That one time I went to Trapani

I still remember that one time I took a cheap Ryanair flight to Trapani, out of season, when the world seemed to move more slowly and the sky felt wider than usual. The plane was nearly empty, just a scattering of people leaning against their windows, drifting off to sleep, or staring into nothing. I had a whole row to myself, and the hum of the engines was like a lullaby, carrying me over clouds that looked like frozen seas. There was no rush, no pressing business, only the promise of a small Sicilian town that most people weren’t thinking about in that moment.

When I landed, the air smelled of salt and a faint trace of citrus, as if the sea had carried whispers of orchards on its back. The airport itself was quiet, the kind of place where footsteps echo too loudly. Outside, the sun was heavy and golden, but not oppressive. It felt like it was shining only for me. The road into Trapani stretched along the coast, and I watched as the sea played with the light, shifting from blue to green to silver. It felt endless, and yet so intimate.

The town was drowsy, shutters closed, locals moving unhurriedly through narrow streets paved with uneven stones. I wandered without a map, without a plan, just following the smell of coffee and bread until I found a little café where the only other customers were old men arguing gently over cards. I sat at a table outside, sipping something bitter and sweet, watching the shadows lengthen. The world around me seemed wrapped in a kind of dream, as if time itself had stretched thin.

Later, I walked along the harbor where fishing boats rocked against the tide, their nets drying in the sun. Seagulls floated above, not in the noisy swarms I’d seen in busier seasons, but like solitary messengers keeping their distance. The air was warm on my skin, and I remember thinking that maybe this was what it felt like to exist outside of time, to be untethered, to be nowhere and everywhere at once.

There was a softness in Trapani then, in those quiet days when tourists were absent and the town was left to itself. I felt like I was trespassing into its private life, watching it breathe in its natural rhythm. I didn’t need to visit all the sights or check off a list of places. The beauty was in the way the light touched the crumbling walls, in the silence between footsteps, in the endless horizon that blurred the line between sea and sky.

Even now, when I think of that trip, it comes back to me not as a collection of details but as a feeling: drifting, suspended, as though I had slipped through a hidden door into another version of the world. A place where nothing demanded my attention, where I could simply exist, untangled, a traveler who had arrived by chance on a cheap ticket to a dream.

After a few quiet days in Trapani I rented a small car that smelled faintly of dust and pine, the kind of vehicle that felt almost too light for the winding coastal roads. Driving out of town was like slipping into a painting: the sea to my left flashing with silver streaks of sun, mountains rising on the other side, their shadows stretching over fields of olive trees and wildflowers. The road curved gently, sometimes tightening like a secret, then opening wide again to reveal glimpses of endless blue.

San Vito Lo Capo appeared slowly, a cluster of whitewashed houses leaning toward a beach that seemed to glow even in the off-season light. The sand was pale, fine as flour, and almost deserted. I walked barefoot along the shore, the water cool around my ankles, the waves whispering stories I couldn’t quite understand. A few fishermen mended their nets in silence, and behind them, the tall limestone cliffs guarded the town like ancient sentinels. There was no crowd, no noise, only the rhythm of the sea and the smell of grilled fish drifting faintly from a shuttered restaurant. It felt like I had stumbled into a dream that wasn’t meant to be mine, yet welcomed me all the same.

Later, the road carried me south to Marsala. Vineyards stretched across the land, neat rows of vines sleeping under the sun, their branches bare but promising. The air was heavier there, carrying notes of earth and wine, and the town itself had a golden glow, as if every stone had been soaked in centuries of light. I wandered through quiet piazzas where time seemed to pause, the sound of my footsteps echoing against shuttered palazzi.

By the sea, the salt pans lay like mirrors, reflecting the sky in fractured, shimmering pieces. The windmills stood still, their blades motionless, like guardians of another age. I stayed there until the light began to fade, watching the sky turn the color of burnt peach and soft violet, the water shifting with it. It was as though the day was dissolving into the salt itself, leaving only silence and a sense of being suspended between past and present.

The drive back felt like returning from a dream within a dream, the headlights brushing against stone walls and olive groves, the night opening wide around me. In that silence, I carried both places with me—San Vito’s gentle beach and Marsala’s salt-lit horizon—like treasures hidden in the folds of memory.

So where will I go next?