The air raid warning goes off while I’m sitting in a coffee shop, under an umbrella. It wails piercingly. A strict male voice reminds citizens: “Civilians, the audio signal ending does not mean that the danger has passed! Stay hidden!” A pause follows, and then the silence is filled with normal noises once again: spoon clicking against a teacup on the table nearby, tires screeching, someone playing the violin, a toddler crying. A well-groomed pug starts racing towards an independent cat. There is a couple kissing under a black banner with the writing on it that says Freedom Not Death (a campaign of local artists in support of captured Azovstal steelworks fighters).
The entrance to the Duke of Richelieu Monument and the Potemkin Stairs is closed: restricted area. The beaches are officially closed: there is danger of mines. Storefronts and windows of historic buildings located in the centre of the city have been boarded up to protect from attacks or, in some cases, in the aftermath of the attacks. There are flags hanging on buildings, balconies, flagpoles near shops, restaurants, and banks. Blue-yellow rectangles are drawn on walls and gates. There is a flag of Ukraine placed even near the bronze François Sainte de Wollant that stands near the pedestal of the monument to Catherine the Great.