An ancient city on the shore of the Black Sea, at the foot of the Pontic Mountains. A Greek colony in the land of the Colchians, as Xenophon described it, arriving with the Ten Thousand and being extremely relieved to see the water.
This city has watched the sun set on the Achaemenids, on Alexander, on Rome, on Byzantium, on Trebizond and on the Ottomans. Six empires, and the harbour still open.
The Silk Road no longer comes through, but the commercial port is as busy as ever, and the narrow mediaeval lanes still carry a thoroughly eastern bazaar. On the hilltop, the statue of the god Mithras has been replaced by a giant anchovy—the hamsi, emblem of the local economy, and a more honest object of devotion than most. In the Byzantine churches they now pray to Allah, mentioning with respect Isa and Maryam—Jesus and Mary, under the names the Quran gives them.
And in the evenings the entire city comes down to the sea. With folding stools and glasses of tea, to sit and watch the sun go down.
It has gone down over this city a great many times. And every time, it has come back up.
Life is a difficult business. There are stretches when the dark appears to have no end to it. But day follows night, always; and every sunset is followed by a dawn.
Which is why a sunset is a celebration. A celebration of a hard day ending and a new one being got ready. A celebration of being alive.
So: many happy returns to all of us. The dawn is only just the other side of the mountains.
