Back to the Black Sea

Sun-blessed at last, I am finishing my creamy Bulgarian yoghurt with honey and walnut, served in a hand-crafted brown clay pot by a butch waitress that takes no prisoners. A monotonous dribble of Greek music in the background, masked by the friendly roar of the sea. How do you do, Black Sea? It's been a long time. I am no longer a wild-haired teenager but you...you are unchanged. You are as grandiosely handsome as ever.

Lusty, lion mane-like waves are now crescendoing in front of me, before they dissolve into the colourless foamy brine that comes to greet my pale toes. A couple of overweight German tourists have ventured into the water, in spite of the warning red flag, secretly hoping to be beaten till they bleed by the puffy-eyed lifeguard.

I think I just caught a familiar smell that only the trained native nose can discern. A fine fugitive blend of seaweed and fire-roasted peppers. The smell of late summer at the Black Sea. 
The fake fairytale castles and tacky fish farms may not be here next season. But this smell is here to stay. Is it inborn indoctrination or an ingredient in my blood that undulates my heart every time I sense this perfume? Either way, I'm happy to be home.

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