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Gita alla Certosa di Trisulti

5:45
Me. Falcons backpack. The Giò Style thermal bag. Coat, scarf, and wool hat. Whistling Roman songs to feel in theme. But Frosinone is 110 kilometers from Rome. So I hum a TV jingle: ♫ Nastro Azzurro ti porta lontano, lontano... ♫. I arrive at the meeting point. There's already someone who arrived two hours early for fear of being late an hour early. Everyone else arrives in dribs and drabs. Almost thirty people. Two girls, a nun, three kids. The rest are seventy-year-olds, well assorted. They chatter in low voices. I observe them. They don't chatter anymore. I turn around, they resume.

6:14
The bus arrives. Twenty thousand lire is the modest fee for this mystical experience, and the heavy, faded baroque-patterned velvet curtains justify the price. I board and take a seat. Even here, I remember the twenty thousand lire and realize that economical doesn’t rhyme with ergonomic. I’d like to pay another three thousand five hundred fifty lire (in my pocket along with fifty thousand lire), but it’s too late. We depart.

6:17
We stop at the service area. I was distracted arranging the backpack and thermal bag. I’m still fumbling with my luggage as the driver stops. I thank him, convinced he sensed my difficulty, my precarious balance. He looks at me bewildered. The vehicle empties. I don’t thank him any longer. I get off and from afar almost catch sight of the starting point. I enter the cafeteria. They talk animatedly about balls stopped by a post, about Mariana and Luis Alberto Salvatierra while powdering their faces with icing sugar. I observe them. They observe me. They continue talking but no longer about Mariana and Luis Alberto. On TV, there's football: “Cesena-Ascoli, a battle for salvation... the top scorers' ranking after the commercial...♫ Nastro Azzurro ti porta lontano, lontano... ♫“. I exit. Almost everyone has gotten back on the vehicle with their powdered faces.

6:48
We resume our journey. The jolts of the worn-out shock absorbers keep me awake. Suddenly, as if possessed, the seventy-year-old in the first row stands up and begins to sing a song for the Madonna, urging the rest of the crew to follow her with clear gestures. I hope she'll remain a solo voice. Everyone follows her with enthusiasm, and I start to think of a conspiracy behind my back. Not to be pointed out, I improvise a playback ♫ Nastro Azzurro ti porta lontano, lontano... ♫ ... and luckily they fall for it. The hairpin turns begin, and the seventy-year-old in the first row loses the desire to sing.

8:34
We arrive at our destination. Our bus huffs and stops. We get off. A group leader with a flag reading Straßlach, like a daring Messner from Bavaria, leads a platoon of limping elderly Germans. I drink a 7up. I burp, then enter the monastery. I head back outside to burp again. I go back in. The group is all within the walls, intent on observing the architecture and the frescos on the walls. They sit along the pews to better inspect the subjects on the vaults. The dare proves fatal. Narcolepsy takes over. A wave of white heads sways wildly, forming an unexpected wave. I quickly head to the exit for another burp. Everyone comes out, even the Germans, and they’ve already forgotten the walls and the vaults. After all, they are just an annoying pretext for the key moment of the trip: the restaurant. Hunger grips the horde, seated and eager. The first dish takes time to arrive, so everyone pounces on the baskets of bread and taralli. The diner next to me drops a tarallo. He picks it up from the floor, blows on it, and pops it into his mouth. I head to the toilet. Someone precedes me but fortunately stops to decipher the genders of the figures on the doors. I leap for the toilet and close the door behind me. Or not. The latch is just a decoration, so I brace my foot against it. Someone stops at the mirror. I consider that they probably don’t need the toilet. “PRRRRRRrrr”. I reevaluate my assumptions. “PRRRrrrr.... Prrr.....PPRRRRRRRRRRRRrrrr”. I hurry up. I exit. I forgot to flush, but it’s too late. A dull thud of surprising power confirms it. I return to my table, and a steaming plate of spaghetti awaits me. A repulsive analogy flashes in my mind, but pressing hunger chases it away. Meanwhile, the waiters press with the second course. They want to escort us to the door. In no time, lunch is over. I recall the twenty thousand lire. I stop by the toilet before leaving. The sink is a battlefield littered with pieces of meat and vegetables that previously lay on shaky dentures. As I leave, I greet the staff, but they don’t pay attention due to the TV’s high volume: ♫ Nastro Azzurro ti porta lontano, lontano... ♫.

19:00
The return journey is a new wave of nodding heads, in time with the tunes of “I miei successi“ by Peppino Di Capri. I find myself feeling romantic as I watch the evening lights beyond the window. The 7up from ten hours ago prompts a new, inconvenient burp, which I suppress with no small effort. Drowsiness grips me. I close my eyes, and the bus stops. We have arrived.

20:32
The caravan of suitcases, backpacks, and thermal bags disperses in various directions. I reflect on the day just passed, trying to make sense of it, and I find myself at my doorstep. I insert the key into the lock, and turning it, I glimpse a familiar shape. I'm certain I know that individual, but sleep pulls me inside the house. I close the door. From the street comes a distinct noise. “PPRRRRRRRRRRRrrrr”.
I remember.