I’m on my last train in Italy, bound for Milano.

I had a cheeseburger, chips and beer earlier, killing time at the station. At the foot of the stairs to the platform, I took a deep breath and steadied myself against the railing, preparing to lug my giant pack up two flights of stairs.

I lifted, and my pack was light. Too light. I looked over to see that a woman had wrapped her hand next to mine on the handle of my pack and was helping me up, her toddler’s hand in her other hand.

At the top of the stairs I thanked her, about five times, poorly, in Italian. It was the sweetest gesture, a wonderful bookend to my stay in Verona, truly one of my favourite cities. As we waited for the train, smiling at each other, a rainbow appeared high over the tracks, toward Milan. The weather was turning – I needed my coat.

Time to go home.

Pigeons lifting off chequered paned glass, a grey fluttering dance. Shadows on a mountain I don’t know the name of; grey and blue and white. The chug-chug-chug of the fast train, staccato all the way. Men in Ray bans and blue chequered shirts. Dappled houses.

There’s snow up there, on those far away mountains. It’s shining in the sun, a dense grey cloud hanging low overhead.