When I arrived, the trip from the train station to Dad's house introduced me to the roads I had heard so much about. Tanya's son Andrei came to pick us up and he expertly manoeuvred around potholes and crumbling streets in the dark. It wasn't until the next day, when we went on a little drive to the nearby river, that I saw what I was about to face head on.
In the village, every main road looks like a Canadian back alley. Same width, same crumbling pavement, same potholes. Well, worse potholes. I learned that there is no such thing as driving on the right side of the road. There is only driving where your car will not be destroyed. On the highway, it is the same thing but with slightly wider roads and much higher speeds.
|A good portion of the highway to Crimea|
|Not a bad section of road actually.|
The roads looked like clay. Apparently, roads are the responsibility of the towns and cities they belong to. So, in the cities, if there is money, the roads are decent. In the villages, where money is scare, the roads have not been touched but for small patch jobs here and there. That was the one thing that communism had at least taken care of. Now that each section was left to fend for themselves, it did not reach the level of priority that things like, oh, food or shelter did.
|They aren't clay, but they look like it.|
|This is the highway.|
When I got home to Canada and saw construction crews out on the highway, it was all I could do not to walk over and kiss them all on the mouth.