May 5, 2024
The bus ride across Poland overnight was wonderfully uneventful; there were no nervy moments at the border, no interrogation, and no rubber glove in sight. This was a surprise because of the strict admittance requirements, which included evidence of sufficient financial means for the stay, insurance including guaranteed assistance in dangerous situations and evacuation, proof of lodgings, and documentation demonstrating further travel. At border control, we were not even required to leave the coach. The boulevards of Lviv were lined with trams, the carriages expertly crafted by college-level metal smiths, their deteriorating rusty exteriors preserved by thick coats of Hammerite. The city’s fulcrum, Rynok Square, was a delight with its cobblestone streets, pavement cafes, restaurants, bars and microbreweries. The centrepiece is the magnificent town hall, which houses the equally magnificent Grand Cafe Leopolis. This restaurant is superb in terms of architecture, staff, service, and location—it’s right in the middle of this UNESCO-recognized historic site—and has an opulent terrace. Imagine ‘The Grand Budapest Hotel’, with its lavish furnishings, vintage photographs, and luxurious velvet upholstery, to truly experience the grandeur, elaborate style, and ambience. The breakfasts are fantastic, presented on a three-tiered tray. On the bottom, scrambled egg prepared the Ukrainian way laden with bacon; in the middle, pâté, and on top, a strawberry and cream topped brioche. The grand total, including a glass of prosecco to wash it down, came to the princely sum of 12 euros. In stark contrast to other parts of the world, Ukraine is very affordable, especially in the tourist areas. I recently finished paying off a second mortgage after enjoying an espresso in St. Mark’s Square in Venice about twenty years ago. People who know me well know that I prefer savoury foods, but Lviv gradually won me over, maybe due to the enormous amount of mouth-watering eye candy wandering the streets. Bras were an optional piece of apparel that was seldom exercised. I presumed that these undergarments were donated in support of the war effort, the underwires being smelted into ordnance—a noble sacrifice that I fully supported. Notably, there are intriguing troglodytical establishments that dot the square. The Lviv Coffee Mine, for instance, offered a flamboyant roast. Guided through a complex labyrinth of underground chambers, my coffee was brutally ‘Crème brûléed’ by an oxyacetylene torch-wielding enthusiast. Another memorable spot was where I savored blood sausage and mandryky, accompanied by a bottle of anti-Putin IPA. The entrance was concealed behind a secret revolving bookcase guarded by the formidable Mykola, a war veteran. Only those privy to the password and the secret handshake were granted access. As the bookcase swung open, revealing a dim stairwell, guests were greeted with a glass of vodka before descending into the maze of tunnels and chambers below. The pictures and videos below speak volumes. And whilst I did indulge in some high-end pork chops and Sauvignon Blanc, it was, as usual, the local food that I hunted out in Lviv’s back streets. Borsch, Ukraine’s signature dish and cited country of origin; Varenyky, the local variant of pierogi; Holubtsi, stuffed cabbage leaves, which is also a colloquialism for homosexual, not as I first thought due to their pseudo phallic shape but the phonetic pronunciation; Deruny, shallow fried potato fritters; Salo, the cured back fat of a pig, a famous Ukrainian snack that goes nowhere near a frying pan. It’s usually eaten raw. Sliced thin, salo has a butter-like texture and creamy-white hue. It tastes much better than it sounds! Amidst all the feasting and merriment, a backdrop of revelry unfolded, despite events unfolding a mere 500km away. The streets and venues were alive with activity and laughter, a steadfast resolve to carry on as usual. And carry on they did, with wine and beers flowing, and photos snapped with students dressed as characters like Sponge Bob, the Ice Age squirrel, and a giraffe that roamed the town square. ‘What are we all going to do, sit and cry all day?’ shrugged a local at the bar. However, casual observations did note sandbags protecting basement windows, and routine drone warnings as gentle reminders. Post script. I ended up discussing the same issue with a local who was born and raised in the city as I was leaving Lviv. She clarified that a lot of soldiers who are coming back from the front line stay around the city for a while before moving on to the provinces. I found it admirable that the people of Lviv are committed to giving them a decent and normal time in return for their war efforts. I loved Lviv. “With their tanks and their bombs and their bombs and their guns. In your head, in your head, they are crying…”
