Last October, my cousin and I spent one Saturday in a quiet harbor village on the southern coast, a place where the morning seemed to move more slowly than it does at home. We arrived just after sunrise, with fog still hanging over the harbor. The first scene we came upon was a row of fishers who were sorting the night's catch on the dock and laughing as their hands moved quickly through the nets. Later, we climbed a narrow path to a hill where a single pine tree leaned toward the sea. We sat there, with the cold wind tugging at our jackets and gulls crying somewhere below us. The air smelled of salt and seaweed, and the loudest sound was the slap of small boats against the pier. Nobody asked us to hurry. Before that trip, I believed that travel meant seeing as many famous sights as possible. That quiet village taught me that a journey can also mean staying in one place long enough to notice it.