In March 2019 my friends took me to Tultepec, a town in an hour drive from Mexico city who's entire population works for the firework industry. Every year the town throws a massive festival to worship San Juan de Dios. The climax of the festival is a parade of hundreds of hand built bulls (toritos) from hoofs to horns filled up with the pyrotechnics that the male population of the town blows up on the main square. Surrounded by fire, smoke and hundreds of men, exultant and violent at the same time, I could not to not think about the Maidan revolution that happened in my country a few years ago. I wasn't there that winter. I spent my revolution across the Atlantics, following online streaming and video chatting with my family. I went to Kyiv a couple months after the protests. I saw the main city square covered with black spots; it smelled as burnt wood, rubber and meat. For me since the Maidan and the beginning of the war in Donbas, fire and smoke carry specific political connotations. I wish it reminded me summer barbecue, instead it brings memories of all the lost and won fights for our civil and human rights. Tultepec had a similar smell. It looked like a rehearsal of a revolution.