After enjoying Christmas so much, I'm planning a similar evening on New Year's Eve. I take the beer in the fridge, cuddle up in a chair surrounded by candles, and write.

This is my second Christmas on my journey and contrary to any plans I made before, I spend it in Delhi.

My first trip to Delhi takes me to Lodhi Garden. A. drives me right up to the west gate, and we make sure to find each other in the same place in two hours.

I want to spend my time in India in an Ashram, do yoga and find myself. I want to experience India how it appears between the pages of magazines, but as always, nothing is as it seems.

We leave behind the pretty pink skies, the unobstructed views and the idyllic island air. Dehli.

This blog is my very own writing workshop. Writing is not a hobby. I have never produced poetry, invented lyrics, or turned my innermost outward in any way.

Iran chiselled away at my composure and my worldview with a million small blows. In Dubai I hid in my Hotel room and tended to my woonds.

Qeshm is not like Hormuz. It's much bigger. You could almost call it industrial. Almost is the operative word here. Like in Hormuz, women walk around wearing traditional masks as part of their hijab and are dressed as colourful as in India. It's the outward differences that make it possible for me to forget the mainland.

The wind is blowing in our faces. Hormuz harbour is brimming with life. Once again, J. has made friends with a young Iranian.

Hitchhiking is easy and adventurous. We continue telling our fake origin stories we tested in Alamut, but I can't avoid feeling like we are exploiting the people.