I wake around 9:00 a.m., still carrying the fatigue of the past days. There is no rush. I prepare breakfast slowly, letting the morning settle, and open the map to decide what to do with the day. Most of the points of interest cluster along Batumi’s seafront, which simplifies things. Before that, though, I need to resolve the issue with my SIM card.

At the Silknet office, the situation becomes clear—and mildly irritating. The package I bought at the border included only seven days of unlimited internet for 7 lari. The rest—what I paid over 40 lari for—remains unclear. Calls are still active until the end of the month, but data is not. To reconnect, I must pay again: 7 lari for a week or 2 for a single day.

The expression on their faces changes the moment I mention I bought it at the border. Responsibility evaporates.

It is not the company, strictly speaking—it is the border vendor. Still, the feeling is the same: I have paid far more than I should have for far less than I received. A familiar story, almost identical to what happened with a SIM card in Russia.

In the end, I let it go. For today, I don’t need the internet. The route is simple, and the landmarks are already saved.

Symbols and Contrasts

Instead of heading straight to the promenade, I cut through the city along the main avenue, planning to walk the entire seafront in one direction.

Soon, I reach the beginning of the boulevard. Fishermen line the water’s edge—some standing patiently with rods, others sitting quietly between boats and the pier. At first, it looks like waiting. Then it becomes clear: everyone here is fishing, each in their own way.

At the far end rise three of Batumi’s most recognizable landmarks: the Alphabetic Tower, the Chacha Tower, and a Ferris wheel structure near the harbor.

Nearby stands the moving sculpture of Ali and Nino—a kinetic monument representing a tragic love story between a Muslim boy and a Christian girl, their metal silhouettes merging and separating in an endless cycle.

I first attempt to access the Alphabetic Tower from the outside, remembering that it was once freely accessible. Now all entrances are closed. So I do the tourist thing: I buy a ticket and go up.

From the top, the view opens wide. The Black Sea stretches out in muted tones, while behind me Batumi rises—glass towers, cranes, new constructions everywhere. It is striking how much is being built at once. The city feels like it is still deciding what it wants to be.

The sunlight, however, refuses to cooperate. Reflections make photography difficult. The structure itself doesn’t help either.

Walking the Edge

By 3:00 p.m., after a short coffee and cake break, I return to the promenade. The temperature has dropped slightly, and I feel it immediately. Just a few hours earlier, it was warm enough for a T-shirt; now the breeze from the sea carries a sharper edge.

There is an unusual number of weddings today. Brides appear at regular intervals, like recurring scenes—white dresses, photographers, families orbiting around them. It reminds me of Shymkent years ago, where entire hills seemed populated by wedding parties.

I continue along the coast, eventually stepping down onto the beach. It is not sand, but stone—dark, uneven, difficult to walk on. The waves crash with force just meters away. Watching them up close explains why no one is swimming.

At one point, I find a large branch lying near the shoreline and decide to climb onto it for a few photos. The waves break closer than expected—but still manageable. Then, within minutes, they push further inland.

I almost misjudged it.

One wave reaches my feet. I adjust. The next comes much further—close enough to take everything with it: my camera, my bag, the tripod—everything at risk in a matter of seconds.

The camera, ironically, fails to record the moment. It freezes, producing empty video files—no evidence of what just happened.

Fortunately, a couple standing nearby—Andrei and Alina—react faster than I do. They grab my belongings just before the water reaches them. Later, they showed me the photos they took. It is the only proof that the sea almost claimed more than just my balance.

Return and Preparation

By 16:30, the sun is already beginning to drop. Light fades faster here than expected. I return toward the apartment, walking along the shoreline as long as possible before cutting back through the city.

The plan for the evening remains uncertain. As of 15:00, I still have no confirmation from Pável, Katya, or Evgenia. Eventually, I arranged to meet Pável at an opera concert, performed by a fellow motorcyclist.

Timing, again, becomes confusing. There are two sessions: one at 7:00 p.m., another at 8:00. I arrive late and end up catching only the second part.

Music, Movement, and Restraint

After the concert, we gather at a nearby bar, then move to another, and later yet another across the promenade. The night unfolds in layers—familiar faces, new introductions, shared drinks.

Batumi at night feels almost theatrical. Neon lights reflect off wet pavement. The skyline glows. It is vibrant, but also slightly detached from the rest of Georgia—more like a fragment of somewhere else. At times, it reminds me of Benidorm: a place that exists in contrast to its surroundings.

Around midnight, the group drifts toward a nightclub. I hesitate.

Part of me wants to follow. Another part remembers tomorrow: packing, checking out, crossing a border. I have learned this lesson before.

I say goodbye.

Quiet Landmarks

Walking back alone along the inner streets, I pass something I had missed before: the Neptune Fountain Octopus Mosaic—a large mosaic octopus hidden slightly away from the main promenade.

At this hour, it feels almost secret. A quiet meeting point for locals, invisible during the day unless you know where to look.

By the time I reach the apartment, it is close to 1:00 a.m.