Sometime around the year two-thousand. It was still high school. It was a school trip indeed. Forty, Fifty kids in a train and only a handful of professors to stop them from complete madness.
I was a weird one. We smoked joints on the train in our compartment, even though it was a non-smoking coach, because that what happens when you’re young and careless and in Italy. The trains are still the same nowadays, and if you travel from the south to the north especially at nights, during the weekends – that is a dream of hell conjured up by the eyes of Dante, a dive into the poor souls that carry their bodies from one city to the other to make visit to their beloved ones. To go back home. Home is where the heart is.
It was night and we didn’t sleep. My mind was still altered and we had to keep quiet in the train station, before the crack of dawn. I was playing guitar. Pink Floyd. Wish you were here. I struggled with the solo part. People around me and smell of cigarettes. Then my friend Emanuele came to me, Have you seen outside? he said. No. Go, then. I went outside.
A shimmering painting of water before my eyes. Venice at dawn. The city that brings you back in time. The air was stinging cold and the single cloud in the sky was burning with the flames of the rising sun. The sky was the cradle of every thought of every being.
There in that moment I felt part of the infinite.
The Hotel didn’t have rooms for all of us. The ones over eighteen years of age were given two apartments in the city. What can go wrong? Yes, I was over eighteen. We visited museums and little street, Calli, during the day. At night we would party. But that isn’t in my mind. What stays in my mind to this day is the golden air that I breathed that morning, and the shadows passing by at night, while I was coming back in my venetian home.
Treasure every moment, because you don’t know which one is going to stay.
(Image: Claude Monet, Saint-Georges majeur au crépuscule)