“Nathan… stop chasing perfection. The world, life—they’re chaotic. Don’t look for order where there is none. Find the melody, the rhythm that drives chaos. Listen to some jazz, not just Bach.”
That’s how Guglielmo da Baskerville said goodbye this morning as I left Montecassino. His real name is Dom Benedetto, but the days I spent at the abbey reminded me of The Name of the Rose. A Benedictine abbey—unbelievable, it survived four destructions—and an incredibly learned monk. All the elements were there.
Dom Benedetto helped me work through an ancient manuscript for my university research. Between one discussion and another, I opened up about some personal problems too.
I left the abbey around 10 a.m. A perfect sunny day. On the bus I admired the Rocca Janula and the valley below. I got to the station early. I sat down, opened my tablet, and started watching a BBC documentary on nuclear weapons—Oppenheimer, the non-proliferation treaty…
It was a downer. I shut it down and pulled out a book.
I kept one eye on the departure screen. Suddenly, a “+5” appeared next to my train. Then +20. Then +30. I started doing the math—if it’s late, I’ll miss my connection to Fiumicino. +40. +50. +70!
I walked out of the station, tense. A taxi was parked but the driver was nowhere in sight. Eventually, a man with his shirt unbuttoned emerged from the bar.
— “Fiumicino Airport?”
— “Three hundred euros.”
— “Three-zero?”
— “No, three hundred.”
I went back inside. I’d take the train to Tiburtina, then a cab.
Train finally arrived, 70 minutes late. I got a notification: partial refund possible if arrival is delayed. I boarded. A voice in my head: “Nathan, everything will go wrong today. Stay calm and go with the flow.”
I dove into my book: The Storytelling Animal. I’m reading it because Michele—my friend from the Basel Dragons Running Club—tells amazing stories at work. Maybe that’s what makes him magnetic.
Of course, I arrived in Tiburtina at 13:47. The train to the airport left at 13:46. Next one: 14:01. It arrived right on time. I breathed out.
But then it stopped at Ostiense. Announcement: canceled. Big fire in Parco Leonardo.
In the underpass, I met eyes with a woman. We knew instantly—we were in the same situation.
“Taxi together?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied. She was beautiful.
We hailed a cab like in an American movie. The driver was a cheerful Roman. She was French, worked in Bern, and was a designer. I told her about the Vienna conference. A song by Oasis played on the radio—it was her favorite band. I sneakily opened Shazam: Stop Crying Your Heart Out.
I pointed out the landmarks: the Square Colosseum, St. Paul’s Basilica. She talked about her weekend in Rome. We arrived. We shared the fare. Her name was Celine.
I ran through Terminal 1. Cleared security—thankfully, Fiumicino doesn’t require removing laptops and liquids. I made it to the gate. Still boarding. Miracle!
I grabbed some pizza with mortadella (thanks Michele) and a Bacio Perugina chocolate. I felt special.
I opened the chocolate. The message said:
“Sometimes the truest love is born from chaos.”
I smiled, thinking of Dom Benedetto, and boarded the plane.
At that point, I thought: I made it. On my way to Munich, then to Basel.
I sat down, bit into the pizza. A woman asked if I could switch seats with her husband. I agreed. Moments later, the captain announced a computer reset.
The Lufthansa app showed: flight canceled.
We disembarked. I lined up at Customer Service. They said: “You’ll sleep in Munich tonight, fly via Frankfurt tomorrow.”
But I managed to book a flight to Frankfurt leaving in 30 minutes.
I ran. Thanked the Dragons for my cardio. The plane was half empty. From Frankfurt: another run to the gate. Still closed. I grabbed a tuna sandwich and a beer.
This time the flight departed. After a bumpy ride, I landed in Basel. Deserted airport. Took bus 50 through construction-clogged streets. Finally, home.
Claudia was furious. I tried to explain. Made it worse. Her birthday. We argued. I left.
I walked to the Rhine. Midnight. Reflected on the day. On coincidences. On Claudia. Maybe I’m in the wrong relationship. Maybe.
I felt something in my pocket. The plastic wrapper. The message from the Bacio.
“Sometimes the truest love is born from chaos.”
I stared at it. Threw it in a trash bin.
Breathed. Looked at the Roche towers. My phone rang.
I answered. An Oasis song played softly in the background. Then I heard a voice:
— “Hello, je suis Celine.”
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