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I'm here with a magnificent and historical city of Pompeii. One by one commuters and tourists

alike vanish into the carriages. Once you're inside, you find a window seat. After a few minutes,

the bustling platform empties of people, leaving the little grey sparrows to descend from the

rafters and skitter about the slaked coloured walkways. On the train, the inviting leather seats

are filled by all sorts of people, young and old, loud and quiet, dizzy and relaxed.

They settle in as you have for the journey south. You lean your head back, resting it on the cushioned

seat, and watch Rome's outskirts rush past the window at an unbelievable speed.

The carriage weighs back and forth, rhythmically, as houses, waterways, trees and cars

merge into a colorful blur before your eyes. After a while, you sink further into the seat,

letting your mind drift. It wanders to the train's other passengers, the group of American visitors,

holding a conversation with their Italian neighbours. A small woman in a suit and sunglasses,

whispering into a phone with a rainbow of plastic folders spread across her lap.

Your attention shifts to the window as the sunshine leaps onto your face through clouds and mountains.

Outside, large cows trundle across dewy green fields.

Behind the stretches of meadow are small hills dusted with snow,

yearning for the bright rays of morning sun. And in the gaps between the crests,

the faint blue sea is visible, sparkling despite the winter chill.

...