My time in Trieste was a refreshing reversal of a certain mentality.
I never thought I would say this, but traveling is hard work. This realization is, perhaps, born out of pure naivety, as I have always had the luxury of traveling with my parents. As this was my first solo trip, all the detailed planning had fallen squarely on one set of shoulders: mine. After close to six weeks of living out of a suitcase and in hopping from one hostel to the next, I found myself completely exhausted. My travels up until this point had me in Siofok, a small town on Lake Balaton, a popular Hungarian vacation spot. Unfortunately, the consistent rain clouds did not allow for any lakeside activity and I spent two days holed up in the hostel.
What brought me to Trieste was a haphazard algorithm that consisted of the shortest travel time, easiest beach and or water access, and the best forecast. A nine-hour train journey, an overnight stay in Ljubljana, and a two-hour bus ride later, I was finally in Italy. As fast as I could, I set my bags down in the hostel, donned my swimsuit and ran out the door, eager to get to the water. A feeling of relief washed over me when I finally lay my towel down on the rocky Adriatic coast. The remaining hours of the day were the most relaxing since my trip started; I alternated between reading, tanning, taking gelato breaks, and launching myself into invigorating blue water.
For most of my trip, the first question I would always ask myself upon arrival to a new destination was, “Okay, so what is there to do here?” I found, however, that my time in Trieste was a refreshing reversal of that mentality. The exhaustion I had been experiencing was largely due to days full of sightseeing, rushing from art museums to churches to royal palaces. It made me think that perhaps the caliber of a city is not directly linked to the sights it can offer but rather to the satisfaction it can provide.
