The Return to Lviv and the Mountain of Food
I am back in Lviv.
Again.
At this point, I am not sure whether I am visiting the city or whether the city has quietly adopted me and simply waits for me to return with a tired backpack, strange stories, and the facial expression of a man who has crossed three borders, two realities, and somehow still missed lunch.
I arrived over the weekend after one of those journeys that begins as “just a trip” and slowly becomes a test of character. Borders, buses, luggage, delays, people confidently standing in the wrong queue, and at least one moment where I considered whether teleportation magic is really more dangerous than modern transport.
By the time I reached Lviv, my heroic plan was simple:
Check in.
Sleep.
Possibly become human again.
Coffee, if civilization survived.
The sleep went very well. Too well, perhaps. I did not simply sleep. I entered a temporary diplomatic silence with the universe. For several hours there were no messages, no thoughts, no multiverse emergencies, no Brama symbols glowing suspiciously from my bag.
Just sleep.
Deep, honest, border-crossing sleep.
Originally, I planned to stay at Ibis, but Ibis was full.
A tragedy?
No.
A twist of fate.
Because I ended up at FEST Hotel, and I am not even slightly sorry. In fact, I may now pretend this was my plan all along.
“Ah yes,” I will say later, with the confidence of a man rewriting history in real time, “I deliberately selected this hotel based on advanced logistical calculations.”
The calculation was simple: there is a Nectarine Bistro nearby.
And Nectarine Bistro has something called an unlimited plate.
Now, this is a dangerous phrase to say near me.
Most people hear “unlimited plate” and think, “Nice, I can choose a bit of everything.”
I hear “unlimited plate” and think, “Finally, architecture.”
Within minutes, I was standing before the food like a general surveying a battlefield.
Salads? Foundation layer.
Potatoes? Structural support.
Meat? Central tower.
Something creamy? Mortar.
A suspiciously elegant vegetable dish? Decorative balcony.
By the time I reached the cashier, the plate was no longer a plate. It was a hill. Possibly a protected natural formation. There may have been weather on top.
The staff remained polite, but I sensed concern in their eyes.
Not fear.
Not yet.
Concern.
The only weakness in the system is that there are no refills. A cruel limitation, clearly introduced by people who had foreseen someone like me in prophecy.
Still, I respect the rules. I am a civilized traveler. A guest. A gentleman.
A gentleman carrying a plate so heavy it may have needed planning permission.
Now I am staying here for two weeks, which raises a serious question: will Nectarine Bistro survive repeated visits from me without changing its policy?
I hope so.
But somewhere, perhaps, a manager is already drafting a new sign:
“Unlimited plate. Except for that one guy from FEST Hotel.”
Or worse:
“Plate must remain visible under food.”
I wish them courage.
