Fernando: não fotos

I met my new friend on a train: rumbling, grumbling its way through Croatian valleys, Belgrade-bound on a bright August morning. Sharing a stuffy carriage with a jammed window, swapping hastily-grabbed leftovers from hostel breakfast tables.

Where are you going, where have you been? Tell us. Finding out about each other: life, friends, work, home. No awkward silences… breaks in conversation simply mean take in the view; stunning scenery bumping by outside. Reflections in the glass. A sup of cool water, wet the throat, let’s keep talking.

Now I think of it, where’s the camera? First shots of the day. Scrabbling through my bag I notice him grinning at me. I don’t take photos, he said. All up here… pointing to his head and smiling. I remember! Remember everything.

2 years later, we met again. Fernando travelled from home in São Paulo for an exchange in Paris; come and visit us in Dublin! I told him.

We went exploring. Driving deep into the ancient Newgrange valleys on a damp and cold spring afternoon. No sign of a sun in the sky, just grey and white lowlight.

Sorry about this, mate. Miserable day, I shivered.

Think back to that train ride from Ljubljana, the blinding sky, the diamonds dancing across the lakes. Every scene framed by those hills and mountains, squinting across the fields through the hazy sunshine. And this?

Dank, dark Ireland. Spiderweb dew on the ditches, muddy trails. Moody, swirling waters below us; melancholy mists rolling down the slopes.

But this is magical, mystical, he said. Thousands of years! This atmosphere, this climate, so different to what I know.

And if I’d listened closer, I’d have heard that camera… clicking away in his brain as we talked.

I suppose I never looked at home like that, mate. Suppose I just don’t think of these things in that way. Not any more.

I suppose our adventures reveal more of our own homes and cultures to us when, or if, we return. When we eventually make sense of our memories, ‘up here’.