There are waves that can be ridden, waves that follow and waves that wait for each other. Waves to dive into head first, breakers that overwhelm and carry away, currents to be respected if you want to get back to shore. There is, however, a sea that is not a sea, a sea of unchanging waves, an oxymoron that is the intellectual landscape. A tranquil sea that is firm, vertical. The soft curves of the Tuscan hills are enchanting solid waves on which the seasons navigate. Unmoving, they watch time pass, they watch you pass, a small red dot, tired and sweaty, on two wheels, immersed in the green countryside, not much bigger than the poppies surrounding you. The afternoon light settles on the crests, tainting them yellow, turning them into foam, but there is no refreshing breeze, no salty wind, only heat rising from the earth and smelling of countryside, grass, dust and flowers. The long blades of the green waves tremble slightly as you pass by, almost in an imperceptible greeting. In just a moment, it’s as if you never passed by, as if you never even existed. This is neither land nor sea. Here, there is just the passage of time. Here is where reality becomes a dream.
Foto Paolo Martelli