Fifth Journey Day 160: Iron Taste of Morning
"Iron Taste of Morning" — Rust and salt meet on the pier where Trieste holds its breath between sea and sky.
Date: October 15, 2025
Location: Trieste, Italy
Morning in Trieste, Italy, a border-port where the Adriatic gathers the memory of empires and the wind. The haze thins to a pale sun along the waterfront, and the Molo Audace stretches like a quiet thread through iron-scented air.
Along the Molo Audace
I walked the Molo Audace this morning — the long pier that extends into the Adriatic like a sentence drawn without end. At first, you could still hear the noise of the city — clinking cups, people talking — but halfway down, it all went away. The water was a dull, silver-grey. It's not cold, just distant.
Water, Stone, and Shadow
The stones underfoot were uneven, and their surfaces were darkened by years of being hit by the tide and walked on. I watched small waves hit the pier. They didn't crash, but moved back and forth along the edge. A single gull followed me. Its shadow moved beside mine like a second thought.
Rust and Calm at the Edge of Empire
When I finished, I stood still for a long time, looking out at the open sky. The air smelled of rust and calmness — two things that don't seem to belong together but always meet near the sea. I thought about how this city feels like a place where different languages, empires, and endings meet — each leaving its mark. Maybe I am drawn to that residue.
Café Interlude and the Refusal of Lines
When I got back to the city, it felt softer. I stopped at a small café where the tables were very close together. A woman at the next table was reading a newspaper folded into quarters; her coffee had gone cold. I tried to sketch the paper's folds, but the page wouldn't accept my lines. The movement was what mattered, not the form.
Nightfall: The City Breathes
Tonight, I can hear the sound of traffic and the wind from my window. Trieste seems to breathe with a kind of patience. I think I'll remember it not for what I did, but for the way the air itself seemed to wait — as if it was holding a thought it wasn't ready to share.
Travel Notes
- Weather: Hazy morning clearing to thin sun; 19°C by afternoon. Light westerly breeze carrying iron and salt from the harbor.
- Scents: Rust on wet stone, sea spray, espresso in narrow cafés, a trace of newsprint ink.
- Sounds: Clinking cups and low conversation near the Piazza; soft wave-lap along the pier; a gull’s wingbeat; later, distant traffic threaded with wind.
- Reflection: Trieste feels like a meeting place of languages and endings; today favored movement over form, and the air seemed to keep a quiet thought.
Continue the Journey
You may also drift through another waterside reverie in Venice, or linger with a kindred stillness in Florence.