Originally published in July 7, 2025 on Substack
This is A Glimpse of Hope, a weekly letter where I try to bring you something gentle for the weekend. Today, a story about a yellow arch, a boy’s dream, and the strange ways we keep parts of ourselves alive in Ukraine.
WHEN I TALK ABOUT FOOD, I USUALLY talk about health.
In Ukraine, we’re proud to know what real food is. Our fruits, our grains, our honey, our tomatoes… we eat fresh, pure, alive, close to the land. We learn it from our grandparents.
But there’s one thing that breaks this rule for me.
One thing that might seem silly, or even shameful to confess.
That yellow arch.
McDonald’s.
I know what you might think.
Fast food. Processed. A symbol of cheap global sameness. Of everything wrong with modern food.
But let me explain that for me, it was a window.
I was ten years old when McDonald’s came to Ukraine in 1997.
I remember that first visit like it happened yesterday. The menu looked like as if it were a map to another universe. Those colors, those bright lights, they felt like a glimpse into something I had only seen in dreams.
The world was finally coming to us. We weren’t a backyard anymore.
Not a gray country left behind after communism.
We were part of something.
When I saw that arch, I didn’t think of calories or capitalism. I thought something like We are here. We exist.
Of course I didn’t had this conscious perception as a kid, I only realized it many years later. But I felt it. And it’s always something intense to feel that we matter.
The very first McDonald’s in Ukraine, Kyiv, next to the Lukyanivska metro station. It was opened on May 24, 1997.
In Kyiv, those restaurants became some of the busiest in the world. You could stand in line for hours. Sometimes you still can.
During the first months of the invasion, McDonald’s closed. And when they reopened, it felt like an act of defiance. Like saying: We still live. We still choose.
People lined up in the rain. Delivery drivers waited for hours, cradling bags like they were carrying warmth itself. I read that rides to malls with a McDonald’s went up by 30%.
People were taking those sandwiches across the city, through cold rain, just to sit in a park with his friends.
I remember to hear someone saying that it was like a gift, like hope served in a paper bag.
I had my first job in a restaurant in Dnipro in 2004. It was completely frenetic and tiring. I stayed for almost a year, and it was hard. Every day returning home with pain in my back and oil everywhere. I thought I’d never look at that arch again.
But soon the pain faded, and that boy in me came again.
The boy who saw those golden arches and believed in magic.
The first McDonald’s opened in Kyiv was severely damaged in the Russian attack of the morning of January 18, 2025
I know it’s not good for me. I know my grandmother would frown. But sometimes, I go anyway.
I order the same sandwich, sit alone, and listen to that young version of myself.
The one who hadn’t seen bombs yet.
The one who didn’t know how heavy grief can be.
The one who thought the world was made of colors, not ruins.
And I find him. Every time.
I know some of you see that arch and turn away. You have better choices, healthier choices. And you’re completely right about that.
But for me, it’s not about food. It’s also a bridge. A bridge to that boy who thought the world was waiting for him.
I keep him close. Because these days, we all need something small and irrational that still feels pure.
I see him when I find the courage to keep believing that there is something inside us worth saving.
A promise that life can still surprise us.
That’s the reason why I keep returning to that arch.
Maybe that’s also why I keep writing here.
There’s still a child inside me, holding a wrapped burger, believing that the world is larger and more generous than it seems.
I don’t go for the taste, but for him.
And every time I do, I remember:
I’m still here.
He’s still here.
🇺🇦