It was in 2000. I was in Genova. I was supposed to be visiting…well, it doesn’t matter. It’s enough to say the entire journey was a living nightmare that included a REAL nightmare. The room in which I slept — a beautiful sunny room decorated in aqua, gold and white in an expensive apartment looking over the Mediterrenean — also looked over a train station and night was filled not with the sounds of gentle warm waves against the rocky shore but trains screaming to a stop outside the wall of glass.
That morning I was to embark early on an adventure to the Cinque Terre. I was in the midst of a horrible, horrible, horrible dream (my mom was rubbing excrement on my chest, OK? Now you know) and I couldn’t get away from her. “La Zia” — my friend’s aunt — came into the room to wake me up, “Marta! Marta!”
Being awakened so suddenly scared me to death. I shot out of bed, shaking my head and looking around the room, no doubt wild-eyed and strange. She looked at me, “Che è successo??” (What happened?)
“Ho avuto un incubo.” (I had a nightmare) I was still in the midst of it. My heart was pounding.
“Ma si. Francesco ti sta portando alla stazione. Devi sbrigarti.” (F is taking you to the station. You have to hurry)
I thought to myself, “I can get myself to the fucking station. I don’t need THAT person’s (a-HA) help at all!!!”
La Zia and I had coffee and cookies together in the kitchen. Then F and I got into a old orange VW bug (the car of his dad’s youth), and I was dropped at the station in Santa Margarita. Barely a word was spoken between us.
(Painting, “The Nightmare” Henry Fuseli, 1781)