The way to Wuppertal.
It was unbelievable.
Fifty of us at sea.
The engine breaks down.
Back on land.
To the holidaymakers on the beach.
From Macedonia to Serbia.
In a dirty, crowded train.
Followed by a madman in Serbia.
But free from fear, headaches, bombs.
Free from the past.
Wuppertal is my Damascus now.
With few markets.
Many hills.
Few shisha bars.
Many cultures.