Italy

I’m walking down a mountain road, somewhere in Italy, with my entire family – we’re talking mother, father, brothers, sister, uncles, aunts, grandparents and every single sibling and family member here. The mountains are glowing white, the air is clear and I feel extremely happy.

I’m carrying a rather heavy backpack. In a short glimpse I can see what’s in it: boots, camera, some food, iPod, a load of paper, drawing tools, map, a couple of bottles of water. I’m also carrying a bottle of water that I sip from all the time. My mother keeps reminding me to take pictures – I’m quite aware of the importance of doing so myself.

We’re heading down the road towards a large city beneath the mountain. A golden light shines on the city, it’s veiled in yellow fog, and it’s got an almost ghostly appearance. I get the feeling it’s an abandoned city, but I can see boats surrounded by activity in the harbour. One enormous boat is headed out to sea.

We suddenly have to stop by a house in the hills. It’s a big, modern house, with black roofing, a large terrace and a snow-covered garden beneath. Inside there’s some kind of party or social gathering going on. The house is gigantic – space is no problem even though we must be at least a hundred people.

I look through the pictures on my camera. They’re all very beautiful, sharp and colorful. I have to move those pictures over to my iPod to clear the memory card, so I get the cables and start transferring. In the middle of the transfer the iPod loses it’s battery power, and I panic. I try to get my mother’s attention, to tell her some photos may be lost, but it’s impossible. I give up.

Someone says it’s time for bed, so we all get up and prepare for the night. Somehow, getting ready for bed is all just a manner of thinking about going to sleep, and when we have all done that, the night is gone and it’s the morning after. We’re heading for the city again.

As we enter the ghostly city, I notice that the ground is all sand, no concrete. I grab my camera and start erasing pictures, to make sure there’s enough space. I can’t seem to shake the bad feeling I have regarding all the beautiful pictures that may be lost. The way things happen now is like this:

When I’m busy operating the camera, my surroundings move past me at lightning speed, so when I look up, I’m at a whole other place than I started, and everything is still. I look down at the camera again, the city flashes around me, and again I have covered an enormous distance. Right now I’m standing in front of a very tall building that is both a cathedral and a skyscraper. It’s got a greenish color to it, it seems almost organic, and here and there the windows are broken. I stare at it for some time, sucking in the overwhelming sight of it against the yellow sky, with the cranes from the harbour in the background. I look around for my family, but they’re all gone. I think to myself: «This is one of those moments that aren’t supposed to be remembered by a photograph.»

I wake up from the noise outside my window.