Four hours away from the magnificent city of Samara lies an unimaginable place called Ulyanovsk.

Before the revolution, the city was called Simbirsk, and then Vladimir Ulyanov, one of the leaders of the state coup of 1917, was born there.

The city is absolutely nothing special. If you were looking for the geographical back end of Russia, it’s here in Ulyanovsk.

Ulyanovsk wouldn’t even be suitable as a sleeping suburb of Ryazan. It’s just an African ghetto that needs to be leveled to the ground and rebuilt. But by some mistake, it’s the capital of a whole region.

Ulyanovsk is so meaningless that there wasn’t even a decent place in the city to hang a banner about labor excellence.

The underground passage named after Sergo Ordzhonikidze, twice awarded the Order of Lenin.

War veterans are in line for an apartment.

Eternal flame. Guards were dismissed of their own accord.

Since Ulyanov was born in Ulyanovsk, all the monuments in the city are dedicated to him. In the city center stands a giant “Lenin Memorial”. A huge head hangs on the facade.

The backyard of the memorial was covered with brown sludge that dates back three hundred years.

In the courtyard, there was an absolutely creepy installation of stone pioneers.

Hey yo mothefucker!

This is the house where the Ulyanov family lived for a time. It’s a very decent mansion. In the courtyard of the house, there used to be an annex where Ulyanov was born.

The younger brother was also born nearby.

Judging by the condition of the house, the little brother was of no value.

However, if I were born in Ulyanovsk, I would have hanged myself.

I purposely went to see some small house in a special architectural style. Got there. Was shocked. Turned around and walked back.

On the way back, I came across propaganda for the Just Russia party. I always knew that the great pension counter-revolution would start in Ulyanovsk.

They just need to find the money to make the parapet out of real stone. For now, it’s made of metal and textured like granite. It’s in the center of the city, a decorative parapet around the Lenin Memorial.

Hey, Ulyanovsk, are you out of your fucking mind? That’s just the etalon of fuck, which should be kept in the French Chamber of Weights and Measures.

The remnants of more or less decent buildings are surrounded by Brezhnev-era concrete crap.

Some kind of writer’s museum. It’s so bleak that you don’t want to go in or explore it.

The provincial gymnasium. Well, more or less.

Ulyanovsk is a dump of urban spare parts. It feels like the local urban planner was drunk when he made the blueprints.

Just fuck knows what. It’s still the center of the city.

As usual, an asphalt sea in front of the administration building. There are two parades held here each year, and the square is empty the rest of the time.

What a beauty. Gorgeous.

Greetings in all languages of the world.

Drama theater, from the word “drama”.

There’s nowhere to even eat properly in Ulyanovsk. I found only one decent cafe in the whole city, and it’s located in some industrial zone, leased by hipsters. They recommended the shish kebab at the “Afghan” cafe. The shish kebab turned out to be complete crap. I didn’t dare to complain to the Afghan people about this.

They’re reconstructing the historical street. This means that it’s impossible to walk here without breaking both legs.

The Ulyanovsk palindrome: “144 Lenin Street, Street of Lenin 144.”

They don’t give a fuck.

We don’t give a fuck.

Nobody gives a fuck.

The city is completely fucked up.

But that’s still was the center. Now we’re out of the center.

Interestingly, there is history in the city. What a beautiful university building:

And next to it a fucking disaster. It feels like I’ve returned to the 19th century.


Zaborin’s rental apartment building in Art Nouveau style. It’s an architectural monument in a terrible condition.

Next to this building is the city market.

Apparently, the market is controlled by criminal authorities and people from the former Soviet republics.

Complete, over-the-top clusterfuck.

Level of African countries.

The city reminds that death is in the air.

Ulyanovsk is the first Russian city where I, a veteran of two Saudi campaigns, just got scared walking further with camera.

I turned around and went to the main attraction of Ulyanovsk: “The State Historical and Memorial Museum-Reserve Motherland of V.I. Lenin.”

The sign pointed somewhere in that direction.

A stunning house. A sharp facade is simply superimposed on the brickwork.

On the way, I came across a Lutheran church. A flashback from the ghetto in Brixton hit my head.


Finally, the museum-reserve. A gem of Ulyanovsk.

This reminds me of something. In wild Asian and African countries, crazy dictators love to build empty cities and declare them the capital of the country.

In the reserve, on both sides of the asphalt road, there are identical wooden buildings of questionable value.

Well, look. It’s like an interesting little house.

Shall we come closer and take a look? The porch is rotten. The lamp is about to fall off and hit someone on the head.

What kind of house is this? Let’s look at the sign. Joint-stock company “Institute for the Restoration of Monuments of History and Culture”.

My dear, have you completely fuckuped your mind? Do you call this deep sheet a museum-reserve?

Well, here is the house where the Ulyanov family lived from 1878 to 1887. It was built even earlier, before 1870. The Ulyanov family saved up for this house with a pretty decent garden for quite some time.

What can we say? In principle, they restored the house well. They even found antique wallpaper. A party of rolls was preserved at the wallpaper factory since pre-revolutionary times, so one can say that the original is on the walls.

Photography is strictly prohibited in the museum. It’s not really a museum, but a concentration camp. As soon as you enter any room, a supervisor granny immediately appears from around the corner. You leave for another room — there is another one. You go out into the corridor — yet another one.

I swear, in a five-room house, I counted twenty grannies. Can you imagine what kind of talent you need to have to take pictures under these conditions?

Undoubtedly, Ulyanovsk is the absolutely worst city in Russia that I have been to so far. I don’t even know what could beat it now? Maybe only Kyzyl.

“The whole palette of your history,” for fuck sake! Electric chair to all of you, bastards.