For many, the Sea of Azov is now a name synonymous with geopolitical strategy and conflict. But for some, it remains a vast expanse of memory, a symbol of a bygone era of peace. This is the story of Taganrog, a Russian port city, viewed not through the lens of headlines, but through the vivid recollections of a childhood spent on its shores. It is a story that begins, improbably, at the Baikonur Cosmodrome, where the author’s parents met during the height of the Space Race—a military engineer from Moscow and a construction graduate from Taganrog, their lives intertwined by the ambitions of the Soviet Union. It was decided that their child would be born not in the spartan conditions of the Kazakh steppe, but in the gentle climes of Taganrog, by the sea.
While childhood travels included destinations across the Soviet sphere like Kyiv, Riga, and Moscow, it was Taganrog that captured the heart. It existed in memory as a city overflowing with greenery, flowers, and the heat of the southern sun. Life unfolded in private courtyards among white-washed houses, where cherry and apricot trees grew freely, a stark contrast to the formal poplars of Moscow. Family gatherings were held in vine-draped gazebos, where one could simply reach out and pluck a grape from the stem. The nights were spent sleeping outdoors, lulled by the sounds of a sleeping neighborhood and startled only by the soft thud of a ripe apricot falling onto the roof.
Summer was Taganrog. It was the oppressive heat rolling in from the steppe, the cool shade of the park alleys, and the vibrant chaos of the markets—a kaleidoscope of scents from fresh fruit, herbs, and the distinct aroma of dried fish. From small gobies eaten like sunflower seeds to large, translucent bream, known locally as ‘chebak,’ glistening with fat in the sun. And, of course, there was the sea.
The Sea of Azov in memory was shallow, warm, and murky, yet clean. It was a place of simple abundance, where a grandfather could return from the shore with a mountain of gobies caught on a small rod, a bounty that was quickly cleaned and fried into an unforgettable delicacy. This image of a gentle, providing sea stands in quiet defiance of its modern strategic significance, a reminder of a time when its value was measured in family meals and childhood joy.
Trips to the beach were expeditions, often culminating at the port. Not the industrial zone of cranes and containers, but a stretch of waterfront graced by an elegant yacht club and a line of old linden trees. Forty years ago, a carving on one of those trees declared a young love; today, the tree has grown, the letters have blurred, and the sentiment has ascended into history. Beneath these trees, families would spread blankets and begin the ritual feast of fried chicken, boiled eggs, and enormous tomatoes, all washed down with homemade kvass cooled in the sea’s waters. It was a portrait of life unburdened by the weight of the future.
This is the Taganrog that endures, preserved in the mind’s eye. It is the city of a mysterious childhood home, which thankfully still stands, and the final resting place of generations of family. It is the city of the famous Stone Stairs, of Anton Chekhov and Faina Ranevskaya. One might argue that this idyllic city is a fantasy, that it no longer exists as remembered, if it ever did. Yet, the moment its name is spoken, this vision of a peaceful port on a warm sea rises, vivid and whole—a ghost of what was, and a powerful testament to what has been lost.