array of dining opportunities opens, many of them much more realistically priced. Which is good, considering the free breakfast at Otdykh was, well, let’s say not quite as good as Bristol. While all the Slavic guests around us were given eggs, we and the other Westerner staying there were served only hot dogs, as if, being Americans, we were bound by nationalism to eat solely franks and Big Macs.
Just down the street from the hotel, the ubiquitous Kozyrnaya Karta chain offered us yet another mid-ranged reliable-quality option: Hutorok La Mer (8 Sverdlova, 80 65427-1815). Feast on European and Ukrainian standards, all while the waves crash languorously below you (quite romantic stuff) and make sure not to miss the listing for bull’s testicles in horseradish sauce (I prefer mine sauteed in white wine). For the real budget-conscious, stop in Pelmennaya (8 Sverdlova, 80 65432-3932), a dirt-cheap place serving wonderful varenyks, pelmeni and blinchiks for about $1 a portion. You’ll need a strong start because Yalta offers numerous must-dos that lead to a very busy day.
Speaking of which, taking a ride in the chairlift is exactly the kind of touristy thing that you’d be appalled to do in a place like Paris, but in Yalta it makes perfect sense. Located in the alley behind Lenina 17, give the frowning babushka Hr 14 and do your best Indiana Jones impression as you jump aboard a rapidly moving plastic-enclosed bench seat that doesn’t look like it’s been safety-inspected since Brezhnev soul-kissed Carter. But the ride up is wonderful: the golden domes of the churches compete for “most glinting” with the sea below, and the roofs break away to reveal an endless vista of blue. At the top, take a moment to hike around aimlessly and enjoy the mansions on the hill, protected like private fortresses from us commoners below.
Also, if you’re a fan of Russian literature, you really can’t avoid a trip to Chekhov’s dacha (80 65439-4947; Kirova 112. Hr 10 for admission). Not only was “The Cherry Orchard” written there, but the women that lead the tours are incredibly sweet and almost disturbingly knowledgeable about their subject. Afterwards, stroll the grounds, imagine yourself sitting in the same place as the tubercular legend and try to figure out which bench was Gorky’s favorite. And before going home, we did keep our vow and returned to the Podkova bar, but to tell that tale fully would require both a disclaimer and a pseudonym. But I guarantee you’ll leave with stories aplenty as well (and, at least some substantial sun and relaxation). So stop listening to the naysayers, grab a ticket and have a kitschy beautiful Crimean good time.
