Life in Kyiv is hard

There are so many similarities between Ukraine and Brazil. People that struggle with poverty and Dior boutiques that attract thousands of teens who have no idea of today’s currency course. Walking from a street to a street you will find yourself surrounded by pigeons seeking for last unfrozen bread crumbs  or by first class rubbish bins reminding you about long-ago imperium. All in all, Brazil has taught me how happy we are to be born here and to appreciate the every day with clean water and cottage cheese.

Markets that are not as breathtaking and incredible as in southern part of Europe still have a lot to offer. I would rather say that traders have a big desire to prove you the higher quality of their canned garlic and tomatoes than the neighbor has. The wide range of national salo that can remind you bacon makes you want to try more and more till the stomach blows up.

-Girls, please, try this meat, take this cherry! You will get a discount!

Finally full and happy you enjoy the architecture of Kyiv. With a gray Soviet look, Kyiv represents some good spots for your photo session or coffee break. That can be The Doll Theater, different parks in the city center, an old district of Podil or a river embankment.

You might get an impression that the capital is quiet and more or less organized. With more than 3 million of people it is impossible to achieve. There are many districts (Troeshchyna, Borshchagivka) that look like hell where the only thoughts can be “run or pretend to be the worst gangster”. Empty beer bottles everywhere, cheap cigarettes and the noise of a speeding up old Zhiguly creates the atmosphere of wild 90s. Still interesting to visit.

We, Ukrainians, still try to be optimistic about our future and save the coins for the rainy day when our children will forget about their roots. We, Ukrainians, still have a little pond with ducks, linen blouses for holidays and red viburnum on the dining table. Despite all Louboutin-shoes-daughters and 7th-iPhone-sons, somehow, we believe in the land we were raised once and somehow we remember to put the hand on the heart hearing the Chubynsky’s song.

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