Our Russian classes visited a dacha where Chekhov once wrote a book. It’s amazing to think that although he only spent under ten years there, they’ve created this whole museum out of it. The tour was in Russian, so I only caught about half of it, but hearing about all of his quirks and habits made it feel as if he were still there. He was a brilliant man who enjoyed playing on his grand piano and listening to crickets sing outside his window, and hearing that gives me hope, as if maybe I can become something worth remembering.
They had a park there with awesome Lincoln Log-esque structures that we high schoolers felt obligated to play on.
(certain images are linked to Flickr)