Travel: 118 posts

English
Lviv smells like stories whispered in old stairwells, like candle smoke in quiet churches, like coffee simmering on hot sand. I arrived in this city not just as a visitor, but as someone listening—to cobblestones underfoot, to the way a bakery smells when it rains, to the perfume of lilacs drifting over rooftops shaped by centuries of change.

This city once belonged to the Kingdom of Galicia–Volhynia, then to Poland, then to the Austro-Hungarian Empire. It’s called Lwów in Polish, Lemberg in German, Leopolis in Latin. Each layer left its trace: in architecture, language—and scent.

There’s a particular kind of fragrance here that blends the sacred and the sensual. In the morning, it’s fresh bread and sun-warmed stone. By afternoon, it becomes beeswax, tobacco, ink, roasted apples. The churches exhale frankincense and dust; the cafés—cinnamon and chocolate.

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Read this article in Ukrainian: Аромат і пам’ять: Відкриваючи Одесу заново крізь запахи

Writing about Odesa today reminded me how memory itself can feel like fragrance—vivid, intangible, essential. I sit at my work table in Brussels, in the dining room, surrounded by familiar comforts. A bouquet of white freesias, casually picked up at the supermarket, fills the air with its violet sweetness. On my right, I’ve arranged a haft seen—a small altar celebrating the Persian New Year, a symbol of rebirth and renewal. Outside, even though I cannot see it from here, I know the tall magnolia tree in the garden is bursting into bloom, its petals opening softly, without hesitation.

Here in Brussels, there are no air raid sirens piercing the night, no unsettling hum of Shahed drones slicing through the quiet. In these moments, I feel deeply conflicted and yet comforted. Part of me wishes desperately to be there—in Ukraine, experiencing the intensity, the solidarity, and the rawness of life in Odesa. Another part feels profound relief to be here, safe yet yearning. I am suspended between two places, two emotional landscapes.

Memory offers a bridge. It lets me travel effortlessly, invisibly. In memory, I revisit streets filled with laughter and chaos, sea air tinged with salt and flowering acacias, the comforting dusty vanilla of old paper in vintage bookstores. I remember the way Odesa’s salty breeze tangled softly in my hair, how at night my skin carried traces of the city—sea spray, blossoms, sunlight—and how these scents whispered of moments lived fully, intensely.

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Read this article in English: Fragrance and Memory: Rediscovering Odesa Through Scent

Сьогодні, пишучи про Одесу, я згадала, як сама пам’ять може відчуватися ароматом—яскравим, невловимим, життєво необхідним. Я сиджу за робочим столом у Брюсселі, у своїй їдальні, оточена звичними затишними речами. Букет білих фрезій, який я випадково купила у супермаркеті, наповнює повітря ніжною, фіалковою солодкістю. Праворуч від мене стоїть хафт-сін—невеличкий вівтар до перського Нового року, символ відродження і оновлення. На вулиці, хоч я й не бачу цього зараз, розквітає велика магнолія, розкриваючи свої пелюстки спокійно й без вагань.

Тут, у Брюсселі, ночі не розтинають сирени повітряної тривоги, немає тривожного дзижчання дронів Shahed, що порушують тишу. У такі моменти я почуваюся глибоко розгубленою й водночас заспокоєною. Частина мене палко хоче бути там—в Україні, проживаючи всю гостроту, солідарність і справжність життя в Одесі. Інша ж частина з величезним полегшенням залишається тут, у безпеці, але сповнена туги. Я ніби зависла між двома місцями, між двома емоційними пейзажами.

Пам’ять—це міст, який дозволяє мені подорожувати без зусиль, невидимо. У пам’яті я знову йду вулицями, наповненими сміхом і хаосом, вдихаю морське повітря з присмаком солі й квітучої акації, відчуваю затишний запах пилу й ванілі старих книжок у вінтажних книгарнях. Я згадую, як солоний бриз Одеси м’яко заплутувався в моєму волоссі, як моя шкіра увечері зберігала відбиток міста—морську вологу, аромат квітів, сонячне тепло—і як ці запахи шепотіли мені про моменти, прожиті повно й інтенсивно.

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The morning after a massive Russian drone attack, I walked to the beach in Odesa. The city was quiet in a way that felt heavy, as if it was holding its breath. The night before, the sky had burned red and orange, and the air still smelled faintly of smoke and metal. Yet, as I reached the water’s edge, I saw something unexpected. People were there, men and women standing barefoot in the sand, their bodies rising and folding in slow, graceful movements. They were doing yoga, offering sun salutations to a pale, silvery sky.

The sea was calm, its waves lapping softly against the shore, as if trying to soothe the earth. Life continued, despite everything. In that moment, watching them, I realized something about Odesa. This city has always been a place of resilience. It carries its sorrow with elegance. It dances, it sings, it breathes deeply, even when the world around it trembles.

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A few days ago, I had the privilege of visiting a very special place in Kyiv, Ukraine—a children’s art school that offers free lessons to young people affected by war. This school is much more than a classroom. It’s a sanctuary where children can paint, draw, sculpt, and express themselves freely. It’s a space where they can be children again.

When I arrived, I was greeted by the school’s director, teachers, and students with warmth and openness. Inside, the rooms were bright and alive with creativity. Paintings of fantastical creatures—dragons, mermaids—hung alongside delicate studies of flowers and landscapes. There was joy in these works, and courage too.

Thanks to your generous donations, I was able to collect funds and purchase much-needed art supplies—paints, brushes, pencils, and sketchbooks. I made several shipments over the past months, but this visit was the first time I saw the children using them. It was deeply moving to witness how these simple tools became a means of expression, hope, and even healing.

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