An oasis of freedom and an amorous temptation: the dacha is the national shrine of Russians. But understandably, not for all of them. The adversaries of dachas persistently fight against this tradition

To go or not to go? This fundamental question divides Russians, at least in summer. In Moscow the confrontation line lies at the ring motorway, which marks the border of the city. To most Russians the idea of staying in the city in summer is as awful as a wedding without vodka. And according to surveys, 60% of city dwellers go to the dacha. Experts in opinion polls don't explain why the remaining 40% behave differently: maybe they do in fact prefer their city flats, or they already live in the countryside or it may just be that they can't afford a dacha.

A Russian dacha is not just a summer residence, it is a lifestyle, says Olga Weinstein, a researcher of Russian culture. Those Russians, who ignore this way of living, often have to face critical issues. It seems as though many lovers of the dacha lifestyle see the world divided into two categories: dacha dwellers and losers. Adversaries of the dacha angrily object to this: "What's the point in going and coming from the dacha on Fridays and Sundays, at snail's pace, sitting in traffic for 5 hours, breathing in exhaust fumes, in order to enjoy one day of fresh air?"

Fans of the dacha culture however rise above such blasphemy. And they have tradition on their side. Even Anton Chekhov put the dacha on a pedestal in his works.

For many Russians the dacha is attached to memories of their first love and kiss in the bushes, and you have to agree, that these are all harmless things, without which the delights of short stays in the countryside are inconceivable. Be it just outside or far from the city (the distance between the city and the dacha may vary from 1 to 1,000 kilometers), "dacha dwellers" free themselves of the binds of city life. The daily city noise, the view of multi-storeyed apartment buildings, the overcrowded metro and streets can be very depressing indeed. The dacha is a world to itself, freedom, individuality within six hundred square metres. The dacha is a chance to catch up on your sleep, a hammock, drinking tea on the terrace, endless chatter, walks and long nights accompanied by wine or vodka.

Fences like Fort Knox
Unlike in the West, at least before, people at the dacha didn't isolate themselves, the feeling of ownership wasn't very strong, and they would walk through neighbours' property to get to the nearest lake. Nowadays many elite dachas are protected like Fort Knox, but at least another ancient tradition still remains strong: Russian summer residents, together with their friends, may visit their dacha neighbours for a cup of tea or coffee without any invitation. Birthdays and other festivities are usually celebrated with a large group of friends, sometimes going from one house to another: a true celebratory odyssey.

This is why every now and again I put up with traffic jams in order to get out to the pure countryside. And usually I fail in my attempt to flee the madness on the roads, choosing the worst possible moment to travel, typically in the middle of the night, or early in the morning. So far all attempts to save time just leave with me with less hours' sleep. And a hangover.

Only a foreigner like myself would think of such inconveniences as a toilet at the other end of the garden, swarms of mosquitoes, or a bucket of ice-cold water instead of a shower, while the owner plays the guitar or invites me to the banya. I can truly say that in those moments even the most fervent adversaries of dacha lifestyle can give in and change their beliefs. But is that a crime? Especially as dachas have positive things even for those who don't go there: overcrowded Moscow empties out in summer making life easier for those who stay behind, and one can actually go into the metro and not be pushed around as usual. A Moscow summer dream. And as we eagerly look forward to the next holiday, convinced urbanists, don't we all deep down become fans of the dacha?