Valentine’s Day in Ukraine

February 14, 2024

Valentine’s Day in Ukraine.

My day starts at Blagodatne, a large country farm estate owned by three brothers and their families. I slept so well here that I never heard the Shahed drones flying overhead, aimed by russia toward some other Ukrainian town or village. Here, the peace of the expansive fields, tamed rows of wine grapes, the smell of freshly tilled earth and a cacophony of barnyard animals remind me of farms in the Skagit Valley. So much so that it makes me quite homesick as I puzzle over how to send a Valentine to my husband and daughter. I settle on a heart-shaped selfie I took with a jovial resident donkey. This, of course, is an inadequate gesture in light of my two month absence from home.

It will be hard to leave Blagodatne and our its attentive and persistently cheerful elderly hosts. I wonder what comes first, being good natured or becoming a farmer, but the correlation seems universal across nationalities.

My day ends in the city of Dnipro, named after the large river it straddles with countless bridges. My evening walk through the city’s central district takes me past candle-lit restaurants and cafes, packed with well dressed couples, lovers strolling hand in hand, teenagers smooching in doorways, young couples toting their overbundled toddlers to delight over strings of lights festooned on doorways and between buildings. Traversing park-like boulevards, cobblestone streets and open squares, I pass by warmly illuminated and lovingly restored 19th century buildings, ghastly soviet-style apartment blocks, beautiful new condominiums and bright storefronts of brand name labels. Many buildings are intact, some have particle board slabs replacing recently blown out windows. Some have gaping wounds from missile strikes and boast a radius of darkness reminiscent of black holes.

I linger at a rocket and missile display at the edge of my city block. Jupiter, the Moon and a relic soviet-era 8K99 intercontinental ballistic missile align in a macabre arrangement against an indigo sky. I watch scores of men rush to brightly lit flower shops just before martial law curfew. Love and romance must go on, blaring air raid sirens be damned.