Last summer, my dad was diagnosed with cancer. I’d just moved to Milan from Rome, where my family is based, and, ever since then, I’ve been going back and forth between the two cities every other week, taking the high-speed train from Milano Centrale to Roma Termini.
I recently counted the booking confirmation emails in my inbox: There’s 37 of them. Thirty-seven train journeys to visit him, accompany him to the hospital whenever I could, and try to grapple with his illness on my own terms.
Most of the 300-mile, three-hour-long rides have been slight variations of each other. I’ve spent them calling doctors and speaking to my family with updates on my father’s health, googled ‘bladder cancer’ and the differences between chemo and immunotherapy too many times to count, and regularly checked in with my dad to let him know how far or close I still was to Rome. After particularly hard visits, I strived to claim some space for myself on the way back to Milan by reading, listening to podcasts, or just sleeping, lulled by the repetitive motion of the train and its by-now familiar, even soothing, surroundings. In recent months, as he got progressively worse, I cried for most of the journey.
But I also, increasingly, found myself taken in by the world that sped by outside: The golden crops of Lombardy, the flat fields of Emilia-Romagna, the vast, green expanses of Umbria, the rolling hills of Tuscany and quaint borghi of Lazio—and back again. I started noticing different hamlets I never knew existed, valleys awash with olive groves, and mountain ranges that looked untouched. I made mental notes to look each one up and plan a trip with my dad if he ever got better—all of which would be experienced by train. Gazing at the scenery felt oddly comforting, as if the rivers, farmed lands, and forests I could see from my seat were trying to remind me that, despite grief, life and beauty go on.
Over time, the window seat became my go-to whenever I could reserve it. It allowed me to cry privately by turning towards the window, but I could also just get lost in the landscape and be distracted by the view. More often than not, it worked: Staring at the panoramas at eye level, the fast-paced rhythm of the train as the main background noise, I felt my breathing settle, my mind clear. It didn’t heal me, not by any stretch of the imagination. But despite everything the act of travel felt like moving forward.
