the evening we met with lots of abandoned trains on growing without limits reailes where the ancient hierba.Trenes. Even some old steam engine. Filling stations and sidings at the entrance of Thessaloniki. In some ways it was a premonition, because after we boarded a train old Romanian who gave us a piece of youth.
A train so identical scores of trains from before it was like being home again. I could not move the train dirty and smelly with closed eyes, as if had spent many nights before January're wagons. reconà every sound, every beat and even the feel of things somo recognize landscapes of childhood.
The wind blow burning smell coming through a window down in the hallway and hits you face. The clok-clok-clok that makes the soap dispenser in the bathroom to turn it. The friction of the rough platforms that cover the union of two wagons and move with the lashes of the train. The metal lid into the cup of water hitting metal at the rate of air that blows from below. The hole for luggage that is over the door of the compartment. formica walls painted wood imitation. Closing deaf in the door latch securely. And then, the soft roar, the constant rattle and shake you acuann in the literature. Oscillating. Later hit the keys to the customs hall doors, up to ours, waking up at the border. In the morning and the same mode dial with a wrench, the reviewer tells us that we are about to arrive, and gives us the tickets. A meeting of sensations, like all reunions, one accepts as if those trains and all those scratches and noise would never have gone.
Happiness.
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