While travelling back and forth on three different night trains to and from Italy in June and July, I read the “The slow train to Milan” by Lisa St Aubin de Terán and although I couldn’t always quite grasp the young British girl’s mind who followed her husband from Venezuela she married without understanding his language, there couldn’t have been a better book to read that time. Books always take you closer to places and in between places. I recognized Florence, I recognized Venice. I recognized her restlessness. However, Venice wasn’t raining and cold and lonely as it was in the book. It was wonderful.
César and I had lunch on the train. As the wheels began to turn, I realised that it was not the people that I was tired of or bored with, it was the place. I wanted to move from one place to another. I had always moved, from home to hospital and back, and then abroad. I enjoyed the mere act of travelling. I didn’t want to go anywhere in particular, I was just restless, and I didn’t want to stay anywhere either.
(Lisa St Aubin de Terán: The slow train to Milan. Penguin Books. 1985, Great Britain. p. 28)