 
Route

Dilan Darco
When this body will be too old and too tired, I'll still find other challenges, challenges to the mind, challenges to the soul. So I'll have new reasons, yet, to keep going.
Dark and silence around me. I open my eyes, still darkness. I move my arms and legs, I am completely wrapped, immersed in a liquid. I continue to agitate myself with my whole body in search of a direction, the liquid is all around my naked skin. I hear the beat of my heart rising, it rumble in my ears, it's the only noise I can hear. I swim with all my strength in the limbs, cleaving the liquid with my hands in an attempt to get out of it, but I have the impression of always remaining in the same spot. My muscles soon get tired, I stop to recover energy and I stay suspended in the liquid.

It's like flying, it's an incredibly pleasant feeling. I feel that this has always been my home, I am totally at ease, like a fish inside the vastness of the abysses. The liquid cradles me with its slight wave, keeps me warm and safe. My heartbeat is back to normal, I can't hear it anymore, it gets confused with the silence and the peace of the place.

Suddenly the brief state of ecstasy is interrupted by a roar that comes from the bottom, from the depth. The liquid starts to stir. It seems like a wave comes from below, below me. I feel panic again. The beats of my heart speed up again, beating like a drum in my ears. The wave that comes from the bottom is closer and closer and the pressure that it exerts pushes me upwards. I try to resist with arms and legs, but the current is too strong, I can't fight it. I see a small light up there, in the direction in which the current is pushing me. I can see it better as I approach it. It has a round shape and a color tending to yellow, a very light yellow. It must be the moon.

I let myself go and let the current drag me on. The darkness slowly gives way to the light that comes from above and spreads in the environment in which I'm immersed. The liquid is revealed for what it is, transparent like a glass. I can see the surface above me and with a certain fear I prepare to come out of there. My head comes out of the water first, I take a deep breath and feel the lungs burn. It's like I breathe for the first time.

I look around and see some lights in the distance, they don't seem too far away. It's a city, maybe I can get there. I begin to swim with all my strength, anxious to save myself. I get close enough to see a beach and a large Ferris wheel. I move my arms faster and faster, swimming in the direction of the beach. Finally with my feet I can feel the soft backdrop below me. I stop to swim and walk with difficulty to the shore, exhausted.

I get out of the water and drag myself weakly crawling on the soft and dry sand, the drops slide on my body caressing my skin. I feel cold and tremble, I'm no longer protected as when I was immersed in water a while ago. I try to lift myself from the sand. First I go on my knees, then slowly I get up and walk with small steps towards trees with a very high trunk. I believe they are palm trees. The beach is really huge. On the left I can see the Ferris wheel, it's located above a pier. Suddenly a loud sound comes in violently in my ears.

The sharp sound of the alarm clock continues to hammer in my head with great annoyance, it just woke me up from a deep and restful sleep. I open my eyes and read the digital digits on the alarm clock above the bedside table, next to the bed. They are red and marked, stand out in the darkness of the room: five zero zero. I extend my hand to push the alarm off button and lie flat on my stomach to relax a little longer. I look at the ceiling lit by the little light that filters through the curtains of the window, the chandelier is different from that of my room. After a few moments, still a bit dazed by sleep, I realize I'm not in my house. I have little desire to get up, I would be willing to laze until late morning, but I have to resume my journey.

I reluctantly pull myself up from the bed, rest my feet on the wooden floor and get up on my legs. I feel the floor creak under my weight with every step I take when walking towards the bathroom door. I open the door and approach the sink to rinse my face. The cold of the water that bathes my face is the definitive wake up, it sends away once and for all dreams. Like that I had a little while ago, before that terrible sound brought me back to reality. That dream keeps coming back to my mind.

I leave the bathroom and look at my stuff scattered here and there in the room. I collect the spare clothes and other items I carry with me. I take the cell phone and the cigarette pack on top of the desk, near the ashtray full of cigarette butts. I try to arrange everything as best I can in the black fabric bag. I slowly put on my jeans, white socks and sneakers with a high collar, then I put on my T-shirt and the black leather jacket. I put on my wrist my old watch with a leather strap, a gift from my father. I take the helmet and the bag and collect the keys and sunglasses from the bedside table next to the bed. I put the keys in my jeans pocket and hang the glasses on the T-shirt neckline. I open the door and leave the motel room.

Outside it's still dark and the breeze of the early morning envelops me and catches me by surprise. It is pleasant, an unexpected freshness at this time of the year. The road that passes next to the motel is smooth and clean. It seems to have just been built, as if no one has ever set foot in it, or rather, wheel. I approach the reception door, slowly lower the handle and enter. Behind the counter is the man who welcomed me last night when I arrived. He's a elderly person, short gray hair, black eyes, dark skin, balding and full of wrinkles. He's dozing. As soon as the door closes behind me, the man wakes up with a sudden click, jerking in his chair. I approach the elderly, put the bag on the floor and put the helmet on the counter.

«Good morning sir, here's the key of the room. My name is...»

«Ah, yes, recuerdo» says the old man, interrupting me before I can finish the sentence. «El senor...» he continues, opening the old register where the names of the people who stop in the motel are written. He begins to scroll the forefinger on the page and stop the tip of the finger on a row.

«James Rising, right?» he asks. I nod with my head.

«Ready to leave? Where are you headed, senor Rising?»

«L.A.» I answer. The old man looks at me bewildered, maybe he hasn't heard what I said. «Los Angeles!» I say in a more determined voice.

«Ah, Los Angeles, muy bien!» he exclaims aloud. «It's forty dollars for a noche, senor.»

I pay the room.

«Buena suerte y adios senor!» says the old man with a hand raised and a toothless smile. I think he wished me good luck, for the little Spanish I remember from my school days.

«Adios!» I exclaim, nodding my head. I collect the bag from the floor, pull it up and put the shoulder strap on my shoulder. I take the helmet from above the counter and I turn going towards the door. I open it and exit the reception.

Bonnie is there waiting for me, where I left her last night, as a faithful companion. I put the bag on the back of the saddle and fix it with two straps, then I insert the key into the ignition lock and get on saddle. I raise the kickstand by pulling it back with my left foot and I turn the key in the ignition lock. With the right foot I hit the starter lever with all the weight of my body and the engine turns on at the first stroke. The crackling noise of the two-cylinder is familiar and reassuring, it gives me peace of mind.

I take the helmet out of my right arm and put it on my head, tightening the strap under my chin, then I put the sunglasses on my face, putting the rods inside the helmet, above my ears. I pull the clutch lever back with my left hand while pushing down the gear pedal with my foot to put in the first gear, which engages with a sharp snap. With the other hand I slightly rotate the throttle handle, slowly release the clutch lever and Bonnie starts to move. I leave the parking and take the road again. Looking in the right mirror, I see the sign of the motel moving away in the middle of a cloud of dust. In the other mirror I can see a road sign with a white background and a write marked in black: Gallup, New Mexico.

The heavy metallic thunder coming from the exhausts exceeds any other noise around me. I look at the speedometer at the bottom of the instrumentation, it marking about sixty-five miles per hour. The needle of the tachometer is constantly positioned just under four thousand and the vibrations of the engine coming from below spread throughout my body, without annoying me. I look up again, towards the road, a long strip of dark gray asphalt. It seems it must never end.

At the top, the sky is illuminated by the very first lights of the morning. The aurora, a show that is repeated every day, but to which only a few attend. The light that colors the sky takes on different shades as I continue to stare it. The initial light lilac turns little by little into a peach tending towards orange. It's the birth of a new day. All things appear renewed, the world seems new to me, as if I looked at it for the first time. My head is clear of thoughts, it's fresh and rested. Everything starts all over again. Yesterday's shadows are distant, they have already become a memory, the past.

I'm crossing New Mexico, the wheels of old Bonnie spin smoothly on the asphalt below. The road is so close that I just need to take one foot off the foot peg and stretch it down to touch it. The immense semi-desert prairies are lost on the horizon on both sides and in the distance I can distinguish the bright red rocky highlands. I decide to stop at the side of the road to enjoy the sunrise, after all I'm in no hurry.

The sun begins to peep out. A tip of glowing yellow light comes out of the earth, changing the color of the sky into a reddish-orange hue. I observe the birth of the sun that moment after moment emerges from below and rises towards the sky. It's incredible how clear this passage is when you have a fixed reference point like the horizon line, it happens in real time, second by second. When the last end of the sphere of fire comes out, it's as if it were detached from the ground, taking flight towards the immeasurable vastness of the sky. I look away from the sun, my dark glasses protected me from its blinding light and protect me from the wind when I run on the road. I get back into the saddle and get back on the road.

There is something more in this life than the only things we see, hear, smell and touch every day. It's something that goes beyond our normal perception, beyond our limited ability to understand. I feel it into the nature, when I look at a boundless expanse of grass, when I look at the ocean, the mountains, a beautiful blue sky. When I witness the spectacle of a sunset or a sunrise, like that of a little while ago. I feel it when I think of absolute freedom. It's inside of me and outside, everywhere into the nature. I feel that there is, but I cannot say exactly what it is, yet it's there. I only know that I like it, that makes me feel alive and that makes me feel, for a moment, immortal.

I traveled six or seven miles and in the distance I saw a dark shape on the right side of the road. As I approach, the shape becomes more recognizable. Now I'm close enough to see a man on the side of the road facing me, with his right arm raised and thumb up. A hitchhiker. He has long brown hair, an unkempt beard and wears a green jacket, a T-shirt and light jeans. I release the throttle to slow down and cross the man's eyes for a moment. His magnetic and penetrating gaze inspires me with anguish. Instinctively, I accelerate and in a few seconds I reacquire the same speed as before, passing the hitchhiker. I look in the mirror and I see him turned in my direction, angrily pulling his arm down. I could have stopped, but something held me back. Perhaps the recommendations my mother made to me about the rides to strangers, or perhaps I let myself be conditioned by my fears. I still look back, the man has already disappeared from the rearview mirror.

I look again at the long road ahead of me and then I take a quick look at the watch tied to my left wrist. Six twenty in the morning. I close my eyes for a few moments, fully savoring the sense of lightness that one feels in going, pampered by the cool breeze of the morning.

Colorful lights, party music and a large crowd of adults and children having fun. My father and mother watch me carefully while I take another ride on the horse carousel. Louis and Margaret, but we always call her Maggie. Every time the carousel takes me back to the point where they are waiting for me, they smile at me and greet me with hand. I smile and greet them too. The carousel stops, I get off the horse and run back to them. They both take me by the hand and we walk towards the promenade on the pier. The sky begins to become darker after sunset and the lights of the street lamps along the promenade come to life slowly. The big Ferris wheel is there, clearly visible, it keep on turning. It's a clear evening in early September, I'm nine years old. I spent all day with my parents, a day of intense happiness and celebration, one of the few that I've spent with both of them together.

The relationship with my father is never easy, he's often absent for work and when he's present its rigid temper doesn't make it easy to dialogue, to establish a contact. However, I feel fine with him and I feel that there's a special bond between us, an invisible but strong link, made up of gestures and gazes. My mother, on the contrary, is affectionate and always present, I spend pleasant hours every day with her.

We're here tonight, the three of us, only the three of us. I feel great and I notice a special understanding between my parents, something that I'd never observed so far, at least not in this way. Finally it seems that everything goes as it should go, that each of us has found its inner peace, its well-being with themselves and with the loved ones. It's the most joyful evening of my short existence. Everything is perfect: the lights of the rides that turn up in the air and then come back faster, the smell of popcorn and cotton candy, the sweet breeze that comes from the ocean and brings with it the smell of the sea and dreams of a child.

We decide to take a ride on the roller coaster. My father approaches the box office to get tickets. He gives one to my mother and puts one in my small hand, then he caresses my head and we approach the carriages. I get in front of the carriage with my mother. My father, on the other hand, sits in the back, in the middle of the seat, in a relaxed position, as if he were on a deckchair at the beach sunbathing.

The carriages start to move, first slowly, then faster and faster, until they reach the first descent. Our carriage suddenly swoops down into the void and I feel my stomach coming up my throat. I turn around and see the amused expression on my mother's face, which lets out a little scream. Immediately my fear turns into excitement, adrenaline. Before I can recover from that leap into the void, a sharp curve throws me against the opposite wall of the carriage and then immediately another throws me on to my mother, who is clinging ever closer to the metal handle in front of us. Her blond and curly hair flaps in the air, tossed in all directions. I can't turn back, but I'm sure my father too is having a good time, having fun like crazy.

One last lap, then the carriages slow down returning to the starting point and finally they stop with a firm braking. I grab the front handle to get up from the seat. I get out of the carriage with my parents. They take me by the hand again and we begin to stroll among the attractions and the kiosks of the amusement park, continuing to laugh. I'm a bit dazed and I'm slightly nauseated, but the excitement I'm still feeling is stronger and more prevalent. But what prevails more on everything is a big hole in the stomach.

A great hunger suddenly takes me, like a bell that starts ringing in my stomach, warning me it's time for breakfast. After all, a couple of hours have passed since I left the motel, it's just the right time to grab a bite. I crossed the border of New Mexico for a while and I arrived near the next town along the way: Winslow, Arizona.

Arrived in the small town, I immediately notice the battered sign of a diner and instantly release the throttle to decelerate. I approach and stop in front of the entrance, turning off the engine. I take off my helmet, I hang it by the strap at the end of the handlebars and I dismount from Bonnie. I approach the door and as soon as I enter I'm welcomed by the walls covered with photos. The historical images of the street surround me, I pause to observe them for a minute.

Old vintage cars among which the very long Cadillac convertibles, shops, old service stations and diners. The photos recall the times when the road was an important link for the great flow of people passing through it, heading west in search of fortune and a new life. Of the approximately two thousand four hundred miles that once connected Chicago to Los Angeles, there are only some stretches under the name of Historic Route 66, perhaps more for a historical question than anything else, like a huge road museum. The original road has in fact been replaced in large part by the Interstates. In the pictures hung on the wall there are other big vintage cars and old motorcycles, by now almost completely disappeared from the American streets of today. All these images and these black and white faces are there to tell a story, for those who stop to listen to it. They are a testimony of the past, but the road is still there, now. It's near here, out there, and we are the protagonists of it, those who perhaps in turn will end up in a faded photo hanging on a wall.

I look away from the pictures and turn to the other side. The counter, the tables and the benches are bright red and the floor is black and white checkered, in pure fifties style. The edges of the counter and the tables are covered with a chrome-plated metal. The metal shines under the light of the morning that enters through the large windows facing the street. I sit at one of the tables near the large windows, in full light, from where I can see Bonnie parked outside. The benches, upholstered in soft and padded fabric, are very comfortable and reminiscent of the seats in a car.

A waitress approaches to take the order. She wears a uniform with red and white vertical stripes, with white collar and sleeve lapels, and has a cap on her head that partially covers her hair gathered in a tail. I can clearly read the name written on the plate attached to the uniform, at chest height: Jennifer. She's a mature woman, about forty, blond hair and blue eyes, fair complexion, a few wrinkles on the face. She has a very bright lipstick, similar in color to the red in the room.

«Good morning sir, what can I bring you?» she asks me kindly.

«Good morning, I really wanna pancakes with a lot of maple syrup» I reply promptly. The woman nods and notes the order on the notebook.

«Judging by your accent, it doesn't seem to me you're from here... Can I ask you where are you from?» the maid asks me.

«I come from Florida» I reply. Her face, already illuminated by external light, lights up more hearing my answer.

«Florida! I've been dozens of times in Miami, I love the sea on the east coast!» she exclaims.

«I don't remember how it is on the west coast, on the contrary» I say, smiling. The waitress smiles and then starts talking again, she seems to have a great desire to chat.

«I, my husband and our two children go to Florida almost every year for the holidays. My husband has many acquaintances over there and we always find someone hosting us for a few days. Which city do you come from?»

«Rockledge» I reply.

«Rockledge, mmh... never heard.»

«It's just a small town, it's not very well known. Definitely not a place for tourists.»

«Of course! Ah ah!» the woman exclaims with a giggle.

«The only famous thing in the neighborhood is Cape Canaveral» I say.

«Cape Canaveral? Where the rockets are fired into space?» she asks me in amazement.

«Yes, exactly, where the rockets are fired into space» I reply smiling.

«Wonderful!» she exclaims, feigning interest in the matter. «Well, Mr. Rockledge, your breakfast comes right away!» she says smiling, then turns and heads for the kitchen. Halfway there, she stops, turns and goes back to my table.

«Excuse me sir, you didn't tell me what you want to drink» she says, with the tip of her pen already resting on the notebook.

«I'll have some coffee, nice strong, please» I reply. The waitress takes note, turns and leaves again at full speed.

I turn around to take a look out of the big window. Bonnie is there, quiet, waiting for me. Turning the head back to the inside of the room, I notice a figure hidden in the shadows, sitting at a table in a darker corner. He's a man, I'm sure he wasn't there before, when I arrived. He must have entered while I was talking to the maid. I look at him better, his appearance is not new to me. In a few moments, I realize where I've already seen him. He was on the edge of the road, this morning at dawn. He's the hitchhiker.

I don't have time to recover from the amazement that the man gets up from his table and approaches with a slow but firm step towards me. Now that he has come out of the gloom, the sunlight that penetrates the windows clearly illuminates his face and his clothes. I clearly recognize his worn green jacket and his light jeans, worn too, yellowed and torn. He's a tall man, taller than me. His long brown hair swaying in the daylight as he moves towards my table. The unkempt beard partially hides his face, but thanks to the light that blinds his eyes I can make out all the wrinkles. The skin on his face and hands is darkened by the sun. I intercross his magnetic and penetrating gaze again, his clear eyes staring at me intensely. This time, however, I don't feel terror, on the contrary, his expression appears friendly. Without hesitation, the man sits at my table, in front of me.

«Are you going to Los Angeles?» he asks, in a calm, deep voice. I answer yes with a nod of the head.

«I need a ride to Williams, Arizona.»

«Why not!» I reply, without even thinking about it.

Meanwhile, the waitress arrives at the table, stepping between me and the unknown hitchhiker. It seems she didn't even notice him. She serves breakfast in a tray, giving me a smile, then she walks away again and disappears behind the kitchen door. On the tray, inside a plate, there are six big, still steaming pancakes, arranged one on top of the other. Next to the plate there's a cup full of coffee. I grab the bottle containing the maple syrup resting on the tray, unscrew the cap and pour the syrup on the first pancake at the top of the pile. I take the fork and the knife and start eating the food with voracity.

Suddenly I stop and raise my head from the plate. The man is still seating in front of me and continues to stare at me. Maybe he's hungry too. I offer him a couple of my delicious pancakes, the man willingly accepts and gobbles them in a few bites. As soon as he has finished, he gets up from the table and leaves the room. I follow him with my eyes from behind the glasses of the large windows. He approaches Bonnie and leans his butt against the tank, waiting for me to reach him.

I finish eating and grab the cup of coffee. I taste the flavor and smell of the hot beverage while sipping it slowly, continuing to look out the window at the hitchhiker who makes friends with Bonnie.

I drink the last sip of coffee and place the empty cup on the tray. I take the money from my wallet and put them above of the receipt that Jennifer, the kind waitress, has left on the table. I leave a small tip for her. I get up from the table and go out of the diner. As soon as I approach Bonnie, the hitchhiker moves, waiting to get on. I untie the bag from the saddle and put it on the tank, fixing it with the two straps, so as to make space behind. I get on, I turn on the engine and the man settles behind me. I engage the first and take the road again.

Riding a motorcycle is not a joke, it's not for kids. It requires a high and constant attention, a complete use of the senses to control the mechanical means, perceive the surrounding environment and warn in advance any minimum danger. It's necessary to analyze a number of possible risk factors and predict the actions of drivers to avoid accidents. It's also a physical stress, the muscles of the body are busy driving the motorcycle in the desired way and direction, to tame it, as if riding a wild horse. The fact of being in a certain way naked, of not having the physical protection that the interior of a car can offer, makes you feel vulnerable at all times. At the same time, however, it gives you a constant emotion of authentic life, of concrete and tangible reality. Then, when the full control of the vehicle and of itself is reached, the mind sets sail chasing invisible routes that depart from the road and lead away, beyond the city limits, the state limits, wherever one wants to go.

We are traveling this stretch of road through Arizona, a state that is particularly rich of forests, parks, national monuments and various Indian reservations. As we continue to run on the asphalt, the huge surrounding plains give me a sense of total freedom, accompanied by a kind of panic. The larger the space around you, the more you feel free, but the greater the feeling of loneliness. Despite the fact I have a passenger behind me, I suddenly feel alone in the middle of nowhere, a tiny dot. The road is deserted and in the distance the black clouds don't announce anything good. I'm reminded of the violent atmospheric phenomena that strike down with a certain frequency in this area. The headlights of a car that comes to us give me a little relief.

The landscape around us begins to change, the desert areas are transformed into mountainous areas. As we advance, the sky becomes darker and darker, by now the rain is imminent. The first drop of water bathes my face. My leather jacket should be waterproof, or so I was told when I bought it, just before leaving. In one case or another, I think I'll find out soon.

After a couple of minutes, the rain begins to fall plenty and with strong gusts. My helmet is open on the front and doesn't have a visor that can be lowered, but the sunglasses I wear avoid at least that the drops of rain fall into my eyes. Visibility is greatly reduced and I'm forced to slow down and proceed with caution. I don't think I can continue to travel much longer in these conditions. We'll have to stop somewhere and wait for the rain to cease, or at least diminish.

After a handful of miles traveled at low speed, in the rain that continues to beat strongly on us, I see a road sign that heralds the next city we will meet: Flagstaff.

In about twenty minutes we arrive at the town, the largest in northern Arizona. I stop in front of the first shelter I find, some arcades with shops inside them. I turn off the engine and dismount from Bonnie. I take the bag with me and leave Bonnie there, under the rain, while we go to take shelter under the porticoes. My jacket has managed to keep me dry, though not completely, but my jeans are soaked. The hitchhiker, on the other hand, is soaked from head to toe. His long hair, which was previously bulky and adorned his head, is now stuck to his face, changing his appearance. I open the bag to check that the objects and clothes inside are not wet. It seems that the waterproof fabric has held up well. I glance at my cell phone and see that I received two calls from Lisa early this morning. I have to call her before leaving. The hitchhiker, meanwhile, tries to dry himself shaking his wet jacket with jerky movements of his arms.

I put the bag on the ground and take off my helmet, resting it on top of the bag. The front of my hair is wet, as is my face. I pull the sunglasses over my head and rub my hands over my face to dry it off a bit, then I lean down and grab the pack of cigarettes from my bag. The rain has slightly dampened them. I pull out two and give one to the hitchhiker. The man grabs it without hesitation, puts it in his mouth and thanks me with a nod, continuing to wag his other arm to shake off the water. I take the lighter from inside the pack and light the cigarette to the hitchhiker, then I put mine between my lips and light it up. After a puff, the hitchhiker turns to me.

«We're about thirty miles from Williams, the rain will soon cease and we'll be able to take the road again» he says.

«You seem very sure of what you say, are you a kind of fortune teller?» I ask him ironically.

«No, but we're in the middle of a Mexican monsoon and here in Arizona there are strong storms that last about an hour almost every day.»

«I see you know the area, are you in these parts?»

«No, but I often pass by» he replies smiling.

I hear a sound and a vibration coming from the bag resting on the floor. I lean down and open the bag. The cell phone is ringing, it's Lisa again. I take the phone and press the button to answer, while with the other hand I keep holding the cigarette.

«Hi baby! Excuse me, but I was traveling when you called me this morning, I couldn't answer.»

«I imagined it... All right there? How's it going?» Lisa asks me in a sleepy voice.

«Everything good. I had to stop because of a downpour, but soon I should leave again.»

«Ok...»

«You were still asleep?» I ask.

«Yes, I'm in bed now, I didn't sleep much last night... This morning I woke up early, I don't know, I was worried. Then I tried to call you, but you didn't answer, so I went back to sleep» she says, yawning.

«Don't worry, I told you, everything's fine here» I tell to reassure her.

«Ok, but call me when you stop again, okay?»

«Ok, I call you. When I'll come back, I'll tell you everything!»

«All right, talk to you soon!» says Lisa. I hang up and put the phone in the bag. The hitchhiker has listened to the phone call.

«Wife?» he asks curiously.

«No, daughter» I reply smiling.

«Ah well! I guess it's nice to have a family!» the man exclaims.

«Yes... though it's a small size family since my ex-wife no longer live with us.»

«Well, the wife is gone, but at least a daughter has remained» he says smiling. I smile too.

«Lisa is extraordinary, she's following my journey from home and she helped me to plan it. She insisted a lot to do it. If it had been for me, I would have left for the adventure.»

«So you're lucky to have a daughter like that» says the hitchhiker.

«I don't know what luck has to do with it, however I'm a proud father and she believes in me» I tell him. It's important to have someone who believes in you, especially when you decide to go out on a journey of almost three thousand miles to get to the other side of the United States, moreover on a motorcycle that has been in the garage for years and you have driven only a few times for short tours in the neighborhood.

«Tell me about you, rather...» I say, resuming the dialogue with the hitchhiker. Suddenly the sky opens, the sun comes out and the rain stops falling. After a last puff of cigarette, I collect the helmet and bag and we go out from under the porticoes used as a shelter, approaching Bonnie. I remove a little water from the saddle with my hand and rearrange the bag on the tank. I put on my helmet and sunglasses and get on the saddle. I start the engine and the hitchhiker climbs back. We take the road again.

It's almost eleven in the morning. A road sign indicates that there are twelve miles to arrive to Williams. These towns all look alike in the long run, a few buildings and shops distributed mainly along the road, in the middle of nowhere. They look like those ghost villages in western movies.

It still escapes me why this unknown hitchhiker has to go to such a lost place, which have no more than two or three thousand inhabitants. Maybe he has some kind of work there, or someone waiting for him, some friends. Yeah, friends. It's not easy to find people who can be considered really friends, but I think a lot depends on the type of character one has. Sometimes I find myself talking to people about trivial things, having the impression of wasting time. There are few people with whom I feel comfortable and whom I can call friends. My best friend is often myself.

The sky is back almost completely illuminated by the sun, there's only a few small clouds here and there. My jeans have returned to dryness and I guess the hitchhiker has dried up thanks to the warm air of July, which has the effect of a giant hair dryer on the motorcycle.

After another three or four miles, we reach the destination. I stop at the side of a small square that should be the center of the town. The man dismounts from the saddle and extends his arm towards me for a handshake.

«Well, my journey ends here... at least for today» he says. I shake his hand.

«Good luck, whatever you have to do in this place» I say smiling. The man smiles at me, then puts a hand inside his jacket and rummages in an inside pocket. After a few seconds, he pulls out a strange object.

«This is to thank you» he says, grabbing my hand and placing the object in my palm. I think it's one of those circle-shaped Indian amulets, having a thin net like a spider's web. At the bottom of the circle there are three small hooks to which three gray feathers are attached. The amulet, or whatever it is, is hooked to a black leather lace.

«It's a dreamcatcher» says the hitchhiker. «The circle represents the cycle of life and the web holds negative dreams, so that positive dreams are free to flow» he explains, pointing to the object he put in my hand. «Put it around your neck, it will help you on your journey.»

«What can I say... thank you!» I reply.

«Have a good trip, buddy!» the man exclaims. Immediately afterwards, he turns and sets off for a small secondary road, perpendicular to the main one. His long brown hair swaying again under the sunlight as he moves away with his slow and decisive pace.

«I don't even know his name...» I think to myself. Maybe he was a street vendor of Indian stuff, or who knows what else. I'll never know. But it doesn't matter anymore, the man has already disappeared among the houses of the village.

I put the lace around my neck, passing it around the helmet, and I put the circle with the feathers under my T-shirt. I look back to the road again. I see the sign of a gas station a little further. I reach the gas station, I stop and fill up Bonnie. When I'm done, I screw the cap back on the tank and put the bag on the saddle, where it was before I got the hitchhiker up. I'm back in the saddle again, I start the engine and leave Williams. I resume my journey to California.

Leaving the mountain area, the landscape around me after a while becomes monotonous, mostly desert plains as far as the eye can see and not much else. The heat now begins to be felt more insistently. I look at the time, it's past midday. I proceed at a moderate speed, without haste. The hot wind beats on my face, I close my eyes and listen to its relaxing rustling.

Boiling summer, 1983. I'm seventeen years old. A year ago I took my driving license and my father bought me a used car. This is the first summer I can going around driving a car. Being able to roam free wherever I want, no longer having to depend on my parents or anyone else to move, to go to school, to the beach, or wherever I want. A great feeling.

It's August, the school is closed and it'll still be for another month. Together with a group of friends, we decided to go to Palm Beach to spend a few days there. Finally we can leave this small city, where nothing ever happens different from the usual routine. It's only a couple of hours of travel, but of course my father advises me to use extreme caution and to go slowly. My mother, on the other hand, wouldn't even allow me to leave if it were up to her, anyway she says goodbye to me lovingly before leaving, not without reminding me of all the risks I might face.

I go out the front door. My best friends, Mark and Ethan, are waiting for me. And then there's her, Lisa, Lisa Peterson, the school girl I've been watching for some time. I've known Mark since we were children, we grew up together. He lives in my own neighborhood, here in Rockledge, not far from my house. I met Ethan in high school a few years ago. Lisa and Ethan are together, something not too serious, as not too serious are romantic relationships when you're seventeen. Mark means motors, his father has a mechanical workshop in the city. I feel relaxed with him, because I know that if something happens to the car, Mark would know where to put his hands.

It's my first trip so long driving a car without my parents, I'm excited at the thought of what awaits me. The sea, the friends, the possibility that something could happen with Lisa, that she could somehow fall in love with me and that something going beyond our simple friendship can be born. The exhilarating feeling that everything is possible seizes my brain. The wait and expectations that this brings with it are sometimes more nice than living that long-awaited moment.

We're all sitting in my car. I'm behind the wheel, Mark is next to me in the passenger seat and Ethan and Lisa are in the backseat. From the interior rearview mirror, I can see Ethan with one arm around Lisa's neck. She looks at me through the mirror, casting me some winking looks with her green eyes. Maybe she has a crush on me, or maybe she just wants to make me more jealous. It's known, women are strange. I can smell the scent of her freshly washed brown hair from here. I turn back for a moment, giving her a smile, and I take a quick look at her clear and smooth legs. Her knees touch each other and the feet are spaced, with the tips facing inside. Her legs end in her shorts, very short, so short as to look like a pair of underpants.

We stand next to the driveway entrance of the garage with the engine running, ready to go. The cassette radio is tuned to a station that is passing a rock song. Outside there's a scorching heat, I set the cold air to the maximum to stay cool. My father and mother are saying goodbye to us from the front door.

«Goodbye, Mr. and Mrs. Rising!» exclaim Mark, Ethan and Lisa, after lowering the windows. A blow of warm air penetrates inside the cabin and goes straight to my face.

The muggy wind keeps banging on my face almost taking my breath away, while I continue to savor all the freedom that one can feel running on a road like this. Looking back on the past, I often get the impression that my memories, even the recent ones, are more beautiful than the present moment. It's as if I could not fully live the moment, it must always pass some time, even a few hours, to appreciate what I experienced. The present seems almost always faded, it's such a strange thing. But now I'm here, the present is as concrete and solid as the Bonnie's chassis, like the hard asphalt beneath me. Like the rocky mountains that stand out on the horizon in the clear sky of July. Where else could I wish to be if not here? In what moment of life could I feel better if not in this instant?

I pull the zip of the jacket down to let in some air. On the road there's only me. With so much space and so many horses available, I'd like to turn the throttle grip all the way down, but speed limits don't allow it. Nothing and nobody, however, can prevent me from feeling the thrill of going to the maximum, though only for a few seconds. I give full throttle and Bonnie starts to push harder. The adrenaline rises, together with the hands of the tachometer and the speedometer. The road is deserted, nobody can see me or hear me. There's just me running like crazy in the middle of nowhere. The needle of the tachometer reaches the seven thousand revolutions per minute and Bonnie screams with all the power and violence that has inside. We are the masters of the road now, nobody can take us.

Suddenly Bonnie has a jolt, and then another immediately after. I quickly release the throttle handle and slow down. Bonnie continues to mumble and seems to lose engine revs. I slow down further, I feel that the engine is losing acceleration. I'm afraid to be stranded at any moment. I keep slowing down until I get to a minimum speed that Bonnie seems to endure pretty well. I try to accelerate slightly, but I feel that Bonnie can't make it, so I slow down again. It seems to me that the engine can stand this way, I continue to proceed at a constant speed. I will be forced to make another unscheduled stop to get it checked. Before long I should get to the next city along the way, I hope there's a mechanical workshop or someone who repairs engines.

After about thirty minutes, proceeding slowly, I arrive in Kingman. The sun has reached its maximum height in the sky. It's one o'clock and I'm still in Arizona. I stop in the central area of the town and the engine revs go down slowly, until Bonnie, with a last sigh, goes off completely. I try to restart the engine, but there's nothing to do, she doesn't want to be re-ignited. I dismount from the saddle and I leave Bonnie where she turned off. I start looking for a workshop.

I ask a passerby, who shows me where to go with a wave of his hand. The place indicated to me isn't far away, I come back to Bonnie and begin to push her in that direction. I stop in front of the entrance. I pull down the kickstand, I take off the helmet from the head and hang it by the strap on the handlebars. I enter the workshop.

The interior is lit by two neon lamps attached to the ceiling that emit a purple light. The only window, located on the opposite wall to the entrance, is half hidden by a stack of boxes that starts from the floor and goes up to the ceiling. Pieces of old cars and vans, along with the remains of dismounted engines, are piled up at the corners of the workshop. Big tires and rims are resting on the lower part of the walls darkened by dirt. Next to the wall on my right, metal shelves bear the burden of heavy hardware of all shapes and sizes, while on the left, in a large wooden panel attached to the wall, wrenches, screwdrivers and other tools are hanging in a disordered manner.

Placed under the wooden panel, there is a wide worktable on which a large number of implements and various objects are scattered in bulk. From the worktable comes a blues music with a low volume and a croaking sound. Looking better in that confusion, I can make out a small radio. That's where those notes come from. I think it's the right background for a place like that. Music blends perfectly with this little world, creating harmony in the midst of the great disorder that is there. On the ceiling, hanging between the two neon lamps, there's a paddle fan that refreshes the environment. At the bottom, on the opposite side to where I am, there are a couple of big cars, the only ones that have all the parts mounted. Inside the hood of one of these, a guy with a grease-stained blue overalls is bent upside down.

«Hi!» I say aloud to make sure I'm heard. From the bonnet comes out the head of a man of medium-low stature and massive build. He's African-American and has almost shaved hair. He grabs a cloth blackened by the grease resting in the engine compartment and rubs it on his hands to clean them, then approaches me.

«Hi» I repeat. «I have a problem with my motorcycle, it's standing out here» I say to the man, pointing to Bonnie who is visible outside, beyond the entrance to the workshop. «I was on the road and it started yanking, losing revs. When I got here, the engine turned off completely. I tried to restart it, but...»

«A beautiful model from '69, in good condition for its age!» the man exclaims interrupting me. «I haven't seen so many in these conditions» he continues, stepping out of the workshop. He approaches Bonnie and examines her far and wide carefully. He looks excited, like a child who has just unwrapped his Christmas gift. At the end, he lingers on the upper part of the engine.

«You must have taken a lot of water by going down the street on this thing!» he says, turning to me.

«Yes, right. I had to stop in Flagstaff three hours ago, it was raining too hard» I reply.

The man grabs Bonnie from the handlebars, pulls up the kickstand and pushes her inside. He stops at the center of the workshop, near the worktable. Puts Bonnie back on the kickstand and draws a wrench from the pile on the worktable without even looking, as if he knew by heart where it was. He uses the wrench to remove a piece from the engine. I think it's a spark plug, I saw it also done by Mark.

«As I imagined...» he says, looking back at me. «Water has penetrated into the spark plug housing and is trapped there. I have to take the other one apart and clean the housings.»

«So it won't take long... I can leave again, right?» I say relieved.

«I don't think you'll go very far, buddy. The spark plugs are damaged and will have to be replaced» the man answers seriously. I don't know whether to trust him or not, I certainly trust Mark who checked the engine and all the rest before departure. But now I don't think I have much choice, I still have a long way to get to Los Angeles. I have to resume my journey as soon as possible.

«All right, let's replace them. How long will it take?» I ask him.

«The problem is that I don't have this kind of spark plugs. As you can see, here I only fix cars. Pickups in particular, they are my passion.»

On the man's face appears a broad smile with very white teeth, in contrast with the dark color of his skin. In fact, looking around again, I realize that there's no trace of motorcycles in the workshop, apart from Bonnie.

«You mean you can't fix it?» I ask, starting to feel some concern.

«Certainly not here, man» he replies. Then it remains silent for a few seconds, with the expression of one who is squeezing the brain. «Which way are you headed?» he asks.

«L.A.» I answer.

«Well. Not far from Interstate 40, in the direction of Los Angeles, there's a workshop specializing in the repair of custom and classic motorcycles, like yours. It's more or less a hundred miles from here. I know the owner, he definitely has the right spare parts. Tell him that Jackie from Kingman's workshop sent you there, he'll understand, will make you a good price» says the man, with a white-toothed smile again printed on his face.

«Ok, but how do I get there if Bonn... if the motorcycle doesn't start?» I say.

«Don't you have anyone to take you there?»

«No, I'm not from here, I don't know who to ask» I reply. The man stops again to think for a few seconds.

«Ok, look, let's do this way: at this time I usually take a break for lunch, I could take you to the workshop. I got a pickup out here, we can load the motorcycle in the rear box. What do you say, man?» he asks.

«Of course, it would be great, but...»

«All right!» he exclaims, before I can finish the sentence. «Of course you'll understand that a hundred miles is a hundred miles... transport and repair costs must be considered... But don't worry, we can find an agreement on the price, ok?» he says, continuing to smile with the look of someone who has found a way to make the day.

«I don't think I have much choice... All right, I accept!» I reply, not too convinced of the deal I just made.

«Everything has a price, no?» the man continues, smiling.

«Almost everything» I reply.

As I often say, traveling makes the mind open, as well as the wallet. And when you embark on a journey for the adventure, as I did, you must always take into account the unforeseen events that may occur and which are also part of the journey.

«By the way, my name is Jackie» he says, stretching his hand toward me.

«James, nice to meet you» I reply. The man shakes my hand tightly, then grabs Bonnie from the handlebars again and pushes her out.

We go out of the workshop. The outdoor temperature seems to have increased further. Jackie takes off the top of the mechanic's overalls and throws it in, over a bunch of bodywork parts. He just wears a white undershirt and the big muscles of his arms and shoulders shine under the sun. The fabric of the undershirt hardly holds his pumped chest, which seems to be about to explode. He wears a thick gold chain on his neck that shines with his muscles. He turns off all the switches and locks the workshop door, then inserts the keys into the pants pocket and grabs Bonnie's handlebars to push her, inviting me to follow him.

We arrive at the back of the workshop, where his pickup is parked. It's flaming red and has chrome parts that reflect the sun's rays like mirrors. It's really huge and although it doesn't have a modern line, it looks brand new, just gone out of the factory. Jackie approaches the pickup, puts Bonnie on the kickstand and opens the back of the box. He pulls out a folding metal ramp and opens it, placing one end on the back of the pickup and the other on the ground. The ramp is wide and long enough for Jackie to easily push Bonnie into the box. It's probably his muscles that make everything seem so simple. Once Bonnie is loaded on the pickup, Jackie fasten her with a pair of long and strong straps, making them pass through the chassis and anchoring them to the base of the box. Finally he descends with an athletic leap, folds up the ramp, puts it back in and closes the box.

«Let's go, buddy!» he exclaims, turning to me. Then he opens the door and gets in the pickup. I take off my leather jacket, open the massive door and get on board. I sit down and put the jacket next to me, over the long seat, then I pull the handle of the door which closes with a sturdy noise. Jackie settles well on the seat, fastens the seat belt and turns the key already inserted in the ignition lock. The engine emits a roar. I fasten my belt as we leave the parking behind the workshop. On the road, again.

The interior of the pickup is clean and tidy. I notice an almost maniacal care, there's not a single thing out of place, nor a grain of dust on the interior surfaces. It's quite the opposite of the great mess in the workshop. On the long seat, that goes from the driver's side to the passenger side, four people would be comfortably seated. There's a distance of about four feet between me and Jackie.

«It's a '79 pickup truck, when I bought it for twelve hundred dollars it was just a scrap. I completely refurbished it» Jackie says proudly.

«I see, you did a very good job!» I tell him.

The road is smooth and straight, we advance quickly and smoothly. I turn back to look at Bonnie through the wide rear window. It seems to me that she's comfortable and very firm. Turning forward again, I notice that a wheel with two wings on either side is tattooed on Jackie's lateral deltoid. I guess it represents his passion for engines and pickups. Thinking better, however, it could refer to the way he presses the accelerator. In fact he goes so fast that it almost feels like flying. I'm sure he has some more tattoos on his body, under the undershirt.

Now that I'm comfortably seated and relaxed, I realize that my mouth is dry and kneaded. I got a sudden and urgent thirst.

«Have you some water in here?» I ask Jackie.

«No, but in the small fridge under the seat there's some fresh beer. Take one!» he replies. I lean forward and I lean out under the long seat, where I immediately see the portable fridge. I pull it forward and open the top cover. Inside there are a few cans of beer in the middle of a pile of ice cubes.

«Do you want one too?» I ask him.

«No, man, thank you but I'm driving» he replies.

I grab a can from the fridge, the outer surface is cold and is wet from the condensation formed by the ice. I tear off the tab and take the can to my mouth. The beer is very fresh, I throw it down in one breath feeling an immediate refreshment. I put the empty can in the fridge, close it and put it back in the exact position it was in, so as not to disturb the perfect order that reigns in the pickup.

Sitting on the comfortable seat and refreshed by the thirst-quenching drink, I feel an intense sense of relaxation. The slight trembling movement and the white noise inside the cabin make me sleepy. My eyelids slowly lower, until the eyes close completely.

I wake up in my bed, sweaty. It's a summer night in late June. I just had a distressing dream. I was underwater, into the sea, and suddenly a strong current coming from the bottom pushed me out. I saw some lights and started swimming towards them. Then I spotted a beach and a Ferris wheel, it was above a jetty. That wheel reminds me of faded memories, almost forgotten. The more I concentrate on those memories, the more they emerge from the abyss of memory, while I lie between the damp sheets. I think back to that unforgettable evening spent with my parents on the pier above the ocean, in California. I was nine years old. It's been a long time, but those moments are still alive inside of me. Happy and carefree instants of life lived. This agitated dream brought them back to light and for a brief moment I can experience that same joy, that lightness of living, as had not happened for a long time.

Dreams are an enchanted place where I can sometimes fly up in the air without weight, flying over seas, mountains and city buildings. A place where dad and mom are still at home with me, where sometimes I still have a woman by my side that I can hold and where the world is just the way I want it. It's funny, but in dreams sometimes I feel more intense and beautiful emotions than in real life.

I get out of bed and go to the open window of my room. I move aside the curtain and put my head out, plunging it into the deep night. The mild song of the crickets is the only thing I can hear. The darkness of the night is enveloping, it gives me a sense of protection and peace. Everything is calm and silent. It's the best moment to reflect and give space to creativity, far from the noises and distractions of the day. Sometimes I think it's a shame to waste all night to sleep. I take a last breath of air and reinsert my head into the room, going back to bed. I can't stop thinking. Thoughts stir in my head like so many kites in the wind.

I jump up from the bed, open the door of the room and rush down the stairs, barefoot. I go to the door that gives access to the garage from inside the house. I open the door, enter the garage and turn on the light by pressing the switch on the wall. Here it is, under the dusty cloth. It has been firm for years, for too many years. I pull the cloth up. My father's old motorcycle is in bad shape, shows the signs of time. It has some rust on some metal parts, the tires are worn out, the saddle and handlebars grips are badly worn. I see some loose cables dangling from the chassis and some pieces are disassembled. It will take a lot of work to get it back on track. I'll have to start tomorrow if I want it to be ready in time for departure. I have just over a week. I cover it with the cloth, turn off the light and exit the garage. I climb the stairs and go back to my room, getting back to bed. Tomorrow morning I'll call my friend Mark immediately, he's the only one who can succeed in this endeavor. I close my eyes and try to get back to sleep.

Awake. I open my eyes. Where I am? I'm lying in the pickup seat, alone. Jackie is no longer in the driver's seat. I look out, over the windshield glass and the windows, and I see a long dirt road forwarding into the desert area that surrounds me on all sides. The pickup is stationary on the side of the road, next to a small tree with thick branches and pointed green leaves. The shadow of the tree partly protects the side where I'm sitting, enough to shelter me from the burning rays of the sun. The engine is switched off and the key isn't inserted into the ignition lock, Jackie must have taken it away with him. I turn back, looking through the rear window. Bonnie is no longer in the box, she's gone too, I see only the road that is lost in the wasteland. Have I been tricked and robbed? I check the wallet in the inside pocket of the jacket, it seems nothing is missing. But my bag is gone, along with Bonnie. It was tied to the saddle and inside, among other things, there was my cell phone. I can't use my phone to call for help and I can't move from here since the pickup key is missing. Why should Jackie have to take Bonnie away and leave me in his pickup in the middle of the desert? I try to look for a logic in all this. I know that there must be a simple explanation, but the panic takes over, preventing me from reasoning. I try to calm down and reflect for a few seconds on what to do.

Judging by the cabin still cool due to air conditioning, Jackie must not have left the pickup for a long time. Bonnie wasn't able to leave, so he must have taken her off by pushing. He can't have gone very far, unless someone else came to get him and Bonnie with another vehicle. Maybe the guy in the workshop he was talking about. Probably the workshop is not far from here, or it was all a made up story and the truth is another. There's only one way to find out.

I unfasten the seat belt and open the fridge under the seat, taking a still chilled beer can. I grab my jacket, open the door and go down on the dry sandy ground. I close the door and put the jacket over my head, tying the sleeves together at chest level, so as to protect myself from the heat of the sun. Outside the torrid wind blows at intervals creating clouds of dust that rise from the ground. I take the sunglasses hanging from the neckline of the T-shirt and put them on the eyes. I put the beer can in the side pocket of the jacket and close the zipper.

I take a few steps forward walking on the soft ground, following the dirt road in the direction in which the pickup is oriented. I stop and look around, turning my head and eyes in every direction. There's no trace of buildings, cars or people. Nothing, only immense expanses as far as the eye can see. The sky is colored at the bottom with a very light blue, that changes into an intense and deep blue in the highest part. It's sailed by many small clouds that move quickly driven by the wind. Seen from this gigantic clearing, it appears boundless.

The flat land is almost completely covered by low plants, some small and dry of a dark green, others wider and more luxuriant. The latter are bright green and stand out from the first. In the distance, in the background, there are mountain reliefs that draw marked jagged lines on the horizon. Judging from the vegetation, and considering that Interstate 40 laps the border to the south, I could be in the Mojave desert, in California. If so, I'd be about two hundred miles from Los Angeles. Although I'm in the middle of nowhere, I feel that the Interstate can't be too far from here. I could simply follow the dirt road, hoping to get to the Interstate as soon as possible. But which of the two directions? I don't know exactly how far it is from here and I would risk walking too much in this infernal expanse. There are probably more than hundred degrees out here, in this moment.

In the interior of the desert area, perpendicular to the dirt road, there's an earthy hill that rises above the plain. It's close enough from here, or so it seems, and is high enough to have a good view from the top. It is likely that by climbing on it I can locate the Interstate, a building, or anything else that can help me orientate. I walk towards the hill, looking for a way among the plants and the heavy boulders planted in the ground. A little further on, towards the hill, there are large clear rocks and other darker ones burned by the sun. I approach and touch one with the palm of my hand. It's warm and rough, and the surface is covered with a dusty patina. The rocks are too low to offer a better view and, in any case, it would be difficult and dangerous to climb up. I start walking again, hastening the pace. The hill now appears less distant.

I stop again and I turn back for a moment. I can no longer see the dirt road that I left behind, but the red pickup with its shimmering chrome is always visible, albeit far away. It's my point of reference to go back.

I think I've been walking for at least fifteen minutes and the hill, which seemed so close just a few minutes ago, seems to be moving away from me more and more. Is this just an optical illusion? A mirage? A fruit of my imagination that is misleading me? No, it can't be. That hill is there, it's true, I see it clearly with my eyes. I stop to rest for a moment. The heat is really unbearable now, maybe that's what's playing a cruel trick on me.

I turn back again. The pickup has become a red dot that I can barely distinguish, it seems a distant buoy in the middle of a sea with green and beige spots. The sun keep on beating on my head relentlessly. I have a dizziness and a sense of weakness, I feel faint. I bend over my legs and sit down on the ground. I rest my head on my knees, bending my back and stretching my arms forward until I cross my fingers, girdling my legs. I close my eyes.

Flashbacks like clips of a silent film in my mind. Blurry images flow quickly, projected onto the wall of memory. I hear the repeated noise of cars sliding on the asphalt, in the street below. I'm in my bed, alone, in the room of my house in Rockledge. I get up from the bed. I open the dark curtains and the light of the sun, veiled by a few clouds, penetrates the room and instantly replaces the darkness that hid all objects until a moment ago. Winter is upon us. I open the window and let the fresh December air come in. I look down, towards the little park across the street, where I watch the bare trees. Beyond the door of the room, I seem to hear the voices of my parents muttering among themselves. I open the door and I realize that it's just an illusion. There's no one in the house, silence reigns. I go downstairs to get to the kitchen. My mother left me everything I need to have breakfast and her usual greeting note before departure.

She and dad went to visit the uncles in Atlanta, Georgia, as happens occasionally on the weekends. They must have left early this morning, I didn't even hear them. When I was a child I often went with them. I was happy to see my cousins, with whom I spent carefree hours playing in the huge garden at the back of their house. Then, growing up, things changed, I made my life and my friends here, as well as them in their city. We see each other more and more rarely.

While I'm busy eating breakfast, the phone starts to ring repeatedly, suddenly breaking the silence and stillness. I let it ring, ending my breakfast calmly. When I'm done, I get up from the kitchen table and go to the entrance, where the telephone sits on top of a small wooden cabinet. There are some messages on the answering machine. The number is that of the uncles home in Atlanta. It seems they tried to call several times, I just had to sleep like a stone this morning for not hearing anything. I immediately call the home number of the uncles. After a few rings, my aunt Nicole answers me, I clearly recognize her voice.

«Hi aunty Nicole! I saw the messages in the voicemail... Sorry but I slept late this morning and I didn't hear the phone.»

«Hi dear, how are you?» she asks.

«Fine thanks! And you? I guess you wanted to warn me that daddy and mum have arrived there, right?» I ask.

«James, dear...»

Aunt Nicole pauses for a few seconds.

«Listen, James...» she then resumes. Her voice suddenly changes tone, becomes lower and trembling. I sense that something is wrong.

«Dad and mom had a car accident this morning. Now they're in the hospital, here in Atlanta» she says. At that moment time stops, my brain goes out and I feel a sudden cold.

«Please, try to be calm... Your uncle went to the hospital, we'll call you as soon as we get news» she says, trying to reassure me and concealing her own concern. I can't even speak, I can barely make a quick greeting and hang up the phone. I have a bad feeling. I look forward to news that doesn't take long to arrive.

The phone rings again in the silence of the house. I'm afraid to answer, but I have to do it. My heart starts to palpitate while I pick up the phone handset and close it to my ear. On the other side, Aunt Nicole is in tears and I have already understood what she has to tell me, before she starts talking. When she's finished, I hang up the phone again, this time without saying a word. I remain petrified and I can't think of anything. At that moment I can't feel anything, not a tear falls from my eyes. I feel alone, like never before in my life. My parents left me forever. They died on Interstate 75, just a few tens of miles from Atlanta. It's 1993, I'm twenty-seven years old. It's a cold December morning.

A chill of cold runs through my back from top to bottom, bringing me back to the real world. I open my eyes and raise my head from my knees. I take the can out of my jacket pocket, it's still cold. I put it on the face, first on the forehead, then on the cheeks and on the mouth. I run it on the neck, on both sides, and behind the nape, then I put it in my sweat-soaked T-shirt, resting it in the middle of my chest, where my heart beats. The sudden sensation of freshness is like an electric shock, it gives me vital energy.

I put the can in my jacket pocket and get up from the ground. I realize that the hill, which still seemed so distant, is instead about twenty yards from where I sat. Viewed from here, however, it's much steeper than it appeared from afar. I reach it quickly and start climbing up with the sole force of my legs. Soon the slope increases and I'm forced to use my arms and hands to climb. The climb is hard and the ground is slippery, I risk sliding down at every step. The sun continues to beat insistently on my back, but my head is well protected by the headgear I improvised. Arrived more or less halfway up the hill, I stop and turn back. From here I still can't spot anything. I catch my breath for a minute.

I start going up again, using all the strength I have in my legs and arms. Only one last stretch remains to separate me from the top. I put my foot on a protruding stone that seems to offer a good foothold, but it comes off the ground by rolling down and making me slide back slightly. I'm about to lose my balance, but I can hold on to the hill wall with both hands. I remain still for a few seconds, breathing a sigh of relief. I start climbing again, by now I'm almost there. One last thrust with my feet and hands in the earth and I reach the top of the hill. I collapse on the ground, exhausted, and with great breaths I take as much air as possible from my mouth. I lay on the ground, listening to my heart beating wildly. I take the cold can out of my jacket pocket and run it back to my face, neck and chest.

After a couple of minutes, I rise from the ground and stand up again. I put the can in my pocket and look at the red pickup. Now I can easily distinguish it and I also see the dirt road from where I left. And then, farther afield, I see a very long freight train traveling on a railway line adjacent to Interstate 40, which I can clearly identify from up here. I can even hear the sound of train wheels clattering on the tracks. There is a service area near the Interstate, where the dirt road ends, for sure there will be someone who can help me there.

I rush off the hill, sliding down with my backside to the ground. In a few seconds I go back to the desert plain and with a quick step I proceed towards the pickup. The return path seems much shorter than that of the first leg, I arrive quickly to the flaming red vehicle. Now that I know where to go, I could walk on the dirt road to the service area and ask for help. But what if Jackie meanwhile comes back here? I don't know whether to leave immediately or wait a little longer for his possible return.

As I continue to think about what is best to do, I see a cloud of dust in the distance on the road, in the opposite direction to the one leading to the Interstate. The flickering light of a headlight moves towards me, distorted by the scorching air. A dark shape comes out of the dust and is close enough to be able to hear also the sound of the vehicle on which it travels. It's an unmistakable noise, I recognize it immediately. It gives me instant relief. It's the sound of Bonnie's engine.

Now that she is only a few steps away from me, I can hear nothing but the rumble of her two-cylinder. In the saddle is Jackie with his white undershirt, the glittering gold necklace around his neck and the big muscles of his arms and shoulders that shine in the sun. He has a black backpack on his shoulders. He stops at the point where I am, near the pickup, leaving the engine running. He looks at me from behind the large mirrored sunglasses he wears and dazzles me with one of his smiles.

«Buddy, I put it back on track, it's a bomb now!» he says in a loud voice to counter the noise of the engine. «We changed the spark plugs and checked everything else. We also filled up with gasoline, you can leave without problems!» he continues. Then he gives me a closer look. I still have the jacket on my head and my clothes are covered with earth and sand.

«Hey buddy, what the hell happened to you? You look upset, are you all right?» he asks me worriedly.

«Yes, yes, very well. I... I came out to see if you were going back with Bonn... with the repaired motorcycle. I'd fallen asleep on the seat, I had a great sleep!» I reply with a forced smile on my face.

«Yes, I saw, you slept like a rock! I left you there so as not to disturb you. I called the workshop guy, he came here with his van and we took the motorcycle» Jackie explains.

«I imagined it, only I didn't know where the workshop was and so I got out of the car to see if...»

«Eh eh eh! Did you think I screwed you by accident? Eh eh eh!» Jackie says, exploding in a thunderous laugh. «The workshop is a few miles from here, but the road at some point becomes very bumpy, full of potholes and stones. You know, I care about my little jewel and I don't wanna ruin it on these bad roads» continues Jackie. «So the workshop guy usually comes to pick me up with his old van at this point. You see? No cheats! Eh eh eh!»

«Of course, I didn't doubt it!» I tell him, still smiling forcefully. «So, how much do I owe you for everything?» I ask him.

«Well, since you're nice and I'm in a good mood today... gimme one hundred bucks and we're even, ok man?»

«Ok!» I answer, pulling out my wallet from the jacket on my head. Jackie takes the bills from my hand and puts them in his pants pocket. Then he dismounts from Bonnie and holds her by the handlebars, waiting for me to get into the saddle.

«Well, buddy, our paths are divided» he says. «It was a pleasure to do business with you. If you still need help, you know where to find me! Eh eh eh!» he exclaims, laughing.

«I hope I don't need help anymore, at least for today» I reply with a smile.

«Ah, I forgot! I have something else for you...» Jackie says, taking off the backpack from the muscular shoulders and putting a hand in it. He pulls out a plastic bottle with ice water and gives it to me, then holds my other hand tightly.

«Welcome to California!» he exclaims more loudly. He gets in his red pickup, turns on the engine and starts at full throttle towards the Interstate.

I stand there watching the pickup move away, leaving a cloud of dust behind it. After a few seconds, it has already vanished. I look away from the road and take off my jacket from the head, resting it on top of the tank. I open the bottle in my hand and start pouring the icy water on my head, wetting my hair, face, chest and back. I drink the remaining water in one go and put the empty bottle in the bag tied behind the saddle. I put the jacket back on, grab the helmet hanging from the handlebars and put it on my head. I take the same direction as Jackie. Bonnie is going great, she seems invigorated, stronger than before. We run together on the dusty road. Without even realizing it, I finally arrived in California.

Six o'clock have just passed. I stop at a service area in a town called Barstow. Here Interstate 40 ends, meeting with Interstate 15 which continues to Los Angeles. I leave the helmet hanging on Bonnie's handlebars and take the bag off the saddle. I approach the entrance to the refreshment area, I enter and go to the bathrooms. I need a rinse and I need to change my dirty and sweaty clothes.

There's a shower room inside the bathrooms, I couldn't ask for anything better. I enter the room, is nobody inside. I put the bag on the floor and undress completely. I put the dirty clothes in my bag, inside a sack, except for the jacket that I fold in two and put on the bag. I take the liquid soap I brought with me and get in the shower. I turn the knob of the tap and instantly the fresh water comes down on me. I remain for a few minutes motionless under the water that gently caresses my skin. I soap my hair and body, then rinse it off and let the water flow over me for a few more minutes. Finally, I turn the knob in the opposite direction to close the water and go out of the shower.

I take the travel towel inside the bag and dry myself quickly. I get dressed with the spare clothes I have in my bag, put the sneakers on my feet and put my leather jacket back on. I fix my hair still wet in front of the mirror above the sink, then pick up the bag from the floor and leave the room. I'm already much better, this shower has put me back into the world.

I go to the bar counter, take a burger and devour it in a minute. I take another one and then ask for a glass of water. Rummaging in the jacket to get the money, I realize I still have the can of beer in my pocket. I open the zipper and pull it out, the beer inside has probably turned into a hot broth. I throw away the can still sealed in the basket near the counter and pay the bartender. Looking up, I notice a large round clock hanging on the wall behind the counter. It marks five and forty-five minutes. I look at my watch, it's one hour ahead. I'm in the California time zone. By turning the side wheel on the watch, I move the hand back an hour. I gained some time, I can rest for half an hour before leaving.

To the right of the bar there is a room with tables and chairs, some people are sitting there to eat. In a corner of the room, near the large window overlooking the service area parking lot, there are some small armchairs arranged around a low table. I collect the bag I had placed at the foot of the counter and go to the armchairs. I sit on one of these and put the bag on the floor, next to me. I take the phone out of my bag and look for Lisa's number in the phone book. I had to call her hours ago, but I couldn't because of the unexpected event happened to me. I press the call button. Her phone is ringing.

«Hi dad!»

«Hi baby! I'm sorry if I didn't call you before... I stopped a while ago to take a break, everything is fine here.»

«Okay. Why you took so long to call me? Is everything fine?» she asks.

«Yes sure! There was only a small accident on the way... but don't worry, now everything is settled» I answer.

«Ok. Where are you now?»

«I'm in Barstow.»

«Barstow? Where is Barstow?»

«In California, not far from Los Angeles. I'll be there in a couple of hours.»

«Good, if you say so...»

«How is going there? Are you alright?» I ask.

«Yes, all as usual, no news... In Rockledge nothing ever happens, dad, you know. If I had come with you, maybe I'd have fun too!» Lisa says.

«Yes, I know baby, we've already talked about it, but you're still too young for a trip like this and then...»

«Okay, I know, I know...»

«Enjoy your summer vacation before school starts and don't mess up in my absence» I say ironically.

«What do you want me to do here? This city is a mortuary!» Lisa replies with a bothered voice. «Maybe tomorrow I'll go to the beach with Emily and Grace!» she resumes enthusiastically.

«Okay, but take the bus and get home before evening.»

«Of course, as always, daddy.»

«Well, now I have to leave you. I'll call you later when I arrive in Los Angeles. When I'll come back, I'll tell you everything!»

«All right, we'll talk later. Be careful!»

Lisa hangs up. I lean down and put the phone back in the bag. I extend my legs forward and try to relax a bit. I close my eyes.

It's night, Mark and I are in my house garage, in Rockledge. Mark is a true friend, one of the few, I can always count on him.

«Hey Mark, why the hell does all stuff get out of that thing?» I ask, showing him a piece of the engine soaked with oily liquid.

«Don't worry James, we'll fix that later» he replies, with his usual relaxed way.

It's a couple of days left to the departure and the motorcycle is not ready yet. We have to finish checking some parts of the engine and fix other pieces. However Mark doesn't seem to be worried at all, he continues to work and make me work with the same calm as ever. I must admit that he reassures me by doing so. I don't know how much help I can give him by not understanding almost anything about engines, maybe I'm just a hindrance than anything else. However, I'm learning a lot of things on the subject and I don't mind at all. On the contrary, I think this can be useful to me, for example if I had some problems during the trip.

It's not easy to find good people like Mark in a small town like Rockledge, just twenty-five thousand souls. He's really a wizard, he's resurrecting this museum heirloom by giving it a new life. My father took so much care of it that I sometimes thought he loved it more than mom and me. I still have burned in my mind his careful and severe look that follows me as I learn to drive his motorcycle out here, in the street in front of the house. He was standing there, on the sidewalk in front of the entrance, ready to bark at me if by chance I made some mistake. He was worried that I could damage his precious creature. I was just a kid and I was nervous, I was afraid of making a mistake. I hated this motorcycle and for a while I hated my father because of it. At that time I couldn't understand that he wanted to teach me how to drive it so that one day it could be mine and I took care of it.

After the death of my parents, the motorcycle remained abandoned in the garage. I didn't care at all anymore and I began to hate it even more. Somehow I thought it was responsible for the accident, sometimes I hurled my anger at it for what happened. I even thought of selling it or giving it to someone, but I never did. And now I'm here to fix it, to go to California.

Even this day is about to end and even this evening my hands are dirty with grease. I know that even tonight I'll sleep very little. Mark and I will go on for a while here in the garage, at least until we finish fixing that loss. We order a pizza and a couple of beers and take a break to eat and rest for a while.

«Are you really sure you wanna take such a long journey on this rusty jalopy, James?» Mark asks, as we sip our iced beers straight from the bottle.

«If you ask me again, I'll answer no, so it's better if you don't ask me and if you don't make me think about it» I answer smiling. «Rather... the day after tomorrow is the big day, do you think we'll be able to fix everything in time?»

«I told you to keep calm, James, trust me. If we continue to work day and night as we are doing, we'll certainly finish in time for departure.»

«Ok Mark, if you say so... I trust you!»

«If we can't fix everything, don't worry... We do the essential work, the rest are trivial details. I'll put it back on track, it will be able to bite the asphalt again!» exclaims Mark. So far I've always trusted him and he has never disappointed me, at least as a friend. I hope he doesn't disappoint me even as a mechanic. We finish our dinner and our last sip of beer and we get back to work.

I'm not aware of the passing time and when I look at the my watch again, it's almost two o'clock in the morning. It's time to leave our private workshop and go to sleep. I accompany Mark to the door and say goodbye to him, after which I head up the stairs, going up to the bedroom. Lisa has gone to sleep for a while, I can see her lying on the bed through the half-open door of her room. She left the light of the small lamp on the bedside table switched on. I enter the room trying not to make noise and approach her bed. The expression on her face is relaxed, she looks serene as she sleeps and dreams. She lies on her side and a strand of hair falling from above her head covers half her face, ending up on her nose. I gently move the strand of hair to the back of her ear. Lisa moves, for a moment it seems that she's about to wake up, but then she falls back into deep sleep. I turn off the light of the lamp and leave her room, closing the door quietly. I go into my room, get undressed and throw myself on the bed. I'm exhausted. After a few seconds, I close my eyelids weighed down by tiredness.

I rested enough, it's time to go. I get up from the armchair, pick up the bag from the floor and go out of the refreshment area. I come back to Bonnie, put the bag on the saddle as usual and put the helmet back on. I fill up with gasoline before leaving and then I take the road again.

I've traveled a lot in my life, by car, train, plane, ship. This is the first trip I do on a motorcycle. Traveling on board a vehicle, whatever it is, causes the landscape around us to mutate rapidly and continuously, which isn't the case when standing still. This causes transformations inside our mind, in our way of thinking. Changing perspective, changing point of view, changes the way we see the world, the perception we have of things and people. All this wouldn't happen if we remained motionless in the same place for a lifetime.

Every time I travel, I discover a new myself that I didn't know before and that I'd never have thought to know. Traveling means seeing new places with the eyes of a child, observing the world for the first time, fully exploring our limits and realizing how easy it's to overcome them. Going beyond the door of fear step by step and discover all the beauty that is on the other side, and that we risked missing. Every journey is also a journey within ourselves and every time I return from a journey, my wallet is poorer, but my spirit is richer.

I've reached the point where Interstate 15 intersects Interstate 10 and the streets are subdivided into intersecting junctions, overlapping each other in an intricate drawing. It looks like a modern work of art made of concrete, pylons and asphalt. I take the junction for Interstate 10, the highway that leads to the Santa Monica Pier. I'm about to enter the heart of the big city. The road is very wide, it looks like a huge river flowing towards the ocean, swarmed by a multitude of cars and trucks. The flow surrounds me on every side and transports me to the final destination.

The asphalt now glitters and lights up, lit by the low sun. As I move forward I see it go down. It shows me the direction, guiding me towards the sea. I look at the watch tied to my wrist, it's twenty minutes to eight. The golden light of the sun which is about to disappear brightens up the surfaces of the buildings, the cement that forms roads and bridges and the green hills around, giving it all an artistic touch, like a painting. It's reflected on the windows of the shops and on the windows of the skyscrapers, above the shiny car bodyworks and on the large chrome mirrors of the trailer trucks traveling on the road.

The sun from time to time hides behind the tallest buildings, and then let escape its blinding rays. I continue to follow it as it descends, until its round outline becomes clearly visible. Now it appears closer, it almost seems that it can be reached and touched. It's a burning disk of fire that returns to the earth to go to sleep, after a tiring day spent sending infernal heat from space. The fiery sphere touches the horizon line, which at the bottom is tinged with a bright orange in the center, with shades of light red around it. Higher up, contrariwise, the dark blue of the night begins to take possession of the sky.

I still watch the sun. Slowly it plunges behind the city, until there's only one last bright slice left. At the end it disappears altogether, leaving in the sky a thousand shades of pink and red and long stripes of clouds that look like furrows painted with a brush.

I arrive near the center of Los Angeles, where the freeways surround the Downtown as defense walls, tangling and writhing. There are streets overflowing with vehicles on all sides, side by side with each other, above, below, wherever I look. At this point Interstate 10 suddenly turns left and after a short distance turns right, intersecting Interstate 5.

The metropolis welcomes me with its crazy chaos made of frenetic lights, insistent noises and incessant traffic. In the distance, on the right, I can see the skyscrapers of the Downtown that rise above the city. Their skyline draws a clear profile that stands out above the colors of the sunset. As the darkness continues to slowly seize the sky, the countless lights of the street lamps and buildings become increasingly intense, bringing the city to life, as if it were a gigantic nocturnal beast that is awakening. It's not far by now from the destination. I can already feel the breeze and the smell of the sea.

I left from an ocean, the Atlantic, and I'm about to reach another ocean, the Pacific, on the other side of America. The sea fascinates me since I was a child, but at the same time it arouses me an ancestral fear. Perhaps because the enormous depth of its abysses makes me think of the unknown, that unknown part of the universe and of ourselves. In one of my worst nightmares, a gigantic wave approaches with increasing speed towards the coast, on the beach where I am, and I start running as fast as I can, feeling behind me the threat of the mass of water that could overwhelm me and swallow me at any moment. The beach is always the same, is Cocoa Beach, very close to Rockledge, where I often went with my mother in the summer. The irresistible attraction for the ocean led me every time to explore it with greater interest, eager to discover one more portion, to go farther and farther. Its enormity scared me and still frightens me, yet I was and I am attracted to it.

It may appear impossible to challenge such a boundless entity. Despite this, the curiosity for something still unknown, mysterious, pushes us beyond our limits. As adults we tend to lose that curiosity, that hunger for knowledge towards the universe that surrounds us. We continue to slide on the surface of the world like surfers on our surfboards and only rarely do we dive into its depth, where in quiet, far from the lights and the din, its secret beauty is hidden.

I can still hear the voice of my mother calling me from the shore, worried that swimming I could go too far. Sometimes, rarely, my father reached us on the beach. When the sun went down and the evening came, he and I spent tens of minutes watching in silence the boats of the fishermen taking the sea, until they became tiny dots barely distinguishable.

I take the junction to get out of Interstate 10 and in less than no time I find myself on the final stretch of Colorado Avenue. From here I can already see it in the distance. Over there, at the end of the avenue, there is the arch of the Santa Monica Pier. I ride the last street yards left in a matter of minutes. Shortly before the arch I'm forced to stop. Only the red light remained to separate me from the pier. I watch the cars running fast from both directions on Ocean Avenue, in front of me. The intersection is painted with long white pedestrian crossings made luminescent by street lamps placed at the corners, above the sidewalks.

It's evening by now. Green light, I cross the intersection and overstep the arch. The last piece of road is a small bridge that flies over the street below that runs along the beach, bordered by long railings on both sides. It's curved and goes down to the ocean. I can already see the tall palm trees and the beach at the back, and then, further on, the Ferris wheel with its sparkling lights. The Pacific greets me with the last reflections of the sunset that shimmer on its smooth surface.

Following the descent of the bridge, the asphalt gives way to the wooden planks that pave the entire pier. Bonnie seems to have fun bouncing on this new type of road terrain. I arrive to the beginning of the pedestrian zone, from here I can't proceed anymore. I turn left, where there is a parking lot. I enter the parking lot and I stop, turning off the engine.

I feel all the weight of this long and tiring day on me. It's July 7th, it's nine o'clock in the evening. After five days of travel, I finally arrived in Santa Monica. I dismount from the saddle, I take the helmet off my head and hang it on the handlebars. I look at Bonnie, she too is weary from the long journey, she bears the marks on her. Her chassis, engine and tires are covered with a layer of dust and there are splashes of dirty water and mud on the bottom. She was good to bringing me till here. I glance at the partial odometer, I zeroed it before I left Rockledge. It marks 2492 miles traveled.

I take the phone from my bag and put it in my jacket pocket. I also take the pack of cigarettes and close the bag, leaving it tied to the saddle. I set out on the pier and I leave Bonnie in the parking, so she can enjoy some well-deserved rest. Left the parking, I stop to listen to the playful and cheerful sounds of the amusement park attractions mixed with the great shouting of the crowd of people on the pier. I begin to walk slowly and head towards the main promenade, passing the wooden building to my left. Turned the corner, I approach the long walk that goes all the way, at the end of the pier. I struggle to move in the midst of the crowd of people. On my left is a large array of shops and restaurants and beyond, behind them, the attractions stand out.

By dodging the people who come against me from every direction, I arrive at the final stretch of the pier, where there's a narrowing projected forward, over the ocean. The long walk, as well as the entire surface of the pier, is surrounded by a long metal parapet. Along the walk there are two rows of wrought iron street lamps arranged alternately, not directly one in front of the other. They are dark gray and have a wide and stable base, a round-section shaft with vertical grooves and a thinner arched upper part. The end of the arch widens and from it hangs the oval glass that encloses the lamp. The street lamps look like flowers bended downwards. They emanate a light tending to very intense white, which forms a thick halo all around the glass oval.

Several wooden benches are placed in front of the parapet, on either side of the walk, spaced apart. On some of them are sitting young couples who are tightened, partly illuminated by the light that falls from the street lamps. My steps, along with those of all the other people present, resound with a dull and repeated noise over the wooden planks. It's like to be on the deck of a cruise ship sailing in the open sea. This place is magical, as it was many years ago, when I was a child and I came here for the first time with my parents.

I keep walking forward. On my left, sitting on a small stool and with a large sombrero covering his head and part of his face, there's a man who plays an acoustic guitar and sings a Mexican song. It's a quiet music, suited to the atmosphere of the place. Most people ignore him and move on, someone stops to listen to him, some others from time to time throws a coin into the metal bowl at his feet. The tinkling of the cents seems to accompany the guitarist's melody. I take out my wallet, open it and rummage in the coin pocket. I toss my half dollar into the bowl and then start walking again.

I reach the last shops and restaurants on the pier, after which I find myself in the final part, that is a large rectangular square. Going down a staircase it's possible to access a lower level closer to the water, but I stop here, leaning against the railing and looking at the boundless ocean in front of me. Here it's much quieter than the mess on the other side, where are the restaurants and attractions. There's a lot less people and a lot less noise. The cool breeze coming from the sea caresses my skin. It's a perfect evening, like that evening of many years ago. The sky is illuminated by a wonderful moon and an endless crowd of stars.

I take out the pack of cigarettes from the jacket, I take one and put it between my lips, then I take the lighter from inside the pack and light it on. I really need a bit of relaxation after this hard day. The lapping of the waves that crash on the underlying poles, supporting the structure, is music for my ears. I let myself be carried away by that sound, continuing to stare at the immense expanse of dark liquid that moves relentlessly.

After my cigarette, I detach myself from the railing and turn around to go back, retracing the walk in the opposite direction. Down to the right, I notice the large Ferris wheel that keep on turning, as it did many years ago. I like to think that since then it has never stopped. I guess now I'm too old for some things, like going on the rides. I sit on one of the benches facing the parapet and I continue to observe the multicolored lights of the attractions that chase each other in the night.

I'm tired. I lie on the bench with my back on, my hands behind my head and my feet crossed. Above me I have a huge ceiling decorated with billions of stars. I hear the sound of the seagulls that occasionally fly over the pier, sometimes laying on the parapet, sometimes on the top of the street lamps. I close my eyes to rest a little.

Saturday, July 3rd, early morning. The sun hasn't yet made its appearance in the sky, the city is sleeping. The street lights are still lit and a light mist envelops the houses. I've been up for an hour already and I'm savoring my coffee calmly, in small sips, as I look out the large living room window. The streets are empty and clean. Rockledge is a ghost town, it's slowly awakening from its sleep. I stare at the immutable landscape, as if I were looking at a large painting hanging on the wall.

Suddenly I feel light footsteps coming from behind my shoulders. I turn around. Lisa walks towards me sleepy, in pajamas and barefoot. Her eyes are half closed and her long light brown hair comes down ruffled on her shoulders. She opens her mouth wide and yawns, keeping to stare at me.

«Hey baby, already up at this time?» I ask her.

«Good morning, dad, I could ask you the same question» Lisa replies promptly.

«Yeah... I woke up a little earlier than expected, I couldn't sleep anymore. You know, the excitement for the departure and all the rest...»

«Yes, I imagined it.»

«There's more coffee in the kitchen, I left it for you. Since you're awake you can drink it immediately if you want. It's still hot» I tell her.

«Ok, thanks!» answers Lisa. She's about to turn around and go to the kitchen.

«Wait, since you go to the kitchen, take this» I say, handing her my empty cup, still warm on the outside edge. «In the meantime, I'll finish my bag.»

While Lisa goes to the kitchen, I put the last things in the bag that I had prepared last night and which I had left on the sofa. After a few minutes, Lisa returns to the living room with her cup of coffee in her hand.

«Dad please, be careful, try to respect the itinerary we have planned and don't trust strangers. And then, above all...»

«Did I ever tell you that you look a lot like your grandmother?» I ask her ironically, interrupting her maternal recommendations.

«Yes, dad, you always tell me, but be careful and call me as soon as you stop!»

«Don't worry baby. Take care of the house and make sure it's in one piece when I get back» I say jokingly.

Despite her young age, Lisa is a fairly mature girl and proves to be already a responsible person. She's very reflective about the decisions she makes and I like it, but sometimes it scares me. In this respect, she's the opposite of me. It reminds me a lot of my mother, as I often point out to her, and somehow it's as if she were still here with us.

I hug Lisa and give her a kiss on the cheek, then I take the bag from above the sofa and go out the front door, going to the garage. I open the garage door and turn on the light. After a couple of intermittent flashes, the neon lamp illuminates the motorcycle positioned in the middle of the room. It has another look now, completely different from how I'd found it a week ago. It has a dignified and respectable look.

The metallic black tank is bright, like the tubes and other parts that make up the chassis. The saddle and handlebars grips are refurbished. The chrome part of the engine is well polished and clean, as are the two long exhausts on the sides, which end with a bottle-shaped enlargement. The handlebars, headlight, front mudguard and round shaped rearview mirrors are also chrome and shiny. The steel rims and spokes of the wheels shine in the light of the lamp and the tires are brand new. There are no longer dangling cables or disassembled parts, there's not a spot of oil or grease on the engine. Everything is in place, where it must be. It's brand new, dad would be happy to see it like that. The loved ones who are no longer with us continue to live in our memories, but also in the objects they loved in life.

I take the helmet from above the shelf on the wall, it is also shining black. I put it on my head and tighten the strap under my chin. I fix the bag on the back of the saddle and take the motorcycle outside, onto the driveway to the garage. I get on, lift the kickstand and turn on the engine with a single stroke on the starter lever. I'm in the saddle, ready to go. On the door of the house, Lisa says goodbye to me by shaking her hand.

«Have a good trip, daddy!» she shouts.

«Bye bye, baby, talk to you soon!» I say to her, loudly.

I put in the first gear and take the road. I look in the rearview mirror and I see Lisa turned in my direction who continues to watch me as I go away. I can't believe I'm leaving on such a long journey on a motorcycle. I immediately feel a sort of melancholy mixed with fear, I seem to leave my whole life behind. After a few seconds, this emotion is transformed into something equally strong, into excitement, as when one embarks on the path to a new life, unknown but full of who knows how many surprises.

My head empties and my body hovers in the air like a bird in flight. I'm leaving Lisa, my house, my city, my job, my friends and all the rest, although only for about twenty days. In front of me I have only the road. It's all I have now, apart from myself and a motorcycle. She will be my traveling companion. I decided to give her a name. I'll call her Bonnie.

«Sir! Sir, can you hear me? Sir!»

The insistent voice of a child shouts into my ear.

«Are you all right? Are you all right?» the child continues to ask. I open my sleepy eyes and see his face a hand from my face.

«Kevin, I told you to stay close to me, you must never get away from me! How many times I have to repeat?» shouts a man approaching the child. I guess it's her father. «Sorry, sir, I'm mortified» he says, turning to me.

«Don't worry, no problem» I answer him, eyes half closed.

«Excuse me again... Come on Kevin, come on, it's time to go home!» says the man, grabbing the child by the hand. He takes him away almost by dragging him by force.

I pull myself up off the bench and sit up again. My hands are sore from the weight of my head, turning them I see red marks on the back. I look at my watch, it marks ten and twenty-seven minutes. I must have slept for about an hour. The crowd of people who previously occupied most of the surface of the pier seems to have vanished. The man with the guitar and the sombrero is gone. Only a few people remained, mostly small groups of teenagers giggling and some adult people. The sky has become darker and the lights of the stars, the street lamps and the attractions of the amusement park are more marked and visible now. Down on the beach, a group of boys and girls is gathered around a bonfire.

I get up from the bench and walk back to the promenade, towards the parking. Maybe I should go back to Bonnie and go for a good night's sleep in the hotel booked with Lisa. It should be not far from the pier, if I remember well.

I return to the parking lot and find Bonnie there waiting for me, as always. She must have had a nice nap too. I open the bag and rummage in an inner compartment, where in a plastic folder I've put all the sheets with the addresses of the hotels booked, along with some road maps. I take the sheet with directions to the Santa Monica hotel and close the bag. I mount in the saddle and put the helmet on my head. I turn on the engine and take a look at the directions.

Suddenly, while I'm focused on looking at the paper in my hands, I feel myself catching by the arm. I remain disoriented for a moment. Quickly I look down at my forearm and I see a hand grasping it. The nails of the hand are painted with a red enamel. I look up, first seeing a long mane of wavy black hair that falls on the shoulders, then two red lips and a pair of silver earrings in the shape of a circle that hang at the sides, under the hair. Higher up, two dark eyes surrounded by thick eyelashes and surmounted by thin black eyebrows. Her face is illuminated by one of the street lamps in the parking.

«I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you!» the girl says loudly, so that I can hear her. I stare at her for a few seconds, wondering where she came from, since I hadn't noticed anyone in the parking a few moments ago. I fold the sheet that I hold in my hands, I put it in the inside pocket of the jacket and turn off the engine.

«I tried to call you coming to you, but you didn't hear me. Excuse me again... I think I've lost the key of my car» the girl resumes worriedly. «Going back to the parking a few minutes ago, I realized I didn't have it in my jacket pocket anymore» she says.

I look down, observing her black leather jacket that ends at the waist, with the side pockets open, without closure. Under the jacket she wears a bordeaux plaid shirt tucked into tight-fitting, very tight-fitting, dark jeans that wrap around her legs. Around her waist she has a black belt closed by a wide silver-colored round buckle and at her feet she wears high-heeled ankle boots, also in black leather, in which the lower part of the jeans is inserted. At the neck she wears a necklace with a small heart-shaped pendant, in silver or white gold.

«Obviously cops you never see them around, when you need them!» she exclaims disheartened. I continue to watch her enchanted and still incredulous of the fact that such a lovely creature appeared to me suddenly, from the darkness of the night. She has a young and well-groomed appearance and a light, smooth skin without impurities. She looks like a fairy in leather jacket and boots.

«I left my phone in the car, I don't know how to do... I didn't know who to ask for help, there was nobody in the parking... Then I heard the engine noise and I saw you» she says. While she speaks, I stare to her dazed, without moving or saying a word. «Can you understand me? Do you speak my language?» the girl asks me at last. I wake up from my state of amazement.

«Yes, yes, of course... I was thinking...» I tell her. The girl looks at me confusedly.

«Okay,» I resume, after made order in my mind, «we have to retrace the path you've made to get here. Where were you before returning to the parking?» I ask.

«I was at the amusement park, along with my little sister. We met there, then she left and we said goodbye, so I got back to the car and...»

«Well, perfect!» I exclaim interrupting her. «So we have to go back to the amusement park by redoing the same path and looking carefully on the ground. Is there a keychain or something else attached to the key?» I ask.

«Yes, there's a light leather strap with glitter on it» the girl replies.

«Well, we'll see it better. We would need something to make light...» I say. I dismount from Bonnie, take the key from the ignition lock and put it in my jacket pocket, closing it. I take off my helmet and hang it on the handlebars. I open the bag over the saddle and from an inside pocket I pull out the small flashlight that I brought with me.

«This will help us» I say smiling.

«I don't know how to thank you!» the girl exclaims. The worry on her face turns into an expression of joy and hope.

«You'll thank me when we'll find the key... Let's go look for it!» I say, lighting the small flashlight.

«Yes, ok, this way!» she exclaims. Then she starts walking towards the amusement park. I stand next to her and direct the light on the wooden floor in front of our feet, scanning carefully.

«I'm sure I've been here» says the girl.

«If you lost it here, we should be able to see it» I tell her, continuing to point the light down and walking beside her. The sound of her heels hitting the wooden boards echoes throughout the parking lot. There seems to be no one left on the pier, apart from the two of us.

We arrive at the entrance to the amusement park, where two thick metal poles hold up a large luminous writing: Pacific Park. We pass under the signboard and enter the park. The red, purple and bluish lights spread out on the wooden floor, mingling with each other. In front of us rise the roller coaster that covers the entire perimeter of the amusement park. It is different, much bigger than the one I tried with my parents that September night of thirty-five years ago. It has changed a lot here compared to then, from what I can remember. In the amusement park there are only a few people, you can count them. Nevertheless, all the attractions are switched on and running, and their playful and cheerful sounds continue to echo in the air.

«I haven't seen anything so far that it can resemble the key of your car» I say to the girl.

«Neither do I» she replies, biting her lower lip with a perplexed but at the same time so involuntarily sensual expression.

«What did you do here with your sister?» I ask.

«Well, we ate, walked and... and then we took a ride on the wheel.»

«The Ferris wheel?»

«Yes, exactly, down there. Wait a moment... I'm sure that before getting on the wheel I still had the key with me, maybe it might have slipped out of my pocket when I sat in the cabin... Of course, it must have been so!» exclaims the girl.

«Ok, so let's go see!» I tell her.

We hurry to head towards the bottom. The noise of our steps on the wooden floor becomes more pronounced. We quickly walk the amusement park running through the attractions and small kiosks selling popcorn and various sweets and we arrive on the other side, at the foot of the big Ferris wheel. The spokes and the contour of the wheel are illuminated by dynamic lights that change color, creating different shapes and light effects from time to time.

We approach the stairway leading to the boarding platform. The wheel is turning, but there's no one on board. I look at the box office, even there there's not a soul. We climb up the steps and arrive at the platform. The cabins move slowly passing a short distance from us, have the shape of an octagonal teacup and are open on one side. On the top they have an octagonal roof supported by a central pole that starts from the base. I light up the inside of the cabins with the flashlight, as they pass in front of me.

«If your key is inside one of these cabins, the only way to take it it's to jump in» I say, turning to her.

«If we can find it, I'll gladly do another ride!» the girl exclaims, giving me a smile.

«You're never too old for a ride on the rides, no?» I say, smiling at her. Then I turn back to the cabins, continuing to examine the interior with the flashlight.

After that others five or six have passed, the flashlight illuminates an object that shines on the seat of the one I have in front now.

«That one seems like a...»

«Yup! It's the key of my car!» the girl exclaims enthusiastically.

«Are you ready to get on board?» I ask, turning off the flashlight and slipping it into the jacket pocket.

«What are we waiting for?» she replies, impatient to jump in.

Before the cabin moves too far from the platform, I grab her hand and with a little jump we easily enter, crossing the narrow entrance. The girl immediately collects the key from the seat and puts it in the front pocket of the jeans. Meanwhile, the cabin has already risen three or four feet from the platform. Suddenly we find ourselves alone, me and her, at night, on a Ferris wheel.

«I really don't know how to thank you!» the girl exclaims, interrupting the brief moment of embarrassment. «I haven't even introduced myself, my name is Sandra» she says, stretching her hand toward me.

«James» I answer, squeezing her hand. We sit a short distance from each other.

«Thanks again, I don't know what I'd have done without you.»

«You probably would have taken a ride on the wheel with someone else!» I say, smiling. Sandra smiles in turn, her face is now illuminated by the changing lights on the spokes of the wheel.

«So you were here with your sister?» I ask her, breaking the embarrassment that was being created again.

«Yes, my little sister Dana. I love her so much! Since I went to live alone in Los Angeles and I found work, I always have little time to dedicate to her... So every once in a while she and I meet here in the evening and spend a few hours together. When we were children, we often came here with our parents... We have beautiful memories.»

«Yeah, memories are a nice thing...»

«And you? Do you come here often?» she asks.

«Actually no, I've been there only once before tonight, when I was a kid.»

«I see... So you came back here tonight to relive those happy moments?» she asks smiling.

«Yes, something like that... I took a long journey to get here.»

«Journey? Where do you come from?» asks Sandra curiously.

«From Florida. From Rockledge exactly.»

An expression of amazement takes hold of her face as we continue to rise higher and higher and the cool evening wind blows harder.

«Florida? A very long trip! And did you come until here alone?»

«Not really alone... along with my motorcycle» I reply with a smile.

«Ah ah ah! Of course, your motorcycle!» exclaims Sandra laughing.

Her eyes thin and seem to smile together with her mouth. They have a nice cut, a slightly elongated shape, and are perfectly spaced. Sometimes the lights of the wheel are reflected making them shine and I can better see the small details and shades of the iris. They are of a light brown, tending to green. As she continues to smile, the small dimples at the corners of her mouth and the lines on either side of her chin give her an even more sweeter and feminine look. Her lips have a harmonious and sensual shape and the inner corners at both ends extend her already wide smile. She has a small, graceful nose that curls slightly when she laughs. Her long hair is dark as night and it come down like sea waves above her shoulders. On the top of the head it is instead ordered and gathered on the sides, leaving the wide forehead uncovered.

We have reached the highest point, on the top of the wheel. On our left is the dark ocean and above it the walk of the pier seems to float, illuminated by the lights of the street lamps. Seen from up here, it looks like an airport runway. On the right I can see the long beach and the bonfire, with the guys in a circle around it. Looking down, towards the street, where the beach ends, the lights of the buildings on the promenade shine in the darkness.

«It's wonderful up here» says Sandra in a low voice, watching the night scene outside the cabin.

«Yes, it's true» I whisper, looking in the same direction.

«Can I ask you if you're married?» she asks me, point blank. «Well, I mean, I don't see any rings on your fingers and so I wondered if...»

«No, I'm not, no more... I divorced my wife several years ago.»

«I see...»

«Now I live with my daughter in our house in Rockledge, the house that my father built... He had a construction company. He put on that house piece by piece, with the help of some of his workers.»

«Oh, it must have been a great effort for him... but also a great satisfaction!»

«Of course.»

«So I guess your father is enjoying his retirement now?»

«No, he and my mother are no longer there... they died in a car accident when I was twenty-seven.»

«Oh, I'm so sorry...»

«Don't worry, it's part of the past by now.»

A few seconds of total silence pass. Meanwhile, the cabin began its descent.

«So you have a daughter?» resumes Sandra.

«Yes, Lisa. She's fourteen and already pretty smart!» I reply. The wheel keeps turning slowly, bringing us back to the ground.

«And your parents? What about your parents?» I ask, intrigued in my turn.

«My father is Italian, he moved here in L.A. for work. He met my mother who is Californian and... here I am!» she replies, in a rather hasty way. Maybe she doesn't want to talk about her parents, so I don't go into the subject.

The wind, which now blows towards me, carries the scent of Sandra directly on my nostrils. It's a sweet and delicate scent, not at all annoying, just like her.

«I think it's time to get off!» she suddenly exclaims, interrupting my thoughts. I look out of the cabin and see that we have almost reached the level of the boarding platform.

«Yes, it's better to get ready» I say, standing up. Sandra gets up from the seat and together we approach the exit of the cabin. We wait a few seconds, until the cabin is a few inches above the platform.

«Ready to go out?» I ask, turning to her.

«Ready!» answers Sandra. I grab her hand again and we jump easily out of the cabin, as easily as we entered.

«Well, it's done! We can go back to the parking now!» exclaims Sandra, after we have descended from the Ferris wheel's stairway.

«Yes, unless you wanna ride a roller coaster!» I say, smiling.

«It would be a lot of fun, I think I was a little girl the last time I did» she says, smiling in turn. «But it's a little late... I'm sorry but maybe it's better if I go home» she then resumes, looking at the small watch on her wrist. I look at my watch too, the hands mark the eleven and ten. I'd still stay here with her, but I guess she just wants to go home now.

«Ok, I'll bring you back to the parking and...»

«Hey, you two! I say to you!» shouts a voice behind us. We both turn back. A man is coming towards us after exiting the side door of the box office, next to the Ferris wheel.

«You got in the wheel without pay the ticket! Did you think I didn't see you? Don't you know there's a camera inside every cabin?» the man continues, approaching us.

«Listen, sir, we got on to recover the key of...»

«Miss, I'm not interested in your story!» the man replies, interrupting Sandra. He has stopped a step away from us. «The fact is that you didn't pay the ticket and you also took a big risk by getting in the cabin with the wheel in motion. Don't you know it's forbidden? I have a responsibility here and if any accident happens...»

«Ok, ok. We committed a crime» I say, interrupting the man's telling-off. «How much do we have to pay for the ticket?» I ask him. The man looks at me confused for a moment, then resumes mumbling.

«Well, so, considering the infringement... there would be a fine to pay, but I'll make an exception for this time... Just gimme fifty bucks and you can go.»

«Fifty dollars for a ride on the wheel?» says Sandra aloud.

«Miss, I repeat that...»

«Ok, listen, I'll give you twenty-five dollars and we'll all go home. What do you say?» I tell to the man, taking the wallet from the inside pocket of my jacket. The man points his eyes to the banknotes I'm pulling out of my wallet.

«This time it's okay, man. But make sure I don't catch you again without the ticket!» he answers, grabbing the banknotes from my hand with a quick gesture and slipping them into the back pocket of his pants.

«If the price for a ride is so high, you'll never see us again for sure!» I reply with a smile. Sandra bursts into laughter, the man looks at her and for a moment seems want to fight back. At the end, he turns and comes back from where he had come out. We both turn the other way and walk towards the parking lot.

«Did you see his face?» says Sandra, still laughing.

«Yes, absurd!» I reply, laughing with her.

«Twenty-five dollars for a ride on the wheel... What a thief!» continues Sandra.

«For me he could be anyone. Who tells us he was really the box office man?» I say, looking at her. «However you have to admit that the ride was worth the price of the ticket, isn't it?» I ask, still laughing.

«Of course, it was really a fantastic ride! The most beautiful I've ever done on a Ferris wheel!» replies Sandra, her face illuminated by her beautiful smile.

We leave the amusement park and return to the parking again. After a few steps, Sandra stops near one of the remaining cars.

«Well, I've arrived. This is my car» she says, turning her gaze to me. «Thanks again and again, you've been really kind and helpful. I'd like to reciprocate somehow... Is there anything I can do for you?» she asks.

«Oh, no, don't worry. It was a pleasure to meet you and help you» I reply.

«Yes for me too. Well, so goodnight and have a good holiday in California!» she tells me.

«Thanks and goodnight to you too!» I answer.

Sandra turns to her car and presses the opening button on the key. The doors unlock with a click and a couple of flashes of the direction indicators. She opens the door, enters the car and closes it. I turn around and start walking in the direction of Bonnie, not far from there. I hear the engine of the car starting behind me.

«No, I can't let her go like this!» I think to myself. Her car passes me by and overtakes me, I watch it move slowly towards the exit of the parking lot.

Before Sandra crosses the exit gate, I start running to chase her and I can easily reach her in a few seconds. I come up beside her car and knock with the knuckles on the window. She turns around, sees me and stops the car immediately. Then she pulls the window down.

«James! Did you forget something?» she asks.

«In fact there's something you could do for me... I was wondering... I know it's late and you wanna go home, but would you like to take a ride on my motorcycle?» I ask. Sandra reflects for a few seconds, staring at me with her sweet gaze and biting her lip again.

«I'm a little tired and tomorrow I have to work... but it's okay, I accept!» she replies smiling.

«Well, great!» I exclaim enthusiastically. «Next to my motorcycle there's a free parking space, you can put your car there» I tell her, pointing to where Bonnie is. Sandra nods, engages reverse gear and comes back.

I reach Bonnie briskly and start to undo the straps that hold the bag on the saddle, to move it on the tank. I take the flashlight out of my jacket pocket and put it back inside the bag. Meanwhile, Sandra comes out of the car and comes towards me.

«You can leave your bag inside my car, if you want» she tells me.

«Yes, ok, thank you!» I answer. Sandra opens the back door so that I can place the bag and straps on the back seat, then closes the car. I get in the saddle, put the key in the ignition lock and pull up the kickstand.

«Have you ever got on a motorcycle?» I ask.

«Yes, sometimes, in the past... but never on one like this.»

«Ok, there's no problem, it's not different from the others. Wait till I turn the engine on and then put your foot on the foot peg, get on the saddle and hold on tight!» I tell her.

«Ok!» says Sandra. I get up from the saddle on both feet, resting the right one on the starter lever and pushing it down with the full weight of the body. The engine starts and Sandra gets on, behind me.

«Are you ready?» I ask in a loud voice, turning back.

«Yes, I am!» answers Sandra, clinging with both hands to my waist.

I take the helmet hanging from the handlebars, I put it on my head and we leave, leaving the parking. I turn right and enter the arched bridge, arriving at the intersection with Ocean Avenue. I stop at the intersection.

«So, where would you like to go?» I ask Sandra, turning my head back.

«This is a question I should ask you, since you're here on vacation» she replies, bringing her mouth close to the side of the helmet covering my ear.

«That's right... So, where do you take me?»

«Let's go to the Sunset Strip, in Hollywood. It's about half an hour from here, traffic permitting.»

«Ok, Hollywood, I like it! Which way I go?»

«Go to the left and then further on, when I wave to you, turn right. I'll guide you from here behind, trust me!» says Sandra screaming.

«Perfect, you're my guide! Let's go!» I reply. I turn forward and we leave again, turning left on Ocean Avenue. A little further on, Sandra beckons me to turn right with the index finger. I follow her directions.

«We're on Santa Monica Boulevard, go straight on until I tell you to turn» says Sandra, approaching from behind my right. I answer with a nod of my head.

We ride the straight boulevard. On both sides there are long rows of trees on the sidewalks and an endless series of showcases, side by side, with the shop signs mostly off. The traffic is not so intense, but there's a crossroads every seventy or eighty yards all along the boulevard. The red, yellow and green lights of the semaphores decorate the street, like lights on feast days. Further on we stop at an intersection, red light. On the left side of the boulevard, palm trees with a very high trunk rise towards the night sky, far exceeding the street lamps.

«That is Rodeo Drive, the famous street of high fashion boutiques» says Sandra, pointing to the street on our right. «Welcome to Beverly Hills, the kingdom of the rich and famous!» she exclaims.

«So your house is here?» I ask her ironically.

«Not yet... maybe one day, who knows!» replies Sandra, laughing.

Green light, we cross the intersection with Rodeo Drive. On the left there's a large green area, a park. We skirt it continuing to advance straight ahead.

Arrived at a fork, Sandra beckons me to turn left. We take a narrower and less illuminated road. It's a residential area, full of small and large villas next to one another, with their lawns well-cut and the access roads clean and well swept. Some have unprotected entries, other super-armored gates, others more have a white front fence. They are homes of wealthy people, like most Beverly Hills homes. The residents' cars are parked on both sides along the narrow road, which is slightly uphill. The trees in the flowerbeds on the sidewalks are well cared for, as are the hedges with precise geometric shapes that delimit the space in front of the villas. Everything here conveys a sense of order and cleanliness.

After travelling the short way to the end, Sandra shows me the direction with her right hand. We enter another large and busy boulevard.

«We're on Sunset Boulevard!» says Sandra from behind. «From here the Sunset Strip begins, go straight on» she says. I nod and head forward.

The fleeting moment of calm savored a little while ago turns into the chaos of lights, confusion and horns that floods the wide road. An extraordinary swarm of life impregnates the boulevard, spreading everywhere. The faces and the bodies on the huge and colorful billboards along the street and above the buildings seem to come to life they too, while the bright signs of night clubs and rock clubs dart blurry from one side and the other. Sandra hugs me more forcefully, clutching my abdomen with her arms and hands and resting her head on my right shoulder. I believe that she too, like me, is excited by this explosion of sensory stimuli.

Suddenly I feel light, I no longer feel the weariness of this interminable day. I feel like I'm drunk. The adrenaline takes hold of my body while Sandra is hugged to me and together we ride Bonnie, floating above the asphalt.

I let myself be carried away by the electricity in the air and I can perceive the energy sprinkled from every street lamp along the road, from every intermittent sign and every spotlight that illuminates the posters that surround us. And I feel the road, I feel it vibrating, pulsating, I hear it screaming and squirming. I distinguish its various smells and touch its changing traits. And then I feel the warmth of Sandra's body on mine. All of a sudden all the people disappear and we remain only the two of us, two victims of the night, subjugated and deceived by the seductive lights of Hollywood.

«Turn left at the next intersection and then right!» shouts Sandra from behind, returning me to reality. I follow her directions. We enter an avenue that seems even more animated than the Sunset Strip.

«We're on Hollywood Boulevard, we're in the land of cinema! Many famous actors and directors work and live here» she explains.

«Do you work for the cinema?» I ask her aloud, turning my head for a moment on the side where she's leaning out.

«No, I do something else. I work in an insurance agency» she replies.

«Oh, okay, I thought you was a star...» I say jokingly.

«No, it's not for me! There are already too many stars here... They are drawn on the sidewalks of the Walk of Fame, a little further on.»

«Yes, I think I heard about it sometimes...» I say, continuing to joke with her.

A crowd of people, mostly tourists, invades the sidewalks at the sides of the road. Some are still and look around by taking pictures.

«Look over the sidewalks, do you see them?» says Sandra, pointing downwards. I slow down and look at the long line of five-pointed stars engraved on the sidewalks on either side of the street, lit by street lamps and the large quantity of luminous signs.

«Let's stop there, in front of the Chinese Theater» she says, pointing it with her finger.

I approach and stop at the side of the high pagoda of the Chinese Theater, which is on the other side of the street. It's one of Hollywood's most famous cinemas and one of its main attractions. Its brightly colored facade is well lit by the several spotlights at the base and at the top, on the roof. The two columns on either side of the entrance are bright red tending to orange and the roof is light green.

A swarm of tourists is gathered in front of the theater entrance to watch and photograph the famous handprints and footprints, with their respective signatures, of some actors and show people, imprinted in the concrete blocks that make up the space in front.

I turn off the engine and take off my helmet, hanging it on the handlebars. Sandra dismounts from the saddle. I pull down the kickstand and I get off Bonnie too. I take the key out of the ignition lock and put it in the front pocket of my jeans.

«Would you like a walk among the stars?» asks Sandra, smiling.

«Why not, I couldn't ask for anything better!» I answer. We walk on the Walk of Fame, on the sidewalk opposite to that of the Chinese Theater.

«Look,» says Sandra, pointing at the sidewalk, «in every star there's the name of a celebrity of the cinema, the show or the music.»

The stars are set in the dark marble flooring, are of a light pink with a bronze-colored edging. The names inside are written in large letters and are bronze in color.

«I think I've been here with my parents, but I don't remember much» I tell her.

«Some memories are less clear than others... Usually we tend to forget the things we give little weight and remember well those that have impressed us more, positive or negative» says Sandra.

«It's true, and this place seems made to strike you in every way possible, to capture your attention totally.»

«Yes, but don't be fooled too much... This is only a facade, a beautiful wall artfully adorned. What is beyond the wall isn't so splendid, believe me» she says. The expression on her face becomes darker.

«What do you mean?» I ask her curiously.

«Well, my mother worked as a costume designer in some film studios here in Hollywood and often took me with her to watch the preparation and rehearsals. The world of cinema fascinated me right away and for a while I worked on set, I was assistant to set design.»

«Cool! It must have been a good experience for you, or maybe not...»

«At first it was, I was very happy with what I was doing. Then, as time went by, I began to discover the dark side of that world a little at a time... I began to feel disgust at that job and finally gave it up and came out of it» she says. I read a note of bitterness at the bottom of her eyes, though Sandra tries to mask it.

«I don't find it hard to believe there's something rotten in show business.»

«Well, I don't want to bore you too much with my story, but... yes, it's the truth» says Sandra. Apparently this place reminds her of bad memories, yet it was she who brought me here.

«Anyway, talking as a simple spectator, for me cinema remains something magical...» I resume. «Sitting in a dark room in front of a big white screen on which a beam of light projects moving images... I don't know, it's like a daydream. It's only illusion, it's true, but if even for a moment it appears real to us, then we are transported into that screen, immersed in that illusion, as we are immersed in the dreams when we dream.»

«It's what they call filmic illusion» says Sandra. «Even though we know that it's just a film, pure fiction, we feel real emotions, as if it were all real» she continues. Her face has brightened.

«Exactly, I see you've studied!» I exclaim, smiling. «It may seem stupid, I know, but for me cinema is a place of dreams» I tell her.

«No, not at all, you're right. Cinema can make you dream... and apparently you're a dreamer» says Sandra, turning and looking into my eyes.

«You know, sometimes I like to imagine life as if it were a movie, the world a huge set and people like actors without a script, left to improvisation. Even you and I right now are like two actors who are improvising, don't you think?» I say smiling.

«Ah ah, very philosophical! In fact it could make sense, I recognize it» replies Sandra, her face lit up again by her broad smile. Although we have just met, I feel a certain harmony between the two of us.

«You told me about your father, but you didn't talk me of your mother...» she resume immediately after, suddenly changing the subject.

«She was a violinist, she was teaching at a music school in the city. From time to time she gave concerts with her orchestra around Florida. She gave up everything shortly after I was born.»

«I see... So a musician, interesting!» she exclaims.

«You didn't tell me what your father does...» I tell her.

«My father moved here from Italy, as I told you. He has been running an Italian restaurant in Downtown for some years» says Sandra. «We rarely see each other, mostly when I visit him in his restaurant. He and my mother got divorced eight years ago, since then our relationship has changed... Afterwards he made a new life and a new family with another woman. Little Dana is the one who suffered the most in this story, she and I stayed with my mother.»

«I'm sorry.»

«It's part of the past, as you said» says Sandra, raising a smile.

«Yeah...» I reply.

We continue our walk, walking on the pavement full of pink stars, among the people who still crowd it. Next to us, a few steps away, the traffic continues to flow incessantly on Hollywood Boulevard.

Sandra takes a quick step forward to avoid a group of tourists standing on the side where she walks. I watch for a few moments her sinuous body moving elegantly in front of me. Her jeans are so tight that they clearly show the slender and well-defined shape of the legs and her walk on the heels of the ankle boots is graceful but at the same time firm, stable. Her narrow hips swing gently from one side and the other, while the long black hair that starts from her head moves smoothly caressing the shiny fabric behind her jacket. Her hair arrives just below the middle of her back and ends with a pointed shape.

Her femininity is disruptive in every aspect and in every gesture and movement she does. It's not artificial at all or expressed with the intent to show off, to attract glances. Quite the contrary. It's spontaneous, involuntary, sensual, sometimes provocative, but only for fun, never and in no way vulgar.

«And you? How do you make your living?» She asks, after having joined me again.

«I'm an interior designer, I take care of designing the interior of homes, offices and shops. I have a small studio at home.»

«So a sort of artist.»

«In a sense... Let's say that my father's work pushed me a lot in that direction.»

«Of course, I imagine. It's not bad to have the chance to work in your own home, I think many people would like to do it.»

«Yes, although that's only part of the job... First of all I have to go to the place to inspect it and talk to the client. Most of my clients are in Orlando, less than an hour's drive from home.»

«Well, not so far.»

«Yes, it didn't go so bad! However, the part that I prefer is when I'm home and lock myself in my studio. I relax and go into another dimension... I can give vent to my creativity with a pencil and a sheet of paper, or drawing on the computer screen.»

«Looks like you really love what you do.»

«Yes. I like it so much that sometimes I lose track of time and when I look out of the window it's late evening... Sometimes Lisa, not seeing me leave the room, knocks on the door, enters and brings me dinner on a tray. She puts it on the desk, in the middle of the mess, and then goes away closing the door silently.»

«She must really be a lovely daughter!»

«Yes, in some respects she is, for others she gives me many headaches!» I say, smiling.

«Well, you know, she's a woman...» says Sandra, with a deliberately provocative look.

«Yes, she will soon be so, and I'll deal with it.»

«I really think so!» she exclaims, nodding her head.

«You know, she's a great advisor to me, she helps me to think when instinct drives me to do something too rash» I say.

«Oh yes?» says Sandra, raising her eyebrows.

«Yes, sometimes I do rash things, like going on this trip» I reply with a smile.

«Yeah, along with your two-wheeled friend!» she exclaims, smiling too. Then she bends her head to look at the watch she wears on her wrist. «I'm sorry but I think it's time to go back... Tomorrow will be a long day at work and I'll have to wake up at six» she says, biting her lower lip again with her sensual expression.

«Ok, I'll bring you back to your car... though I'd like to stay here with you all night» I tell her. Sandra looks at me embarrassed and smiles.

We turn around to go back. The sidewalk is clearer now. We walk briskly and in a few minutes we return to the starting point, in front of the Chinese Theater, where we left Bonnie. I take the key out of my jeans pocket and slip it into the ignition lock, then mount in the saddle and put the helmet back on. I start the engine and Sandra goes up behind me.

«Are you ready?» I ask, turning back.

«Yes!» she replies.

I pull up the kickstand and we leave again. Following her directions, we find ourselves on Santa Monica Boulevard in a short time.

«Follow the boulevard to the end!» says Sandra from behind loudly. I answer with a nod and go straight.

Traffic has diminished and the air has become fresher. Sandra squeezes back to me, resting her body on my back. It's really a splendid night, one of those that had not happened to me for some time, one of those that I wish would never end.

Life is strange, it takes you by surprise when you least expect it. It makes two strangers meet one night above a pier on the ocean. If she hadn't lost the key of her car, if I hadn't been there at that moment, and if a whole series of events hadn't occurred in the precise sequence in which it happened, we two wouldn't be here now, together. Probably I would be sleeping in a hotel bed and she would be at her house, and we would never meet. And if my parents hadn't left, or if they had left later that damn December morning, if only my father had stopped at a gas station before arriving in Atlanta, maybe things would have been different. Maybe their car wouldn't have crashed into that truck that broke through the barrier and invaded their roadway. But I think it makes little sense to make these considerations, because in real life there's no if and perhaps, there's only the present moment. There's only a person's life, the lives of billions of people who follow their route and at the crossroads choose which road to take, moment by moment.

My father once told me: «The best road you'll travel will be the one you'll discover from yourself. Never follow anyone, always be yourself. And always look for the truth with your own eyes, not with the eyes of others».

He didn't talk much, but when he did it was to say something important, something that had to be listened to without saying anything and carefully guarded like a treasure. I think that people who speak little have much more to say than those who talk a lot. And I think that the most important lessons of life aren't written in any book, can't be taught in any school, or explained only in words. They are the legacy of a parent who has lived his life to the full till the last moment.

We arrive at the end of the boulevard. I turn left on Ocean Avenue. A little further on, I turn right passing under the arch and retrace the short bridge that takes us back to the pier. Arrived on the pier, we enter the parking lot where there are only four or five cars in addition to that of Sandra. I stop next to her car, turn off the engine and remove the helmet from my head. Sandra gets off the saddle. Her hair is more wavy, shaken by the wind. It fall on her eyes giving her an even more sensual look.

«It was very nice» she says, moving a lock of hair with her hand.

«Yes, for me too» I reply. I pull down the kickstand, dismount from Bonnie and place the helmet on top of the tank.

«Ah, don't forget your bag!» says Sandra. She turns, unlocks the central locking of her car and opens the rear door. I pick up the bag resting on the seat along with the two straps and put everything on the Bonnie's saddle. Sandra closes the door again and turns back to me.

«Well, it's time to say goodbye...» she says.

«It seems so...»

«So goodnight... again!» she says smiling.

«Goodnight... Maybe we could meet again in the next few days, before I leave» I tell her.

«Maybe yes... maybe we'll meet another time here, who knows!» she says, still smiling at me.

There's only me and her on the pier. The sky is black and clear and the moon is high. Sandra turns to her car and puts her right hand on the handle of the front door to open it.

«Sandra!» I exclaim, grabbing her left forearm. She turns around again and before she can speak, I wrap her back with my arm and bring my mouth close to hers. I close my eyes and lay my lips on hers. They taste like a soft and sweet fruit, I slowly savor them. Sandra hugs me too. Now that we are so close, attached to each other, I can smell the delicious scent on her skin and in her hair.

I open my eyes again and slowly move away from her mouth. After a second, she opens her eyes and we find ourselves facing each other. We remain to look into each other's eyes, continuing to tighten our bodies together. I don't know how many seconds or minutes have passed, for me time has stopped.

«I was afraid you wouldn't do it...» Sandra whispers in a warm voice. Then she turns and opens the front door, sits on the seat and takes something from the dashboard. After a few seconds, she comes out of the car again.

«This way it will be easier to meet again, before you leave» she says, handing me a slip of paper. «Goodnight James» she says, coming back into the car.

«Goodnight Sandra» I answer, continuing to look at her and clutching the slip of paper she gave me.

Sandra closes the door and turns on the engine, then turns to me and says goodbye with a hand from behind the window. I greet her back and watch her car which passes by me in reverse and goes towards the exit of the parking. Past the exit, she turns right and leaves the pier going up the curved bridge that leads to the road. I can hear the sound of her car moving away more and more, until it fades. Nothing remains but silence on the pier.

I lower my head and look at the slip of paper that she left me. A pen number is written. It's her phone number. I smile. I open the side pocket of the jacket to pick up the phone and immediately save her number in the phone book. With the cell phone in my hand, it occurs to me that I've not called Lisa yet to tell her I've arrived in Los Angeles. I immediately look for her number in the phone book and I call her. Her phone rings several times. In the end, a sleepy voice answers me.

«Hello...»

«Hi baby!»

«Dad... what time is it? I'd fallen asleep» says Lisa, in the voice of someone who has just woken up from a deep sleep. I look at the watch, it's a quarter past one.

«I'm sorry baby, I didn't realize the time!» I say. In Florida it's a quarter past four in the morning. «I'm sorry, go back to sleep. We'll talk in the morning when you wake up, okay?»

«I'm already awake by now... Tell me, how did it go? Have you finally arrived?» she asks me curiously, despite I woke her up in the middle of sleep.

«Yes, I arrived, everything went smoothly. Here it's all fantastic! The Santa Monica Pier, the California sea, the people... I even walked around in Hollywood tonight, you know?»

«Dad, is there anything you need to tell me? Did you meet anyone by chance?»

«In fact, yes, I met a person... but it's long to tell on the phone, it's better if you go back to sleep now.»

«Mmh... okay, but tomorrow you'll tell me everything, right?»

«I promise!» I answer.

«Okay... Tomorrow morning at ten Emily and Grace come home and we go to Cocoa Beach together!» says Lisa in an excited voice.

«All right, baby, but be careful and don't get into the water if the ocean is rough.»

«Don't worry about it, we just have sunbathe.»

«Well, we'll talk tomorrow. Goodnight! When I'll come back, I'll tell you everything!»

«Ok, night daddy!» answers Lisa.

I hang up and put the phone back in my jacket pocket. I raise my head and see the big wheel of the amusement park at the end of the pier that keeps turning. Its lights dive into the Pacific, mirroring on it. The sea is flat and the night is quiet.

I traveled all these miles, I arrived to the other side of the United States, from coast to coast, from ocean to ocean, crossing two time zones, and now I feel again all the fatigue of this long journey. But I'm happy. Tomorrow I will sleep until late after five days of early start at dawn, but I don't want to go to the hotel now, I want to enjoy yet this night.

I move towards the parapet, on the left side of the pier, where there's a staircase leading to the beach. I descend the wooden steps and arrive down, trampling the soft sand with my shoes. I pass by the spot where those guys had previously gathered around the bonfire. The fire is off and there's only a pile of ash left. I keep walking, sinking my steps into the sand and heading towards the ocean. The moon illuminating it from above, making its slightly rippled surface gleam. I arrive a short distance from the shoreline and stop.

I look around. The beach is a desert, I can hear only the sound of waves rubbing on the shore. I take off my leather jacket, I fold it and spread it on dry sand. I take off my shoes, inserting my socks inside, then I pull off my T-shirt and jeans, leaning them over my jacket. I'm in underpants and I realize only now that I no longer have the dreamcatcher around my neck, that curious Indian amulet given to me by the hitchhiker. Maybe the lace broke and I lost it without realizing it, it probably happened when I was in the desert. Maybe it really had the power to keep bad dreams away, who knows. Anyway, I think tonight I wouldn't need it. I can only have good dreams tonight.

I approach the ocean walking on the shore, a wave stretches towards me and bathes my feet. I enter into the water, it's cold. I advance slowly until I'm plunged under my chest. I lie on my back spreading my arms and letting go of my legs, then I immerse the back of my head and ears. I float on the calm surface of the Pacific, observing the starry sky above me. I hear nothing but my breath now. I'm no longer afraid of the ocean, I let myself be lulled by its gentle waves and close my eyes. Dark and silence around me.
Route

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