In Odesa, April 1 was hilarious
- Viktoriia Kantseva -
I was born in Odesa, which means I grew up in a city where humour is not a bonus feature — it’s part of basic survival. Some cities are known for history. Some for architecture. Some for culture. Odesa is known for people who can insult you, entertain you, confuse you and feed you — often in the same sentence. And honestly, I have still not met anyone funnier than people from Odesa. Not because they are trying to be comedians. That’s the thing.
In Odesa, humour is not something you switch on. It’s just there — in the way people speak, react, answer questions, and sometimes don’t answer them at all. You can ask for directions and instead of hearing “go straight and turn right,” you might get: “Why are you in such a hurry? The street isn’t going anywhere.” And somehow, that is considered completely normal.
Then there is Privoz — our famous market, which is technically a place to buy food, but feels more like live theatre. People don’t go there only for tomatoes or fish. They go for the experience. Sellers don’t just sell, they comment, negotiate, joke, observe you, and occasionally question your life choices — all while weighing your vegetables. You don’t just buy food there. You participate. And if you are not mentally prepared, one woman selling parsley can absolutely destroy you in under thirty seconds. I grew up thinking this was normal. That everywhere in the world people speak like this, joke like this, react like this. It took me moving to another country to realise — this is not normal. This is Odesa.
Even now, living in Ireland, I sometimes feel a little frustrated that I can’t joke in English the way I do in my own language. The timing is different. The tone is different. And sometimes I know I’m being funny — but it doesn’t fully translate. People don’t always get to see that part of me straight away. At home, though, it’s different. My husband jokes all the time. Even in the middle of the most serious conversations, he will say something that makes me pause somewhere between “this is not funny” and “okay, this is actually very funny.” I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who speaks in jokes as naturally as he does. And I think that comes from the same place. From Odesa.
And still, if there is one place where April 1 makes complete sense, it is Odesa. Because there, it was never just one joke. It was Humoryna. A full city tradition built around absurdity, costumes, performances, street chaos, public nonsense and the general agreement that on April 1, normal behaviour was simply not required. And somehow, it all made perfect sense. Because Odesa never needed an excuse to be funny. April Fools Day just gave it official permission.
Of course, after 2022, everything feels different. Even April 1 does. The city is not as carefree as it once was, and humour now often carries more weight than before. But if there is one thing I know for sure, it is this: Odesa has not lost its sense of humour. It has simply learned how to carry it differently.
Living in Ireland, I’ve realised that people here are funny too — just differently. A little quieter, a little softer, a little more understated. But the spark is the same. Maybe it’s something about living near water — the sea in Odesa, the ocean here. Maybe people who live by water understand that life is unpredictable, and humour helps. But Odesa will always be its own category. Because in Odesa, humour is not something extra. It is how people survive tension. Boredom. Bad moods. Awkward moments. And, occasionally, each other.
And if you are lucky enough to be born there — or even just spend enough time there — some of it stays with you forever. Which is probably why, no matter where I live, part of me will always answer life a little like an Odessite. Not always calmly, but hopefully with good timing.