Daylight comes and we do the most senseless thing tourists ever do, that is, we go to the beach. If you want to get there, you have to pass rows of port cranes shining with grease, huge concrete platforms and walls of goods packed in cartons. Then there's the stall with the recycled jewellery and a pile of shrimps melting in the sun, and right there in front of your eyes there opens a gallery of Ukrainian and Russian bodies. I pass the information board; it says that air temperature equals 12,5 degrees and water temperature is 30 degrees. I think to myself that the lifeguard must have gotten sloshed the night before. But so did I so I get the message right and go into the twelve degree hot Black Sea. Ant. goes with me – she's so brave that she gets in at a run. In the water, she meets her new friend, Anya, aged eight. Anya asks her, 'A vy otkuda?' Ant. says, 'My iz Polshy.' Anya: 'Uh ty!' Ant. is thrilled.
On the pricking sand tattooed men walk with armfuls of fish corpses and fat women wander with cookies. Ukrainian women sunbathe topless and they roll their pants in thin strings. One of them has her pet snake around her neck. The sun falls on us as if it was a burst of cloud full of UV radiation. Later on, in the evening, I will discover my shoulders all burnt and M. will experience a sunstroke. My lips are salty after the swim in the sea. Ant. helps me to change my swimming costume for dry underwear while Ukrainian boys in stretch pants and shining sunglasses watch my struggle to keep the balance.
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