As I drive down the little one-lane road toward Lublin Harbor, I’m surprised that I’m the only car on this road. I would assume that a festival would’ve drawn more people besides just myself off the dreary slog of the highway. Maybe Aunt Zizi is right, and people really need to take time out of their busy lives to stop and smell the roses.
After driving a few miles down this road as it curves through forests, farmland, and rolling hills, I reach the town’s outer edge. A large, hand-painted sign welcomes me and Mango to Lublin Harbor. It’s a charmingly crafted sign and looks freshly painted. It greets us with open arms, its bright red letters bearing the inscription ‘Welcome to Lublin Harbor, A Town Built on Love’.
Huh, that’s a weird town logo. Although come to think of it, maybe it isn’t the weirdest slogan. I think I heard once that ‘Virginia is for Lovers’ is a state motto. So perhaps it’s not so strange after all.
Arriving at a new destination seems to fill me with renewed energy. I’m just happy to turn my attention away from the feelings that my conversation with Aunt Zizi dredged up. Thinking of Marcus makes my stomach ache, or maybe I’m just hungry.
Once I pass the welcome sign, I head into the center of town, which appears to be an old-fashioned, aptly named Main Street lined with shops and restaurants. One side of the street is a curve of coastline lined with shops, and a park dominates the other side.
My eyes are greeted with a symphony of colors and sights. Every inch of the town is decorated, banners and flags flying high, their vibrant hues waltzing in the slight breeze. It’s a merrymaking atmosphere, beating through every nook and cranny. Beneath the decorations, Lublin Harbor is an unusual mix of Andy Griffith’s old-timey Mayberry, a fishing village, and a Baroque cathedral. The Eastern European Gothic architecture stands out like a woman in a ball gown at a backyard barbeque against the quintessentially American Cape Cod charm of the rest of the town. It reminds me of all the pictures Aunt Zizi showed me when she returned from Prague.
The mishmash of architectural styles should look weird and visually confusing. However, it all works together in a way that defies explanation.
Lublin Harbor’s architecture carries a peculiar charm that’s impossible to overlook. The buildings flourish in all forms of baroque, gothic, and plain clapboard functionality, each more intriguing than the last. Terra-cotta rooftops sit atop alabaster buildings contrasting against an azure sky while spires donned with bulbous copper green domes pierce the heavens. Intricate carvings and scrollwork on the buildings are squashed next to clapboard flat-faced storefronts that could be pulled straight from the 1950s.
The park is teeming with people; most of the town appears to be gathered there. As I look down Main Street, I see a forest of masts sails – the town’s marina. As I drive past, I see a procession of old fishing boats gently bobbing on their anchors, their worn-down wood creaking with every lapping wave. Wisps of nets, faded and frayed with years of use, spill from their decks, and the pungent aroma of salty sea air mingles with earthy notes of wet wood and brine. A single seagull is perched on a dock piling, its shrill cry plaintive and piercing. The road veers away from the water as I drive past the harbor.
I’ve only been here a minute, but I’m already enamored with Lublin Harbor. I’ve always loved the feel of a New England fishing village, especially one that seems untouched by time like this one.
Driving up and down Main Street, keeping a close watch for pedestrians, I’m losing faith that I’ll find any free parking spots. I’ve driven the street twice and haven’t seen any open spots in this strange town.
I finally luck out and manage to claim what appears to be the last available parking spot in town, conveniently situated in front of a delightful-looking bakery. As I park, my stomach lets out an undignified whale call. I’d skipped lunch earlier and had mainly been subsisting on convenience store snacks like beef jerky, cheese curls, and energy drinks.
Even better than the sight of a glass case filled with yummy-looking baked goods is an outdoor seating area under the sign Divine Harvest Bakery. A pink-and-red striped awning protects most of the seating area from the bright late afternoon sun.
“Well, Mango, lucky us! If we can get a table outside, you can come with me. If you’re a good boy, I’ll even sneak you some lunchmeat from my sandwich,” I promise, reaching back to grab his crate. I also snatch up his harness and leash in case I can entice him to stretch his legs with me. He’s somewhat resistant to leash training, but it’s been improving lately. When I first started training him, every time I put him in his harness, he would fall on his side and turn into a frozen lump in protest, but now he will explore a little. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to mind the crate much, or the cross-country drive would’ve been torture – for both of us, I imagine.
As I pick up the crate, he purrs contentedly, his eyes darting between my face and the enticing bakery. I chuckle, “Yes, buddy, we’re gonna have some lunch.”
The front door to the bakery is propped open, and incredible smells emanate from inside the storefront. Shrugging my shoulders into the warmth of my jacket, I stroll towards the bakery with its cheerful facade of pastel-colored walls and a signboard boasting ‘Best babka in town’. A feminine voice with a slight and unplaceable accent calls out to me from inside the shop, “Feel free to take any of the tables outside, love. I’ll be right there with a menu.” I glance inside to locate the owner of the voice. From behind the glass counter, a statuesque woman gives me a welcoming grin and a wave.
With a grateful nod, I choose a seat near a tree on the edge of the boxed-off area, where the sun’s rays pierce through the leaves of the trees overhead, casting a dappled array of sunlight over my head. I set Mango’s crate on the empty seat next to mine, reaching my fingers into the crate to give his chin some reassuring scratches. He seems utterly unfazed by the noise and action happening around us. From here, I have a perfect view of the festivities unfolding in the park. The soft, sweet scent of sugar and cinnamon wafts over from the bakery, and I sigh contentedly, relishing the prospect of a sandwich and a hot coffee.
Across the street, in the lush green park, the town’s children run around, their bright laughter ringing through the air. The wind tugs playfully at the streamers they clutch in their hands, causing the long ribbons of color to stream behind them like a comet’s tail – a vibrant display against the green grass and azure sky. There’s an unfettered joy in their playful antics, happiness so heartfelt it’s contagious, tugging at the corners of my mouth and making my heart feel a little lighter.
I watch the children prance around the park, their clothes lending additional color to the already vibrant spectacle. The girls are dressed in what appears to be traditional pinafores in mostly primary colors, lending an air of vivaciousness to their every movement. Reds, yellows, and blues jostle for attention amidst the flounce of the dresses, their vivid strokes contrasting starkly against the pristine white shirts that peep out from underneath. The outfits dance, alive in the sun, adding an almost ethereal quality to their innocent games. Meanwhile, the boys are donned in dark trousers and crisp white linen tunics. Some of them are wearing vests in varying bright designs and patterns. Many of the adults were also garbed in similar outfits. It’s like I’ve stumbled upon a colorful, jubilant Russian Renaissance fair.
The children’s laughter is interspersed with bright, excited screams as they play what seems to be a game of tag, dodging and weaving around the trees and playground equipment. I watch them with a fond smile – this is precisely what I imagine a small town should be like. It’s almost a shame not to stay and explore, but I want to find a place to hole up and lick my post-breakup wounds.
As I take in the lively, jubilant scenery, a buoyant figure bustles out of the bakery. The woman’s thick golden hair is tied up in a messy bun, and an apron emblazoned with the bakery’s name covers a flowery flowing dress. Her hair bounces with her brisk strides and her radiant smile rivals the warmth of the sun overhead. As she heads my way, I realize how tall the woman is – she must be almost six feet. She’s even taller than Aunt Zizi who I have always envied for her height. Standing at 5’6”, I got my mother’s average build. I missed out on my Dad’s tall genes.
Approaching me, the woman places a menu, a glass of water, and a bowl filled with water for Mango on the table.
“Welcome to my bakery, dear,” the woman introduces herself, leaning against the back of the chair across from me, “I’m Mokosh, but everybody calls me Koko.”
“I’m Lily.” I wave my hand toward the crate on the chair next to me. “And this is Mango.” Right on cue, Mango gives a plaintive meow.
Koko coos at Mango who eats up the attention and revs his purring motor. “What a cutie! You’ve picked a perfect day for your visit to Lublin Harbor. It’s the week of the Krasnaya Gorka festival.”
Taken aback, I tilt my head at her, confusion seeping into my eyes. “Krasnaya Gorka?” I repeat slowly, trying to wrap my tongue around the unfamiliar words.
Koko nods, her eyes sparkling with mischievous delight. “Yes, it’s a spring festival, celebrating love and everything that comes with it,” she waves her hand around, indicating the vibrant festivities around us. “Our founder hailed from near what is now known as Belarus, and we honor our roots by observing many Slavic pagan rituals here in Lublin Harbor.”
At my startled expression, she chuckles. Her laughter is like liquid sunshine. “Yes, dear. This isn’t your typical New England small town. We’ve got our own unique little twists,” she adds, pride filling her voice. I nod, knowing everyone thinks their town is unique, but I wisely keep my snarky thoughts to myself.
“Krasnaya Gorka is when potential sweethearts meet, fall in love, and discover their life partners. Lublin Harbor is the place to find your mate.” I feel my face freeze at her words. Am I dealing with a weirdo? What a strange way to phrase that. Mate? Who says something like that?
Koko points over my shoulder toward the park and waggles her eyebrows in a silly, suggestive manner. I follow her gaze and spot a young couple on a picnic blanket under a shady tree. They are kissing each other so passionately that you’d think it was their job. I quickly look away and return my eyes to the menu in my hand, feeling a blush heating my cheeks.
I’m in the middle of a love festival while freshly single after a crappy breakup – this is not my scene. However, I don’t want to be a downer, so I put a fake-happy smile on my face like it’s not making my gut curdle at the thought of all the lucky couples falling in love around me.
“What brings you to Lublin Harbor?” Koko asks.
“Oh, I’m just passing through. I was on the highway when I saw the sign for your festival and thought it sounded worth checking out.”
“You saw the sign?” Koko gives me a pleased look as if I’m a favorite student. “Most people don’t notice the sign. Only a few select people see it. Special individuals meant to be here.”
Ho boy. I’m not a read your horoscope, believe in the healing powers of crystals kinda lady. That’s more Aunt Zizi’s scene. I feel like I need to shut this down right away. But in a nice way because I don’t mess with the people who handle my food. “Oh no. I’m just passing through. I’m on my way to stay with my aunt up north.”
“Sounds like you’re looking for a fresh start.” My mouth drops open. How the hell did Koko guess that? Then I look over my shoulder and see my car packed to the gills with all my belongings.
“Um, yes. I am looking for a fresh start,” I answer but don’t give Koko any additional information. She seems like a lovely lady, but I’m getting way-too-interested vibes from her.
“So, what do you do?” Koko asks, not picking up on my increasing wariness.
“Oh, I’m a nurse.”
“Oh, how lovely. Nurses are always in demand, aren’t they?”
