Alexander Grib (LII) About His Life in Yalta

— I moved to Yalta. I lived in Crimea for three and a half years, by the way. Respect to Crimea.
— Where exactly did you live?
— Well, in Yalta itself.
— And where in Yalta?
— On Avangardnaya Street, near Spartak.
— Got it. You probably ran around there a lot, right?
— Well, when you work as a taxi driver, like… there isn’t much of a life, honestly, but I tried to rest somehow. I really tried.
— Tell our students about Yalta in general, about the place, because I know it well, but they don’t. Anything at all—whatever comes to mind. What’s it like?
— Yalta is amazing because it’s a unique place that combines forest, mountain, and sea air. From what I experienced working there… older locals told me about this—this mix of air, the benefits of the mountains and the sea together. It’s like an explosive cocktail that improves your health. That’s really cool.

But the most personal thing for me, what really struck me—why I lived there and didn’t think about anything else—is how completely cut off it feels from the outside world. When you live in Yalta, you’re surrounded by a massive wall—the huge mountain, Ai-Petri—and on the other side there’s the endless sea horizon. It feels like you’re in a completely different universe.

You stop caring about anything… If the internet disappeared, you honestly wouldn’t care what’s happening in the world. You just live in your own little world. That amazed me, because I was always outward-focused before, always looking at how life works elsewhere—but there I found myself in another universe.

And it’s striking that Crimea itself feels like a completely different world. It’s not Russia, not Europe—it’s just Crimea. Something else entirely. And yeah, the Soviet vibe is still there… people live by informal rules, more simply. In some ways, there’s a lack of modern “civilization.”

That has its downsides, of course—the fact that development hasn’t fully arrived yet (though maybe it’s starting now). But it also had its charm. For people who want to disconnect, to go somewhere and be alone with their thoughts.

When I worked as a taxi driver, I met a lot of people from tourism, travelers. And I noticed something—people who stay there are often looking for reflection, solitude, harmony, something beautiful, a reconnection with nature.

Of course, I also met a lot of people into meditation and all sorts of abstract practices I don’t fully understand. But I’m kind of interested in it—I just take it on faith, like, yeah, maybe there’s something cool there.

People go hiking in the mountains, exploring interesting places. I remember one trip vividly—a climb in the mountains. I don’t remember the name… somewhere before Sevastopol, maybe near the Temple of the Sun.

— It’s Mount Ilyas-Kaya, St. Elijah Mountain. There’s the Via Ferrata route there.
— Yeah, that’s it—we took that route.
— You climbed the Via Ferrata?
— Yeah. It was terrifying!
— Really? Why?
— Let me explain. It’s scary—really scary in terms of fear. It’s beautiful at first, walking along the cliff—amazing views, very captivating. But then you reach this vertical wall you have to climb, with those sketchy metal ladders bolted into the rock…
— Old iron ones, right?
— Exactly. There’s safety gear, sure, but I lost one of my socks along the way. So I ended up climbing with one sock inside my sneaker, and my foot kept slipping—it wasn’t stable.
— Wait, how do you lose a sock while wearing shoes?
— At first I was in Crocs without socks. Then my feet got sweaty, and I felt unstable on the rock, so I put socks on. And one just flew off. I was like, “Alright, guess I’m going with one.”

And that’s when the real challenge started. The climb felt like two or three stories high, maybe more. There were several levels. The higher you go, the ladder starts going sideways at times, not just up—and below you there’s a drop.

That’s what makes it terrifying. You’re supposed to go up, but the ladder leads sideways, with a cliff underneath. The fear of heights really kicks in hard. My foot is slipping in the Croc, my palms are sweating—I genuinely started to panic. It was very unpleasant. But I had to keep going.

And when you finally get to the top—it’s unbelievably beautiful. An unforgettable experience. That scary climb, simple and barely equipped—that’s what gives it a special edge.

— So you took the most extreme route? There are several options there.
— Honestly, a friend just invited me, convinced me to go. I didn’t even know where I was going. I don’t regret it, though. Yeah, it was scary—I’m afraid of heights. It’s a primal fear.

But I loved it. The adrenaline, the scale, the endless horizons—it’s incredible. Crimea feels like something out of a fairy tale, almost unreal. It’s hard to match it with reality.

I used to drive along the southern coast toward Sevastopol, and there’s this one cliff at a windy turn—it looks completely unreal, like something from a fantasy world. Even after three and a half years, I kept admiring it every time. Crimea feels magical.

— How long has that route existed?
— Maybe about ten years.
— And no one has fallen? There’s safety gear, after all. The risk is almost zero.
— I know I’m secured, but that doesn’t matter to my “inner monkey.” I’m clipped in, sure—but there’s death below. It’s instinctive fear.

I’ve noticed I don’t like horror movies—they trigger that same primal fear. I have a strong fear of depth, too. In Crimea, I tried paddleboarding, going far from shore—like 200 meters out.

Even though it’s the Black Sea and there are no sharks, the subconscious fear of the unknown drives me crazy. The thought that something might touch your leg from below… I’d run across the water back to shore like Jesus!

It’s such an unpleasant feeling. But I pushed myself—I treated it like a challenge. “Alright, let’s see who wins—you or me.” And I’d just jump into the water. That’s the only way it worked for me.

— Maybe it’s because you learned to swim late?
— Honestly, I don’t remember learning. I never had a traumatic experience, never almost drowned. The only memory I have is from childhood—my mom swimming far away in a river, and me crying, yelling for her to come back because I was afraid she’d disappear. Maybe it comes from that.
— What swimming style do you use?
— I just move my arms like this… I don’t know the names. Sometimes breaststroke, sometimes on my back. I practiced getting used to the fear—just lying on the water, watching the sunset. But even then, I had to push myself to get off the paddleboard and into the water. I did it purely through effort—just forcing myself. Facing the fear head-on. That was the only way.
— So the key is to go into the fear?
— Yeah. I did it out of principle. The fear didn’t disappear, but I kept going. Each time it got a bit easier.
— You said you lay in the water enjoying the sunset. Where’s the challenge there?
— Maybe it’s acceptance… letting go, trusting that everything is fine.
— That sounds more like adaptation than overcoming.
— Yeah, maybe. The real fear is when your legs hang down into the unknown—that’s what always scared me. But when I’m floating, it’s just relaxation. Never thought I’d be talking about this in an interview like this.