That day, the wind blows cold the last serenade winter’s song. It was March, my birthday was close as close was the end of this first part of my journey to meet Turkey. There was a silence around me, even birds weren’t there. Probably was the mist I found waiting on the road that was keeping animals and people hidden on their shelters, spying the day thought cracks or windows. I loved cold days, even the dark grey days when the sun is only a metaphor or a ghost making the skies above the clouds so white making you wonder if you had left the Earth and was in some alien world.