Rain slicks the pitched tarp. The drumming incessant and totalizing. A comfort. At last a break from the heat.

I’m crouched beneath the tarp writing. It is night. Where am I? Bled, Slovenia. How long has it been? Here, the day. Slovenia, almost a week.

My shoulders ache in their sockets. This from the swim. Rather than pay for a boat ride to Blejski Otok (Bled Island), I’d get there under my own power. I ran two four-mile laps around the lake scouting a beach before finding a suitable area to dip into the cold water.

The swim was long and starting out I had been afraid of the depths and did not want to look down through my goggles but beneath me was only turquoise shimmering into opaque nothing and there was nothing to fear. So I swam. Other heads appeared periodically rippling little orbits on the liquid mirrored surface. Mostly these were older people swimming slow and methodically to the island. European healthy folk tanned with years of outings wearing speedos. You know.

Brashly and knowing mostly lap swimming from Dartmouth’s Karl Michael Pool I set out with freestyle. Then fatigue and the enormity of the lake set in and I switched to breath stroke. Bobbing up air from the turquoise green water to see the monastery red-roofed and rising on that secret alpine island I drew close. This clandestine approached is seared into my memory like sunlight.

I pulled myself onto the rocks to dry. Without a shirt, I could not go into the church, so I watched parents pay with their children in the water. One dad who had a small inflatable raft played “king of the raft” and defended his territory against his surprisingly water-competent children with gusto. They laughed and splashed. I walked some. This reprieve was paradise.

Hazy gold light poured layered and curtain-like into the valley. Between each mountain, humidity visible like clouds come down from heaven. I swam back.

Later, I would hike one of those mountains. I set out too late and had trouble finding the trail. After ditching my bike, I hiked as fast as I could, stumbling over wet rocks in my sneakers. I broke the tree-line and reached my lookout point sweaty and panting just before dark. The sun had already set behind the mountains but a faint white glow persisted. I swept a view. 360. Thousands of verdant pines like a fur coat on the backs of craggy sheer cliffs all hiding Bled. The lake below cut into the earth glistening. A reflecting pool, baptismal ground. The church at its center.

Then the wind coming in carrying heavy splashing raindrops. A flash to brighten the world. Darkness. A peal of thunder. I had to get off the mountain. I hiked down in the dark with my flashlight feeling very close to the center of the earth.

All this after spending the week in Ljubljana, Slovenia’s capital. I enjoyed my time there more living than visiting, if that makes sense. I did many of the things I would normally do except I did them in Ljubljana and they were better, if not harder to pronounce.

The city of 250,000 is a quarter students. These students tended to have things to do during the day like maths and learning English and because of this many of the cities cafes and parks tended to be filled with students. This felt familiar to me and I liked it.

My hostel which had a yellow dining room I particularly liked was situated interestingly between the US and Russian Embassies in an otherwise quiet corner of town. I took frequent runs in Tivoli, one day venturing to the Path of Comradeship and Remembrance, a 35km path tracing the wire-fence line the Italians constructed to cut off Ljubljana from the resources of her countryside in WW2. I also made several friends over the week. With one, we established a favorite cafe, Cafe Cokl, which served a delicious double espresso topped with cream and sat surreptitiously in the shadow of Ljubljana Castle.

I ventured to the castle twice. Both times to wander the historic grounds at night. The view did not disappoint — lamplight like a network of veins uniting the city dissipating to the darkness of the Alps. I could hear the faint beat of the concert in Kongresni Trg put on for the city’s integral college population.

I descended back to the old city. All along Ljubljanica: gelato, espresso, Laško, music. One night, I stopped and listened to a particularly stirring rendition of U2’s Where The Streets Have No Name before calling a friend from the States.

Ljubljana was always awake but never busy and never dead. There was always something to do but it wasn’t in your face about it the way some touristy cities can be. It had its Friday food market and expansive network of graffiti and bountiful running trails and a focused precision on recycling with different receptacles for different materials and a prided system of delicious, free groundwater and all of this existed without being pushed on you.

Overall, my experience of Slovenia was incredibly positive: It’s a young nation with an old past that quietly boasts cuisine to rival Italy and nature to match Switzerland. The people are friendly, laid-back, athletic, and competitive. One day in Ljubljana, I got caught running in a thunderstorm only to find I was one of hundreds. Similarly, I was not alone to go for coffee in the morning and beer at night in the same cafe. The Friday food market was like nothing else. Pizza from Rome and curried Chicken from Egypt. Among other delicious delights at an affordable price.

I could write more but my laptop is whirring in protest.