Leaving Sevastopol

It was raining in Sevastopol and I got to the bus station to find another slow-moving queue and a two-hour wait for the next seat to Yalta. I sheltered for a while in the train station before hunger and the number of people asking for cigarettes finally drove me back up the hill to a pizzeria. An international word or two and some pointing at pictures got me a capuccino, some milky porridge and banana, and scrambled egg, sausage and tomato served in a lasagne dish, topped, as with almost everything else here, with a couple of sprigs of parsley.