Genova Is Not an Escape Hatch

Saturday. Dad asked whether I keep coming because something is wrong in Milano. No. I think I come because both places are mine and I’m old enough now to choose the train instead of waiting for a holiday to move between them. There is something satisfying about deciding on Friday that tomorrow I’ll wake up in one city and go to sleep in another. The journey itself has become familiar too: bag, station, ticket, finding the seat, watching everything outside change. I bring music and usually something to read and then spend half the journey looking out the window instead. Dad met me, we ate focaccia, walked near the harbour and argued about whether my coat is warm enough. It isn’t. He wins this one.

Remember me, Eclipse.