Part III: The Sea Snake We knock. No answer. We knock again. Still nothing. The sign on the door says they open at 8pm. We turn to walk away. The door swings open. A short, bald, grey-bearded man stands in the doorway, a kitchen cloth draped over his left shoulder. …

Part II: The Artist We lug ourselves and our backpacks up the decrepit staircase to the top floor and are welcomed in by our host, Ivo. The opera music is still on full blast as we exchange handshakes. …

Part I: The Labyrinth We walk past prostitutes smoking in doorways, and rough-looking men whispering in secluded alleys. Their eyes follow us as we pass. My boyfriend has his phone in his hand for directions. I’m on edge. Perhaps he should put it away. …

“Am I allowed to be in here?” I whisper to my boyfriend. We’ve just walked through the front door of what, at first glance, seems a rather unremarkable triangular Soviet building in Yerevan, and all heads have turned towards us. …

I hover in the air, two meters above the mat, paralyzed. My grip tightens, my hands begin to sweat, and the panic sets in. I am unsure of my strength and unsure of my abilities in this new and unfamiliar terrain. I look down at my boyfriend, who urges me…

We walk down the dimly lit hallway, following the hostess who let us in, past a series of closed doors through which we hear shuffling feet, muffled voices and occasional laughter. Apart from that, it’s quiet. A mix of smoke and grilled meat lingers in the cool air. Another hostess…

“Your beautiful breakfast”, she says as she places the colourful masterpiece that is my fruit granola yogurt in front of me. Each strawberry, kiwi, melon, banana is perfectly sliced on a bed of thick Greek yogurt, but it’s the waitress’s theatrical performance that steals the show. …

I shut the front door to the building securely behind me and breathe in the fresh, cool air. My feet already know the way. They lead me past the local flower shop and around the corner to the right. I overtake a lady with a pushchair and dodge a cyclist…

For quite a while now I’ve been intrigued by the floods of neon, lycra-wearing cyclists whizzing by on their way to work, cycling through parks I only know exist because I’ve looked longingly at them through the window of a crowded, stuffy rush-hour train. The freedom of leaving when you…