At the station I bought a ticket to La Spezia. I realized I was in Italy at last, feeling strong and confident. The receptionist had a point: "What a night ..."

There wasn't much to decide in La Spezia. A tall hedge of dusty bushes grew in front of the station and down beneath a harbour panted, like a whale occasionally breathing out a geyser of smells, shouts and rusty squeal. Corsica had struck me as a dingy, unsent postcard. Indeed, I had achieved the goal of my journey, or rather the goal itself came to me as a revelation, and I didn't want to brood over my ambiguous feelings any longer. I opened all the windows of that musty stronghold of my self to let some fresh air in. Why should I stay in its way and chase my own shadow as if in a circle?

I went back to the ticket office and asked the nearest train to a big city.

"In fifteen minutes to Venice, in forty to Rome," said a voice behind the counter.

I went to Venice.

I'd been there once as a young child with my parents and my brother, but I couldn't remember any details. Perhaps only the pigeons. I had cherished some exciting fantasies about the city in which fog mingled with bright sun, salty air and heavily tangled mysteries; with blurred silhouettes of Giacomo Casanova, Lorenzo da Ponte and Antonio Vivaldi, and even more blurred figures of Doge's informers, agile gondoliers and carnival masks; with the smell of fish and atmosphere of dusk in that humid city. As I soon found out I hadn't been far from the truth, but I'd had no idea of how much the city would get under my skin. It took hold of me and wouldn't let go.

At Santa Lucia station I jumped off the train, and when I came out of the building, I just groaned. Without any warning, the fireworks of a wonderful city exploded before my eyes. It was eleven o'clock at night. All that city rose in salute to me: the Canal Grande was shaking its head as if to ask why I had taken so long to come back; and on the left, the Ponte degli Scalzi encouraged me to come in, indicating that everything was ready. I had to sit on the stairs for awhile and wait until my heartbeat calmed down and I could breathe again.

I stayed in that city for three days. It didn't matter whether I was naked, or whether Venice imprinted one of its elusive masks on my face. I was happy. I was in love.

I fell in love with that city. I won't dwell on what happened during those three days, nor do I have any such intention. It was an intoxicating wedding night. I drank from the sea at the Piazza San Marco and surrendered to its charms...

At the station I bought a ticket to La Spezia. At last, I felt I was in Italy. My resolve was strong. The concierge had been right: "A night like this..."

In La Spezia there was nothing much to ponder. In front of the station grew a tall hedge of dusty shrubs and down below it the port fumed, now and again like a whale venting out smells, yells and rusty screeches. Corsica transmogrified before my eyes into a shabby, unmailed postcard. One way or another, the aim had been reached, or rather, had emerged all by itself, and I had lost all desire for continued self-dissection; having opened all the windows of my stuffy fortress and let the fresh air through, why stand in its way and go round and round in circles, chasing my own shadow?

I went back to the cash desk and asked for the nearest train to some big city.

"Venice in fifteen minutes, Rome in forty," came a voice from behind the window.

I set off to Venice.

I had been to that city before, as a small child with my parents and brother, but could remember nothing of it. Except the pigeons, perhaps. I had exhilerating visions of it, where mist mingled with sharp sunlight, salt air and deep, arcane mysteries. Fuzzy silhouettes, of Giacomo Casanova, Lorenzo da Ponte and Antonio Vivaldi. Blurrier still, figures of the Doge's informants, of swift Gondoliers and carnival masks. The stench of fish and sunsets, in a damp city. As I later came to reconfirm, I was not far from the truth, but I had not anticipated how the city would take a hold over me. Grab me, and not let go.

At Santa Lucia station I hopped off the train, and as I came out of the building I could only gasp. There before me, without warning, eruped the firework show of an enchanting city. It was eleven at night. The city bade me welcome. The Canal Grande, as though incredulously shaking its head at my tardiness, and to my left the Ponte degli Scalzi inviting me to step up, for all was made ready. I had to sit down on the steps and wait for my pulse to calm down, to get my breath back.

I stayed in that city for three days. And it mattered not whether I was stripped naked, whether Venice had pressed one of its beguiling masks over my face. I was happy. I was in love.

I was in love with a city. I shall not, I have no wish to describe those three days. It was one heady, honeymoon night. At San Marco square I had imbibed the sea, and let myself be taken...

At the station I bought a ticket to La Spezia. I finally felt like I was in Italy. I felt sturdy and sure. The receptionist was right – “what a night…”

In La Spezia, there weren’t many decisions to be made. A great fence formed of dusty bushes grew up in front of the station and the port lay heaving underneath, where like a whale it would occasionally gush forth a torrent of odours, bellows and rusty screeches. For me, Corsica had become a smudged, unsent postcard. After all, the goal had been achieved, or rather it had appeared to me of its own accord, and I didn’t want to let myself be crushed further still by more self pity. I opened all the windows of my stifling stronghold and let the fresh air rush in. What was the use in getting in the way and chasing my own shadow round and round again?

I returned to the counter and asked for the next train heading to a big city.

“Venice in fifteen minutes, Rome in forty,” came the reply from behind the glass.

I set off for Venice.

I had already visited the city as a young child with my parents and brother, but I couldn’t remember anything about it. Except for the pigeons. I had thrilling visions about them, in which fog and bright sunshine intermingled with the salty air and weighty, tangled secrets. The blurred silhouettes of Giacomo Casanova, Lorenzo da Ponte, Antonio Vivaldi… The even blurrier figures of the Doge’s informers, spritely gondoliers and carnival masks. The stench of fish and dusks in a clammy city. As I would later find out, I was not far from the truth. Yet I never anticipated how the city would seize me. It clutches and doesn’t let go.

I jumped off the train at Santa Lucia station, and when I left the building all I could do was moan. Without warning, the city burst into a beautiful explosion before my eyes. It was eleven o’clock at night. The city waved to me in greeting and the Grand Canal seemed to shake its head, disappointed that it had taken so long. To the left, the Ponte degli Scalzi was already inviting me to climb it; everything was ready. I had to sit on the stairs and wait until my pulse settled and I could breathe once again.

I stayed in the city for three days. It didn’t matter if I was naked, for Venice pressed one of its masks of delusion onto my face. I was happy. I was in love.

I had fallen in love with the city. I won’t describe those three days – nor do I want to. It was like an intoxicating wedding night. On Piazza San Marco, I drank in the sea, and let myself be carried away…

At the train station, I bought a ticket to La Spezia. I had finally realized I was in Italy. I felt solid and confident. The man at the hotel was right: “A night like this.... “

Little to think twice about in La Spezia. A tall wall of dusty bushes rose up in front of the station and beneath it, down below, lay the seething harbor, occasionally spewing, whale-like, a geyser of smells, shouting and rusty screeching. In my mind, Corsica became a grimy, unsent postcard. After all, I had reached my goal, or rather, it had revealed itself of its own accord, and I had no desire to keep on harrowing myself in bouts of self dissection: I had thrown open the windows in my musty fortress and let the fresh air flow through, why get in its way and go back to chasing my own shadow around in circles?

Back at the ticket window, I asked about the next train to some other big city.

“To Venice in fifteen minutes, Rome in forty,” came the answer from behind the glass.

I set out for Venice.

I had been there as a small child with my parents and brother, but I had no memory of the city. The pigeons, maybe. I harbored exhilarating fantasies about Venice though: mist mingling with harsh sunlight, salty air and a weighty, intricate secret. The blurred silhouettes of Giacomo Casanova, Lorenzo da Ponte and Antonio Vivaldi. Vaguer still, the Doge’s informants, lithe gondoliers and carnival masks. The stink of fish and twilight in the humid city. I was convinced that it was all close to the truth, and it was, but I had no inkling that the city would seize me like it did. Grab hold of me and not let go.

I got off at Santa Lucia. Coming out of the station, a low moan escaped me. The glory of that gorgeous city exploded in front of me without warning. It was eleven o’clock at night. The city rushed in to greet me; Canal Grande seemed to shake its head, that would take too long. To my left, the Ponte degli Scalzi beckoned me forward, everything is ready. I had to sit on the stairs and wait for my pounding heart to slow so I could catch my breath.

I stayed in the city for three days. I did not care if I were naked or if Venice had pressed one of its deceptive masks to my face. I was happy. I was in love.

I had fallen in love with the city. Those three days: I do not want to describe them and I won’t. A wedding night, heady, breathtaking. At the Piazza San Marco, I soaked up the sea and followed where I was led …

At the train station I bought a ticket to La Spezia, finally feeling I really was in Italy. I felt determined and sure of myself. The receptionist was right, ‘such a night...’
When I got to La Spezia, I didn’t have to think twice. The row of dusty bushes outside the station formed a tall fence below which the harbour heaved, occasionally letting out a geyser of smells, roars and rusty creaks like a giant whale. In that very moment, Corsica transformed itself into a grabby forgotten postcard. However, my goal was achieved or more or less revealed itself to me and I had no wish to wallow in self-pity. I opened the window of the stale fortress my body had become and let in all the fresh air; why stand in its way and continue to chase my own shadows over and over again?
I returned to the office window and asked about the next earliest train to any large city.
‘There’s a train to Venice in fifteen minutes and one to Rome in forty’, came the response from behind the window.
I set off for Venice.
I visited the city as a young child with my parents and my brother but had no memory of it; perhaps only the pigeons. I had exhilarating fantasies about the city, in which mist mixed with blazing sunshine, salty sea breeze and intricate secrets. The blurred silhouettes of Giacomo Casanova, Lorenzo Da Ponte and Antonio Vivaldi, and the even fuzzier figures of doge informers, agile gondoliers and carnival masks. The stench of fish and evening dusks in a damp city. As I found out, I wasn’t far from the truth, but I had no idea what a firm grasp this city would take on me. It would grip and hold.
I jumped off the train at the Santa Lucia station and after stepping outside of the building, let out a gentle groan. Without warning, the beautiful city exploded in front of me like fireworks. It was eleven o’clock at night. The city greeted me with the Canal Grande shaking its head as if to say ‘what took you so long’, and on the left the Ponte degli Scalzi was bidding me to enter, letting me know everything was ready. I had to sit down on the steps and wait for my heart to calm down and to catch my breath.
I stayed in the city for three days. Whether I was naked or whether Venice imprinted one of its enchanting masks onto my face was irrelevant. I was happy. I was in love.
I fell in love with a city. It don’t want to describe those three days, it would be pointless to even try. It was an intoxicating wedding night. I drunk from the sea at the San Marco square and allowed myself to be carried away...

At the station I bought a ticket to La Spezia. It sunk in, at last, that I was in Italy. I felt full of power and confidence. The receptionist was right: "What a night ..."
La Spezia left little room for hesitation. A tall fence of dusty bushes grew in front of the station, and beneath it, the harbor was panting as a whale and occasionally exhaled geysers of smells, shouts and rusty screech.
Corsica shrunk into a soiled, unsent postcard.
Indeed, the purpose was achieved , or yet it rather self-appeared, and I was reluctant to find myself again pounding in self-queries and why would I, having opened all windows of every musty fortress and letting the fresh air flow in, stand in its way and resume circling around in the chase of my very own shadow?
I went back to the cashier and inquired about the first train to the nearest big city.
" In fifteen minutes to Venice , in forty to Rome," I could hear from behind the window.
I set out to Venice.
I'd been there before with my parents and brother when I was a little child, but I had no memories of that time. Except for the pigeons. I had exciting fantasies immersed in haze and burning sun, salty air and profound,intricate mystery.The fuzzy silhouettes of Jacomo Casanova, Lorenzo de Ponte and Antonio Vivaldi.The even less distinct outlines of Doges' informants, of agile gondoliers wearing carnival masks.A smell of fish in the dusk-embraced sultry city. As I was conjuring up images , I was not quite far from the truth,and yet I didn't have a clue of how the city was about to bind its spell to me. It would grip me and never let me go.
I jumped off the train at Santa Lucia train station, and as soon as I came out of the building, I simply groaned. Without any warning, like a flash of fireworks, the majestic city blazed in front of me. It was eleven o'clock at night. The city nodded for welcome , Canale Grande was shaking its head as if wondering why it had taken so long, and to the left, Ponte degli Scalzi, was beckoning for me to step forward, everything was at the ready. I couldn't help but sit down on the stairs and wait until my racing heart calmed its beat and I was able to take a breath.
I stayed in the city for three days. And it hardly mattered if I were nude, or Venice had one of her comic masks imprinted on my face. I was happy. I was in love.

I fell in love with the city. I I am not going to, and I don't want to narrate about those three days. It was a heady wedding night. On San Marco square, I felt drunk with the sea and let myself be drifted along...

At the train station, I bought a ticket to La Spezia. It was at that moment I truly felt the spirit of Italy. I felt confident and energetic. The receptionist was right: “What a night…”
In La Spezia, I realized my mind was pretty made up. Outside the train station, down below a tall dusty hedge, there was a busy harbour where every now and then a torrent of smells, shouts and rusty screeches spewed out like a spout of water from a whale. The Corsica in front of my eyes suddenly became a grimy postcard that had been forgotten at the bottom of the case. Besides, my purpose was fulfilled, or rather, it suddenly became apparent. I didn’t want to rake over my innermost psyche again, I just opened windows to my musty fort and let the fresh air blow through. Why stand in its way and chase after my own shadow yet again?

I went back to the ticket counter and asked what time the next train that would take me to any big city was.

“Venice in fifteen minutes, Rome in forty,” said a voice behind the glass.

Venice it was.

Although I had visited the city as a small child with my parents and brother, I remembered nothing. Well, just the pigeons, really. My dreams were full of thrilling fantasies, I would see the city with the sun blazing through the haze and the briny tang in the air bringing with it complicated portentous secrets. I would gaze at the blurry silhouettes of Giacomo Casanova, Lorenzo Da Ponte and Antonio Vivaldi and blurrier still, figures of doge’s informants, nimble gondoliers and fleeting images of carnival masks. I would inhale the humid smell of fish and dusk. I could see that my dreams were not too far from the truth, though little did I envisage how much the city would hold me in its grasp. Seize and hold.

I got off at Santa Lucia and when I left the station, all I did was gasp. Without any warning, a fireworks display of a breathtakingly beautiful city exploded right there, in front of me. The time was eleven at night. The city was giving me a great welcome, the Canal Grande seemed to be admonishing me for taking so long and on the left, the Ponte degli Scalzi was inviting me to take the first step. Everything was ready. I had to sit down on the step and wait for my pulse to slow down so that I could catch my breath.

I stayed in the city for three days. It did not matter if I was naked or if Venice cast a spell on me with one of its enchanting masks. I was happy. I was in love.

I fell in love with a city. I shall not and do not want to describe those three days. It was one long exhilarating wedding night. On the Piazza San Marco I drank from the sea and let myself float adrift…

I bought a ticket to La Spezia at the railway station. Finally, realising that I was in Italy, I felt that I could now tackle the world head on. The clerk at the hotel was right: "It was a night to remember...".

Looking at the railway station, its front lined with a scraggy hedge of dusty bushes, overlooking the bustling port below that, like some beached whale, would every now and again spew out a stinking, bawling, rust-screeching geyser. I knew that I had had enough of La Spezia. Corsica had now morphed into a grubby unsent postcard. In any case, I found what I was looking for, or rather, it found me and I was in no mood for the distraction of deep self-reflection. I opened all the windows of my musty fortress, getting out of the way of the fresh gust of air. I had no intention of chasing my own shadows.

I returned to the ticket desk and asked about the next train to a big city, any city.

"Venice in fifteen, Rome in forty", said a voice from behind the glass.

So Venice it was.

I know that I had visited this city with my brother when I was still a child, though all memories had faded by now, apart from the pigeons perhaps. In my mind, Venice aroused a choking image of fog, sharp sunlight and salty air - all cloaked in mystery. The dreamy images of Giacomo Casanova, Lorenzo Da Ponte and Antonio Vivaldi set, in the hazier still, world of the Doge's informers, nimble gondoliers and carnival masks soaked in that pervasive fish smell of a humid evening would prove to be all too fateful. I could not have foreseen the force with which its tendrils would grab, hold and draw me in.

I got off of the train at Santa Lucia station. On exiting the building, I stood in shock, paralysed in awe. Without any warning a beautiful city had exploded in my face. Eleven o'clock in the evening. The town sucked me in, it was as if Grand Canal gazed at me with disbelief, not understanding what took me so long. To my left Ponte degli Scalzi lured me to approach, assuring me that everything was as it should be. I stumbled to sit down on some steps, my heart painfully cramped, I had to take a few moments to regain my breath.

I spent three days in that city. I was oblivious to whether I was naked or if Venice had stuck one of its sneering masks on my face. I couldn't care less. I was overwhelmed with joy. I had fallen in love.

That city! I do not intend, to nor will I describe these three days. It was an intoxicating wedding night. On San Marco Square I drank the sea and allowed myself to be seduced...

I bought a ticket to La Spezia at the station. Finally, I started to realize that I am in Italy. I felt firm and confident. The receptionist had been right: “Such a night…”

In La Spezia, there was not much to decide. A high hedge of dusty bushes grew in front of the station; below, the harbour was wheezing, expelling once in a while a whale-like spout of dust, bellows and rusty grinding. To me, Corsica changed into a smeared, unsent postcard. Anyway I had reached my goal, or rather it had reached me itself and, unwilling to further dissolve in any self-dissection, I opened all the windows of my musty fortress and let the fresh air in; after all, why to stand in its way and chase one’s tail?

I returned to the ticket office and asked about the next train to some big city.

“Venice, in fifteen minutes, Rome, in forty minutes,” I heard from behind the glass.

I set off for Venice.

I had already been in the city as a child together with my parents and my brother, but I did not remember anything from the experience. Perhaps but the pigeons. The city provoked thrilling fantasies in me, featuring haze mixed with radiant sunshine, salty air and heavy tangled secrets. Blurry silhouettes of Giacomo Casanova, Lorenzo da Ponte and Antonio Vivaldi. Even blurrier figures of doges’ informers, nimble gondoliers and carnival masks. The smell of fish and twilight in a big city. As I came to know, I was not far from the truth, but I had no idea how the city would grasp me. Seize me and not let go.

I jumped off the train at Santa Lucia Station and upon leaving the building, I let out a deep sigh. Without warning, a firework display of a magnificent city exploded before my eyes. It was eleven o’clock in the evening. The city waved at me, with the Grand Canal nearly shaking its head over me being so late, while the Ponte degli Scalzi on the left was already inviting me to enter for everything was prepared. I had to sit down on the stairs and wait until my pulse slowed and I could breathe easily.

I stayed in the city for three days. And it did not matter whether bare or whether Venice imprinted one of its delusive masks into my face. I was happy. I was in love.

I fell in love with a city. I will not and do not want to describe those three days. It was a heady wedding night. In San Marco square I drank from the sea and let it guide me…

At the station, I bought a ticket to La Spezia. Finally I sensed I was in Italy. I felt strong and self-confident. The receptionist was right: "What a night..."

There wasn't much to choose from in La Spezia. The front of the station was fringed by a high hedge of dusty bush and below panted a port, which now and then puffed out a cloud of smell, yells and rusty squeaking. Corsica turned into a grimy, unsent postcard. After all, the goal was achieved, or rather, appeared to me on its own; not wanting to further dawdle away with self-analysis, I opened all the windows of my musty fortress and let fresh air flow in. Why stand in its way and move in circles chasing my own shadow?

I went back to the ticket office and asked for the first train to a large city.

"There's one to Venice in fifteen minutes, another to Rome in forty," a voice answered from behind the counter.

I set off to Venice.

I visited the city as a young boy with my parents and brother, but remembered nothing. Pigeons perhaps. I had exciting day-dreams about the place, a mingle of fog and sharp sunlight, salty air and heavy, tangled secrets. Blurred silhouettes of Giacomo Casanova, Lorenzo de Ponte and Antonio Vivaldi. Even blurrier figures of doge-informers, nimble gondoliers and carnival masks. The smell of fish and dusk in a humid town. As I was to realize, I wasn't so far from the truth, but little did I know how firmly the city was going to grasp me. Clutch and never let go.

At Santa Lucia station, I jumped off the train and when I left the building, I couldn't help sighing. Without warning, a firework of a magnificent city exploded in front of my eyes. It was eleven p.m. The city beckoned to me, Canal Grande seemed to shake its head disaprovingly at how long it took me and on my left, Ponte degli Scalzi bid me to step in, indicating all was ready. I had to sit down on the stairs and wait until my heartbeat calmed down so that I could breathe in.

I stayed three days. No matter whether I was naked or Venice covered my face with one of its charming masks. I was happy. I was in love.

I fell in love with the city. I will not and don't even wish to describe those three days. It was an intoxicating wedding night. I took a drink from the sea at San Marco square and went with the flow...

At the train station, I bought a ticket to La Spezia. Finally I realized that I am in Italy. I felt strong and sure; the receptionist had been right: “What a night…”

La Spezia did not offer much to consider. In front of the train station grew a large fence of dusty bushes and down below it a harbor whistled and sometimes exhaled, like a whale, a geyser of odors, whoops, and rusty screeching. Before my eyes, Corse had transformed into a grimy, unsent postcard. Otherwise, the goal had been achieved, or rather it had appeared to me on its own and I did not want to grind myself further with more self-scrutiny, so I opened all the windows of my dank fort and let the fresh air flow; why stand in its way and chase your own shadow in circles yet again?

I went back to the ticket office and inquired after the next train to a large city.

“In 15 minutes to Venice, in 40 to Rome,” came from behind the window.

I set out for Venice.

I had been in that city already, as a small child with my parents and my brother, but I did not remember any of it. Maybe just pigeons. I had disturbing fantasies about it in which fog, harsh sun, salty air and heavy, tangled secrets all fused together. Blurry silhouettes of Giacomo Casanova, Lorenzo de Ponte and Antonio Vivaldi. Even blurrier figures of the doge’s informants, agile gondoliers, and carnival masks. The odor of fish and dusk in the humid city. As I had convinced myself, I was not far from the truth but I had no idea just how that city would clench me. It takes hold and doesn’t let go.

In the station of Santa Lucia I jumped from the train and when I left the building, I uttered a groan. In front of me, without warning, exploded a firework of a beautiful city. It was 11:00 at night. The city rose up to meet me, the Canal Grande seemed to shake its head at how long it took me to get there, and on the left the Ponte degli Scalzi urged me to just step in, that everything was ready. I had to sit on the steps and wait for my pulse to slow so I could take a breath.

I stayed in that city three days. It did not matter whether I was bare, because Venice imprinted one of its deceptive masks on my face. I was happy. I was in love.

I fell in love with a city. I will not and I don’t want to describe those three days. It was an intoxicating wedding night. In Saint Marco Square, I drank in the sea and let it lead me…

After having bought a ticket to La Spezia at the train station, I realized I was in Italy at last, feeling strong and confident. The receptionist was right: “What a night…“

Not much made a difference in La Spezia. There was a tall hedge of dusty bushes growing in front of the station; and roaring noises, rusty creaks and puffing sounds of the harbor expelling a whale-like gusher of odors were coming from beneath. Corsica turned into a dingy, unsent postcard. Indeed, the objective had been reached, or rather had unfolded itself and I had no intention of further musing over it. Having opened all the windows of my stale fortress to let some fresh air in, why would I stand in the way, going round in circles, following my own shadow again?

I returned to the ticket office and asked for the next train to a big city.

“In fifteen minutes to Venice, in forty to Rome,” said a voice behind the counter.

I set off for Venice.

I’d been there once as a small child with my parents and my brother, but I couldn’t remember details. Perhaps only the pigeons. I’d had some exciting fantasies about that city, blending mist with sharp sun, salty air and entangled dark secrets: blurry silhouettes of Giacomo Casanova, Lorenzo de Ponte and Antonio Vivaldi; even blurrier figures of Doge’s informers, agile gondoliers and carnival masques; with the smell of fish and sunsets in that humid city. As I soon found out I hadn’t been far from the truth, but what I hadn’t known was how tight the city would grasp me; a grasp that wouldn’t let go.

I jumped off the train at the Santa Lucia but when I came out of the building, I could not help but groan. With no warning ahead, the fireworks of the beautiful city exploded in front of me. It was eleven o’clock at night. The city waved its hand as if greeting me and the Grand Canal was shaking its head as if asking why it had taken me so long to come back; and on the left, Ponte degli Scalzi encouraged me to enter as if everything was ready. I had to sit on the stairs and wait for my heartbeat to calm down until I could breathe again.

I only stayed in that city for three days. It didn’t matter whether I was naked, or whether Venice imprinted one of its elusive masks on my face. I was happy. I was in love.

I fell in love with that city. I will not and I do not want to describe those three days. It was like touching mountainous height on a wedding night. I drank from the sea at Piazza San Marco and surrendered to its charms…

At the station I bought a ticket to La Spezia. I finally felt like I was in Italy. I was settled and confident. The receptionist had been right: „On a night like this…“

There was not a lot to sway one in La Spezia. A tall hedge of dusty shrubs grew in front of the station, below which the harbour chugged and, like a whale, emitted occasional torrents of smells, shouts and rusty creaking. Corsica had become a grimy, unsent postcard. Nevertheless its purpose had been served, or rather it appeared there in front of me, so that I no longer wished to grind myself down with any further introspection. Why resist while continuing to chase my own shadow? I opened all the windows in my stuffy garret and let the fresh air stream in.

Returning to the ticket office I inquired about the next train to any big city.

„Venice in fifteen, Rome in forty,“ I heard from behind the window.

I set off for Venice.

I had been there as a young child with my parents and brother, but remembered little. Save perhaps the pigeons. I had thrilling fantasies about it, a mixture of fog and bright sunlight, salty air and grave, twisted secrets. Hazy silhouettes of Giacomo Casanova, Lorenzo da Ponte and Antonio Vivaldi. Hazier still, figures of the Doge informants, of skilful gondoliers and carnival masks. The stench of fish and dusk in a damp city. As it turned out, I was not far from the truth, though I did not foresee how the city would grip me. Grip hold of me and not let me go.

I jumped off the train at Santa Lucia and as I stepped out of the building, let out a sigh. Without warning, the city’s beauty exploded in front of me like fireworks. It was eleven o’clock at night. The city bade me welcome, the Grand Canal shaking its head that I’d taken so long, the Ponte degli Scalzi on the left inviting me to enter, assuring me that everything was ready. I had to sit down and wait for my pulse to slow just to catch my breath.

I remained in the city for three days. It wouldn’t have mattered if I had been naked or if Venice had branded one of its beguiling masks on my face. I was happy. I was in love.

I had fallen in love with a city. I don’t wish to describe those three days, and I won’t. It was an intoxicating honeymoon. I drank in the sea by St. Mark’s Square and allowed myself to be led…

I bought a ticket to La Spezia on the train station. I was finally able to apprehend that I was in Italy. I felt strong and certain. The receptionist was right: ‘What a night...’
There was not much to decide on in La Spezia. A tall fence made up of dusty bushes grew in front of the train station and under it, puffed the harbour, which just like a whale occasionally exhaled a gush of smells, shouts and rusty creaking. To me, Corsica turned into a grubby, unsent postcard. After all, the goal was achieved, or rather it appeared to me by itself, and I no longer wanted to drown myself in any more self analysis, I opened all the windows of my musty fortress and let the fresh air stream in, why then stand in its way and run in a circle after my own shadow again?

I returned to the ticket office and asked about the nearest train to any big city.

‘In fifteen minutes to Venice, in forty to Rome,’ came from behind the window.

I set off for Venice.

I was in the city as a small child with my parents and brother, but I did not remember any of it. Perhaps only the pigeons. I had thrilling fantasies about it, with the mixtures of fog and bright sun, salty air and heavy tangled secrets. Blurry silhouettes of Giacoma Casanova, Lorenzo da Ponte and Antonio Vivaldi. Even blurrier shapes of the Doge’s informers, agile gondoliers and carnival masks. The smell of fish and dusks in a humid city. As I found out, I was not far from the truth, though I did not suspect how the city would grasp me. Grab with no release.

I jumped out of the train at the Santa Lucia station and after I exited the building I merely groaned. Without any warning, a bonfire of a breathtaking city exploded in front of me. It was eleven o’clock at night. The city was greeting me, Canal Grande looked as if shaking its head on account to why it had taken so long and on the left, Ponte degli Scalzi was encouraging me to come in, that everything is prepared. I had to sit down on the steps and wait for my pulse to slow down and for me to be able to breathe again.

I stayed in the city for three days. And it was indifferent to whether I was naked or whether Venice imprinted one of its delusive masks on my face. I was happy. I was in love.

I fell in love with a city. I do not want to and will not describe these three days. It was an intoxicating wedding night. I drank the sea on the San Marco square and let myself be guided...

At the station I bought a ticket to La Spezia. Finally I could feel that I am in Italy. I felt firm and sure. The receptionist was right: "What a night..."

There wasn't much to be achieved in La Spezia. The station sat panting under the dusty shrubs of the tall hedge in front. It looked as if the building was a whale that occasionally spewed out a gush of smells, shouts and strident squeaks. Corsica turned into a discoloured, unsent postcard right in front of my eyes. All other destinations have been reached; or rather they have revealed themselves to me out of their own initiative. I did not want any more to restrain myself, to question myself. I opened up each and every window of my musty fortress to let fresh air surge in. Why would I stand in its way, and follow my own shadow round and round!?

I returned to the ticket office to ask when the next train to any major city is.

"In thirty minutes to Venice and in forty minutes to Rome" sounded the voice from behind the glass window.

Off I went to Venice.

I had been in that city before, with my parents and brother as a child, but I remembered nothing of it. Perhaps only the pigeons. I had vivid fantasies of them involving the fog and harsh sunlight, salty air mixed with dark tangled secrets. Blurred shadows of Giacomo Casanova, Lorenzo Da Ponte and Antonio Vivaldi. Some even blurrier figures of the spies of the Doge of Venice, swift gondoliers and carnival masks. The damp city smelt of fish and twilight. As it turned out, I wasn't too far from truth, but I could not have thought what kind of grip the city would have on me. It took me captive, never to be released.

At Santa Lucia station I jumped off the train, and when I left the building a groan left my lips. The fireworks of a mesmerizing city burst into bloom in front of me, without warning. It was eleven o'clock at night. The city gestured her greeting. Canal Grande shook its head, as if to ask what took me so long. To the left I was being invited in by Ponte degli Scalzi, to just come, everything had already been prepared. I had to sit down on the stairs to wait until my heartbeat calmed and I was able to breathe again.

I stayed in the city for three days. And it didn't matter whether I was naked or wearing one of the delusive masks Venice put on my face. I was happy. I was in love.

I fell in love with a city. I will not describe these three days, I don't want to. It was an intoxicating wedding night. On San Marco Square I drank of the sea and let myself be led...

At the rail station I bought a ticket for La Spezia. Finally, I had the sensation that I'm in Italy. I felt steady and secure. The receptionist was right: „A night like this…“

There wasn't much to decide on in La Spezia. A high fence of dust coated shrubs rose before the train station, and underneath it rattled the port, like a whale puffing out a gush of odours, yells and rusty squeaks. Corsica became to me a smudged postcard that has never been sent. Besides, the goal has been reached, or rather, it appeared by itself in front of me and I intended not grind on in further self-dissection; I opened all the windows of my stale fortress and let the fresh air in; why then stand in its way and chase one's own shadow in a circle again?

I went back to the ticket counter and asked about the next train to any big city.

„One in fifteen minutes for Venice, and one in forty for Rome“, came the reply from behind the counter.

I set out for Venice.

I've been to that city as a small child with my parents and brother, but had no recollection of it. Perhaps only of the pigeons. I uppheld exciting fantasies about the city, in which medled mist and intense sunshine, the salty air and heavy intricate secrets. The blurred silhouettes of Giacomo Casanova, Lorenzo de Ponte and Antonio Vivaldi. The even more faceless figures of the Doge's informers, jaunty gondoliers and carnival masks. The smell of fish and twilights in the humid city. As I ascertained, I wasn't far from the truth, but I didn't suspect how this city will enclose me. Hold me in and never let free.

I hopped off of the train at Santa Lucia rail station and when I emerged from the building I just panted. Before me, without a warning, a firework of the magnificent city erupted. The time was eleven at night. The city beckoned my welcome, the Canal Grande, as if shaking its head in disbelief that it had taken me so long and on the left, the Ponte degli Scalzi, just now luring me to make a step, assuring everything is ready. I had to sit down on the stairs and wait until my pulse would settle and I'd be able to take a breath.

I stopped in this city for three days. And it didn't make a difference whether I was naked, because Venice squeezed one of its rambling masks on my face. I was happy. I was in love.

I fell in love with this city. I will not and I don't want to describe these three days. It was an intoxicating wedding night. I tasted the sea on St. Mark's Square and let myself guide...

At the railway station I bought a ticket to La Spezia. At last I could sense I was in Italy. I felt firm and assured. The receptionist was right: “A night like that...”

In front of the station grew tall a hedge fence, made up of dusty shrubs, and down under, panting, was the port, from time to time breathing out, whale-like, a geyser of scents, bellows, and rusty squeaks. Corsica, for me, turned into a shabby unsent postcard. After all, the goal had already been achieved, or rather it revealed itself to me, and I did not want to keep spreading myself thin in further self-examinations, I had opened up all the windows of my stale fortress and let fresh air flow through, so why stand in its way and chase my own shadow in circles again?

I returned to the ticket office and asked about next train leaving for a city.

“Venice in 15 minutes, Rome in 40,” came from behind the counter.

I set out for Venice.

I had already been to that city as a small child with parents and brother, but recalled none of it. Save for pigeons. I was weaving arousing fantasies about it, in which mist was blending with bright sunlight, salty air, and heavy, convoluted mysteries. Blurry silhouettes of Giacomo Casanova, Lorenzo Da Ponte, and Antonio Vivaldi. Even blurrier figures of Doge’s informers, nimble gondoliers, and carnival masks. The smell of fish and sunsets in a humid city. As I later found out, this was not too far off, but I did not anticipate how tightly the city would grip me. Grip and not let go.

I jumped off the train at Santa Lucia station, and on leaving the building, I let out but a groan. Without a forewarning, the fireworks of a wonderful city exploded in front of me. It was 11pm. The city was greeting me, Canal Grande was as if shaking its had over how long it took me, and on the left, Ponte degli Scalzi was inviting me to just come in, that all preparations had been made. I had to sit down on steps and wait for my heartbeat to slow down, so that I could breathe in.

I stayed in that city for three days. And it mattered not whether I was naked, for Venice attached one of its enchanting masks onto my face. I was happy. I was in love.

I fell in love with the city. I shall not and want not describe the three days. It was an intoxicating wedding night. In San Marco square, I partook of the sea, and just followed...

I bought a ticket at the station. Just now I started fully absorbing Italy. I felt firm and confident. The receptionist was right: ‘What a night….’

In La Spezia there was not much to consider. A tall dusty hedge was rising ahead of the station and down under it the harbour was snorting, periodically exhaling torrents of odours, holler and rusty squeaking like a whale. Corsica has turned into a smeared, misplaced postcard. After all, the goal has been achieved, or it simply exposed itself and I didn’t want to pulverize any more in further self-dissecting. I opened all windows of my musty fort and let the fresh breeze rush in; what to stand in its way for and chase my own shadow again?

I went back to the ticket office and asked about the next train to any big city.

‘In fifteen minutes to Venice, in forty to Rome,’ the ticket cashier informed.

I set out for Venice.

I visited that city with my parents and a brother when I was a child but I didn’t remember anything from that time. Probably just the pigeons. It stirred up exciting fantasies in my head in which a mist and blazing sun, salty air and heavy knotty secrets wavered. Blurry silhouettes of Giacomo Casanova, Lorenzo de Ponte and Antonio Vivaldi. Even blurrier figures of Doge’s snitches, agile gondoliers and carnival masques. The odour of fish and dusk in a clammy city. As it proved later I wasn’t far from the truth but I had no idea how much the city would embrace me. Grasp and wouldn’t let go.

At the Santa Lucia station I jumped out of the train and standing outside I indeed let out a groan. A firework of stunning city exploded right in front of me without any warning. It was eleven o‘clock at night. The city saluted me, Canal Grande shook its head as if in disbelief it took so long and Ponte degli Scalzi on the left was prodding me into entering saying that everything was ready. I had to rest on the steps, pause to slow down my racing pulse and take a breath.

I stayed in the city for three days. And it didn’t matter if I was naked or Venice put on me one of its deluding masques. I was in high spirits. I was in love.

I fell in love with the city. I don’t want to and will not talk about those three days in details. It was an intoxicating wedding night. I sipped from the sea in the St. Mark’s square and dived in the city…..

At the station, I bought a ticket to La Spezia. At last I was aware that I am in Italy. I felt firm and confident. The receptionist was right when he said: ”What a night...”

In La Spezia, there wasn’t much to decide on. In front of the station a high fence made up of dusty bushes was growing and down below, the port panted, at times blowing out like a whale a geyser of odours, shouts and rusty squeaks. I began to perceive Corsica as merely a smeared unsent postcard but the goal, after all, was achieved, or, rather, it revealed itself to me, and I didn’t want to continue diluting myself in further post-mortems; I opened all the windows of my stuffy fortress and let the fresh air in, so why should I be standing in its way and once again go in circles and chase my own shadow?

I returned to the ticket office and asked about the nearest train to some large city.

“In fifteen minutes, there will be one to Venice, and in forty to Rome,” said someone behind the counter.

And so I went to Venice.

I had visited this city before, as a small child, with my parents and brother, but did not remember anything with the possible exception of the pigeons. What I did have, though, were some exciting fantasies in which fog mingled with sharp sunlight and salty air with heavy, intricate secrets; in these fantasies, I also saw blurred silhouettes of Giacomo Casanova, Lorenzo da Ponte and Antonio Vivaldi, and even more blurred figures of doge’s informers, swift gondoliers and carnival masks, as well as sensing the smell of fish and dusks in a humid city. It actually hadn’t been far from truth, as I found out, but I had no idea how the city would seize me, hold me in its grip and won’t let go.

At the Santa Lucia station, I jumped out of the train, but when I walked out of the building, all that I did was groan out - in front of me, without a warning, a firework of a beautiful city exploded. It was eleven o’clock in the evening and the city waved hello, with Canal Grande shaking – or so it seemed - its head that it took me so long, while on my left, the Ponte degli Scalzi was already inviting me to step on without hesitation because everything was prepared. I had to sit down on some steps and wait until my pulse calmed down so that I could take a fresh breath.

I stayed in that city for three days and it didn’t matter whether I was naked or whether Venice pressed onto my face one of its deceptive masks. I was happy, I was in love.

I fell in love with a city. I’m not going to describe the three days but it was an intoxicating wedding night. On Square San Marco, I had a drink from the sea and then just let myself be guided...

At the station, I purchased a ticket to La Spezia. At last, I was able to sense my presence in Italy. I felt firm and assured. The receptionist had been right: “Such a night…”
There was not much to decide upon in La Spezia. In front of the station grew a tall hedge formed by shrubs covered in dust, and below it, the harbour puffed and panted, from time to time exhaling a jet of smells, hollers and rusty creaking. For me, Corsica had changed into a grimy, unsent postcard. Besides, the target had been achieved, or rather, had revealed itself to me, and I had no wish to reduce myself by further self-examinations; had I not thrust open all windows of my stale fortress and allowed the fresh air to flow through? So why stand in its way and chase my own shadow in circles again?
I returned to the ticked office and asked for the next train to any large city.
“In fifteen minutes to Venice, in forty to Rome” said a voice behind the counter.
So I set off to Venice.
I had been to this city as a small child, together with my parents and my brother, but I could not remember anything. Perhaps only the doves. Exciting fantasies about this city run through my mind, in which mist and the piercing sun intertwined with salty air and heavy, intricate secrets. Blurred outlines of Giacomo Casanova, Lorenzo da Ponte and Antonio Vivaldi. Even more blurred figures of doge narcs, agile gondoliers and carnival masks. The smell of fish and dusk of a damp city. As I learned later, I had not been far from the truth, but I had not anticipated how much this city would get hold of me. Grip me and not let go.
At the Santa Lucia station, I jumped of the train, and I all I could after I stepped outside the building was moan. Without warning, the fireworks of a beautiful city exploded before me. It was eleven at night. This city was waving to me in welcome, Canal Grande seemed to shake its head in disapproval that it had taken me so long, and to my left, Ponte degli Scalzi was beckoning me to enter, everything set ready. All I had to do was to sit down on the steps and wait for my pulse to quieten down and to recover my breath.
For three days, I stayed in this city. And it was of no consequence whether I was naked or whether Venice impressed on of its deceitful masks on me. I was happy. I was in love.
I had fallen in love with the city. I neither will nor want to describe these three days. It was an intoxicating wedding night. On the San Marco square, I drunk the sea and allowed myself to be led away….

At the stazione, I bought my ticket to La Spezia. I finally realized I was in Italy. Feeling strong and confident, I thought the desk clerk was right, “Such a night...”

There was not too much to deal with in La Spezia. A formerly green fence layered with dust in front of the railway station and down there, a noisy harbor, at times expelling like a whale a flood of bad smells, roar, and rusty squeaking. For me, Corsica turned to a well-thumbed picture card, never posted. Anyway, the goal has been reached, or rather it revealed to me itself. I didn't mean to torture myself in further self-examination, so I opened all the windows of my musty fortress and let the fresh air in. Why again to block the way, run in circles, and chase my own shadow?

I popped back to the ticket office and asked for the earliest connection to some major city.

“Train to Venice leaves in fifteen minutes, Rome in forty,” said the voice behind the counter.

So I set out to Venice.

Although I was in that city with my brother and parents when I was a little child, I can't remember anything of it – perhaps except of pigeons. Still I excitingly fantasized about sun-glare blending with fog, salt air, and weighty tangled secrets. Blurred contours of Messrs. Giacomo Casanova, Lorenzo da Ponte and Antonio Vivaldi. And even more blurred figures of doge's nightingales, nimble gondoliers and carnival masks. Fishy smell under stinky dawns in the damp city. As I saw for myself, I wasn't wide of the mark. But I couldn't have guessed how strong that city would take me into its arms, getting hold of me and won't be letting go.

I jumped out of my train at Santa Lucia station and no sooner had I left the building, than I uttered a simple quiet, “wow”. Fireworks of a breathtakingly beautiful city displayed before me, “without prior notice,” as a lawyer would say. It was eleven o'clock that night. The city waved to me, Canal Grande shaking its head silently in complaint, that it took me ages to be along. Then there was a Ponte degli Scalzi on my left, urging me to walk in, “everything is ready, Sir.” I just had to sit down on the stairs and wait until my heart stops racing and I catch my breath again.

I stayed in the city for three days. No matter if naked or hidden through some of the crazy deluding masks of Venice, I was happy. And head over heels in love.

I fell in love with la cittá. I don't want to portray these three days and I won't be. It simply was a heady wedding night. On the Piazza San Marco, I got a whiff of the sea and followed its lead...

At the train station I bought a ticket to La Spezia. After all, I felt I am in Italy. I felt strong and confident. The receptionist was right: “What a night…”

In La Spezia there wasn’t much to make up one's mind. A high hedge made out of dusty shrubs grew in front of the station and the port down below panted and like a wheal, time to time, breathed out a geyser of smells, shouts and rusty squeaks.
To me, Corsica has changed to a dirty, undispatched post card. After all, the goal was achieved, or more precisely it revealed itself to me and I didn’t want to divide myself in another self-raking any longer, I opened all windows of my rotten fortress and let the fresh air flow, why to stay in its way chasing your own shadow in another circle?

I returned to the cashier and asked for the next train to any large city.

“In fifteen minutes to Venetia, in forty to Rome,” sounded from behind the counter.

I went to Venetia.

I was already in that city with my parents and my brother as a little child, but I remembered nothing, perhaps, pigeons only. About the city I had some exciting fantasies in which the mist had meddled with the sharp sun, salty air and heavy tangled secrets; Giacomo Casanova, Lorenzo Da Ponte and Antonio Vivaldi blurry silhouettes; And even blurrier figures of doge's informers, nimble gondoliers and carnival masks; The smells of fish and dusks in a damp city. As I found, I wasn’t too far from the truth, but I didn’t foresee how this city would embrace me, grasp me and wouldn't let release me.

I hopped off the train at the Santa Lucia train station and I just sighed when I left the building. A firework of gorgeous city exploded without any warning in front of me. It was eleven pm. The city greeted me in welcome, the Canal Grande looked like it shook its head that it took so long, and the Ponte degli Scalzi, on the left side, already encouraged me just to enter that everything is ready. I had to sit down on stares and wait until my pulse calmed down and I could catch a breath.

I stayed three days in that city. It didn’t matter whether I was naked or whether Venetia imprinted one of its enchanting masks into my face. I was happy. I was in love.

I felt in love with this city. I will not describe, as I don’t want, these three days. It was an intoxicating wedding night. At the San Marco square, I drunk the sea and let be steered…