“In southern Ukraine is a spit of land called the Arbatskaya Strelka, on the coast of the Sea of Azov, where summer vacationers can get a simple room near the beach. Nowadays, it stretches from mainland Ukraine to Russian-occupied Crimea. In a holdover from Soviet times, people come from all over Ukraine for the rich, therapeutic mud, said to be good for the skin. As I wandered around in my bathing suit, dark mud on my legs and camera in hand, I struck up a conversation with these women, asking if the mud was as good as everyone claimed. Immediately, the one in the center came up and smacked a fistful of mud directly in the center of my chest. “My heart! My heart!” I playfully shouted; there are rules with this mud, including that you’re not supposed to put it on your heart. She didn’t seem phased, and with a muddy finger drew a heart slightly off to the side of the handprint. “Your heart is over here, don’t worry,” she said. Ukrainians can be quite self-conscious, or just paranoid, often waiving off photo requests if their hair, clothes, or makeup aren’t quite right. These women didn’t mind.”

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