I pitched my tent, the fabric taut against the breeze, and sat by the
shore watching the light shift across the small waves. The Black Sea
was still with me, but the language had changed, the signs had
changed, and the road ahead was new.
There was something satisfying about stopping so soon after
crossing. No rush. No need to push forward. Just a moment to
breathe, to reflect, to recalibrate.
That evening, a campervan rolled in—a family from Iran, their
warmth immediate. We shared stories and beer, and I was grateful
for the company.