Archive for love
But first a request from a hot and tired traveler forced to walk 6 km with a heavy manpack and suitcase. Please Mr change the screeching tone on the biglietterie. As I sit in front of the four windows with sweat dripping from my brow, onto the floor, running down my back, and, more worringly, down my legs. Harassed by a wife who wants a lesson on how to work Word on the tablet
Windows 2,3, and 4 are unexplainably closed although all waiting passengers can see them chatting in the back room.
287 – 1
288 – 2
A collective sigh of relief but ticket counter one suddenly shuts up shop. And that bloody screeching tone just goes on and on.
The bus trip from Bologna to Venice is very interesting. Farmers leave corn in the ground well after the cobs have ripened. They call this process denting. The dent corn is used for stock feed, makes plastic, fuel, starches and adhesives. Who would have thought? Lots of empty houses just waiting for a foreigner to come along and renovate. Wonder what the law is. Well the law is non existent. Anyone can buy property. And you can get a liveable 2 or 3 storied villa for under $nz1 million. In fact an old run down farmhouse in the middle of nowhere could be quite cheap. Mind you it snows here in winter and temperatures look to be equivalent to Dunedin. I will look into this when we travel south.
So, back to the trip. Alison has booked us into a bloody monastery. CENTRO CUTTARACLE DON ORIONE ANTIGINELLI is near the Peggy Guggenheim museum and is for weary travelers of all denominations to rest in a peaceful, tranquil, meditative environment free from noise and wordily distractions. Read – no phone, no pool, no pets – in the immortal words of Roger Miller. It also means, no tv, no fridge, no amenities, damask linen, a tranquility garden (where I am writing from now). Also no food in the room, no booze, no fun. I am going to fucking MAD. Already I have had a cross look from a other tranquility garden user l20 metres away as the tapping of the keys must be destroying his karma.
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Bombs will fall
He drops them a nightly message in a weighted steel tube. They’ve lived like this for months. Hard times. She reads the few words to their son, tears staining her faded coat. ‘Daddy is well. We will see him soon. He had a croissant and strawberry jam for breakfast. He sends his love.’The boy doesn’t understand. She finds it hard to understand, her husband and lover up there, her in occupied territory. He flys bombing missions. Nightly destroying the very buildings he had created. To make them free in some imagined future, in some far off time. She could only look into the black sky and hope that he could read her thougths. ‘Fly on my love. Finish this’ Tonight he will not return. He will lose his life over Amiens, when the unyielding end of a 8mm shell will explode inside his body. It will destroy his liver, spleen, pancreas, his left lung and then enter his heart where it will instantly end this nightly ritual. She will wait, night after night, boy on her hip, looking up.. ‘Daddy will come. He will have had coffee and rolls. He loves us.’ .