Solo

I left my previous life behind.

Timidly, I was breathing in my unknown future - smokeless air, silent darkness, a fearful uncertainty that, in the end, felt less dodgy than the certainty I had lived with before.

14 hours at the border - my first time crossing into another country by car. Ironically, there was more than enough time to think. I had learned to avoid deep thoughts; they only deepen the pain. As much as I could, I refused to internalise what my life had become after February 24, 2022. I felt frozen, both outside and within. I also had a strange feeling that I was just watching a strange film about my own life.

3 a.m. I was driving through nocturnal Poland. I was afraid to blink, afraid I might fall asleep at the wheel. That would have been such a shamefully quick end to this journey. That would cause such embarrassing headlines in the news, something like: “Another irresponsible Ukrainian driver manages to kill herself and a poor farmer’s fence…”

Finally, I reached a nearby hotel. I was desperate for sleep.

A Ukrainian woman met me at the reception desk. She looked tired, but smiled kindly. I already felt the urge to hug her. I wanted to cling to her desk as if it were a rock in the middle of the waves around me.

In the morning, three more cars with Ukrainian plates appeared beside mine in the small parking lot - three more stories of loss and hope.

I needed to pull myself together and move on.

…To be honest, I did not have time to properly plan my trip. My life at that time could be summed up in a dark, ironic anecdote - like: “What are your plans for the future?” - “To cook some fish for dinner.”

The luxury of planning ahead was not something I could afford (and still can’t). But at least now I feel I have a better chance of waking up tomorrow. At least I can think a few weeks, or even months, ahead.

I only threw a few things into my trunk and didn’t even have time to fully take in the ambitious idea of driving alone from Kyiv to Dublin.

“You are a girl alone - anyone could harm you,” were the first words my mom said when I shared my idea for this trip.

Ah, very, very supportive - thank you, Mom.

But we were raised in a fairly patriarchal society, so I’m not going to blame her for saying it.

“If you’re meant to be hanged, you won’t drown,” I silently repeated to myself, this wonderfully life-affirming Ukrainian proverb, and answered:

“I’ve already been living for two years in a reality where someone keeps trying to kill me just because I exist. So I will probably be fine as long as I don’t end up killing myself in any possible way.”

We have a strange expression: “to eat an elephant in parts,” meaning to reach a large goal through small steps. So I made my first move.

I opened Waze and entered my first destination: Warsaw.

I had never been there before. I also had a friend there - she was not just a friend, and certainly not an accidental hero. She was the first to support me in this crazy idea.

A couple of months ago, we met again in a lovely Kyiv café between air raid alarms. It may be difficult to realise the reality of Remarque novels - where people drink coffee in cafés and talk about life between strikes. But, unfortunately, we did understand it. She brought me a body cream with a rich fragrance of almond and rose. “Life is definitely not easy, but taking care of yourself helps you not lose your marbles.”

O… yes, that’s how it was: the sirens were screaming, and somewhere something was exploding around me. I was hiding in the bathroom and… applying the cream on my body. It sounds crazy. It was. Almond rose still smells to me like anxious Kyiv nights - but also like the mood of moving forward.

I told myself: once this cream comes to an end, something will change in my life for the better. And until then - keep breathing, keep applying, keep searching, and keep moving on.

And now I am on my way to Warsaw with half a box of that cream in my trunk. That would be perfect for a cream advertisement.

I should admit that Polish road interchanges left me short of breath. They seemed so huge and complicated. The drivers on the highway also weren’t very polite and didn’t seem happy that I wasn’t driving fast enough.

Once I approached another interchange and couldn’t figure out which way was mine, so I just stopped on the shoulder with my hazard lights on and started counting the lanes…I was already too tired to worry.

Finally I parked near a cozy apartment complex in Warsaw, filled with a sense of quiet triumph and self-appreciation. No one had died, and I was about to see my friend. I stayed at my friend’s place for an extra day, to spend time together and feel the ground beneath my feet again.

We went to the market for vegetables. I caught myself breathing in the smells so vividly - I hadn’t felt them like that in a long time. Suddenly, I was back at a market in Feodosia, in Crimea… That was me - a young student buying cherries and peaches for the beach, to eat with salty hands after a long swim in the sea… That life was stolen from me in 2014. And another one - in 2022.

Leaving felt like a kind of euthanasia - a desperate act, driven by the fragile hope of some kind of rebirth somewhere else.

I had never imagined myself as a refugee. I never thought it could happen to me. I never expected to be living this story - not as something on the news, but here and now, in my own life, with everything I had built: my career, my comfortable life near a metro station in a big, bright city…No, I still refused to accept it as part of my life story.

I was not in a tourist mood, but my thoughtful friend took me to a beautiful park, photographing me with peacocks, statues and flowers, drawing my attention to the small, gentle details around us.

Now, when I look at those photos, I see how beautiful it all was - how many flowers filled that park. But back then, I couldn’t see it.

What I did see were Ukrainian cars. I heard Ukrainian voices all around me. I saw a café called “Krym” and the words “Slava Ukraine” across from the Russian Embassy. Thank you, Poland.

We had those quiet, healing late-night kitchen talks, sharing sorrow, joy and warmth that linger long after. The next morning, I woke up with new strength and a sense of readiness to move on.

All of Europe lay ahead like a deep ocean. And I had just realized that I could swim. My destination was the port of Cherbourg, from where I would continue on to Ireland. I opened Waze, calculated the distance, and booked a hotel in Germany. 559 km, six hours ahead. I didn’t feel experienced enough as a driver, so I tried to avoid driving at night.

Little did I know what awaited me in Ireland during the winter. I would eventually get used to driving in darkness, heavy rain, thick fog, icy roads on summer tires, and of course, on the left side. But that came later. At that time, I was already overwhelmed enough without all of that.

The long highway stretched endlessly, and kilometer after kilometer slipped away beneath the wheels. Liters of diesel burned as I moved toward the unknown ahead. My feet ached from constant pressure on the accelerator. My back hurt, my palms were slick with sweat, and the steering wheel cover absorbed that hellish mix of salt and stress-born chemicals.

I was driving from one McDonald’s to another, just to reach something familiar. My mind refused to take in anything new or open itself to new experiences. It was too much - too much change, too much responsibility, too much fear at that time.

At last, Waze led me off the highway onto a narrow side road. It was peaceful and quiet. A few houses slipped by, and soon I was pulling into the courtyard of a small German hotel. It was a little noisy, but in a good way - people laughing and talking in a relaxed, easy manner.

I remember noticing a lot of seniors around. Unfortunately, we don’t really see that in Ukraine. Ukrainian seniors rarely travel or stay in hotels. Old age in Ukraine is often quite sad. But to be honest, recent years haven’t been easy for the young either.

Trying to silence the inner debate about whether I would trade my Ukrainian middle age for a German eighty, I picked up my bags and went to check in. So… it turned out to be a hotel with a spa, set in a green forest, with a chorus of birds all around. I understood how beautiful it was, but I couldn’t enjoy it. I felt strong anxiety, exhaustion, and emptiness inside.

I forced myself to find a swimsuit and spent half an hour in the sauna. My skin responded, becoming smooth and soft - but my brain did not. I went for a short walk before going to sleep.

I saw a vast meadow stretching before me - wild green grasses swaying in the light breeze, carrying their fragrant scent. A choir of birds sang as if it were the grand finale of Eurovision, and I stood there like the only honored guest in the audience.

A thin silver moon watched as I took off my shoes and stepped into the cool, scented grass.

Thank You, my Lord.

I woke up again, fresh and optimistic. I was still alive and hadn’t gotten into any trouble. So I texted my friend in Brussels. I felt audacious enough to book my next hotel in the heart of the EU.

My friend in Brussels - technically a Facebook friend. We had been communicating on social media for the past ten years but had never met. I knew him as an intelligent and witty man working in a government institution. He sometimes gave me valuable advice - coming from a mature man in his early fifties, without judgment and with a natural lightness. Also he had invited me to Brussels a couple of times. Whatever it may or may not mean, I texted him: I’m already on my way. Surprise-surprise!

But before it I still had to make my way there.

Deep breath, a gas station stop, Sia songs, prayer, Waze…

OK, Waze, I’m on the road with no speed limits now.

A strange, sweet rush.

It felt as though the universe itself was asking me: “Now that there are no limits in your life, what would you do?”

And yet, in that moment, the only thing I wished for was simply not to die.

How limited. How real.

After two hours of driving, I felt sore from the constant tension. I took the opportunity and drove at around 140 km/h. I was fairly comfortable - the road was not busy, and other drivers were extremely polite and safe.

I didn’t try to exceed 140 during manoeuvres, but I allowed myself to experience higher speeds, realizing I might never have such an opportunity again. At one point, I remember seeing 165 on my speedometer. It was an exciting experience.

I remembered Germany as a green land, with those wonderful green bridges above the roads, allowing wild animals to cross safely. It seemed to me so beautiful and so brilliantly designed.

There were also some funny things that happened to me. Once I turned off the road to fill up the car, but I couldn’t reach the gas station because of a complicated maze of intersections, with no place to turn around. So I ended up going back to the highway with an almost empty tank, praying I would find another gas station soon.

Later, I found myself eating a cheeseburger at another McDonald’s and realized it was far more comfortable to stand than to sit. My sides, back, and hips were sore and numb after hours of driving.

At last, I reached another hotel. My head was buzzing, and every time I closed my eyes, I saw the road. I decided to go for a walk. My soul craved movement, silence, and yoghurt. So I found the nearest shop and went there. And what? it didn’t work. It was a big supermarket - just Sunday hours. I was embarrassed. So, no yoghurt. Okay, I guess I wished that was my only problem abroad.

But then something else happened that finally made me cry.

Coming back to my suite, I met a senior couple who greeted me and asked where I was from. I didn’t know what to expect, and I was conscious that not everyone might be happy to see another “potential refugee”. Carefully, I explained that I was on my way from Ukraine to Ireland, adding right away that I was not planning to stay in their country. I wasn’t prepared for their response.

They told me how deeply they supported Ukraine and how sorry they were about the enormous tragedy that had happened to my homeland.

For a long time, I didn’t allow myself to fall into self-pity, holding myself together by suppressing my emotions and forbidding myself from feeling too much. I still do. But at that moment, tears burst from my eyes, and I couldn’t stop myself from crying in front of two strangers. I apologized, thanked them, and quickly disappeared to my room.

In the morning, I found a card under my car’s windshield wiper.

“Hello young woman on the way to Ireland! Even we just met on the storeway, we wish all the best for you, your family, your friends and your country. May God The Father in heaven see all the questions and the desires of your heart. May God protect and guide your journey and grant abundant life to you. All the best, Peter and Marion.” I still keep that card. Thank you, dear German guys.

Another day, and hundreds more kilometres. I already felt like I had become part of the vehicle. I was, quite literally, a vehicle operating a vehicle. A couple of times I drove through heavy rain - so heavy I couldn’t see anything at all, and had to pull over to the side of the road with my hazard lights on. Then suddenly, I realized I could no longer understand the language on the road signs. I can’t say I know German well, but these new, unfamiliar words made me panic - as if this journey hadn’t already tested me enough.

Praying I hadn’t missed anything important, I just followed the other cars. Later, I saw on the map that it was the Netherlands. The traffic before Brussels started to feel more tense. It wasn’t just the weather - the crowds of vehicles were exhausting, and the drivers seemed less friendly. I needed to refuel, so I turned off at the nearest gas station.

And… It was a self-service station. I had never dealt with one before. I tried, but for some reason it didn’t work for me. It wasn’t even in English. So I asked another driver for help, and he just replied, “It’s all written.” Maybe he was in a hurry. I asked another, and another. No one wanted to help me. I’m definitely not going to dramatize that moment and I still had some fuel in the tank. I can’t even say it upset me deeply, but the contrast with the smiling, helpful people had met before felt strange. I drove to another petrol station. Again, self-service only. Again, stony faces around me. No one agreed to help. My tank still wasn’t critical, so I didn’t cry - I just kept going, on my way to the hotel. I didn’t feel offended - I understand that no one owes me anything. Still, I find myself returning to that moment, trying to understand it. Maybe they suspected some kind of fraud? Would it have been different if I had offered to pay for the help? In any case, the capital of the EU didn’t feel particularly welcoming to me at that moment (just to be clear, that was sarcasm). Another “not exactly welcoming” detail (sarcasm again) was that my ten-year-old diesel car wasn’t allowed into the city because of the “low-emission zone.” It was probably not the best moment to try to calculate how many emissions occur over Kyiv every night from Russian missiles and drones. I got stuck in traffic for a long time. I was afraid I would run out of fuel. It lasted for three long hours - surrounded by tired, frustrated drivers. Finally, I reached the hotel. I felt tired, but like a winner. I had survived another day of driving. I collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep. So… Brussel. How could I have ever imagined the way I would first see this city? The heart of the EU, one of the main decision-making centers of today’s civilization. My Brussels friend visited me in the hotel lobby. A strange feeling - some complete stranger who already knows too much about your life. Talking, probably too much, about your sorrows and fears in messages with people you’ve never met is definitely not a wise thing to do. There is always a risk that the person in front of you is not who they claim to be. And for a woman, there is still a chance that a simple meeting with a stranger could end very badly - the kind of story later reduced to a headline about a body found in a black bag somewhere. I should note that my chances of ending up in a “black bag” at that moment were significantly lower than during the first weeks of the 2022 invasion. Mr. M, of course, had no idea about the entire risk assessment running through my head. And this time, I was probably lucky to meet a good person. He brought me a USB stick with music for my journey and offered to help me fill up my tank - more than welcome after yesterday’s misfortunes. We refueled the car, left it near the hotel, and set off toward the beautiful city. I had a whole day in the capital of the EU with a skilled personal guide - an unexpected luxury. We wandered through beautiful streets among the tourist crowds, taking pictures. I listened to his stories about the city and wondered whether I could ever be skilled enough to show someone my Kyiv the same way. My guide drew my attention to the delicate bas-reliefs on the buildings surrounding the main square. They were astonishing. And I caught myself thinking - someone had once spent endless hours carving them from stone, driven by inspiration and a sense of beauty. And in this same world, someone else launches rockets simply to kill and destroy. Will this intellectually and spiritually rich civilization be able to withstand that other, terrifying reality? While some societies invest in culture, science, and environmental protection, others invest in the production of weapons and war. While we teach our children democratic values and norms of etiquette, in the same world, just a few hundred kilometers away, other children are being told that might makes right, and that it is acceptable to kill civilians and bring their belongings home as gifts for their families. Mr. M brought me to a chocolate factory. It was a wonderful place, with a fascinating story. The invention of the praline began in a pharmacy. It all started with one clever man who came up with the idea of hiding bitter medicine inside chocolate. His grandson later transformed that idea into the Belgian pralines we know today - chocolates filled with delight instead of medicine. I have a sweet tooth and consider myself a true fan of chocolate. I was lost in the variety of choices. You could taste all the chocolates for free - it felt like some kind of paradise. But suddenly I realized that I wasn’t feeling any pleasure from tasting all these wonderful chocolates. Something was wrong. I felt a wave of anxiety just because of that. “I thought you liked sweets,” he said, surprised. “I do,” I replied, trying to justify myself. We were driving through busy streets, and I felt a lovely sense of relief that, finally, I wasn’t the one driving. I took in everything around me, enjoying every detail - the yellow and blue flag behind glass, the bright umbrellas of passersby, the gentle drift of clouds above the treetops. “How about going to a sauna?” I can’t say I was embarrassed by this literally very warm offer. I also managed to surprise Mr. M with a counter-suggestion. “I’ve always wanted to try weed. I’ve never had the opportunity, and I feel a kind of biology-based curiosity. I thought it could affect different people in very different ways. Is it really legal in Belgium? Why did you never tell me?” (We had been smelling it quite often during our walks around the city so I was curious about it.) Our scenarios of how we might get ourselves into trouble that evening didn’t quite align, and it seemed I was no longer the only one running risk calculations in my head. …That evening turned out to be one of those perfectly uneventful evenings. I was lying in my bed, watching the grey Brussels sky, applying that almond-rose cream to my body, and quietly saying words of gratitude to God. I was still alive, still moving forward, not getting into trouble - and I had even visited Brussels. In the morning, I made coffee in my room, slowly inhaling its smell, trying to ease my anxiety. I needed to get to Cherbourg. I wasn’t sure how to pay for tolls or where I was allowed to drive my old diesel car. So the navigation system guided me through distant routes, avoiding tolls and low-emission zones. I booked a room about six hours away, had breakfast, and set off. A long, long drive. Automatic movements. The weather gradually improved. The language on the road signs changed. It was my first time in France. “Shershe la fam” - I texted my mom, attaching a coffee selfie. Many people dream of Paris. Many people are obsessed with the French vibe. In my environment, “French” means romance - every girl is expected to dream of visiting France. I didn’t. I’ve never considered myself a romantic person, and I never had a dream of going there. But here I am. It feels like I’m living someone else’s dream. And I must admit, I fell in love with this country over the next two days. My route went through fields and villages. The speed limits were 80 and 30, so six hours of driving gave me no more than 250 kilometers. I wanted to howl like a wolf because of the slow pace, but at the same time it gave me a rare chance to really look around. I noticed the beauty of the fields, the deep blue of the sky, the charm of the houses, and the abundance of flowers around them. The villages I passed looked like carefully prepared sets for a light romantic film. I was driving at 30 kilometers per hour, breathing in that “new French vibe” I had unexpectedly discovered for myself. I got a message from my booking saying that if I didn’t arrive by 6, the keys would be left for me in the door. And I definitely couldn’t make it before 6 p.m., given the speed limits. So - driving slowly, relaxing, enjoying the view, and trying not to think about the harsh fate of my motherland… …Slowly, I was approaching the small dot on the map where I was supposed to spend the night. The sun had gone down. I turned onto a narrow dirt road, passed an abandoned, ruined building, and drove into the yard of a stone house. It stood alone in the middle of a field, surrounded by a few sheds and trees. A couple of cows were lying peacefully on the grass. The moon had already appeared in the fading sky. It was as silent as it was unsettling. No one was around. Just me, alone in the middle of nowhere, standing in front of a stone house with dark windows. I checked my phone. Even the signal was gone. My heart was pounding. I looked around - the abandoned building behind me, the cows staring at me. Could there really have been danger around, or was it only my imagination and anxiety? I opened the door and entered a corridor that led into a spacious, cozy kitchen with wooden tables. I went upstairs - the key was in the door. I stepped into the room. It was cozy, with wooden furniture. Green fields could be seen from the two windows. Still no signal. The silence felt almost deafening - there wasn’t a single sound around. Had all the meadow birds already gone to sleep? I went back to the car to bring my things. The thought that I was going to sleep alone in a large stone house in the middle of the fields, without any connection, was unsettling. Should I move one of the wardrobes in front of the door? Will I be strong enough to do it? Would it help… if something happened? I stayed under the hot shower, and tiredness won - I simply fell into the cozy, good-smelling bed and fell asleep. The morning brought light and sound - the meadow birds around had probably slept well and were singing their spring songs. I felt hungry, as I hadn’t eaten anything the night before. I went down to the kitchen; it was already alive and filled with the smell of coffee. A smiling woman invited me for breakfast. The breakfast table looked like a piece of art: small, elegant pots with treats, a baguette, milk in a lovely jar… It felt French in the best sense I could imagine. I don’t remember ever having a more delicious breakfast. Maybe it was because I was truly hungry, maybe because of those beautiful pots and jars, or maybe because the milk and butter came from the cows outside - perhaps it was all of it together. The owner asked me where I was going, and I shared my desperate story. She brought me an old paper map: “You should visit this place. Many people come here from other countries just to see those cliffs. Don’t let your sorrow take such an opportunity from you.” I did not know what to do. She insisted: “You will not forget this place, trust me.” In that case, I might not have been able to leave that evening on the ferry from Cherbourg. But maybe I just needed that - some external approval to do something purely for my own joy. I set the next destination on my map: Étretat. Another couple of hours passed peacefully behind the wheel. Suddenly, a blue stripe of sea appeared on the horizon. It was an enchanting sight. A flashback hit me - I had once dreamed of driving to the sea by car. And here I was, driving across Europe toward it. Another dream that had come true, in a strange way. When I think of that time now, I realize how much more fun I could have had on such a trip under different circumstances. But circumstances are not something we can always choose. Most of the time, we are simply given them - and allowed only to use all our creativity and talent to make the best of them, when possible. The sea. A vast horizon was calling me forward. I felt as if someone’s hand was gently guiding me, showing me: “You see? Isn’t it beautiful? I prepared it for you.” Like a caring man making breakfast for you in the morning while you are still waking up, still trying to make sense of things. I stopped my car in a parking area with a beautiful view of the cliffs. A gentle wind touched my hair, and the waves swayed softly, shimmering in the sunlight. My breath was taken away by the feeling of vast space and a view stretching into infinity. It felt as if the walls had fallen, and my mind, surprised, didn’t know where to go. I was looking at my car with Kyiv plates against the backdrop of a French beach, and I couldn’t imagine a more ridiculous set of circumstances for such a perfect, almost romantic picture. God definitely has a sense of humour. I moved on to Étretat. I left the car in a parking lot in the center of the town, as my French landlord had advised. I walked through the cute streets toward the sea, already sensing its magical smell. I stepped onto a pebble beach. Seagulls cried above my head, and the iconic rock arch - familiar from countless images online - loomed ahead. Isn’t it beautiful? Isn’t it a view worthy of celebrating life? I saw tourist groups heading up the cliff, and I followed them. It was a lovely, gentle morning. And suddenly, I became just another tourist, a woman traveling on her own. It was a brief feeling of freedom, joy, and peace. I was going higher and higher, breathing in that salty gentleness. The sea was such an amazing colour that I felt my eyes wanted to drink it in. Blue and violet unknown flowers swayed on the dizzying cliffs. I watched the birds soaring between the cliffs from above. The heights of the cliffs were overwhelming. “Looks like a perfect for committing a suicide” I thought, making another dark joke to myself. Actually the thoughts about suicide were not new to me. I seriously considered jumping out of the window of my 8th floor in 2022 - in case the city is occupied. It was my carefully considered “Plan G” in case the enemy entered my home. What happened in Bucha, and in other less-publicized places, confirmed my fears and considerations. Death is not the worst thing that can happen to us. Torturing, raping, killing for fun - the silent cry of occupied territories. A painful reality that traumatizes normal people even to think about. Inconvenient facts that many reasonably try to avoid in order to protect their mental health. And after that you definitely realise - the idea of human rights is probably the best thing that has happened to our civilization. Anyway, getting myself into any trouble in that iconic location would have been wildly inconvenient for everyone involved, so I had to keep moving. Four hours to Cherbourg were ahead of me. I drove calmly and with resilience. I even managed a daredevil parallel park in the last tiny space I could find near my hotel - something I had never done before. I felt proud of myself. One thing I should also mention about my time in Cherbourg is that I had the most delicious McDonald’s meal of my life there. It was a wrap with goat cheese and salad. I enjoyed every single bite and truly appreciated the French version. … I was waiting in the queue of cars for the ferry, looking at the blue sea ahead, hardly believing I had made it all this way on my own. I still couldn’t fully process all these changes in my life. I did not feel that I was the same person I had been before. My self-perception was going through a kind of crisis. I no longer experienced my personality as something rigid - a fixed, familiar shape. It felt as if something had melted into a liquid state, waiting to take a new form, with new elements gradually integrating into it. …My idea of a ferry was still stuck in the days when I had read The Adventures of Tom Sawyer - I had never traveled by one before. For some reason, I imagined a simple barge carrying cars across the sea, with minimal comfort. It turned out to be nothing like that - more like a comfortable floating hotel. The only thing - the cabins were not very spacious, and it was a bit rocky. Still, I slept well and had breakfast with a wonderful sea view. In fact, the “sea view” was everywhere - and I’m not sure that people who travel this way regularly can still fully appreciate that kind of romance. I thought I could finally catch my breath after the journey, but the real adventures were only just beginning. And if that ten-day, 3,000-kilometer solo trip had been a sprint, then the next two years in Ireland would prove to be a true marathon. It started right at the border, with a conversation with an officer. Suddenly, I realized I couldn’t understand him. I can’t say my English was perfect, but it had been good enough throughout my journey and in many previous situations. I even had some work experience communicating in English, and it had always been manageable. Only later did I realize that most of the time I had been dealing with non-native speakers. This time, however, I was speaking to a native speaker, using specific vocabulary. It made me feel as if something was wrong with my brain - maybe I was too tired, too overwhelmed, too anxious. Anyway, I managed to explain myself, though the feeling remained strange. My car was thoroughly inspected. I was asked a lot of questions. One of them was why I had cash and where it came from. To me, the answer felt obvious - I had always had a job, and when you have a job, it is normal to have money, isn’t it? And considering I was traveling on such a journey, in a time when you never know what news you might wake up to, it seemed wise to carry enough cash. I tried to explain my logic and reasoning to the officer, but I couldn’t shake off a strange feeling of guilt. Sorry for coming to your country. I am not asking for anything for free. I am just looking for a chance to exist. …I was driving in Dublin. Someone signaled at me when I paused for a couple of seconds to make sure I was going in the right direction. Actually it was in the left direction. Left-hand traffic was the cherry on top of my journey. I felt like Alice in Wonderland, where everything works the opposite way. I simply followed the other cars, praying I would stay attentive enough. A new journey had started: with challenges and pains, discoveries and strengths, and good people along the way.