Today, the second week has passed when I, packed with my newly-bought long-wished Samsonite Hommage luggage bags and total excitement on my face, landed in Vancouver, BC, Canada. It took only an hour of waiting in Borispol for the delayed flight, two more flights, 3 meals on board, and a lack of water between flights to get to Canada. I was bewildered to hear no announcements in Ukrainian when leaving Ukraine with a Lufthansa plane, mostly in German and French they were. That was only the start 
No Ukrainian in a future fortnight.
So, Vancouver met me with 2 am morning twilight, a perfect bouquet and sweet hugs from my husband in a deserted huge airport halls with a sterile soft carpet floor. So was my coming.
But what about the ice-cream? In Ukraine, I’ve not eaten ice-cream for years because of a total taste and quality abuse of this ancient treat. I used to eat it in my childhood when, you know, the grass was greener, and ice-cream sweeter. In my student years, I opted for this desert as it was the only appropriate and cheap dish to refresh herself in a daily 3-hour journey from the university to home. Nowadays it should be a great disappointment or failure to search the ice-cream.
Today, it is the day! What is the reason? Oh, this is a new little story waiting to be told. See “How to persuade your medical insurance company that you aren’t a camel” soon. But now I’m waiting for my husband who is smarter and can find even a camel if I need for me, even in Robson street
