I am in Lviv, Ukraine, and I am enchanted. As I walk through the city center, I keep my eyes open wide, hoping somehow to see more of the stones in the cobblestone streets, more of the light snow that dusts every statue and monument. Each time my feet take me passed an imposing, mountainous cathedral, I strain my neck in my eyes, looking on and on, etching the images in my memory. And of course, each coffee or chocolate shop I pass calls out to me, though I try to content myself with the much cheaper but no less pleasing smells of the products, instead of making purchases.
Lviv seems to be a city that holds secrets. Perhaps these secrets are old and will remain locked away in the beautifully stony architecture forever. Perhaps those secrets are as simple as the old men standing in a small markets square selling old, very used books. Somehow I doubt that I will be unlocking many secrets during my week in Lviv, but I am not bothered by this.
I notice a one-roomed grocery store with dark wooden shelves behind a glass refrigerator . I step into the store and stand there without saying anything, uncertain why I chose to walk through this particular door. Against one bare wall stands an upright piano, and it distracts me from both the the lady watching me from behind a glass refrigerated counter and the products she is hoping to sell. "What do you want?" she asks in Ukrainian.
I don't speak Ukrainian, at least, not more than the 20 words my partner has taught me in the past two days. But the locals don't take kindly to the Russian tongue, so I am determined to use all 20 words as much as possible. I tell her I don't know what I want, but I manage to ask about the piano. She understands. "First buy something, then you can play the piano." She recommends chocolate and asks somewhat apprehensively if I am from Russia.
100 grams of chocolate costs less than a dollar, but it buys me unlimited access to the piano. After assuring the lady that I am not Russian, I sit down at the prematurely aged keys and the rest of the world goes blank. In my subconscious, I notice that each time a customer enters the store, the lady loudly announces, "That is an American." But it doesn't bother me. They keys under my fingers express the wonder and delight I feel this night, but in this city of secrets even the clear notes of the piano are shadowed and melancholic.
After half an hour I have exhausted both my musical repertoire and my Ukrainian vocabulary. The lady is probably praising my playing or asking me to come again, but all I can do is nod politely and make my exit. I hear her loudly talking about "the American" even after I cross the street.
Lviv seems to be a city that holds secrets. Perhaps these secrets are old and will remain locked away in the beautifully stony architecture forever. Perhaps those secrets are as simple as the old men standing in a small markets square selling old, very used books. Somehow I doubt that I will be unlocking many secrets during my week in Lviv, but I am not bothered by this.
I notice a one-roomed grocery store with dark wooden shelves behind a glass refrigerator . I step into the store and stand there without saying anything, uncertain why I chose to walk through this particular door. Against one bare wall stands an upright piano, and it distracts me from both the the lady watching me from behind a glass refrigerated counter and the products she is hoping to sell. "What do you want?" she asks in Ukrainian.I don't speak Ukrainian, at least, not more than the 20 words my partner has taught me in the past two days. But the locals don't take kindly to the Russian tongue, so I am determined to use all 20 words as much as possible. I tell her I don't know what I want, but I manage to ask about the piano. She understands. "First buy something, then you can play the piano." She recommends chocolate and asks somewhat apprehensively if I am from Russia.
100 grams of chocolate costs less than a dollar, but it buys me unlimited access to the piano. After assuring the lady that I am not Russian, I sit down at the prematurely aged keys and the rest of the world goes blank. In my subconscious, I notice that each time a customer enters the store, the lady loudly announces, "That is an American." But it doesn't bother me. They keys under my fingers express the wonder and delight I feel this night, but in this city of secrets even the clear notes of the piano are shadowed and melancholic.
After half an hour I have exhausted both my musical repertoire and my Ukrainian vocabulary. The lady is probably praising my playing or asking me to come again, but all I can do is nod politely and make my exit. I hear her loudly talking about "the American" even after I cross the street.
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