We are standing in the bus stop, next to the railway station, our driver must sleep after having carried us last night to the Orthodox resurrection mass and back. Several lines stop here from the tiny yellow city buses, but they all are crowded, even one of us would barely fit there, let alone fourteen. But now an empty one comes. We hail it. “Do you go to the center?” “Yes, to the Lviv hotel.” We get on, we throw the two hrivnyas, as usual, in the small basket on the platform next to the driver covered with a carpet. And then we start, we ride without stopping towards the city center on the tram rails, which, due to the annual filling up, protrude from the cobbled road like mountain ranges. We pass by the house of Captain Truszkowski, but we do not stop anywhere, although there are people waiting for the bus. Just now I watch the numbering of the bus: eight, so this should not even go here, but around the market, across the old Jewish quarter. But the driver already stops at the Lviv hotel, to start his regular path with the bus, which he obviously has just brought from the garage. I go ahead. “Thank you very much, that you’ve brought us here”, I say. “Khristos voskrese, Christ has risen!”, he shouts, turning half back, with the arm raised in greeting. “Vo istino voskrese, He has indeed risen”, I reply, as it is proper.