It was hard to tell whether it was autumn or spring that day. The sun was out but only warmed us up occasionally, and the trees were just beginning to lose their bright yellow leaves.
The whole day was one long, stretched-out afternoon. Time slowed to a languid pace, as though it was honey seeping out of a beehive.
Perhaps it was because there were no clocks in sight, no chiming bells, no rush hour traffic.
Only mountains, vineyards and the occasional estate where people clustered to converse over glasses of wine.
The tram rattled along the tracks, passing rows upon rows of dried vines and rusty oak trees with rustling leaves.
The empty wooden seats creaked and the window panes clattered so that it felt like we were physically moving from one place to another, but outside the warm glow made it seem as though no time had passed.
The only sign that this eternal afternoon had come to an end was the setting sun.