From the waiting room of Bologna station

All life passes through the waiting room of a station; it is always the same life.

Every Thursday evening, I see the same faces. The man in the loud-checked jacket, who walks purposefully to the platform for a cigarette leaving his wordly possessions topped with newspaper and spectacles, whose home is probably a doorway or sheltered part of the city's arcades. The studious girl with her book of Latin grammar that she refers to whilst studying some lofty text. The businessmen still carrying out their essential activities via mobile or tablet.

The tourists, their faces may change but, whose eyes flick to the departures screen frequently, and who depart for the designated platform twenty minutes ahead of their train's departure. The quarrelliong lovers, the women with boutique bags twelve times the size of the purchase, and the family with their solitary, spoiled child - often bespectacled - who will fuss and make noise without maternal reproach.

In amongst them I sit, the peripatetic insegnante inglese, both watching and reading, waiting for the 19:42 to propel me towards middle Italy, the sea and love.



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