The sun sets over the mountains in a straggling seaside suburb outside of Bastia, and I get off at the wrong stop. Actually, it is the only stop.
I sit watching the view, waiting to see the familiar contours of the streets around my hotel, but they never come. This bus is in a whole different place. The right direction, but the wrong everything else.
“Terminus,” says the bus driver, eyeing the open door and then me. I am the only person on the bus and I sense that he’s talking about his shift more than anything. Busses are busses everywhere. The words “Last stop, kid” comprise an almost-universal language unto themselves.
This is where I was told to go. But this is not where I’m supposed to go.
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I'm a New York City-based writer and editor who loves to travel, whether abroad or just around the corner from my apartment. I …
Among all of Dubrovnik's white marble spires, there is the bell tower. You can only see into it from atop the city walls, floating above the streets, at eye level with the red-tile roofs for which the city is famous.
On the rainiest of rainy days, the water cascades along Dubrovnik's marble streets in rivers. It rolls down its steps and through its alleys in gushes, as though the hard white city can't bear to absorb a single drop.
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