Elara S. Novikova
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tiraspol

The capital of the country that does not exist, one November week of it: October 25th Street with its eight lanes of intention, Suvorov rearing in bronze, the steel armature of the Christmas tree waiting on the empty square. The stolovaya serves the best three-dollar meal in Europe. The parliament is floodlit for nobody, every night.

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2025

Me at the edge of the lamplight before the illuminated parliament building at night.
 

The Parliament After Dark

· The Supreme Soviet at night: floodlights, symmetry, and a state performing statehood to an empty street.

Me crossing the cracked empty street toward the steel armature of the municipal Christmas tree.
 

A Tree of Steel

· The municipal Christmas tree as bare armature on the empty square, three weeks before its annual resurrection.

Me, small on the knoll below the Suvorov monument rearing against a pale sky.
 

Suvorov Against the Sky

· The city's founder rearing in bronze on his hill, empire's cavalry frozen against a white November evening.

Me among shoppers at stalls in the covered market hall of Tiraspol.
 

The Market Hall

· The covered market: pyramids of pickles, November apples, and commerce warmer than any ideology on offer outside.

Me at a canteen table: soup, cutlet with buckwheat, and kompot.
 

Lunch at the Stolovaya

· Tray, rails, borshch, kompot: the Soviet canteen in unbroken operation, and the best three-dollar meal in Europe.

Me with crossed arms looking up at a T-34 on a stone plinth.
 

The T-34 on the Plinth

· The tank as civic furniture: a veteran of 1944 aimed at the November sky, and the skepticism it patiently ignores.

Me walking alone along a wide empty parade avenue in Tiraspol.
 

An Avenue Sized for Parades

· October 25th Street on a weekday: eight lanes of intention, flowerbeds at attention, and one pedestrian using all of it.

Me on the wide steps below the granite Lenin in Tiraspol.
 

Lenin, Still Standing

· The granite coat before the Supreme Soviet: the statue every other city removed, still supervising his square.

Me walking past a battered old trolleybus, factory smokestacks behind.
 

Smokestacks and a Trolleybus

· Across the Dniester into a country that officially does not exist: first frame, industry and a battered trolleybus.

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