From Dusk Till Dawn

Part 2
Nighttime Marseille

Everything was supposed to be simple—meet a friend, swim in the Mediterranean, soak up that fabled romance. Instead, I ended up on another continent, straight in America. But that came later.

For now, I just wanted to reach the city before nightfall. If I didn’t, trouble would start—spending the night on the street would be the least of my worries. I pictured it vaguely: the sea, wine, maybe a couple of “bonjours” shouted in the air. Reality, as usual, had other plans. The journey was a true ordeal. From Cologne to Luxembourg, every hour dragged like an eternity. The road seemed endless. Time crawled, as if deliberately slowing my path. Then the French border—more time, more train cars. And I needed to get to the far south. I rushed, counting the minutes. Night fell before I made it. The train rolled into the city as darkness blanketed the streets. I was too late.

Stepping off the train, I began to realize the dangerous situation I’d landed in. Marseille opened its jaws of darkness before me, and the further I walked toward my hotel, the deeper I sank into its depths. Each step pulled me further into the heart of darkness, to the edge of the city center, where abandoned houses and ruins whispered forgotten secrets. Beyond that lay the Arab quarter—a place where laws fell silent, police dared not tread, and murders and robberies of tourists were just a way to pass the evening. I didn’t know my hotel was there. No one warned me I’d booked a stay in the embrace of darkness.

The city was a strange cocktail—French polish mixed with the Arab whisper of the East, modern high-rises jutted up beside grim medieval alleys, and the elegant 19th-century Haussmannian facades, elegant and majestic, drowned in piles of trash. The streets lay silent, empty except for the homeless gliding along walls like shadows that had lost their way. I stepped into this world, and it crashed over me—scents, colors, everything so far from the familiar Germany and Ukraine. And I liked it—this blend of mystery and danger, the sheen of modern life mingled with the spirit of ancient Massalia.

The streets, dimly lit by lanterns, seemed endless, and the shadows of old buildings stretched toward me, as if trying to drag me into the void. I wandered through a labyrinth of medieval alleys until I reached the night port. It was the only lively corner of the city, where the crowd gave an illusion of life. Throngs of people milled about — chatting, laughing, not even noticing they could get shanked or mugged just a few steps away. The city drew them like a magnet, and they pushed their way forward, heedless of the risk of losing their wallet or their breath. The port was strewn with countless boats and yachts, their masts rising like a gnawed forest, while the old buildings around stared with windows—black, empty, like eye sockets that had swallowed the light. I looked up, and above it all, on a hill overlooking the maze of streets, stood the Basilica of Notre-Dame de la Garde, its golden Virgin Mary glimmering in the night like a star that beckons but doesn’t save. Darkness enveloped the streets, heavy, almost tangible, while the basilica glowed faintly in the distance, like a promise about to dissolve. It was all so mysterious that I nearly forgot how easily one could vanish here forever.

I’d missed the hotel—it wouldn’t open until morning. Now all I could do was keep wandering the city, slowly making my way toward it. After the center, I decided to head in its direction, weaving through nighttime Marseille. The air still carried the last echoes of summer—warm, but not the stifling heat of July, with a slight dampness that clung to the skin. I thought it would be a simple nighttime stroll—the center would give way to modern high-rises, old architecture would melt into concrete boxes, and somewhere among them would be my hotel, beckoning like a mirage. But I was wrong.

The center ended abruptly. Then came the quarter—the one guidebooks don’t mention. Here, reality seemed to fracture. The city lay dead—empty, lifeless, full of ruins and abandoned buildings. Streetlights didn’t work; their rusted poles jutted up like tombstones, and light seeped from nowhere, gray and sickly, picking out fragments of reality as if someone were tearing a photograph of the world. A menacing silence choked the air, so thick I could hear my own breathing like it belonged to someone else. The air was damp, laced with a metallic tang, as if the nearby sea and port had infused it with rust. The wind blew steady, too smooth, almost frozen. Abandoned houses stood grinning with windowless voids, their cracked walls resembling faces if you glanced sidelong. And there, among these ruins, hid my hotel—dark, like another ghost of the quarter.

Part 3:
Morning in Marseille

In a place like this, I had to wait for morning. The hours crept by like shadows on the walls, and I counted the minutes in the ominous silence that still pressed down, even as the first rays pierced the gray gloom. Finally, the hotel opened. I dropped my things, grabbed a quick bite—a crunchy baguette, jam, strong coffee with a hint of the port’s tang—and headed out to meet a friend I hadn’t seen in two years. His face, familiar yet slightly altered by time, waited for me in the city center, where Marseille pretended to be alive. From him, I learned of an incident that morning—a story that made the air as heavy as the night. My walk through the ruins, where every corner was set to stick you or nick your gear, had, oddly enough, gone perfectly smoothly. Who could’ve guessed that real trouble was waiting not in the jaws of darkness but in the heart of Marseille, in broad daylight?

Resting by the port, a friend of my friend let his guard down. He forgot where he was. A girl sat next to him, and while they chatted pleasantly, a shadow slipped out from the crowd, swiftly snatched his bag, and vanished into the alleys. And what was in it, you ask? Everything—passport, money, bank cards, smartphone. Every possession he had at that moment. And he’d had the bright idea to pack it all into one bag and bring it to Marseille—a city where they’ll rob you blind with a smile, and that’s the best-case scenario. Rumors say they’ll slit your throat here just to save time. The story turned grim: the French police, choking with laughter, scribbled a report and sent his friends packing.

As the night’s haze lifted, the city revealed a different face. It was a dazzling white southern city with quintessential French charm. Warm sunlight flooded the streets, caressing the skin with gentle heat, while the air carried the aroma of exquisite French perfume—like Guerlain mixed with the salty breath of the port. The buildings’ facades were peeling but wore their age proudly, like antique jewelry. Marseille runs on solar vibes, never slacking but not rushing either—just breathing in its own groove. On terraces, people sip coffee slowly, eyeing passersby as if they were actors in a street play. Its spirit is portside, rough, sun-scorched, half-legal. Nothing here belongs to one people, one nation. Scents, faces, languages, memories—everything is mixed, foreign yet familiar. Every street has its name and its scar. Every café holds the shadow of an old man who drank his last pastis, staring into the void.

Part 4:
New Acquaintances

Now I had to meet my friend’s buddies. Among the usual Ukrainians, one Belarusian stood out, nicknamed Antib. He’d grown tired of rainy Belarus and decided to move to the sunny south of France. But how? Getting refugee status in France is tough unless you’re from a former French colony. So Antib staged a performance worthy of an Oscar: he was a persecuted transgender person, oppressed by the Lukashenko regime. To escape, he fled to France, the land of human rights. According to him, for extra drama, he could’ve added some madness—drooling, soiling himself, or writhing in a fake epileptic fit like a tortured victim of the regime. And what did my new acquaintance do once he reached France? Work? Learn French? Of course not.

Antib introduced me to a strange new world—the world of professional freeloaders and “okupas.” Okupas aren’t just about squatting in someone’s house. It’s an art of living outside the rules, turning homelessness into a profession and survival into an ideology. He doesn’t beg. He walks in, smiles, and your home becomes his sanctuary. You? Just a guest in your own shadow.

Antib declared he wouldn’t attend French classes—too many Arabs there, and it wasn’t “noble” to mix with them, he said. Work? No way—he could scavenge whatever he needed from the dump. But what shocked me most was his housing story. He simply moved into someone else’s villa, strutting around like it was his own mansion. He stayed until the owners showed up. Did they kick him out? Nope—they offered to let him stay as a caretaker. But Antib, no fool, made them an offer he thought they couldn’t refuse: pay him to live large in their house. Genius. Naturally, they threw him out on the spot.

Modern laws never cease to amaze: squat in someone’s apartment for a couple of days, and you can stay. The police won’t touch you, but the owners will be in deep trouble if anything happens to you. Just look at the problems they’re about to face! In California, thefts under a thousand dollars are petty crimes the police ignore. Imagine: walk off with smartphones, shop goods—it’s all yours. In France, things are complicated by pressure to rein in the police. Not that they’re eager to act—remember my friend’s story, where the cops just laughed, or the districts they’re too scared to enter. Sometimes, like uninvited guests, they cut the sirens and gun it through the no-go zones. Or, like in the Paris suburbs, local immigrants grab them by the scruff and toss them out like mangy kittens. In Germany, Islamists have turned it into a bloody contest: who can wipe out Germans more creatively—slaughter on the dancefloor, bombings, or mowing them down like bowling pins. The winner of that carnage is still undecided. The same atmosphere, thick with recent riots, lingered in Nice, and that’s where my new pal casually invited me to go next.

Part 5:
The French Riviera

After Marseille, a whirlwind of places swept through—Nice, Cannes, Antibes, Toulouse, Lisbon… and somewhere on the horizon, America loomed. Everything blurred into a single, hazy ribbon of landscapes and anticipation. But first, Nice called. A glamorous resort, all glitz with yachts and palms, yet hiding secrets beneath its sheen. Behind the dazzle of the French Riviera lurked shadows—abandoned courtyards, faded opulence, and a sense that something had long withered under the beauty but still whispered from the cracks.

Antib invited me to see Nice and “his” town of Antibes, painting them as the last paradise on earth. No surprise, he vanished—I never saw him again. Eventually, I ended up alone in Nice. Reaching the city late at night, I set out to walk along the impossibly long Promenade des Anglais—a string of lavish mansions in Italian baroque, Belle Époque, and modernist styles. Shadows glided across the asphalt—running figures, bicycles, old men on benches, lovers, and silent smokers. By day, the sea here is not just blue but a vivid azure, like a postcard. At night, it turned utterly black. Sky and sea merged into one inky abyss, as if nothing existed beyond the shoreline—just void. Only occasionally did the lights of planes flicker in that darkness, like distant stars, reminding me the world was still out there somewhere.

Heading back to my hotel, I, of course, managed to get lost. Stepping beyond the elegant row of mansions on the Promenade des Anglais, I entered another reality. On the other side of the villas lay a different world, painfully reminiscent of Marseille. A railway line, like an invisible border, sliced the city in two. Here, there was no baroque, no wafting perfumes, no Riviera gloss. Only concrete high-rises, a chaos of cars, and an endless labyrinth of road construction. For a moment, Nice revealed its dark side: the smell of gasoline, shadows in doorways, a faint chill down the spine—that same Marseille mix of freedom and danger.

My trip was picking up speed, leaving less time for other cities. After diving into Nice’s impossibly clear azure waters in the morning, I left the city. Cannes, another stunning southern town, flashed by, leaving nothing but another dose of glamour. Then came Antibes, with its utterly serene harbor, seemingly guarded by a giant. A colossal statue, arms wrapped around its knees, gazed out at the endless sea, as if guarding its secrets. Cities flickered past like frames in an old film, and I sped on, feeling the French Riviera slowly dissolve into the haze behind me.

Part 6:
Toulouse

Somewhere beyond the horizon, the American dream still beckoned, but I decided to savor a bit more of France. Few cities here resist the urge to mimic Paris. Dijon, for instance, is called a little Paris—grandiose, but merely a shadow of the capital. Few can truly challenge Paris. One such city is Toulouse.

The rivalry between Toulouse and Paris stretches back centuries. In the Middle Ages, it wasn’t Paris but Toulouse that was France’s cultural heart. It set trends, its troubadour culture spreading across Europe, kindling the flame of romance and love in the darkness of the era.

Like a moth, Toulouse flew too close to forbidden fire and burned in its black flames. From the depths of Persia, from a darkness older than the stars, came a silent, merciless danger. It snuffed out the troubadours’ songs, turning romance to ash.

The spark that ignited the blaze for Toulouse and all of Languedoc was the Manichaean heretics. In distant Persia, where sands whisper of forgotten gods, they wove sermons laced with smoke and madness. Under stars that witnessed the world’s birth, these priests of darkness worshipped a fire—not one that warms, but one that devours souls. Their rituals, hidden in Iran’s caves, conjured visions of the apocalypse. The sect was crushed in Persia, but its fragments, like poisonous black smoke, drifted across the world, tainting the heart of Toulouse.

They called themselves the pure ones. Others branded them heretics. Truth, like ash, slipped through fingers. The Cathars believed this world was fallen, false, created by an evil force. They sought to blend Christianity with the venom of Manichaean teachings, to cleanse the earth of its corruption. But their dreams burned in the fires of the Albigensian Crusade. A black wind of a crusade swept through Languedoc, leaving only smoke and bones. Southern France was “cleansed”—not of evil, but of people. When asked what to do with the faithful, the crusaders replied simply: “Kill them all. God will know His own.” The streets of Toulouse, once singing of love, were soaked in smoke and blood, and the city that had once set Europe ablaze collapsed into ash.

Languedoc, this land of red stone and old scars, is oddly tied to my favorite character—Indiana Jones. Paradoxically, the image of the tireless Nazi-fighter was inspired by a Nazi archaeologist. Here in Toulouse, an Ahnenerbe agent once prowled, hunting the Holy Grail. For the Cathars, the Grail was a path to “true light”; for the Nazis — a superweapon; for Indiana Jones — a relic whose power dissolved into questions of life and death. I wandered these streets, and the shadows of Cathars, crusaders, SS officers, and adventurers whispered in the wind.

The entire city was steeped in antiquity and a singular red hue—from the brick walls that remembered the troubadours to the pavements stained red with Cathar blood. Every step echoed the past. The sun set, bathing Toulouse in crimson rays, as if reviving a medieval battle scene. Towers cast shadows like spears, and the air trembled with something unseen—a prayer or a curse. In that red glow, the walls breathed, holding pain and glory. But my road led onward.

I arrived at night in a city poised at the crossroads of worlds — an ancient port where the Atlantic meets Europe. Lisbon. It was merely a transit point on my way to Canada, but something in its nocturnal silence called to me. With little time before my next flight, I resolved to waste not a moment — to soak in this unfamiliar city, with its salty air and trembling lantern light.

Yet the sleepless hours weighed heavy. The line between dream and reality blurred, and Lisbon became a mirage — a waking coastal dream.

Almost at once, I lost myself in the labyrinth of the old city. The narrow, cobbled streets of Alfama, pulsing like arteries, drew me deeper into its heart, where time had long lost its tally. Damp walls held the breath of centuries, and the air was laced with salt, stone, and an elusive melancholy — as if the earth remembered those who never returned from the sea. From noisy cafés and cramped squares spilled the mournful strains of fado — songs of wives who lost their men to the waves.

To stave off exhaustion, I ducked into a tiny coffee shop. Behind the counter stood a strikingly beautiful woman — pale, with raven-black hair and eyes dark as the ocean’s abyss. She moved with ease, almost dancing, pouring coffee with a juggler’s precision and with the grace of a street-dancing Esmeralda. I didn’t immediately grasp why I couldn’t look away — fatigue buzzed in my temples, and she seemed a dream I wanted to linger in.

Leaving the coffee shop, I set out to find Lisbon’s castle, looming over the city. Climbing a sharply winding street, I noticed the Sé de Lisboa cathedral, shrouded in nocturnal haze. It looked ancient and grim, as if scorched — a spirit of old times, scarred by the mighty earthquake of 1755, after which the empire seemed to plunge into an abyss, never fully recovering. Its Romanesque towers loomed black, like bones gnawed by the years.

Suddenly, a feral roar shattered the silence. An old tram lunged from the darkness, like a forgotten beast from a dream — metallic, with peeling paint and foggy, clouded windows glowing with dim, yellowish light. It roared past with such a clamor that my ears rang. Inside, indistinct figures flickered — blurred yet eerily real, sending a chill down my spine. The carriage didn’t seem to ride the rails but glided outside time, a shadow from another dimension.

At last, reaching the castle walls, I beheld the city’s panorama. As far as the eye could see, Lisbon shimmered as if dusted with gold, its tiny glowing lights below like radiant stars. A firefly darted past — a lone spark, as if escaped from this starry sea.

A couple of hours later, I stood in the airport, leaving behind Lisbon with its fado and salty breeze.
After it came Provence, a world of Roman ruins, medieval castles, and landscapes worthy of Van Gogh or Cézanne, where streets breathed sunlight, sea, and the aroma of fresh coffee.

A world where life isn’t hustle but a dance with the moment, where every step brims with meaning and delight. An art of living, steeped in sunlight and unhurried ease, where everything hides in the details. Art de vivre.

In a few hours, an entirely different universe awaited me — the New World.

Part 8:
Toronto

After days of travel, I finally arrived in Toronto — the main destination of my journey. The New World, a new realm — seemingly akin to Europe, yet everything here felt different.

Even before landing, I’d heard unsettling whispers about a city where streets drowned in the shadows of addicts, fentanyl haze, and chaos. I expected crowds with eyes swallowed by darkness, hands twitching as if on strings, feet dragging through the filth — streets where fentanyl lingered in the air, and life sank in needles and rasps.Landing in Toronto, I braced for the zombie apocalypse of rumors. But nothing of the sort. The downtown had its share of homeless, but no more than any other city.

What shocked me were the distances — vast, like chasms. You couldn’t just walk here, not like in Europe. A taxi carried me toward my hotel, and the city quickly dissolved into darkness. We drove deeper into woods and wilderness, but, as it turned out, this was still the city. Toronto’s suburb — Mississauga — felt more like a scattering of cottages divided by wastelands than a proper city.

Toronto seemed stitched together from patches — from different times, countries, and approaches, but without a clear face. Suburbs with cottages strewn across empty lots, dreary Soviet-style blocks with peeling balconies, Victorian houses, modern condo complexes — and above it all, the stone jungle of the business district, where glass and concrete skyscrapers slashed the sky. Not Europe, with its centuries of history. Toronto was practicality, economy, migration.

Wandering toward Lake Ontario, I lost track of time. The fading daylight and thickening shadows finally reminded me of the hour. The sky, shifting from gray to inky black, swallowed the last scraps of sun. The wind howled like an old ghost, and a sudden chill set in, though it was still September. No stars shone; a dark cloud veiled the sky, with only rare flashes of lightning in the distance tearing the darkness apart. A frost gripped my body, and I decided it was time to head back. Strolling along the waterfront, I came upon a strange bridge — a white arc over the water, resembling a skeletal dragon. Its curved spine, cable ribs, and metallic creak underfoot gave the sense I was walking along the backbone of a beast frozen over the river’s mouth. The bridge felt alive — as if it might shudder and soar into the sky at any moment.

Night was closing in. My hotel was on the edge of Mississauga — not even in Toronto proper — and the icy frost was already piercing to the bone. My phone was nearly dead, with no charger in sight. I managed to reach the subway, rode to the right line, got off — and instantly realized I’d made a mistake. This wasn’t the right station. I’d ended up in an unfamiliar area, or rather — a different city altogether. My phone died completely, leaving me alone in a dark void where everything looked the same, lifeless, and alien.

Locals chattered in Hindi or with accents so thick their words slipped past me — no chance to call a taxi or figure out where the buses were going. On three buses, deep in the night, I made it to Mississauga and stood among a crowd of Indians, waiting for my ride. The cold turned inhuman — real winter had begun. In the distance, bus lights flickered. I was about to board when an Indian woman nearby pointed at a map and said it was heading the wrong way — back to Toronto. By some miracle, my bus pulled up just then, and I, teeth chattering, stumbled inside. That’s how I reached my hotel.

Part 9:
Niagara

Mid-September, my birthday. And where better to celebrate? At Niagara Falls, of course. The legendary torrent, just a couple of hours from Toronto, wasn’t just a tourist trap — it pulsed with something ancient, mythical. Its power promised initiation — a shamanic rite to shake the soul.

First, a slew of transfers — buses, a train. But just as I was almost there, the train inexplicably turned back. I had to switch to another bus — the falls didn’t let you in easily. When I arrived in Niagara Falls, a strange sound enveloped me — distant yet near, as if rising not from the air but from the earth itself, or from time itself. The closer I got, the more the noise turned into a roar, as if mighty hands were tearing space apart. The falls weren’t yet visible, but their voice already filled everything around.

At last, I saw immense, blindingly white torrents of water, cascading as if into infinity, forming a chain of waterfalls. Before me yawned a terrifying void — a realm beyond, outside all limits. Amid the white waves of this otherworld, tiny ferries bobbed, as if gliding within the maw of Charybdis — that ancient whirlpool, swallowing everything into the abyss of oblivion.

But that wasn’t enough for me. I wanted to feel the falls’ ancient power firsthand. I could’ve taken a ferry, but it didn’t sail right up to the wall of water — too dangerous. Instead, I chose to go inside the falls, to walk through the tunnels and stand at the heart of its mighty force — where the roar of the water reached such a pitch it drowned out everything, and a thick mist of fine droplets wrapped me like a dense white ocean, erasing the edges of reality.

Local shamans believed a spirit lived within that mist, and indeed, the falls felt like a living being.

Darkness fell fast — I had to catch the last bus to Mississauga. Hurrying to the stop, I marveled at the contrast between Niagara Falls the town and the falls themselves. The town buzzed with neon and music, like an endless carnival that knew no fatigue. Plastic souvenir tents gleamed under fireworks, amusement rides clattered like giant toys. The air smelled of popcorn and gasoline, children’s laughter mingled with accordions. Flashing casino signs, barkers shouting about “the best tours” — it all morphed into a frenzied circus. I ran, feeling this fairground chaos drown out the falls’ roar. As if the ancient force were being smothered by this plastic revelry.

Part 10:
The Golden Teacher

My journey was nearing its end, and I wanted to cap it off with something like an initiation. A friend, with whom I’d swum in the Mediterranean, once told me about trying magic mushrooms in Toronto. At one point, he lost it completely — raving like a madman, tearing through the streets, rolling on the ground, drooling, until an ambulance hauled him away. I was sure that wouldn’t happen to me.

I’d always been drawn to the beyond. LSD, mushrooms — sure, they’re just chemistry, tricks of perception, but sometimes they let you push past the edges of the familiar. I wasn’t after cheap thrills but a moment where fear, risk, and awe collide with something real. It seems true life begins where tension kicks in, that inner sharpness — when something vital’s at stake.

It could be anything — mountains, a road without a map, or an inner shift. Anything that lets you feel the world differently, from another angle — as if the usual reality suddenly “peels apart,” and in the crack between layers, something new emerges. Maybe I just catch those moments — strange symbols, music, light, those subtle vibrations where something authentic begins.To glimpse what lies beyond the everyday world, you need a shamanic ritual — someone or something to guide you between realms. In Toronto, I was alone, and the only guide could be the Golden Teacher.

The Golden Teacher turned out to be a brutally potent hallucinogenic mushroom, and there was no one around to keep me in check. This experiment nearly killed me. Later, after scouring the internet, I realized: that dose was lethal — or, at the very least, could’ve shattered my psyche for good.It started innocently enough. I’m nearly immune to hallucinogens and thought the Golden Teacher would just answer my questions, teach me something, open a door to another world. I was ready for anything — hell, cenobites, out-of-body trips. But the mushroom knew its craft and hit me with a gut-punch — right in my weakest spot.

I went to a park. Ate a couple of mushrooms. No effect. Waited. Nothing happened. I’m sensitive to my surroundings and long knew mushrooms barely touch me. So, I ended up eating… nearly the whole batch — about twenty of them.No hallucinations, no monsters — reality didn’t flinch. But with every minute, my body lost control, growing more paralyzed, time slowed to a crawl, and my mind seemed to fade. I was mentally prepared, but I could feel a killer wave, a storm of consciousness, still looming ahead. I had to get out of the park, fast.That’s where the trouble began. Mississauga, in parts, is a maze of cottages. Heading down an alley, I expected a passage between houses, like on the map. It wasn’t there. A dead end. The tsunami poised to wreck my mind could hit any second. Finally, I spotted a narrow gap between houses, squeezed through, reached the highway, and made it to my hotel.
That’s when the ninth wave crashed over my consciousness. This was nothing like a “simple chat” with the mushroom — my brain was shutting down, and I could feel myself mentally dying, turning into a complete idiot — no exaggeration. I stopped understanding where I was, but I knew something was wrong, that I was getting dumber. The worst part? I was fully aware my mind was breaking — and nothing could stop it.

At first, I could still have called an ambulance, but soon it was too late — I couldn’t speak. None of the usual remedies helped this time. I drank water — no use. Took a shower, but all I saw were flashes of lightning and sparks dancing in the dark, or maybe atoms. Tried to sleep, to relax — nothing worked. The Golden Teacher wouldn’t let me go, seizing me completely. And that wasn’t even the worst part.

I knew that with LSD or mushrooms, time slows down, but this was far worse. I became the protagonist of a Stephen King story — “The Jaunt,” where a boy, instead of sleeping during a teleport to Mars, cheated and didn’t inhale the gas. For him, a second stretched into billions of years — billions of years in endless emptiness. He came back changed, his mind shattered by eternity, driven mad forever. I’d fallen into a similar temporal abyss. Though only two hours had passed. At times, I’d surface, but then a strange wave would drag me under. After two hours, I started breaking through more often, gradually regaining control of my body. It was a bizarre struggle — my logic against utter madness. In the end, my consciousness fully returned, but the mushroom’s grip lingered. It felt like I’d passed an initiation — if that’s what it was. The Golden Teacher had taught me a lesson.

This wasn’t just a metaphor — it was a real, living encounter with death, fear, and the collapse of consciousness. What shamans call “being torn apart” — a moment when you either return transformed or don’t return at all. And I returned.

Though my ego crumbled to dust, I was ready to look further — beyond its limits. This wasn’t just chasing thrills. It was a search for the edge where “I” vanishes, and something greater, nameless, emerges. In that moment, you become an explorer of darkness — on the border of worlds, where the “dark night of the soul” isn’t just a trial but a gateway to the unknown.

The next morning, I had five mushrooms left.
After such transcendent horror, anyone else would’ve probably tossed them out.
But fear was gone. Everything that could happen already had.
I figured the effect would be minimal and ate them.
The initiation was complete.
I could return to Europe.

Part 11:
Islands in the Ocean

Time to head back. I thought the worst was behind me — a couple of transits, and I’d be in Cologne. But that night, landing on the Azores in the middle of the ocean, I learned with horror that my tickets were invalid. The transit zone in London had been scrapped, and arriving there would’ve trapped me in a limbo between borders. I was turning into the hero of The Terminal. Fly onward — impossible. Step into the city — forbidden. Go back — out of the question, as even the London airport’s transit zone required a visa. I was stuck in no-man’s-land — neither here nor there, with no right to move forward or back.

I had to reroute everything, flying to Lisbon, then to the Balearic Islands near Spain. But the next flight was only in the morning, and there was nowhere to crash. The weather was perfect, so I decided to wander through nighttime Ponta Delgada. The Azores, lost in the Atlantic, were surrounded by endless ocean. The town, steeped in enchanting silence, felt like a haven at the world’s edge. The center, especially the waterfront, buzzed with light, voices, and aromas. Old Portuguese architecture came alive at night: white facades with dark stone frames, curved balconies, wrought-iron railings, arches, churches — all hovering above the cobblestones, soaked in centuries of history. Low houses with vibrant blue and green window frames, carved shutters, cobbled streets, balconies draped with geraniums and vines. In the heart — baroque churches and hefty stone buildings with arches and columns, lending the town an old-world charm. It was like stepping into a miniature Lisbon. Now and then, a scooter shattered the quiet, but its hum drowned in the rustle of palms.

Gradually, the cafés shuttered, and the crowds seemed to dissolve. I sat near some bushes and suddenly noticed large animals rustling through them. That was my cue — time to head back to the airport. Waiting out the night until the terminal opened, I was in Lisbon by day and, by evening, on another island — Mallorca.

With time before my flight, I wanted to explore Palma — Mallorca’s capital, one of the Balearic Islands. At first, the city seemed like any southern port: fortress walls, medieval alleys — and how could Palma be without palms swaying by the docks? Boats and ships lined the shore — hauled onto the sand or tethered to posts. But something extraordinary loomed above it all. The darkness of the sky was pierced by an illuminated cathedral — or perhaps a fortress. It was so massive it blended into the black abyss of the night sky. At first, it didn’t even seem like a building but a stone cliff — a creation of giants vanished in ancient times. Something so old it was impossible to tell what it was made of.

Shrouded in faint mist and ghostly light, Palma’s cathedral looked downright sinister by night. Its massive walls and towering spire inspired dread. Narrow windows, buttresses, and countless stone details gave off an ancient, ominous vibe. In that light, the cathedral resembled a classic vampire lair — the kind you’d see in movies or games.

Beyond the “vampire stronghold” stretched the old town. Narrow streets sloped downward, toward the glow of lanterns and the shadows of plane trees. A sense of déjà vu hit me instantly. Light stone facades, straight boulevards, ornate wrought-iron balconies — everything breathed the south, but the lines and proportions carried the spirit of Marseille’s classicism: that same strict rhythm, that same attempt to tame the chaos of an old city, only in a looser, Mediterranean style. The warm sea air and the slight dampness of the night created that soft, unhurried silence typical of the south. My journey seemed to have come full circle, looping back to where it began, to Marseille. The same salty breeze, the same shadows that taunted me then, now watched from Palma.

A couple of hours later, my flight awaited. As luck would have it, the streets were nearly deserted, and the few people I passed didn’t speak English. It became clear: no bus to the airport was coming, and the walk back would be long. I had enough time. I hurried through a scattering of villages, their dark alleys and sleeping houses. But near the airport, I hit a dead end — the road was blocked. The only way to the airport was treacherous, across a high-speed highway. No sidewalks, cars roaring at breakneck speed, the only light their headlights slicing through the dark. The simple stroll was over. Around me — pitch-black darkness, with only the flicker of car lights like a swarm of fireflies. I steeled myself, waited for the lights to vanish for a moment, and bolted across the road.
That dash through the darkness became the line — the final trial.

Part 1:
The Road to the Unknown

Part 2
Nighttime Marseille

Part 3:
Morning in Marseille

Part 4:
New Acquaintances

Part 5:
The French Riviera

Part 6:
Toulouse

Part 7:
Lissabon

Part 8:
Toronto

Part 9:
Niagara

Part 10:
The Golden Teacher

Part 11:
Islands in the Ocean

Part 1: The Road to the Unknown

Part 2 Nighttime Marseille

Part 3: Morning in Marseille

Part 4: New Acquaintances

Part 5: The French Riviera

Part 6: Toulouse

Part 7: Lissabon

Part 8: Toronto

Part 9: Niagara

Part 10: The Golden Teacher

Part 11: Islands in the Ocean

Part 1:
The Road to the Unknown

Part 2
Nighttime Marseille

Part 3:
Morning in Marseille

Part 4:
New Acquaintances

Part 5:
The French Riviera

Part 6:
Toulouse

Part 7:
Lissabon

Part 8:
Toronto

Part 9:
Niagara

Part 10:
The Golden Teacher

Part 11:
Islands in the Ocean