We all bring back different things when we go abroad. When I went to Ukraine in 2010, I filled my car up with bottles of Lvivske Porter—a sweet, strong Baltic Porter—before I drove home. I filled my notebook with pages of writing and quotes for the travel article I was researching. And I filled up my camera’s SD card with photographs that were meant to help me recall the details of the historic wooden churches I was writing about.
They look like dinosaurs, friends there told me before I arrived: ancient, spiky buildings covered with wooden shingles that resemble scales, hiding in dense forests and jagged hillsides like animals in a lair. Inside, however, they felt very human: dark and tiny, with low ceilings that could inspire a touch of claustrophobia. They were usually open, as churches in the region traditionally are, welcoming all travelers regardless of the languages we might speak. I often found the caretakers inside, cleaning the icons and sweeping the floors.
The impression of the beer from that trip stayed with me for far longer than I expected: On the rough road home, a couple of the crown caps came undone, spraying Lviviske Porter all over the inside of the car. Today the smell has finally disappeared, as have the bottles. The only thing I have left are my photographs, notebooks, and memories of Ukraine before the war.
Words + Photoby Evan Rail