Where is the Golden Chair?

I tumbled through the carriages of the famous Moscow to Amsterdam sleeper. The Yellow carriages filled with worn Russians lead to the plush blue German carriages.

"Is this seat taken?"

"Not so far. We know you. We know you from Eisenach."

I laughed. It was the father and son who's path I had crossed more than two weeks ago, who had in parallel been cycling from Bonn to Krakow via Prague. I no longer minded the fact that I was travelling West - away from the fascinating people and outstanding landscape of Eastern Europe and away from the madness of Odessa, where Northern Europe; the Middle East and Central Asia collide exploding in vibrant colours, where sailors from across the world have for centuries been drawn in by its debauchery and which Russia has cunning shrouded from the rest of Europe by a small strip of land along the Dneister more sinister than Konigsburg-Kaliningrad, the most successful ethnic cleansing program in history.

A hotel lobby filled with seven Mafia meat heads, corrupt policemen turned back by my love for their country, struggling to pay the five cent tram fare, the full on extravagance of Deribasovskaya street next to perpetual decay, unsurpassable clubs with pillars and podiums open to the stars reflecting off the Black water, these expose a place between paradise and dark gritty reality.

It was what I travelled all this way for - to sit looking out towards Abkhazia while the late afternoon sun stroked the white sands accompanied by the Mediterranean chorus of crickets, a cushion place behind me and a cup of green tea before me.

It made it worth every moment to be sat there in the evening sharing a beer with: the owner, the Azeri from Baku with a love for life who danced with every passer by; the Turk from Istanbul with wide eyes, reduced to shreds by the completely consistent fertility of the Ukrainian women, whom he could not even pay for; my brother with whom we could deal with any situation thrown at us; and the politician from Bishkek university with a story like no other.

Osh, Issuk Kul, Epos Manus, Cambridge, Japanese total fighting, vital documents, beauty, lucky pennies, Muslim comrades... do they spell the edge of Europe?