We almost skipped it. The guidebook gave it two sentences and a mediocre photo, and the next town over had a name everyone recognized.
But the bus broke down, the way these things do, and we ended up with an evening we hadn't planned for.
There is a version of travel that is about seeing the right things, and a version that is about being somewhere long enough for it to become unremarkable to you — which is, paradoxically, when it starts to matter.
What stayed with me
- The smell of diesel and salt at the harbor in the morning
- An old man who fed the same three cats every day at exactly five
- How quiet the town got after nine, like it exhaled
Maybe a life isn't a list of destinations. Maybe it's a list of accidents you were lucky enough to have.