We walked in the Sunday morning heat through Ivan Franko park. After some searching, we spied a single unoccupied and shaded bench; we spent nearly an hour just sitting, speaking, people and pigeon watching. A family of three went by, the father and son in identical high-belted jeans, with short silver hair, eating icecream and walking with their feet splayed. An old man in a track suit power-walked past. Through the trees, a girl stood on the sunny steps, perfectly still, face turned up, basking or waiting.

We walked further up the hill, away from the center, to the museum of Oleksa Novakivsky, which is hidden inside a dark brick building near St. Yuriy’s Cathedral. The heavy door wouldn’t open, so we pressed one of the faded metal bells. An old women answered and led us into an office, full of antique typewriters, sketches and paintings, piles of paper on old wooden desks, and miscellanea. We bought tickets for 8 hryven each (that’s $1), and followed her through a bolted door, heavy and wooden, up a staircase twilit by a stained glass window, into the museum.

The paintings are bright and dark, with confident thick strokes. Scenes from Lviv, a village in autumn, a self-portrait with quirked eyebrows, angels.

We spent the evening wandering through the Park of Culture and Recreation. We started on the ferris wheel, floating slowly in the clear air above the city – perfect weather, perfect view. Then we walked around the soviet-style amusement park (run-down, chipped-paint, lost-vision feeling), looking at all the little kids, so intent on their games, so intent on their present experiences.

At the top of the hill, we saw the rugby stadium (“Lviv is our city, rugby is our life.”), argued about the meaning of a modern sculpture, and watched a group play field hockey. Peaceful and quiet, with some teenagers playing guitar in the shade, lovely with the chestnut trees blooming white and red, and the sky blue above.

As the light faded, we caught the bus out of town and celebrated a birthday with paska, two cakes, egg salads, home-made sausage, some kind of meat jelly pie, and champagne. A cute baby, a tired old cat, and babtsya coming to sit by me and speak softy.

We had an amazing evening at a downtown art cafe on Tuesday.  The band is young, with four girls on the bandura and one boy on the drums, and their music was fresh and pure.  The upstairs room was packed without a single seat left and standing room full in the back, with waitresses hurrying from table to table with foaming beers and pitchers of sangria.  

As evening fell, the light from the open windows behind the band slowly faded and the haunting, dancing sound of a Ukrainianized “Barbara Streisand” beat through my head all the way home.

During this festival there are parades, street musicians and impromptu performances, a big concert on Ploshcha Rynok, and of course, tons of interesting people filling the center.

We met at the statue of Danylo.  While I waited, I read from a Ukrainian comic I had just bought, and listened to a band playing Я піду в далекі гори to a crowd gathered below.  

We walked to Ploshcha Rynok and sat on a bench talking and signing up for a free SIM card.  Later, standing in the crowd by city hall, we watched children and professionals dance in costumes on a small stage, and then we went for pizza at Pinocchio.  It was the perfect place, quiet but not too quiet, and we sat outside on a big red couch, looking from the patio curtains at the people passing, the beautiful buildings, and the tree filling the little alleyway.

We were still hungry so we went for dessert at Strudel House.  From our seats, we could see and hear the stage on Ploshcha Rynok, and the waitress gave me a brand new blanket to stay warm.  A young man set up shop across the street from us and played with shiny shape-changing toys, whirling them in his hands with a shy half-smile. 

Walking in the gray rain up to my apartment. Eating at Puzata Khata and all the servers smiling at her. Traumatic international dancing and liturgy. Riding the bus with my student to the center. Visiting my classes and talking with my students, teaching them Chinese. Eating strudel two nights in a row. Last dinner at Kriyvka. Walking to Lychakivsky Cemetery, discovering a grocery store, eating cheese pastries outside a church, and then wandering the cemetery, guided by butterflies. Roast duck at Kumpel. Disagreeing over an omelet. Panic when the taxi arrived and she couldn’t find her bank card. Leaving her at the station with a gypsy cab to the border. Talking, talking, talking.

We spent one evening in Krakow on our way back from Malta. Krakow is a beautiful city, mixing Eastern and Western European in a much more polished and ambitious way than Lviv.

Parts reminded me of Ukraine, but my overwhelming impression was simply of money. The streets are clean and the people are well-dressed – it’s like a more prosperous version of Ukraine, a Ukraine that could be, a Ukraine with the backing of the EU. I felt sad, making these comparisons.

We stayed at Greg & Tom’s hostel, which was across from the station and five minutes from the center. We walked to the main square, passing through the gardens and old city walls, and found dinner in an underground restaurant, Grandma’s Kitchen. We had wild boar, potato dumplings, beet salad, and sauerkraut – a cheap and delicious Polish feast.

In the morning, we boarded a five hour train to Peremyshl, a Polish city that was once Ukrainian and my family’s hometown. In our compartment were a young Polish girl our age, reading magazines and snacking on a perfectly prepared meal (we only had a pretzel), an unforthcoming nun, and two old women.

By the end of the journey, we were alone with one of the old women, who started talking with us in Polish. I could understand a bit of what she was saying, and I answered in Ukrainian. She was so sweet, with a tired face and lovely dark hair. She told me that someone in her family had died, that she lived in Warsaw but that her family lived in another city. When she found out where we were going, she promised to help us on our way.

We left the train with her and hugged her goodbye, and she handed us off to her friend, who was also going to Lviv. We followed her to a little old bus, where we waited for half an hour until it was completely full, and then drove for fifteen minutes to the border.

We walked across the Polish-Ukrainian border, following the other travelers. I was nervous about my visa, but there were no problems, and we passed through quickly. On the Ukrainian side, spring flowers were blooming in a field, and a long crowd of people were waiting, watching us through the fence. Women walked carrying huge bags of meat and produce – our guide explained that it was cheaper to use people than trucks.

We walked through a town to the marshrutka stop and got on our bus, which was typical yellow with icons and beads and curtains inside. A chubby, serious boy gave his seat first to my friend, then his next seat to an old women, and ended standing by the door, looking worried. We wondered where he was going by himself…

Driving to Lviv, all my sadness fell away. The sun was shining, and though the houses were poor, everything was beautiful. People were working in their gardens, silver church domes sparkled in the light, the forests were spread with delicate green.

It was so good to be home in my Ukraine.