A ferry was supposed to take us across the sea between Italy and Croatia, but as is often the case when traveling, it doesn’t start running until three days after we need it. So up and around we go on train and bus to get to Porec, the port where we’ve already booked a night’s stay. How this happens, I do not know. I may or may not have food poisoning and haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in days, and it’s all I can do to gum a Nutella and banana sandwich while sitting on my suitcase in Trieste, the last Italian town before Slovenia.

What I love about travel is knowing where I’m going. What I hate about travel is getting to where I’m going.

I guess we board the right bus because, after winding through the countryside, we stumble into Porec. We find our hotel, drop off our luggage, and go for a slow walk along the coast—all sky and sea and seven shades of blue. My brother jumps from rock to rock. I choose a single outcropping, walk out as far as it will let me, and stop. The waves approach and ask, What do you want to know? I tell them, Everything. They pull away, and for a moment, in that pause between out and in, I think they’re going to give me an answer.

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