Sunday began slowly. I woke up around 9:00 a.m., still carrying the fatigue of the previous days. Preparing breakfast took longer than expected, and by the time I was ready to leave, it was already 10:30.

The border was close—just 20 to 30 kilometers away—but crossing it was anything but quick. On the Georgian side, the officer had mysteriously disappeared, leaving a small line of travelers waiting with no explanation. On the Turkish side, the process became more procedural: luggage inspection, insurance purchase, and a sequence of three different counters before everything was finally approved.

In total, nearly 40 minutes passed before I rolled into Turkey.

A small delay, but symbolically significant—another country, another chapter, and one step closer to home.

Along the Black Sea Coast

Once across, the atmosphere shifted almost immediately. The road hugged the Black Sea coastline, the sky open and bright, the air warmer than it had been in days. I shed layers at the border—winter gloves replaced by summer ones, jacket unzipped—and rode on feeling lighter.

About halfway through the ride, near the town of Pazar, I caught myself glancing repeatedly in the mirror. Behind me stretched the rugged, green silhouette of the Georgian borderlands—mountains fading into mist, a natural boundary that felt far more poetic than political.

By 2:00 p.m., I reached Trabzon.

First Impressions of Trabzon

The hotel was a small surprise: a triple room upgraded from my original booking, spacious and comfortable for just €20. After days of cold, snow, and uncertainty, the simple act of taking a warm shower felt like a luxury.

But daylight was already slipping away. With sunset approaching around 5:00 p.m., there was little time to waste.

Views from Above

My first destination was a hilltop viewpoint overlooking the city. I considered walking, but after seeing the winding road the minibus took, I was glad I hadn’t. The climb was steep, the city unfolding below in layers of buildings and coastline.

From the top, the view stretched across Trabzon and out to the sea. Somewhere in the distance, the faint outline of mountains marked the border I had crossed just hours earlier.

I had hoped to fly the drone, but the presence of a nearby military zone quickly ended that idea. Instead, I stayed still for a while, taking in the view the old-fashioned way.

Through the City

Back in the city center, I managed to solve a small but important problem: mobile data. After one failed attempt at a telecom shop, a smaller repair store managed to recharge the Turkish SIM card I’d been given days earlier.

For €9, I now had enough data for the month—split between general use and social apps, an oddly specific system, but more than sufficient.

As I continued walking, I crossed a bridge over a park filled with ancient walls—remnants of the old city. These weren’t castle defenses, but perimeter fortifications, subtle reminders of how cities once defined their limits.

A Misplaced Cathedral

With time running out before sunset, I headed toward what I thought was the Hagia Sophia Cathedral. After several kilometers of walking, I arrived just in time to catch the fading light… only to realize it was now a mosque.

A small mistake, but a familiar one—marking places on a map without fully checking them.

Still, the setting sun painted the scene in warm tones, and the moment held its own quiet beauty.

Evening Reflections

Dinner was simple and satisfying—local food for just over €8. By the time I stepped back outside, a light rain had begun to fall.

Back at the hotel, the day shifted from movement to planning.

Ahead lay uncertainty: a route inland toward Cappadocia, crossing mountain passes above 2,000 meters. Snow was possible—likely, even. Two voices echoed in my mind: one advising against it, the other encouraging me to try.

The difference, I’ve learned, is never the cold.

It’s the road.

Ice and snow don’t forgive mistakes.

Between Caution and Curiosity

For now, the plan remains open.

Wait for better weather, or push forward and risk it.

Tuesday promises clearer skies. That might be the window.

After all, the journey isn’t just about moving forward—it’s about choosing when not to.

And tonight, in a quiet room in Trabzon, with rain tapping softly against the window, the road ahead feels both uncertain and full of possibility.