Transit

Portofino was still on my mind when I was about to board the train. My phone rang, my ex-wife wanted to talk, and it was my best friend on the line. Same person.Of course she’d seen my pictures. Of course she knew where I was. Of course she remembered... what exactly? Good times? As if we ever had bad ones.

So we talked, finally in the same time zone again, only interrupted by the dead zones in the train tunnels. We talked for a long, long time. By the time I reached the top of the hill near the campsite, I sat down on the stone steps and we kept talking. It was a genuinely pleasant conversation. Some people you just miss. Others, not so much.

She even threw me a compliment: “Now I finally know what it feels like to be the smarter one in a relationship.” That still makes me smile. The truth is, when you’re intelligent, you have no idea what it’s like not to be. You only know what you don’t know and you never really see yourself as particularly smart. You overthink things in the strangest ways, you hesitate, you’re unsure, you have twelve thousand possible outcomes running through your head. And the worst part? You can’t even understand other people’s motives properly, because you just think differently. Add in a touch of paranoia and a few schizophrenic tendencies, and there you have it.

And now, this very intelligent woman tells me that I was the smarter one during our seventeen years together. Sure, my love. But you’re certainly no fool either. So there we sat, reminiscing, telling each other what was new. The sun had long gone down when I finally got up from those stone steps and took the last few strides toward Da Berto which, sadly, isn’t as good as it used to be.

The next morning was a bit hectic, I actually had to leave a day earlier than planned. The train strike in Italy made it necessary. Exchanging the tickets turned out to be surprisingly easy: one click in the French app, and for the Italian ones, a quick visit to the counter in Ventimiglia. Couldn’t be simpler.I had my last Italian coffee at the border and continued on. I left early but somehow arrived late in Nice. No idea where the time went. Along the way, I listened to Taylor Swift’s new album and stared out the window. Not a bad plan. Musical imprinting or maybe conditioning, worked quite well. From now on, whenever I hear one of those songs, I’ll be back on that train, riding along the Mediterranean coast. There are worse associations to have.

Evening in Nice, what to do? Eat, of course. And then? A walk along the promenade. And then? I stopped by the casino. No luck this time. They made quick work of me, forty minutes later and a few euros lighter, I left, slightly deflated, heading back to my hotel. As uneventful as the next day.A whole day on trains, short stops here and there, something to eat here, and yes, there too. The same music in my ears the entire time. By the evening, around 10 p.m., I arrived in Barcelona and was immediately invited to dinner, leftovers, as they called it, but an excellent main course in truth.

I’m lucky to be surrounded by an exceptional group of people. Truly. Brilliant minds all around. I tip my hat, and I’m honoured to be part of it. We’re doing something genuinely good, something that speaks to my heart.

The first day of the conference began with churros and sightseeing, then registration, the group photo, first meetings, meals, and finally a party. And that rhythm continued throughout the week.Scientifically, I’m only now, in hindsight, really absorbing things. Everything’s online anyway, so I’m going through the posters and talks afterward. The conference flew by, with late-night calls from Australia, endless emails, barely a moment to breathe. Old acquaintances, new faces, and yes, even I got to know a few people.

I had missed speaking German. I had missed conversations that run on so many levels you could walk to the moon on them.People you don’t really know but feel instantly familiar with, as if you’d known them forever. And then, you have to part ways again. That hurts. This kind of longing will probably never die, no matter how old I get. And now I live on the other side of the world. Best not to overthink it, the cold ache of missing one person can be cruel.

I stayed two extra days in Barcelona, since the route to Cartagena still wasn’t working properly, a lingering effect of the flooding in Valencia a few years back. So I sat there, on the hotel rooftop terrace with colleagues, after sightseeing and before dinner, just chilling.

The next day wasn’t much different, except the colleagues had already left. I wandered through the vast city alone, aimless, chasing thoughts, refocusing, reflecting, re-orienting. Went back to the hotel at noon to do a bit of work, then out again, up another hill, it looked like it might be a beautiful sunset. It turned into rain instead. My umbrella, of course, was in the room. I’ve been soaked often enough in my life, it’s really not so bad. I just regretted not getting any good photos.

That’s all I have to say, really. This entry only exists because I took two beautiful pictures and now can’t decide which one should be the title. Paris probably uneventful as well. Otherwise, Barcelona, still the same as ever. In that sense: nothing’s changed, and that’s somehow comforting.