“A Day Out”
Allie Dulles
On a chilled day in November, we began our journey out of the city.
My traveling companion and I woke up in the dark of the early morning and dressed quietly and quickly. My heart rate increased as the minutes ticked closer to our departure time, and I bustled around in the confined space of our apartment sorting and resorting my belongings into bags. When we were ready I strapped one backpack on the front of my body and one on the back, weighed down by nerves and belongings. We left our home to waddle one last time along the dusty Prague sidewalks. The lights of shops glared threateningly out onto the dark streets. Headlights swung around corners and trams screeched as they halted at curbs. I counted my footsteps and swerved to avoid the small crowds waiting at bus stops. The gray and blustery world outside was replaced by fluorescence as we trudged into the metro station. We took a sweaty train ride to the bus stop and I shoved my bags into the luggage compartment, peeled off my sticky layers, and tried to feel relieved that we’d made it this far.
We took the bus for seven and a half hours to Ljubljana, the capital of Slovenia. My shoulder muscles relaxed as we left the traffic and buildings behind us in the dark. I napped mostly, and read some. We were stopped at passport control twice, and asked to file out of the bus to let solemn looking workers in stiff uniforms inspect our documents. It took at least an hour each time, which made me nervous that we’d miss our bus from Ljubljana to Piran, the coastal town that was our final destination. It was cold when we waited outside at the first border, but not frigid, and there was mist on the horizon. I shivered in my flannel and my raincoat. There was green countryside sprawling in each direction from the control site, and the untamed grass looked surprisingly vibrant for the pale, misty day. Trees speckled the distance and I scanned the area, turning in a complete circle to stare at the five small buildings hosting the large coach buses, lined up and waiting. I could see my breath as I stared at the unfamiliar country. There was a girl wearing shorts and pantyhose and she clutched her boyfriend’s arm as they handed their passports to the official at the window.
Piran is on the coast of Slovenia and pokes out of the continent with a peninsula shaped like small triangle. On a clear day, if you stand at the end of the pier that sticks out near the top of the triangle, you can see the boot of Italy. Weeks ago when I was planning the three weeks of traveling I’d be doing after my study abroad program, I’d researched countries nearby Prague. Slovenia seemed promising. The pictures of Piran reminded me of the postcard images I’ve seen of destination European cities: sunny, colorful, mismatched, and mysterious, inviting me around promising corners and over charming windowsills. I was immediately eager to go when I read that you can walk from one end of the town to the other in a number of minutes. Sitting contained in my apartment above bustling Prague, I was pleased to know that only residents are allowed to drive cars inside the town limits and there is only one main road. Apparently most of the town was pedestrian space and the buildings were only far enough apart for three people to walk side by side. The cuisine was described as Italian influenced, seafood heavy, and fresh. I dreamt of open air, short distances, new food. Prague had its own set of glorious postcard-worthy sites, but being outside in the city felt to me like being in a screened in porch: trapped between indoors and outdoors with a view but no real freedom. A small town on the coast of an expansive sea sounded like opening a stubbornly closed door.
The bus from Ljubljana to Piran took three hours, and it was packed to the brim with people when we first left the city. I sat squished between the window and a woman speaking animatedly on the phone. One of my backpacks was perched on my lap and I kept my arms folded so I’d take up the least amount of space. My body grew numb from being pressed into the fuzzy evergreen seats. My shoulders re-tensed and I tried unsuccessfully to read. People slowly trickled off at each stop and finally there was enough space for my backpack and me to each have our own seat. I stretched my limbs and let them spread into the open space.
A young girl sat in front of me and kept braiding and unbraiding her hair. She took out her phone and began to scroll through pictures of people on Facebook, and I watched over her shoulder for a while, relaxing into someone else’s boredom. When she got off about two hours into the ride she took a huge suitcase out of the luggage compartment, dragged it to the curb and stood still, pausing to do something on her phone as we drove away. I turned to focus on the sun beginning to set, and within the hour I witnessed an expansive and deep sunset. We drove over hills and near cliffs and the pink sky disappeared and reappeared red between trees and small houses. Dark slate clouds hid patches of color and light popped out from behind them, yellow and rich. Orange bled and seeped from every angle and I stared out of the large window next to me for the entirety of nightfall. I tried to take pictures but the ones I got were blurry from the movement of the bus and blocked by the seats in front of me.
The morning after we arrived I got up early, left my backpacks, and ventured outside alone. When I opened the door to the street I had to pause. The quiet, still town that we’d entered last night had burst to life while we slept. Immediately in front of me was a row of large, wooden stalls that in the dark of the night had seemed lifeless and irrelevant. Now they were glowing, and filled with every type of produce I could imagine.
The stall closest to me held rows and rows of tomatoes that ranged in color from a deep red to a surprisingly light orange-pink. The juicy spheres were sometimes misshapen and a few looked like they were about to split open and leak their vibrant color. Farther down the row there was a stall that held baskets full of bright greens. I could see spinach and arugula and something made up of huge, pale leaves that curled around each other. They all glistened and I could smell a moistness that I was sure could only be coming from them. I saw a stall with bananas strung up with twine, rows of berries, and jars of honey. I stared. I debated buying everything I thought we could eat, but decided to wait. I bought an apple and a pear from a man who called me sweetheart and paid a total of less than one euro.
I wandered with my fruit to the edge of the water. The sun was bright and I was happy to be warm in my sweater for a reason besides rushing to catch some form of transportation. I walked along the edge of the peninsula until the path collided with a steep cliff and I could no longer continue. I stood in the shade and looked out over the water, my breathing becoming calm. The sea was a spectrum starting dark at my feet and becoming lighter as it left me and reached the sky at the horizon. Boats dotted it and land stretched into it in the distance. One day out of the city, grateful for color vision and solitude, I realized I’d reached my destination.
