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A little further on, there is a French café with world-class croissants that would rival any made in Paris or Montreal. A large, pink snail-on-wheels houses a takeout coffee/tea operation next to the sidewalk.

Walking down the street is always a lively human experience in Kyiv.

People walk around at different cadences, but mostly at a hurried “late for work” pace.

I saw layers of stories beneath the rocks—of war, of blood, of euphoria, of joy, of architecture, of breakups, of love—each force never lasting long enough to create a one-dimensional identity, but long enough to make the city into what it is today.

The locals will talk to you about the right and left banks of the city.

I chalked my confusion up to one of the differences in perspective, like in the language.

As a hawk flies high above, tracing the river’s flow from north to south, it sees the right bank from the opposite perspective, and therefore the right bank is associated with the flow of the river.

A red double-decker bus from London sits on the side of the roundabout across from the crumbling building.

Inside the bus has been creatively transformed into a charming café with a modern espresso machine and ornate tables and chairs.

Leaning too far one way could bring the weight of the other side crashing down on top of it.

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