From The Snow to the Sea
The day started too early after too many beers last night – the fire swelled my eyes and the sweaty sickly stench of Swiss marijuana wafted and lifted through the flames. Americans tried hard to find the reason for sitting around a fire when it was almost zero and climate control was in full swing 20 paces away.
It was a good night left and forgotten in the haze and fresh air. I watched the sun rise one final time above Gryon, from the train station where the only one awake was the postman who had come to know exactly what I wanted before I asked in broken French – it was always half a dozen air stamps for Australia. I wrote a note before I left, promising to return and trying my best to say thankyou for what had been given me in six short days.
Heading down the mountain to Bex I tried not to look back but found myself scanning the cliff face for the chalet, wondering if anyone had risen yet to read my note.
I jumped aboard for Sion and deliberately sat in the empty first class, waiting to be told to move. I got all the way to Martigny before anyone bothered to move me – the chairs are so much comfier there but an empty carriage is no fun. At Sion a beggar dressed better than me extracted 10 Francs from empty Americans swapping stories about condo buying in Manhattan.
“I have an interesting question for you – do you have one Franc,” I was still trying to figure out what was interesting about that while the women, giggling, handed over a Franc each and then the short cut blonde with the navy blue skivvy was offering more in Euros, feigning to ask whether he would take the coins.
I fell asleep to Elliott Smith and awoke at Milan.
It rained, it rained real hard in Genova as an educated multi-lingual man from Benin left me his address in the hope I would find him an Australia wife. Ibrahim Mousta is 6ft’1 and 85kgs, carries two mobile phones. He has been living in Italy for five years and can speak French and English – interested applicants should write to him at pha-via-e, Mattei 7, Albino or call him direct on 3207149564.
The Polizia inspected my passport at Genova and then escorted a beggar from the warmth of a waiting room. It was still raining hard, falling down. I waited for the train to Riomaggiore – Cinque Terra.
Now I’m here, watching an electrical storm over the Tyrrhenian Sea after pizza and beer for €11, too much I know but my legs were tired.
It was a good night left and forgotten in the haze and fresh air. I watched the sun rise one final time above Gryon, from the train station where the only one awake was the postman who had come to know exactly what I wanted before I asked in broken French – it was always half a dozen air stamps for Australia. I wrote a note before I left, promising to return and trying my best to say thankyou for what had been given me in six short days.
Heading down the mountain to Bex I tried not to look back but found myself scanning the cliff face for the chalet, wondering if anyone had risen yet to read my note.
I jumped aboard for Sion and deliberately sat in the empty first class, waiting to be told to move. I got all the way to Martigny before anyone bothered to move me – the chairs are so much comfier there but an empty carriage is no fun. At Sion a beggar dressed better than me extracted 10 Francs from empty Americans swapping stories about condo buying in Manhattan.
“I have an interesting question for you – do you have one Franc,” I was still trying to figure out what was interesting about that while the women, giggling, handed over a Franc each and then the short cut blonde with the navy blue skivvy was offering more in Euros, feigning to ask whether he would take the coins.
I fell asleep to Elliott Smith and awoke at Milan.
It rained, it rained real hard in Genova as an educated multi-lingual man from Benin left me his address in the hope I would find him an Australia wife. Ibrahim Mousta is 6ft’1 and 85kgs, carries two mobile phones. He has been living in Italy for five years and can speak French and English – interested applicants should write to him at pha-via-e, Mattei 7, Albino or call him direct on 3207149564.
The Polizia inspected my passport at Genova and then escorted a beggar from the warmth of a waiting room. It was still raining hard, falling down. I waited for the train to Riomaggiore – Cinque Terra.
Now I’m here, watching an electrical storm over the Tyrrhenian Sea after pizza and beer for €11, too much I know but my legs were tired.
posted by Peter Veness at 5:02 am
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home