as many opinions as people in the bus, and even if we had asked the driver, for sure he would have illustrated us with another entirely new view.
The only one who seemed to have a precise idea of the reality of our destination was the head of the trip’s organization. He had spent several summers in that country, although in the south, on the beaches, and now we were heading to the center of the country. In that very long country there were numerous places to visit, each one having its own features.
From the southern vineyards, with its beaches and that smoky mountain always about to burst, to the fashion city of the north with one of the most recognized soccer teams in the world. One could pass through many towns and cities that had centuries-old traditions, some of them that had marked the course of the country’s history. In the case of others, they had their own architecture or an exceptionally beautiful landscape.
Rome, our final destination. For this, we had set aside Paris, Amsterdam or Madrid as candidate cities that also stood out for having one of the following two characteristics, a certain outstanding tradition and culture, and a friendly and youthful atmosphere.
Although they could have included many other cities in the list, the truth was that there were only these four possible choices, and among them Rome was chosen. None of us but one had been in the city, while for the others there were several who had been in one or another.
Back then we did not know very well what we were going to face. They had arranged everything as a group trip, the transfers, the stay, and even the food, and we only had to bring along a few lire, the local currency, to buy some souvenirs.
For that, before leaving we exchanged a small amount in the bank, although we preferred to do so at the arrival airport, because we thought the currency exchange would be more favorable in the destination country.
It was one of those things that we young people thought, that making a little money, saving the most on a few little things we could tomorrow start a large company.
Now that I remember, some of my fellow students later on became senior executives of major companies, even one of them was director of the I.M.F. (International Monetary Fund), a position that none of us dreamed of reaching, despite the influence, power, and money of some of our parents. However, of those rash and ambitious young people, what is left now?
From time to time some of us fellow graduates would meet to remember the number of decades since we graduated, but there is not a single one left of those with whom I had more contact.
The years have got all of them, despite the great fortunes that some of them managed to amass, or the many surgeries more than one had, to change a spleen, the liver or even the heart, trying to remedy the excesses of their youth, trying to cheat death. However, death eventually comes to all of us, I do not know why it has not come to me, perhaps I still have something to do, but I do not know what.
Well, now that I remember, I had a friend who after spending his fortune on donations to research centers, asking them to find for him a cure for that terrible disease that is old age, all he got was a lonely and cold six-by-two foot coffin, in an experimental center, where they keep his cryogenized body.
There he is, inert as if in a deep sleep, hoping that after a number of years, perhaps a few decades, technology advances so much that they would manage to bring him back to a much-desired very long life.
Personally, and after having survived so many and so many, I now understand that only a few years would have been enough… if I only had realized what was really important.
So much time wasted searching and desiring, not knowing the true value of every moment. I have often thought that if I had a second chance, I would change a lot of what I have done. Not that I regret something, because I have a clear conscience, but I would do it differently and even in a different sequence.
So many memories, so many experiences, and now all is left is a bunch of photos in an old album dumped in some drawer, or some of them framed and hanging on the wall, waiting for someone to come and ask me about them.
I have never been very good telling stories, because my hurry always advised me to get to the point, forgetting the details. Now, however, even if I wanted, those details no longer exist, only the photos and some notes. The rest is as if behind a thick morning mist, which conceals the landscape.
That gives me a strange feeling, sometimes of admiration and others of helplessness, knowing there are treasures behind this mist. One is certain they are there, but unreachable to me.
My wife, she was indeed exceptional remembering even the smallest details of any trip, meeting or conversation. It was amazing how clearly she could tell them. It was as if she had them in front of her to describe them.
I am still amazed remembering how she was able to recognize people she had not seen for years, and how just by seeing them she knew exactly who they were, and what she was talking with them the last time they had met.
A prodigious memory that allowed her to learn about any subject by just looking at it once.
She said that was because she had a photographic memory. I laughed telling her there was no camera, not even the more modern ones, that could record as many images as she did.
Ah, my wife! I do not think there was on the face of earth somebody as special as her. It is a shame she had to leave so soon, when we still had so much to share, so many trips to take… it seems that it was yesterday when I first met her, and instead now…
How strange memory is! It remembers everything when it wants to and some time after that only the void remains. If I only could keep my memories for a moment…! What is the point of all that I have lived if I cannot remember anything? At least my legacy will remain in my students.
Thanks to them and to their children, everything I ever knew will be available for future generations. I would be truly satisfied if at least one of them could apply what I have taught them, and that this could improve his life.
Well, again I digress…; fortunately I have here in front of me the diary of my trip, to remind me where I was. Let´s see, what did I write in my diary for that day?
“April 23rd, 1953. Today we left at ten, and went to Paris to change planes to Rome. Upon arrival a bus took us to the hotel. A charming establishment of small rooms and somewhat hard beds, but with incredible views and an exceptional location in the tourist area. First day of the adventure, sharing a room with Arthur, who snores so much that I could not sleep.”
That is what I wrote down in my notes, along with a drawing of the sign on the hotel’s doorstep, the coat of arms of the owner’s family.
Well, I do not remember too well what happened, but what is clear is that none of us spent the night at the hotel, because we wanted to tour the city and see what was not in the books.
At the end, after much walking, we had to return to the hotel discouraged and extremely tired after a boring and fruitless night. We spent the night wandering through those dark and dimly lit alleys, with a constant dimness broken only every now and then by some small streetlamp which seemed about to turn off.
And all that walking for nothing. We could not find our intended spot, where we were assured we could find a party ambiance any time of the year.
Maybe we took the wrong street, we turned at the wrong corner, or we went in the wrong direction at some plaza, and that took us away from our destination. No matter what it was, none of us was too upset, because in any event it was a real experience to be able to see the city with other colors, favored by a beautiful and bright full moon, reflecting on the walls the crooked shadows of the statues and ornaments of these medieval houses.
Our broken dreams of that night did not discourage us to take the next morning a tour of the city center, for which we had the help of a guide provided by the embassy.
He was an older man, of strong build and with a certain bohemian air, in the way he behaved and in the colorful handkerchief he carried on his neck, bent outwards.
As far as I could remember it was the first time I saw a man wearing a handkerchief as a piece of clothing. I had only seen girls using one to cover their heads when it was too windy, so that their