In times of heightened tension—when Russian cars are seized in the European Union and Russians face restrictions on carrying everyday essentials—obtaining a Schengen visa can feel less like a straightforward step and more like a test of intellect and endurance. When a round trip to a familiar destination costs as much as a month at home, a clear question arises: where should a Russian traveler go?
One answer is simple: there is no obligation to go anywhere. Moscow shines as a metropolis where life can unfold fully without ever needing to notice other cities. St. Petersburg offers its own drama, whether one walks through existential rain or sails by the Peter and Paul Fortress on a boat. There is St. Petersburg, a city with a pulse. The Krasnodar region promises sea views, wine country, and a touch of whimsy, even including grape snails fried with oil and garlic. Veliky Novgorod presents a cozy cafe where the courtyard becomes a memorable stop with a distinctive spirit. In short, Russia holds a wealth of experiences. Yet sometimes, counterintuitive as it sounds, a Russian traveler longs for a break—a moment to step away from routine, from homeland, and from loved ones, if only briefly.
Such a break is never truly easy. Travel often involves partners and kin, and the idea of solitude by the sea is rarely practical. The sea itself can feel elusive at times. A single dip into different shorelines—sand, pebbles, even smooth granite—seems reassuringly familiar, and yet each visit carries a unique memory. Home remains a comfortable bed. Still, there are children and a spouse who deserve a season of rest. The goal is a warm sea, a welcoming beach, ice cream and soda on a sunny promenade, fresh fish, a good bottle of wine, and the comfort of good health for all, without the shadow of illness that can dampen the mood for everyone.
That is how Turkey begins to appear on the map. It is not just Antalya or Bodrum, the popular stops; those are the easy choices. The allure lies in places a bit less typical. For instance, a trip can start with a flight to Dalaman and a budget-friendly taxi to Ölüdeniz. A small sandy cove framed by mountains and pine trees, a calm turquoise sea, and a horizon dotted with paragliders—paragliders that appear almost like a reflection of Canada in motion. The experience isn’t frightening; one pays a modest sum to a trained instructor, receives a safety briefing, and takes to the air. The ascent offers a serene panorama of mountains, hotels, beaches, and the sea. Flown high enough to see vastness, the traveler remains in a peaceful bubble where nothing carries weight beyond the moment.
In these moments, the traveler often discovers something unexpectedly delightful. Turbulence fades into the memory, replaced by a sense of lightness as the body drifts above landscapes that seem unreal in their beauty. The mind lingers on the sensation rather than the thrill, and a calm settles where anxiety once lived. After a stay, the souvenir is not a stamp but the quiet within—the echo of those long, unhurried glides and the soft rustle of the wind through pine trees.
Back at the Dalaman airport, the tradition of inexpensive footwear continues. Cheap slippers, reminiscent of well-known brands, accompany many travelers. The Turkish market echoes a practical, almost clever, approach to life: if a thing can be reproduced, it will be. The traveler wears these slippers for the journey, enjoys the sensation underfoot, and then leaves them behind in the hotel on the way to the airport. The luggage grows lighter, yet the memory remains stubbornly firm—the memory of a phantom happiness that lingers long after the trip ends. The return home is a mix of relief and slight unease, a reminder that comfort can carry a trace of loss, but it is a price well paid for vitality and perspective. What is needed at the end of such an experience is a balance: rest for the body and work for the mind, a balance that keeps life from tipping toward sheer inertia or relentless tension.
And then the question of what really makes a journey meaningful shifts. It isn’t just the sights, the climate, or the food. It is the presence of people who color the trip with laughter, shared stories, and sometimes comfortable silences. The kind of friends who can dissolve into a joke at sunset or sit together in a quiet room, content in each other’s presence, offering a different kind of rest—the rest that comes from good company and meaningful conversation. The best trips pair exploration with companionship, turning travel into both adventure and solace.
Ultimately, the tale emphasizes a simple but important point: travel is as much about the inner weather as the outer journey. A good voyage nourishes curiosity, strengthens bonds, and leaves room for reflection. It invites balance—between doing and being, between the pull of home and the lure of distant shores. In that spirit, the reader is reminded that the world offers many viable paths for renewal, each capable of refreshing the spirit in its own way.