The Airportline: Observations

He was talking non stop in his cell phone, pacing around the train compartment throwing out italian words as if he was appearing in an Italian rap contest. Outside the wet streets of Padova slowly lined up next to the train which hurried through rainy landscapes. We listened to my mp3-player and tried to cure the heads we forgot about last night while tucked into one of the few alternative places in what probably is one of the most stunning cities I have visited. Florence is proud and arrogant and I cast no blame. In Pop Café they played loud Hot Chip remixes and served beer from Munich. It felt like a pocket from Berlin. My friend who lives there but flew to Bangkok today bought Amaros and they were as dolce as most things are here. Now it was post Amaro time and the man had been talking since we entered the train in Florence. There was no indication that he was running out of words. He had words, some of them apparently about how bad his brother was, the others remain unclear. But he had them and there was no denying the fact that he had to get them out, outside his head, into our lives. We had no say in this. So I banged my legs to the sound of Arcade Fire and was told I looked like a boy.