A Dreamy Return to Sparkling Odesa

The train pulled out of Lviv at half past seven, groaning like a stubborn pensioner dragged from bed. The metal creaked, the upholstery exhaled the musty scent of three decades’ worth of sweat and cheap aftershave, and the fan above my bunk spun lazily as though on a tea break. I was going back to Odesa.

It was the summer of 2025, and the war had moved east like a receding storm cloud, leaving a trail of broken windows and shattered hearts. But the trains still ran, at least when they wanted to, and the south called like a siren.

I had bought my second class ticket with cash — crumpled hryvnias in a peeling kiosk next to the station, manned by a woman who looked as if she had outlived three republics. “Odesa?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Romantic fool.”

Maybe I was.

The carriage was a museum piece: olive green curtains that didn’t shut properly, brass coat hooks shaped like claws, walls of chipped enamel, and a samovar at the end of the wagon that hissed menacingly as if guarding a secret. The overhead light flickered above me like an uncertain star.

I nestled into my bunk, the faded blanket scratchy against my skin, and watched the dark blur of Podolian fields give way to sunflower silhouettes. The other passengers murmured in sleepy tones — a mother whispering bedtime stories to her daughter, a soldier returning home on leave with a sunburned nose and an empty bottle of horilka, an old man staring out the window with the sad smile of someone returning to memories rather than people.

The train trundled southward through the night, its rhythm a lullaby — clack-clack, clack-clack — echoing like the heartbeat of a land that refused to die. I closed my eyes and dreamed of the sea.

Of Odesa.

Of girls in straw hats and old men playing chess on the Primorsky Boulevard. Of laughter bouncing down the Potemkin Steps like a melody. Of the taste of cherry varenyky and the sting of salty wind.

When I awoke, the light outside had turned to gold.

I rose and padded barefoot past the groggy bunkmates. At the end of the corridor, I pushed open the door and stood between the carriages, the wind whipping my hair into a tangled halo. The steppe had given way to glinting rivers and orchards, vineyards cascading down warm hills.

Then, suddenly, the Black Sea.

She appeared like a lover seen after years — vast, radiant and impossible. The first glimmers of Odesa’s white buildings shimmered on the horizon, dancing above the water like a mirage.

The train curved along the coast, and the city rose to greet us — her domes and balconies, her crumbling grandeur and stubborn pride. She sparkled in the morning light, indifferent to politics, ever flirtatious, ever free.

We clattered into Odesa Holovna just past six.

The platform was already hot, pigeons strutting like they owned it. Porters shouted. The sea-salt smell of the harbour teased the nostrils.

I stepped down from the train, still half-dreaming, suitcase in hand and soul lighter than it had been in years.

The city greeted me with a wink.

“You’re back,” she seemed to say.

And I knew I would never leave her again.