refurtage from piran
1 v Piran, Slovenia. Even after a dozen visits, I can't help but love this not entirely unique little town near the border with Italy and Croatia with its thousand details. Coming here gives me the confidence that a McDonald's branch in Mexico gave me in 1977. Everything always remains as I remembered it. I scrape my hands and feet on the sharp edges of the breakwater, I lie on pebbles and sunbathe until my head aches and the sun has done its work on my skin. In the evening I go to dine and notice that cevapcici are prepared completely unchanged since they were invented so that I am still plagued by stomach pains on the second day after. Giuseppe Tartini lifts his hat. Limestone everywhere. And it's loud. At dawn from the brooding seagulls, all day long from the tourists and mopeds in the narrow streets and in the evening from people who come to eat in flip-flops. I smoke too many cigarettes, drink too much wine, eat too much meat, fish and french fries. Too much of everything. And the wonderful, crystal clear sea and the sea air. I'll be back there asap.