Big crowd at the exit. It was raining hardly, then it was raining well, then it was raining badly. I’m busy with carefully watching the Turkish drivers who, though we don’t see anything and we all roll with 100 km/h with few meters between us, are more preoccupied with the global crisis and global warming and they save energy, by driving with their lights off. There’s a genuine ordeal to get to the ticket pay-office of the highway. A child selling pretzels sees me hindering the entire queue with my fighting all the gloves, helmet, rain suite and sweat I have over me and he helps me get my ticket. The barrier is lifting. And now we’re flying, but we’re flying responsively, as we have to burn 570 kilometers today. Come on!

Would I do it again? I don’t know. But for certain the answer is not “No”. I’d rather let the time fall over these memories and answer this question after a while.

After one hundred humid kilometers I see at the horizon today’s favorite color – blue. Yees… that’s the way we go. The rain is going away, the clouds disappear, the sun is rising. We’re leaving the highway, towards north, to our brothers, the Bulgarians. The last stop in Turkey is for getting rid of the money, wisely spending it on gas and one ton of chocolate. I want to leave, goodbye, waaait!!! One of the guys in the gas station is pointing the rear part of the bike. Yes, sir, we know, it’s the chain. Does it show that much? No, it’s not about the chain. It’s about the flat tire. The same guy shows me the compressor to inflate it. Aaaah, don’t worry, we all know what this is. It’s something Doyle hasn’t experienced so far on this road and he considers that right about now is a good moment to start experiencing it – a flat tire. I take the compressor, let the air go in and I hear the tire fizzling. Well, I was a bit afraid of this. I’ve never played the levers on the rear wheel so far and the legends I know, well, they all say the respective tire is fucking hard to be taken away and then put back in place. There’s nothing else to do but trying this myself. And quickly, as it’s already too late and it’s obvious at this moment that I’ll get in Vama Veche after dark.

And how “cool” do I think I am? Well… honestly? I don’t think I’m “cool” at all. I was thinking I am during the first thousands of kilometers. Then I met people that broke this feeling down, without wanting it, and I’m thankful for this. We all are travelers, this is what I think, and the age, the vehicle, the duration or the destination are details that don’t matter that much. There’s nothing special or out of the ordinary in what I did, except maybe of the fact that I took forty three names with me there, where the roads took me. And this is not something that happens to anyone. This is the only thing I consider myself lucky for. And “cool”!

The tire is down and the tube is out down in few minutes, much fewer than I imagined. Wow, what a beautiful hole and how nicely it appeared, on this huge fold made but that hotshot that changed my tires in Erevan. I’m not in the mood for patching now, so I’ll use the spare tube, so that it can be pleased it didn’t travel so far for nothing. And off we go.

Well, I was saying earlier that I don’t know if I’d do it again and now I say there’s no big deal. Right, these are not contradictory concepts. I’ve found out in this journey that “nomad”, this fairytale word, is something that we are born with, you’re not learning it. And I, unfortunately, don’t have it in me. I couldn’t do this my entire life, not even for five years or two or one. A friend of mine told me these people are “the ones that make the world go round”. It’s right, this is who they are, and I am one of the lucky ones that met them. But I, I would be afraid. I’ve been afraid now. I’d be afraid of what I feel when coming back home at the end of the time. And I’d be afraid if, on my way, I face the moment when I can say I’ve seen EVERYTHING. I don’t think this is impossible, it only sounds impossible. The world is not endless, only time is.

The road to the customs is winding between the mountains and Doyle and I are madly climbing. The chain is cracking on an afro beat and the rear wheel has learned to squeak since I changed its tube. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong, but I’ve managed to become a brass band of tires. There is a crazy autumn around here. I’m all alone on this road and on the stretches where there’s a carpet of leaves on the ground, I pull the accelerator, shout and watch the show behind me. Do you see, Doyle, how beautiful this is?

Hero? No way. I was saying I did nothing special. I’ve just gone out of my home for a while, that’s all. If there’s a gheroi in this entire story, there’s only one of us and the gheroi is Doyle. He span tens of thousands of kilometers beneath his wheels, he ate gas that cannot be called gas, he bit all the holes on the road that wasn’t a road anymore, he suffered from heat in the deserts, he got frozen at night under the stars, while I was pulling an extra blanket over me, he broke himself instead of breaking me, and he’s the one that brought me home in one piece.

I get to the customs. I know there are many offices in the Turkish part and my hand is shaking at each of them when handing the papers. I was threatened that the money for that fine will be taken away from me here and I expect this inevitable to happen at any of these offices. The last one. Thank you, goodbye! Oh dear God, I thank you too and please let me tell you that was one undeserved fine. On the Bulgarian part everything goes smoothly. Everyone lets me pass. I take my passport out, but no one wants it. Well done, guys! That’s the way every border of every country in this world should be. Let’s burn it, now, as the sun is not on our side.

What place did I enjoy the most? Hah. How am I supposed to answer such a question? I’d say Mongolia and Tajikistan, but this answer would be away from the truth. I’m sorry I saw too little. I fully enjoyed every place I’ve been through, as there are people everywhere and people are beautiful. Yes, I know, some would say that not all the people are beautiful and that I’ve met enough cases on my way to say that the above is wrong. It’s true, except the ones that take your clothes off to steal, together with those that purposely dry up seas, well, those are not human beings.

I stopped at a gas station in Burgas to ask if I can pay with my credit cars. Of course I can. Great! I give Doyle something to drink and we run again. I keep thinking of this dilemma I have. The last two hundred and fifty kilometers will be after dark and this is not good. Is this bad? Well, it’s not that bad, after all. Should I sleep a night on the Bulgarian side? Ummm… I don’t feel like. And anyway, by every kilometer that goes from ‘in front’ to ‘behind’, it’s getting clear: we stop in Romania today.

What about the existential questions? Have I found out who I am and all? No, not at all. And I don’t think I asked myself these questions from the beginning. I’ve been too busy seeing and feeling. I don’t come back home with a different Mihai than the one I left with four months ago. Not to mention that I quite know who I am. What I want? That I will never know and the answer to this question is not even at the end of the world.

This is a night with half of moon. Hah, when I left home, at this hour there were five hours until it was getting dark. My headlight is just for fun, more to put Doyle in a glamorous light, as I don’t see where its beams are going and the long phase is going somewhere at that half of moon I was telling you about. Luckily, we have projectors. And they worth as much as gold at this moment. We bother a little the ones from the opposite lane, but being sorry is not making light for us. We’re riding lightly.

Do I miss home? Badly. Do I miss Mongolia? Badly. Make up your mind, Mihai. I miss my at-home-Mongolia. Badly.

I stop twice. First time to revive a little and the second time because of the cold. Doyle is helping me to warm my gloves with his engine and I attack the bag with chocolates at each stop. It’s dark and I haven’t eaten anything today besides that breakfast I had in Istanbul. We leave after the second stop we’ve made before the border in the parking lot of a gas station. I’m sorry I don’t see the sea. Does she see me?

What about some breakthrough conclusions? A traveler’s advice, a guide in picking a bike? The guides are in libraries, the bike advices are in magazines and I don’t know where the conclusions are; what I know is that they’re not here. I’d be happy to know that at least one of the people that came with me in this journey took the map in his arms after we returned and looked at it for a while, with a little smile on his face, asking himself “What if?…” There’s no bigger earning for me than knowing I pass this on. I don’t need other earning.

Customs, ahead. Road sign – Romania 3. Excitement, then two, one, happy birthday! A customs officer jumps out of his office when he sees my lights approaching. When he sees what the three-eyed creature is, he makes me a sign to go on. And that’s it, I’m out of Bulgaria without knowing it. Romania. Our customs officer stops me. I don’t try to find an explanation for this: I feel like jumping in his arms and kissing him. But he seems away from sharing my feeling. He looks at the papers, at the license plate, he tells me to take off my helmet. C’mon, duuude, don’t you recognize me? It’s me, Mihai. And this is Doyle. Well, yep, go away now.

Helmet on, ignition, pass the last barrier. I’m thrashed. I rise in my stirrups and I scream as loud as I can: “Bravooooooooooooooo, Doyle!!!”. Few times. I look at Marcel that has frozen because of the thrills six kilometers before the customs. “Bravoooooooooo, Marcel!!!”. I sit back in the saddle and a trembling mere whisper comes out: “Bravo, Mihai…”.

What about courage? As they say there’s big deal to ride alone on a bike for so many kilometers for so long. If someone told me before I left how easy this actually is, I wouldn’t believe it. The courage you need easily goes in the eye of a needle. It’s more dangerous to cross the street to get yourself a pack of cigarettes. I’ve never considered myself a great biker. I’m the one that falls in a curve without knowing what stroke him. I’m afraid of speed, I don’t know how to put my knee down or grind the stirrups and I’d gladly take a roundabout route of one hundred kilometers to avoid five kilometers of sand. I envy those who make all these with courage and I look at them as a child looking at the window of the candy shop. I know something else instead. I quote something Mister Ted Simon said: “I’d rather go far that fast”. “And back” I would add.

Vama Veche. Empty, with half of moon above. I ask at a store for a place to sleep and I find it across the street. It’s love at first sight, as it’s warm. I change my clothes and I go on the beach, accompanied by a suite of dogs. I don’t stay long, just as long as it takes to listen to the waves for a while, and then I go back to my room. I sit on the stairs for a while, with Doyle beside me, without saying a word. I’m in my room. Where do all these thoughts find room between these four walls? Where am I now, actually?

What about the recipe, if there is any? Well, it’s easy. Once you got your ounce of courage, you’re already on the way. Afterwards it gets even easier. You have to have patience, to stop often, to meet people, to wave your hand, to let yourself overtaken, to smile a lot, not to hurry, to see, to feel, to look behind you, to have trust, to know, to find out, not to be embarrassed to cry, not to stop wondering and, above all, to love.

I’m somewhere in Mongolia, lost in this empire that remained so empty, small and away from home, in my tent, under this sky full of start. I’m cold, but my sleeping bag is taking care of me. I’m tired, but I’m fine. I hear children playing around me and animals still speaking their language. Do rest, Doyle, my faithful companion. You have the horses beside you, you’re home. And goodnight to me.

What have I learned? Well… I’ve learned a few things. I’ve learned that every dream in this world can come to live and it’s only up to me to have the world in my palms. There’s no big trick here, no magic or wise words or a quote from the classics. I’ve learned that you have to hold your way with every strength you have and you have to know that you might not get once more to these the places you’re in and, at the same time, when you’re too tired or too cold, hungry or afraid and you don’t feel like going any further, to know how to say “and then what if I don’t get here again?”. That no matter how much money, how many sponsors, how many cameras, how many assistance trucks, how many five stars hotels, how many people talking about you, good or bad words, no matter how many of those you have, you only have yourself in the saddle. And that two is a much bigger number than one. That it is never too soon but tomorrow can be too late. And that, although it doesn’t seem so, there are more good people than bad people in this world. That there is a balance between all things, that it cannot be just bad or just good. That there is no problem without solution. And one more thing. A simple lesson, but that I’ve learned so hard. I’ve learned that, in the end, you are never alone.
All that is behind is just a part of it. There are certain things you cannot talk about. It is allowed, but there are no words for it. You can only find out, but the way to them is pretty long. Our friend Marco Polo, the way of whom I crossed a few times, while he was lying on his bed before he died, surrounded by skeptics that were telling him “C’mon, dude, admit it now in you last hour: all you’ve been saying is a fantasy”, said this: “I have told you not even half of what I’ve seen”. About the other half I’m (not) talking about.

In the morning I woke up at eight, as usual, and I went outside in a hurry. Doyle, dude, listen how cool is this! I dreamt that Gabi woke me up from that bed I was sleeping in at home at Radu, who had been drinking all night long with Alin, and that I was somehow lost, and that the sun wasn’t up yet, and there was silence on the streets and that you were waiting for me in the yard and that both of us were supposed to go somewhere, far-far, far away.

Doyle is looking at me frowning a little, as if he had two palms he would not hesitate to slap me. Yeah, Mihai, how cool is this…

Then I got dressed and we went home.

My state of elation dries up quickly after only thirty kilometers when a cop that seems stuck in the middle of the road tells me and four other cars to pull over. Congratulations, you were speeding. I forgot to mention that I was riding on a small 4-lane highway. What speed? The fabulous speed of 90 km/h. I get pissed. The cop also refuses to arrange anything with me. He takes my papers and writes my ticket while I ask how much I was going over. 12 km/h. Impossible; the limit is 80! Well, yes, but motorcycles have different rules here and it’s…guess what! Not 70 nor 80, but 78 kilometers per hour. Or so they claim. I tell him it’s the most insane thing I’ve heard in my entire journey, but his only reaction is to raise his shoulders and continue writing. Apparently, the whole experience is greeted with joy, as all the parties involved exhibit wide smiles as if they’re about to start dancing. I, on the other hand, don’t feel like joining them at all. I’m tired of all the bullshit that’s now costing me… seventy dollars. I told them I have no money on me but they reassure me that I’ll pay at the customs, when I leave the country, as otherwise they won’t let me leave the country at all. Quite simple, really. Sounds like one of those “most wanted” things you hear on the news but I just leave them there without even as much as saying goodbye.

The only real plan I made for Turkey is that I have to get to Istanbul and then home. Other than that, I’ll just wing it: I don’t know how long it will take me, when and where I’ll stop. I keep trying to hide behind various cars that are doing 100 kmph and manage to avoid a couple of radars like that. I’d like to get to Samsun tonight but I think it’s a bit too far for one day’s riding. In the meantime I stop once and, since I’m riding along the coast, why not eat some fish that I split with a cat. After that I find a car that goes just as if I would be driving it. I keep on his tail for about 250 km without stop because I can’t afford to “lose” him. But darkness creeps up on me so I have to pull over eventually. There’s no way I can make it to Samsun. Oh well, we may miss home but we can’t just rush things like crazy. We stop in a little town called Unye where I manage to find a budget hotel and a guarded parking lot across the street. I like it so much that I’m sorry we haven’t got here earlier. It has a beautiful boardwalk and narrow streets that would be perfect for my feet. I grab some food on the go and return to my room where I shower and wish myself good night. I fall asleep with my head full of thoughts about kilometers divided by days, all divided by money and multiplied by dor squared.

I got confused in the morning. My watch, my phone and the TV were all showing me different times, while outside it was overcast so the socks I neatly placed (because I’ve washed them!) on the heater didn’t dry up. I packed up, took Doyle out of his den and bang, we’re gone. Bang was my ever-worn out chain. This little tidbit of engineering has made me very nervous for some time now and every time I stop it seems to loosen up. Even if I stretch it, it won’t help any more. A bunch of prayers would help more.

What should I do today? What should I do? Istanbul is still pretty far away and, to be honest, I don’t feel like getting lost or looking for a place to crash and I’m not doing all that well, money-wise, either. Here’s how it’s gonna go: I’m going to leave, that’s settled. Especially now, since I got quite good at it and I’ll just see how I feel later on. And off I go.

I get to Samsun, the place where I was supposed to stop yesterday. It would have been so much better if I did. Maybe I wouldn’t have had to face all these uncertainties. I’ve never covered the distance that separates me from Istanbul in one day, never thought about doing it and if you ever told me to do it, I’d say you’re insane. It wasn’t in any of the motorcycling guides that I’ve read and there’s no way I can do it. But I’ll see. I say goodbye to the sea for now and say hello to mountains. If I were to cover this distance in one day, I’d probably need to go faster. Faster than 78 km/h anyway and that would mean collecting a few tickets on they way and I neither want nor can afford that.

But this road is so smooth, so straight and so wide that it just makes you wanna ride. I’ve ridden two hundred kilometers before I made the first stop and I’m surprised that my buttocks feel just fine. I pull over just because I heard it helps that you do and also to fuel up, but see, not even this is actually a valid reason. Doyle is back and he’s sipping again at a rate of 3.7l for every 100 km. I found a jack at the air filter disconnected and that was messing up his ECU, apparently. Heh, almost three hundred kilometers since I left. I might be a gheroi, but only as long as the sun is shining above me. I never ride at night, regardless of how many kilometers I still have to cover. Darkness means stop. But there’s still some time before it gets really dark and since I’m still not sure what the correct time is, we ride on.

I keep hiding behind cars to avoid speed traps but I still can’t find anyone that drives to my liking. I meet two radars. One doesn’t even see me. The second one instead, well, that one made me sweat. I only saw it just as the car in front of me was pulling over. I was more than certain that it got me and I saw the cop getting out of the car and into the middle of the road. No, no, noooooooooo… And no! He pulls over the poor bloke behind me. This, dear Gabriela, is a miracle. This is what I feel.

Four hundred kilometers. This mean I should stop, it’s customary. But it’s still broad daylight and I don’t see anything hospitable around, so I keep going.

We reach the 500 km milestone. I’m gonna cut the crap. I’m not sure how to say this, Gabriela, without getting a slap on the wrist, but I’ll try nonetheless. I honestly have just realized this. After these five hundred kilometers there’s an expressway that leads to Istanbul and this is the final argument against my stopping. The part of me that’s responsible for feelings and emotions knew, or at least hoped, from the get-go that today I’ll go all the way to Istanbul. The rational side is the one asking me to spend the night someplace else. Remember what I was saying in the beginning, that I’d hate not to see Turkey because of home sickness? Well, I’m saying something totally different now: I couldn’t care less. Turkey will always be here, so close that I could walk that distance so my words mean nothing to me now. My piece of the far-away, my part of the adventure, all these are far behind, somewhere beyond the Caspian Sea and I’m not ashamed to admit that from that moment on, this has been a joyride. Something I’ve done without looking around me, focused solely on my home. I’m only human and I can’t fight that. It’s all clear now: we’ll sleep in Istanbul tonight. Burn it, Doyle!

In spite of the cost, I’ve picked the highway to increase my chances of reaching the city before dark and thus avoid eventual speed traps I might encounter, but the last few kilometers physically hurt. I can’t find any way of sitting that doesn’t make at least one part of my body ache and right now I’m about fifty kilometers away from Istanbul and about eight hundred from my starting place this morning. And it’s dark now. Ah, the chaos of entering the city at 100 km/h. Really, I like it; and the darkness makes it more of a rush. I have to fight cars, change lanes and go around cars under the advantage I’m gaining by sticking with a group of scooters that lead me to the only place since I left this morning that makes me slow down. I’m crossing this marvelous bridge across the Bosphorus Strait. Actually, Marcel got me here. My wonderful Marcel that resurrected just when I needed it the most. I go slowly because the wind’s blowing in all directions and around me Istanbul’s lights are glowing in the night. Wow…

At the end of the bridge, although I know exactly where I am, where I’m coming from and where I’m headed for, I’m still totally surprised by mere words written above. I get nervous and mushy while my teary eyes read: “Welcome to Europe”. I smile, sighing. Welcome…

Istanbul is a place I hold very dear. I look around more than in front of me in this final bastion of the Orient from my trip and the very fist I’ve experienced in this life. It’s still the same. Same small, crowded streets filled with stores and vendors that draw your attention, same smell. Same awesome feeling.

I get to the hostel where I find six cramped beds and then go out. I’m gonna spend two days here, just to recover from today. I feel great, I love this city and I feel like getting a beer and celebrate somehow since I’m basically at home now. I find a small, secluded patio where the real tourists, the kind I hate, don’t visit and I’m asked by the manager if I don’t want something to drink. He’s playing backgammons with a friend, since there are no customers. Yes, a beer please, but on one condition: I want to play backgammon too. Right away. I played three and drank two, under the watchful eyes of two cats. I left for my hostel, promising I’d be back here the next day to eat.

I’m spent, Gabriela. And I’m so close that if I were to yell it, you might actually hear me. I’ll be home in fewer days than people have fingers on a hand. I’m too tired…good night.

And then the morning came. And found me just as spent. I’m so conflicted with thoughts that not even the anticipated walk through the beautiful Istanbul will remedy much. I’m off to drink my coffee on the streets of Sultanahmet neighborhood. I like it even more now than last night because it’s quite. The revelers are probably still asleep and I’m all by myself at a patio, trying to wake up my thoughts with some coffee. One by one, they line up on the paper in front of me, yawning. But I’m off for a walk now, and I made up a purpose too: looking for some flat washers. I want to try and stretch the chain beyond what BMW thought it would be a good idea. Bloody chain is the last thing on my nerves now but I found what I was looking for and pressed on with the walk. Everything is beautiful around and I really like it here because it feels as if I’m in some other place. I went to the Blue Mosque, and although I’ve been here before, I’d still come back a thousand times. I also went on the tiny streets, but not too far, so I began walking the same street twice. The poor traveler is so lost, now, when he’s so close and almost at the shore. This whole situation feels like it’s bordering depression. I’m fine though, I was expecting it and it’s just something that I have to get used to. Either way, Istanbul is still great and I thank for this.

The last thing I had to do was go back to the deserted restaurant of my backgammon-playing friend. You said you’d feed me today. All done in 10 minutes: the stove is on and I can hear Celine Dion from two, tiny speakers singing about the Titanic. “Far across the distance…”. Is that so, Celine?

After eating, I grabbed a guitar that was missing a string to play something and my friend wanted to give me a discount, but I had to reject his offer. Alexandru and Mark showed up a little later and we wondered around looking for a beer that we eventually found at my old patio. They’re going home too.

We all got up at seven the next day. We had breakfast and then Alexadru and I went for coffee, where we tried to reach some conclusions. The conclusions were sitting at a different table because the only thing we managed to come up with stunk. Rain started falling too, the kind that seems it never stops; just the kind I needed, to leave. And I started packing.

Dear Gabriela, I’m leaving Istanbul right now, headed for Romania. It’s raining and both Doyle and I are really tired while I especially feel really clueless for some reason. This is the last letter and the most important thing I’m carrying in my pocket. My big loop is about to close and with it I’m putting down the pen. I thank you and those like you that believed in me. I don’t completely realize what’s going on with me yet but I’m certain that you are the only people responsible for this smile that keeps popping up at the corner of my mouth as I get on the bike.

Ignition on. Doyle, we’re going home.

The road to Erevan is only fifty kilometers, but, since I have a chain that, if I could, I’d change with the elastic from my underwear and then things would go smoother, I’ll make a trip of two hundred ad fifty kilometers. I’ll dive down a bit into Armenia and come back up in a wide semi-circle. I ride along the lake and everything’s great. The road’s good, Doyle’s awesome, cars are saluting me and I’m cold. I’m riding solo towards the Vayots Dzor I-tsk pass (2410m) on a plateau at 2000m above sea, where there isn’t anything except for cold. Once I reach the pass, I talk to some people in two coaches that are accompanying some cyclists that are riding along the Armenian part of the Silk Road in full gear and supply trucks.

Going down, I pull over again and stare at the caravan stop at Selim because this place, where a few hundred years ago merchants would rest, is truly wonderful. I stir a bit of passion among some old French ladies that seem to like me, but unfortunately I only have time for some smiles and I seductively abandon them.

I hit the gas going down towards Ararat, on a road from which I can see how the mountain with the same name raises from these plains in Turkey. Man it’s tall!

And Erevan is still pretty far away and I’ve something to do. Not that it wouldn’t be doable otherwise, but I want Doyle’s chain to be under as little strain as possible. I switch back to tarmac tires since we’re done with the off-road – I hope. I pull over at the first tire shop but I don’t see anyone. Ah no, here’s someone. He looks like I just woke him up, getting out of a Lada. Could I get some help? No. I take the tires off and put them back on. No. Am I in Romania already? It would be the only explanation since only there I remember such memories filled with people being so sick with life. Fine, go back to your rust bucket and continue wasting your time. I’ll try at the next service. Here, they can help but again, I get the feeling that I’m better than these people at mending things. First, they put the wheel down with the disk break on the ground to mess this one up as well and have Ion send me another one in Ulaan Baatar, then we can’t do anything until I don’t bring my levers and do half the work myself. But we get it done and I thank my tires for all the sands and other crazy situations that they got me out of and leave them there. Now Doyle has a bit less weight to carry around.

If it wasn’t true for other Lonely Planet guides, all the stories about authors that did nothing but drink during the research period came through for the one I’m using now. The map is, again, wrong, and it takes me an hour to go around an apartment building. I can’t find the guesthouse until I tie Doyle down and start walking.

Top floor, meaning fourth (though it rather looks like sixth seeing how tall each storey is) is where the guesthouse is located. The owner opens the door and assigns me a bed but not before asking me “But why are you so filthy?”. I hopelessly tried to explain but to no avail. I manage to find a guarded parking for Doyle, shower quickly to show my landlady that at least I try though it’s not as obvious and go out. Real sorry Erevan, I’d love to see you all, but during day time and today I haven’t had anything to eat or drink so I go into the first dive and fix the problem. Yes, I didn’t get to see much before it got dark but, shit happens.

I like Armenia’s capital. It’s surrounded by mountains, it’s clean and it’s full of great little patios and bars. I’m going to visit what, at least on the map, looks interesting. It’s called “the waterfall” and it’s this thing with a bunch of steps, patios and flowers. Since I got this high, I might as well go higher, right? I make it half dead, not sure how many steps I climbed but sure as hell there were many.

I came down from there on autopilot and caught the sunset in front of the Opera House where the drunks that wrote the guide said they saw swans. Since I haven’t had enough to drink, no luck, but I do sit down at one of the patios in this little park.

As I head back home, every time I sit down somewhere I catch myself looking into the distance with my mind tangled up and my thoughts abusing me. What exactly am I thinking, I don’t know. Now, my disarray is interrupted by a kid that asks me if I’m not interested in buying one of his drawings. He’s about as tall as my hip level and I’m not sure how old he is but his English is impeccable. He needs some money to buy a computer and, if I want, he could draw me up a portrait right there, on the spot. Let’s see. While he’s drawing away, I pick a picture. They’re all animals and I pick a dolphin that looks a bit odd but it’s magic. He gives me the paper with my portrait. Where did you spring up from, you little boy, just as my thoughts were far away from me? Who sent you to me, now, at the end of October, at my table where I lay afar?
I look at the drawing. Goddamn it, I feel like crying. I go to sleep. It’s me.

At about four in the morning I attacked the empty bed beside me and stole a blanket to avoid not sleeping because of the cold again. I got up at eight and went down to wake Doyle up. He slept just the way I left him. Poor dude, I bet he’s beat. I bought some instant coffee on the way and enjoyed it on the balcony which oversees the inner courtyard where I see an empty swimming pool. Then I went into the living room with the host and two Dutchmen. The lady still doesn’t get me; she’s past my dirty looks but still doesn’t get how I can only stay for a day in Erevan, ride at 100km/h, take a 250 km detour in a day and tell her that Mongolia’s beautiful in spite of lacking roads. Do you really think I get anything that’s happened to me, lady? And really now, did I pick on your smaller-than-a-cat dog last night when he licked the sofa for 15 minutes?

We’re crossing back into Georgia today and we’re stopping in a gorgeous place about which I’ll tell you more, later. Although it’s a detour, I get out of Erevan on the exit that goes by the airport but I want to see two more cathedrals. Nope, I don’t find them so I’m just left with the detour but from here on I try to stick with the main road that I should’ve taken from the beginning. The road I’m on and the one I’m looking for both take me into the same place but this one is marked as a secondary road on the map. It’s got nothing to do with reality since the surface is perfect, but I keep trying. I eventually find a route to the other road and give Doyle twenty kilometers of continuous potholes. Sorry, old boy, I know we had a different deal. I eventually arrive at Giurmi and go into a store to buy a bunch of useless rap just to get rid of the money I still have. I make one more stop until the border to get gas.

I go through both check points without any problems and “welcome to Georgia”, again. I get out of the customs and before I know it, the road disappears and … I’m in Mongolia. Not completely, a smaller Mongolia, but it’s pretty close to it and I also manage to find the first rain ever since Bishkek. I must admit I didn’t miss it one bit, but it’s autumn, it’s normal, so I have no reason to complain.

The road begins to snake through a valley and it’s so beautiful. Speaking of autumn… it’s here, I see it for the first time this year. There are trees on either side of the road and the ground is full of yellow leaves spread out by the few cars coming from the other way, as if they do it on purpose to have me go through them and make me smile. If that chain wasn’t cracking the way it is, I’d fully enjoy the feeling. No time for pictures now. The fall is here and I hope it stays around, but I have to get to Vardzia Cave City, quickly. Khervitsi, to the left, 16 km. I keep on going. The road is awful and I keep waiting for the thing to pop up behind a turn but nothing keeps popping up and then… wonder!

A whole city carved in stone in the twelfth century. Breathtaking view. I mean, I haven’t seen nor did I ever imagine such things. Maybe Doyle, I don’t know. Over the river there’s a homestay where I’ll home-stay. I change my clothes and go climbing right after I pay the ticket. I go into every cave and try to imagine how it must’ve been when people were living here.

I get to the church in the center, because yes, in this rock there’s a gorgeous church. I light up two candles and then the gentleman that sold them to me asks if I want some water. Ah, that would be great. He takes me and another thirsty guy into the mountain on some corridors until we reach a spring. This must be Holy Water because I have no other explanation for how good it is. He then shows us a tunnel and tells us to go through it; we climb some stairs for about one hundred and fifty meters until we see daylight again, somewhere above the church.

And rain starts pouring again. I’d wait for it to go away but the look on the sky’s face tells me it’s not going to happen today. So I head back to my room on foot and I reach it soaking wet. Wonderful, since I have no other dry, thick clothes. I have something that’s all I was missing right now: hunger. I’m hungry and I can’t see any food around here. There is, however, a building next door which says “Hotel & Restaurant” so I’ll try my luck there, though, given its looks, I’m not hoping for much. I enter the premises timidly and there’s nothing. I do see a door that I open to find a man that looks busy over a desk. Sorry. The billboard outside is for something else, damn it. I do have a strategic reserve of two Snickers bars and I eat one but that doesn’t solve it. I’ll try to fool my stomach with water. But it got cold and it’s obvious that there’s nothing else for me to do but sleep. It’s good that I feel tired, at least and maybe I’ll fall asleep, even thought it’s 7 in the evening. Should I eat the second chocolate bar? No, I’ll leave it in the survival kit but man, am I hungry!

I had a messed up dream. I was supposed to get on a train, Doyle was a bicycle and I put him into the wrong train and then mine left with me in it and I was thinking about whether to jump or not and the train ran over two guys. That’s when I woke up, 7 o’clock. It’s so nice to wake up and notice you didn’t sleep alone since at my feet lies sleeping…a cat. The door’s locked, the windows closed, how did it get in? The room’s cold and outside is even worse, while I’m still hungry. I chug the remaining Snickers bar and get dressed. Great! My shirt, the only warm piece of clothing I still have, is still wet. I grab a long-sleeve T-shirt, and pull the shirt over. It feels weird but I go down to pay nonetheless.

Ah I’m dumb. Here’s Mihai, the man that could die from thirst in the middle of the Pacific and starve locked in the pantry. In the lobby, past the door that I open looking for my hosts, there’s a beautiful restaurant with tables, salt dispensers and heat. Hah! I’m leaving just to spite them.

I’m headed to Batumi. Still in Georgia, but ten kilometers away from Turkey on the shores of our sea, the Black one. I get to and indicator: Batumi-156 km and then to another Batumi – 200 km. It’s all good. The map shows me a yellow road to my destination, but I’m not worried, I’ve been on secondary roads before and they were flawless. I reach my road and begin climbing towards the pass at 2020m that I have to go through today. However, taking Doyle completely off guard and making me feel shame for breaking my promise I made to him, the road disappears again. It becomes some sort of a forest trail, like the ones that take us to cabins far away into the wild. If the entire stretch of two hundred kilometers is like this, it will take us the whole day. Second gear is really the maximum speed for the remaining thirty kilometers that I have until the peak. On the way down, I turn off the engine and then is when I realize how beat Doyle is. Without the sound of the engine, I can hear him rattle from every corner at every pothole. Come on boy, we’re almost home.

Eventually, spots of tarmac appear after about fifty kilometers and the road appears again. The thirst for asphalt has made me open the throttle wide open but our fun is cut short by some smart-ass that stuck his Benz into the guard rail that sent him out into the middle of the road just before I got there. He’s fine but complains about some backache and, needless to say, I ease off the accelerator after this moment.

We finally enter Batumi. After we carefully analyze this new species of cows that eat in the middle of the road, we see it! The blue, beautiful and endless Black Sea. It feels weird. I’ve 2000 km before I reach my country and I suddenly feel home. It feels so good.

I also managed to find the cheap hotel that I was looking for, with a tiny courtyard for Doyle, and so I can go out and eat something. I find a patio two meters away from the sea; expensive, but it doesn’t matter. Today, we celebrate. I eat a pig like a pig and drag my feet on the boardwalk to see the fishermen work.

From here on, we’re going home on the sea shore. In tomorrow’s installment, belly dancing with coffee in the sand and hookah, in the main role, Turkey!

And so I reach Ganja. Pretty, clean and crowded. I accidentally find the hotel, which is a derelict monster. They give me a room at the sixth floor and guess who’s going to sleep in the foyer? Doyle, because once more, I couldn’t say no to the hosts. A gentleman leads me to my floor where two ladies sit around a table; above them, a painting of the president. I go past them, and as I head to my room I hear an “HEEEY!” roared as if I’ve just stepped on a landmine. I turn around to find out what I’ve done wrong and one of them asks for the receipt I got when I registered. Here’s your damn receipt, why did you have to make such fuss about it? Hold on. One manat too, since our paths have crossed. Here’s the thing: take the mug of the worst, most corrupt damn Russian cop, multiply it by a thousand, then think of something worse than that. And still it’s not as bad as the look that I’m getting now. There’s no way I can go around not giving her the money she asks and so I thank God I got away so cheaply. Then I run into my room and lock the door.

I’ve tiptoed past the old hag outside for a short stroll. Short, because I didn’t get much sun light. A nice walking street, then I got a beer, some chips and now, in my room, I’m throwing a mega-party: alone, in my underwear, dancing to the tunes in my cell but with the door locked. Just to piss off the old lady with my manat in her pocket, that I didn’t invite her to this crazy bash.

Ok, fun’s over. Morning is here and we’re looking for a way out of town that will take us to Tbilisi, Georgia. Following the advice we got from a local, we end up in some random exit. Where else?! I’ve turned back and after getting lost a few more times, we made it. It’s that sort of morning that kinda got me scared in the beginning because I feared rain. No clouds, just heavy fog that gave way to a sun that’s too warm for my taste as soon as I leave the city. I get away without any problems from the first police crew that pulls me over to talk about my trip. Later, the cop that jumped out of the BMW to wave me off the road changed the situation. Turn off your engine, young man; we have to talk. You misbehaved. Apparently it’s speeding. I wise up and ask for proof before doing anything. The cop says something in his walkie and five minutes later, a Volkswagen pulls up alongside us. On the outside, there are no markings but on the inside it looks like an UFO. Cameras, buttons and a general orgy of technology combined just to capture me in Kodak moment. I’ll admit, I look great doing 83 km/h, especially in a town. It’ll be forty manat, meaning roughly fifty dollars and the cop pulls out his little notebook. Apparently I caught him in a half-shitty day because apparently the fine is actually sixty manat – an on-the-spot discount just for me. That’s all great but I don’t even have the original forty and I take out the last eight bills of one manat that are still lying around in my pocket. I guess that took the half out and completely made a mess of his day. No, I must be mocking him, I’ll cost him his job. No, no and no. I put my hand in my pocket one more time and I find a $20 bill. Nope, still not good. I know, man, but really, it’s most of what I got. After a few more minutes of terrible acting we settle things: here’s your money, here’s your papers. Now, Mihai, get this: there’s another radar in the next village so lay off the throttle; in general, keep it under 60 in any village. You got it? Yessir. I step on it until I reach the border. Everything is fine today but the Azeri just feel like letting you get out of their country is the most tedious activity in their existence. Gotta love’em. In Georgia, though, it’s great; everyone’s smiling and I got about three sincere “Welcome to Georgia” that made me feel quite good about myself.

Tbilisi is at about fifty kilometers and I reach it quickly. But it takes me about two hours longer than eternity to find my hotel. Do you know what it’s like to travel fifty kilometers on streets, on the same three streets, fifty times? It sucks, that’s what it’s like! And all this happened because of the name of one street. Not sure who to blame for this: the locals that told me this is the street or the guidebook that told me it’s the other one, perpendicular to this. I finally find it though. Here, I find something I haven’t even seen in movies. My place is at the third floor of an old building, my bed is in the attic and one floor below me, in the middle of the room lies, having past on, the husband of my host, in a coffin. To get to my room, I have to somehow try and by-pass this moment so it’s not all too enjoyable. I go out in the city and I stay there for a while, ‘cause I’m uneasy about going home. After a few hours and a skillfully executed slalom between the members of the deceased’s family I reach my room, in bed, beneath the blanket.

Good morning, Tbilisi! You just wait and see how I’m going to walk all over you. That’s what I plan, anyway. I’m not the most informed person in the world about what I’m supposed to see here but what’s wrong with just walking around? That’s what I wanna do for the whole day. First, though, I go downstairs to check up on Doyle, see how he slept and if he needs anything. So I take off the cover and I start looking around. Nooo… Come on Doyle, aren’t you getting sick of this? Screw the goddamn radiator and all its leaks. Again? A stain of cooling liquid smiles at me on the left side of the radiator and I can read it’s ashamed to be there. Goddamn it. I’m so close to home and all these things, no matter how small, seem thousands of times amplified to me; I simply don’t want anything to break down ‘til I reach home. It’s over, done. I’ve worked enough and now I just want a few days off. My desire to wear out my shoes today has dripped out with the coolant and I just don’t feel like doing anything. At all.

I walk towards the old city centre without any particular target. My mind is in Doyle’s radiator. I find a café on an old, charming street and from the opposite building I listen, for about an hour, to someone rehearsing on a violin with the windows open. I grab a bite to eat, have another coffee and go back home to fix Doyle. How, I’m yet to find out.

I got used to taking it apart, as I’ve done it for far too many times. And just as the radiator comes into the light, a gentleman appears– the type that doesn’t speak any foreign language but somehow gets his message across. He didn’t conceal himself too well, you can tell by his face. He’s an angel. He tells me that he knows a place where I can fix the radiator ant takes me to a taxi cab. Tells the driver in much detail where to take me, negotiate a price and, in a few minutes, I’m there. There are a number of auto shops here and I keep going around until the one that I was supposed to meet, saw me. There are two mechanics in a tiny room where, on top of a shelf, a bunch of dead radiators lie around. That’s good sign, but they feel like working about the same way I felt about having this problem today. After they blow some air in it they decree it’s fine and it works. Come on, dude, try again; pour some water. They do, and again: it’s fine, it was all in your imagination. I insist, they insist and there’s a thing I don’t get. If I were a mechanic and someone came to me with a radiator that, apparently, has a hole in it, with a big stain of coolant on is clothes and I can’t find anything, I’d lock myself up for the next month trying to figure it out. Hell, I’d make a hole in it, I’m really good at it and I’m the least knowledgeable of any of the people here. Right about now, though, I miss the meticulous Igor from Samarkand. Nope, it’s all in your head they say and go on with a long expose from which I don’t understand anything – except, maybe, the ending which is along the lines of “shit happens”. Yeah, someone just spat on the radiator in the middle of the night. Exactly!I take another cab home and see a tire shop. I stop and notice that these guys have a pool of water where we can sink the radiator while we blow in it. I tried to explain that in the other shop but only the walls would listen to me. There she is! What are you doing in my life, you wretched – yet tiny- whole? Now I know where the whole is, just not sure what to do with it. Fix it myself or take it to the mechanics? I go back to the mechanics hoping that, although working is not high on their list of priorities, they may have some solutions. I show them the radiator saying “it wasn’t fine, it wasn’t all in my head, it has a leak and it’s here somewhere”. Oh, why didn’t you say that the first time? Hold on, we’ll fix it so good, you won’t even know it was there. They start working and do exactly what I would’ve done with some 1+1 gluing stuff. Thanks, you’re pro. I feel as if the sun is rising again, now when it’s about to set.

I go back to Doyle and put everything together. As I was tightening the screws, his sickness moved on to me. An odd headache accompanied by dizziness and drowsiness take over me and I put the final things together a bit dazed. Should I eat? I went to a restaurant and ordered something without any second thoughts: chaqapuli. How could I say no this? It’s a very good soup with no connection to chaqa though. I feel as if my sickness is gone and I go back to my guesthouse, around the coffin’s lid that was on the staircase, greet the mourners and go to bed. It wasn’t one of my best days and I haven’t seen much of Tbilisi. But I’ve had worse and I still have some way to travel until I reach home.

In the morning, I woke up a new man. No sickness, no headaches and ready to go back on the promise made to the Azeri customs agent and go into Armenia. I suppose I developed an internal navigational system that rivals Marcel, because today I got out of the city all by myself in the right direction without help or indicators. I don’t even get to warm up the engine in the 50 km that I travel to the border. As always, Georgians are acting like they’re at a cocktail party. If I can, and they’re not asking too much of me, could I leave with a burn-out? Or maybe do a wheelie! God I’d be great… but, sorry boys my chain is in such poor condition that it can’t take any more shocks. In Armenia, I pay the $10 for the visa and I get a bit of a shock when an agent asks me if I’m not carrying any polenta or minced meat. He knows about these things from his Romanian godfather. They too ask me to look racy when I leave the checkpoint but I have to elegantly deny the request.

Armenia, how beautiful… The bends on this road begin to look a bit more exhilarating and we’re loving it, while the hills turn into mountains. Fall also seems to have dug in deep around here and for a moment I have this strange feeling that I’m home, in the Strait of Jiu River, and Petrila is around the corner. After twenty kilometers of riding, I pull over and visit Hoghpat and Sanahin monasteries. This is the cradle of faith. It’s simple, the way I believe things should be when it comes to God. Everything is so simple and somehow honest, pure. No painted walls, no icons with gold-plated frames, nothing. Wow. I continue my trip, pushing on through another thing of beauty, the Debed Canyon. Do you know how many churches there are in Armenia? All of them. I counted. Even my map, where red spots mean something beautiful, is completely red. There is no hill or mountain top that doesn’t have either a church or the ruins of a church at its peak from before time. I couldn’t see all of them even if I was Armenian.

I stop in Sevan, on the shores of the homonym lake and enter a peninsula, looking for a place to sleep. Fruitless, since the season has ended and everything is closed down. With locks. I go down to the beach and notice a bunch of caravans. They’re German; 19 cars, coming from China. A few of the cars are MAN and Mercedes trucks, specially prepared for off-road, that look like they’re bullet-proof. I don’t even think our Military has anything remotely similar. Anyway, can I set up my tent next to you guys? Of course. They too have been through Mongolia, of course.

I put up my tent and go to the Sevanavank monastery, at the tip of the peninsula. I have to climb up some steps that completely drain me of energy. But it’s worth it.

I come back down, share some of my food with some dogs and return to Doyle and my tent. After the sun has come down, it became bitterly cold; it’s as if we’re in October, really. Inside the sleeping bag, I’m living the life. Ha. It can get as cold as it wants, but not too cold because Doyle only has a soft cover protecting him.

How long ‘til we get home? Ten days? That long, Doyle? Well, yeah ‘coz we’re good boys and we don’t ride crazily. Heh…why am I sighing?