story of a journey It was the ninth time that I had to deal with that trip. It was cold, the temperature dropped below freezing that morning and the only consolation was that warm quilt wrapped around my body. I knew I had to leave someone who did not want and this created feelings in me even more was that chilly weather outside. I could see the frost on the glass slowly and decline slowly, with an increasingly large lump in my throat, my tears began to fall at his own pace.
The car arrived at the school and once greeted my mother, got out and went to a group of sleepy students who were waiting for the bus smoking.
The desire to speak was almost non-existent as the desire to leave, my thoughts were fixed on that nail and had no intention of changing the subject.
A friend came up to me all excited because he was eager to stay away from home all week. I was intimate tenderness that his desire to escape from his city, that his eyes dreamer who would take the ends of the world. I was very different from her. Just like my father, I am attached to my home, my city, people who live with me. The trip for me were always symbolic, more a nuisance than a moment of relaxation, perhaps because I was forced to make so many at the wrong times. A
wrong time, just to understand, is a period of life that you would love to spend living the reality of what surrounds you in your city. Rescue us from this reality was a little 'how to live it as I wanted to stop me. It also symbolized the journey until much wrong.
That reality, that I had always wanted, that was where I was waiting and the only thing I wanted to do was to dry those tears, remove frost from the glass to see more clearly that my desire to get off the car and get there. But it was the last trip, the fifth high school after this I would not due to address other and it seemed silly not to go. I was afraid to regret all my life and the regrets I hate them. If that reality were valid, and I was sure it was, would reappear in my eyes when they return, as I had left and there were no regrets or remorse.
So there I was, in the morning smelling of cold, in front of the school to wait for the bus with a group of sleepy girls.
The morning was more abrupt than I expected. The bus did not arrive on time and when finally we saw him go down the route of high school we all hurried to pick up our luggage. But there was a rush for nothing. After about ten minutes we saw the teachers talk to the drivers and we we looked at students without knowing what was going on. Then came the news: the bus is not suitable for the journey to Paris. The news failed to warm our hearts, despite the chill that enveloped us. What does this mean? Nothing out? Cabbage as I am heartened that news. Maybe I was saved from that trip! I called my mother with the happiness of a child, I would have come to recover from that freezing cold and I would have attached the phone to give him the good news. Oh yes, he, from what little time I had let in a little fairy tale, like those who dreamed as a child, that magically was able to rebound from the ground and bring back the happiness that I deserved. God, how grateful I was him! I could only return with that 'great feeling that was growing more and more inside me, like every adolescent love that would split the world. Well, but how good it feels to love? Everything seems more beautiful and you feel invincible. Sure, so I felt at the thought of not having to get on that bus. I regained the strength that revived my spirit.
"Now we call another bus company, late departure to Paris but we get the same". Here, I fantasized too much, as usual. No phone call to mom, no return home and above all no call him. Again, the lump in my throat, and again waiting for another bus.
waited inside the school from six in the morning until four in the afternoon, students seemed more refugees. But finally came the second bus was really time to leave.
I sat in my seat and looked around: there was a face that was not tired and distraught. I looked more like a massacre on a school trip. We waited fifteen hours of travel and we were in those conditions. I removed the CD player from his bag and slipped on the headphones: a little 'music would not have done anything wrong. Here, for me the important thing for any trip is the music. I have to be accompanied by beautiful songs and through villages, towns and regions, otherwise it becomes all the more unbearable than it already is for me. And 'that's why before each departure, I do some mixed CD of songs. Obviously they must be the protagonist of Ligabue. The great and legendary league that sends its philosophy through music. I've always adored.
Browse songs: "The waves" Elisa's "Superstar" by Raf, "Amici mai" Venditti ... here is where I want to stop. How many memories, thoughts or people can be connected to a single song? Infinite. Yes I remember that afternoon, the background music was the same as now but there was someone important by my side. No it's true, maybe we were never friends, just like the song says. How I go back to that day.
close my eyes to dream and eventually I fell asleep, tired from the day that began in Prato and must end in Paris.
When I wake up we arrived in Bologna, first and last break trip. Me and my mates take the opportunity to get something to eat and stretch our legs. But yes, maybe I'm better this morning, the sleep did me good.
We go on the bus and after some talk with my friends I dive back into the world of music. "I'm alive and I'm here and I come inside and get you alone unarmed in love ..." so and so sings Claudio Baglioni I would like to see happen. This trip is really a torture and perhaps the idea of \u200b\u200bbringing the cd with me was more like an act of masochism.
I look out the window. I have to admit, the scenery is really beautiful. I almost touched the sun that is about to be lost among all that green. But because the Italians have this over-eagerness of wanting to go abroad? I would bring them all here, watching this scene with me. Some people do not realize that before you go to see other countries should see their own. I'm sure that in each there is something amazing.
At three in the morning we arrive in Paris. The legs do not feel as if you can make even colder this morning. We find the hotel, we settle into our rooms and collapsed in bed from exhaustion. The days pass slowly
following, we visited many museums I had seen in the past but I still like to see. Cabbages, nine times in Paris in eighteen years. Many would envy me. And 'my mother dragged me here. She loves this city, but I can not stand even a French accent. R bothers me that ridiculous limp. And then I Spaniards are more sympathetic, at least they are friendly with tourists.
While we make trips by bus with tour guide point out the busy city that is foreign to me and very familiar to herself. I try to catch the details: people who walked their dogs, others read, others who eat a steaming pancakes sitting on a bench. They do exactly the same things that I have seen in many of my countrymen, and yet everything seems different. I wonder if the French have the same feelings when they are in Italy. Maybe they feel lost like me now. Maybe they are afraid to leave the house in which they are accustomed and feel scared without the people who usually surround them. Probably they also listen to some songs mawkish to remember who have left home to wait.
continued the journey seemed endless. Meanwhile I was adjusting to the rhythms of the trip with my friends and co-existence with it. Finally came the last day in Paris. In the evening, when I went to bed, I did something that I love it. I put on my headphones and began to daydream. "What will become of us ..." sang Grignani. Well, I'll find out tomorrow. Perhaps I have already discovered, but still nothing is clear enough. It 'just started it all, let's figure out what time to become true. In the meantime, I can not wait to see you.
The return home is the best moment of the trip. Go back up the people you left, your family, your room that you had forgotten about you and your mess for a while ', and finally relax. Do you think for a few days have been a part of another city, a nation that perhaps you have been a little 'different than usual because you saw a bit' of the world and deep down they are happy. But basically you stay the same forever.
And so came the big day, I had been waiting all week. Moreover, a trip "forced" is nothing but the expectation of return in your city.
Up for the umpteenth time on that bus, after six days of scarrozza here and there. I looked out the window and saw my reflection on the glass. I had a special light in his eyes, that kind of light that precedes a wonderful discovery. Back home I would have taken another trip and more important. This time the bus on which I had to go was my heart.
