Attics and Anthills
Up until the age of twelve, I thought that ‘Moldovan’ was a curse word.
When I think about my Russian childhood, the first image that pops in my mind is my grandmother’s ass sticking out from the garden as she violently plucks out the weeds, ripping them from the ground with the roots still intact, dirt flying around, wiping the sweat from her forehead with the back of a stained glove.
That’s the older Russians’ idea of a holiday: unpaid, useless labour. As my mother always taught me, ‘The best rest is a change of activity.’
Most Muscovites have a summer country house they call dacha. Dacha is not just an escape from the city — it’s a philosophy.
It’s a place your grandparents fought for in the Soviet Times waiting in a ‘queue’ for years. It’s a symbol of status and wealth. It’s the childhood summer. It’s a lifestyle.
Dacha is usually so far away, you get exhausted simply driving there. Our dacha was pretty close — only a few hours away from Moscow. But the distance is never measured in kilometers, miles, or time. It’s measured in the number of times you have to take a piss at a McDonald’s, which become increasingly rare as you venture outside of the Moscow region. My dacha, located in a small town called Vereya: two and a half times. You arrive feeling pretty…