“I went to the beach yesterday. It was grey and windy, but not too cold. I listened to the waves breaking on the beach. I watched the oyster catchers flying low over the sea. I held my hands in the water, running my fingers through the tiny pebbles and shells. I licked my fingers, tasting the saltiness on them. I collected seaglass in my pockets and threw rocks into the waves. I walked down the beach, along the water line, sometimes in the water, sometimes on the sand. But always with you. Hand in hand we walked along that beach. You found a cool rock and held it out to me, proudly. We sat on some rocks, face to face, and you tried to tame my hair—unsuccessfully. We kissed each other as the sound of the sea, and the wind, and the birds surrounded us.”

Anna

“The great thing is to burn, and not to freeze.”

Poetess at Steiner’s Party

La dolce vita (1960 written by Ennio Flaiano, Tullio Pinelli, Brunello Rondi & Federico Fellini)

Dreams—Travel

Subject: a voyage of discovery. From one place to another, another is another, and can be another still. From the couch, to a beach, and a town, in a train … and back again.

We sit down together, and I close your eyes.

“Shhhh, still everything. What do you hear first?”

You say, “the wind. It’s loud, I … don’t think it’s angry with us though, just in a hurry.”

“What else?”

“The sea. It knows exactly where it is. It’s supposed to be here. I think it’s always been here.”

“What else?”

“The birds. I can hear them everywhere. It’s like a dance. They can’t fight the wind, but they don’t have to like it; but there’s … there … you hear it? On its own.” 

You point towards a breakwater, way, way to the right, to a pair of birds. It takes a moment, but I hear it. “They’re … talking to the sea?”

“I think they are. I hear it … what else?”

“Caffè … Gilli?”

“You hear that?” I ask, and you open your eyes.

“Not. Yet.”

“Florence it is then,” I say, and take your hand. and while I know it won’t really be Florence, and the coffee won’t really be Italian—wherever we find will be, wherever we want it to be. You want Florence, so we leave in search of it, wondering what those birds and the sea were talking about.

“It’s sounded chattier, than a grotch,” you say, but I couldn’t tell. I had the wind panting in my ears.

“There, will that do?” I say, pointing way, way to the right.

“Whaddyou know?” You say, “Florence.”

You lean deeper into my shoulder.

“That was nice. Have we ever been to Florence? Tell me about it. Where did we go? What did we do?”

“You first.” I say, too comfortable for a minute.

“Ok,” you say, “I imagine warm summer evenings eating pasta in a little restaurant tucked down a side street. I imagine walking in art galleries in silence, each of us pointing out a painting, or a sculpture, that sings to us. That mirrors us.

“I imagine lying in bed in a morning, drinking coffee with the windows open to the street below, listening to the world waking up around us. I imagine trips to the market to buy cheese, and wine, and sweet treats to nibble on in the evening.

“We show each other the photos we’ve taken. You have a real talent for capturing a moment, a feeling in a photo. I just point my camera and click—I don’t have your eye. I’ve managed to cut the top of your head off in several photos. You laugh.

“We walk through Florence at sunset, wandering with no idea of where we are going. And that doesn’t matter in the slightest, because we are together, in that place and in that time. “

But of course we’ve been to Florence. We drank beer on the steps of the Duomo wandering what it was like being locked behind those giant brass doors opposite. There are kids chasing a football past tourists desperate to catch a glimpse of David, but I’ve already taken you to see the real thing.

“Go back,” you say, “start at the beginning.”

It’s only midday, but we’re waiting for our second wind. Beer seemed like a good idea. The ciabatta, a spectacular one. We left the house at midnight for 06.20 flight to Pisa.

“We have to, right?” You say. “Look, it’s like five minutes to Florence from Pisa. We can go, take some pictures—you know, the hands thing—jump on a train and be there before lunch. What say you?

I say, “Yes, darling.” Because actually, it’s a really good idea.

But we didn’t really get enough sleep before that trip. You gave me your philosophy about packing—do you remember—It had sub-genres my, love—so, no sleep that day, no sleep on the way to the airport—maybe we should’ve got a cab but [REDACTED] really wanted to drive us—and I didn’t really expect to get sleep and miss several hours of people watching? Remember the guy with the pointy cowboy-boots—they must’ve been illegal somewhere in the world.

“We’re gonna regret this—we’ve factored in being awake for thirty plus hours which can be brutal, but … we’re looking at closer to fifty. Strange stuff starts happening after a day and a half. “

“What kind of stuff?”

“Weird shit.”

“Wevs, it’s Rome. I’ll snatch a wink in the Sistine Chapple if I have to. Hey, do you think we’ll see the Pope?”

Oh boy. We were at the halfway stage of trying to squeeze “five days in Italy,” into a trip too short for an overnight bag and we’re already feeling it. But we had Rome in our sights, cameras charged, and our memory sticks racked and ready.

“You OK?”

“Yup.”

“Ready?”

“Born ready, Sir.”

“Were you though?” I asked—had to—ooh, the look, was priceless. I took a shot. It’s the one we have hanging in the dining room—the one we say is a gypsy whenever anyone asks … OUCH!”

“[REDACTED]”

Florence was gorgeous, but it was only the first step of the madness. Our train to Rome was at half twelve … in the morning. We’ll have been up a whole day, plus another whole day, minus normal sleep stuff.

And we still had a whole day in front of us?

We could sleep on the train, surely?

Yeah, well, no. The train into Rome was about two hours. Two. So no. I guess one of us could have, but no. We had plenty of coffee and a kind of plan: first we get there, and then we walk there. That was the method—kind of. It meant we’d have about four hours to check out St Paul’s and then walk to the Coliseum—if we wanted to be there for the sunrise.

“Well—I thought it’d be tough.” You’d have said, not a problem, even if you couldn’t have opened your eyes, but frankly, I’m amazed we were so—what was it—manic, a bit hyper—especially after the grappa whilst waiting for the train.

Horrible stuff, but the locals seem very proud of it.

Yeah, we’ve been to Florence, amazing trip. Ridiculous, ridiculous timetable—plan for five days, then remove the need for sleep—could we do it now? Are we even bonkers enough to try? It’d probably kill me, but I’ve never travelled any other way.

Prague was the first one. You remember? You were like, “Krakow is about eight hours by train.”

“OK,” I said. 

“We haven’t booked a hotel.” Which was true. I don’t know, it seems more fun not knowing what’s gonna happen in strange places, and let’s face it—linguistically, Prague, and Poland for that matter may as well have been the moon.

“We can sleep on the train, and have breakfast—”

“In Poland,” I finished.

“Lady With the Ermine is in Krakow.”

“Kafka,” I thought—Bollocks.

“You have the map? How far is it to Auschwitz?”

“Now you’re talking.”

“I’m maybe thinking about talking about it.”

“It’s nuts, but as long as we’re back in Prague the following day, it doesn’t matter. Besides I really want to fuck on one of those trains. Have you seen them. They’re like something out of the Cold War. And it’s going to be cold tonight. “

“Cold, you sure?”

“Minus thirty. You know what they say, minus ten here, minus ten there, add ’em together and at some point, you have real weather—yes, it’s cold. Exposed skin starts dying in ten seconds cold.”

“Is that even true?”

“[…]”

“Huh.”

Always with the looks which maim first and kill later.

You lift your head up and look at me. “But we’re still in Florence, aren’t we?”

“Drinking a beer on the steps of the Duomo, wandering what it must have been like, to’ve been locked up, behind those giant brass doors.” I say.

There was a lot in front of us, and like they say in Rome about the building of Rome, it didn’t happen overnight, it was brick by brick, they say—brick by brick.

You remember?

—JustD

*original photograph of Fresques du Duomo (Florence), taken by Raymond