I was there; and now I am not.

she says, Oh! Look - it's beautiful, what is this place?
he says, I don't know, but wow.
she says, Look at the river! look at how fast and frothy it is. the colour - so green! and the bridge.
he says, Ya, it's gorgeous... should we get off and wander around?
she says, I'm not sure. It looks really nice. But -
he says, Quick, decide, do you want to get off?
she says, Yes, I do... We want to get into Geneva before dark, right? We probably shouldn't.

The train starts to move, slowly, slowly, picking up speed.

she says, It's ok. Some other time... when I come back here again.


And now I am obsessed - obsessed with the sea-green and white of that river as it swirls around the little cobble-stoned tile-roofed city on a peninsula, obsessed with the bridge suspended, it seemed, unnecessarily high above the sinuous stream. I have to go back there - and I don't even know where it is exactly or what it's called. Have been googling madly. Like I said, I am obsessed.

Don't ask me why.

Don't ask me why whenever I see a single red or yellow leaf I hear the whistle of a train, I feel the numbing wind on my skin, and I see the sun setting all over again over the gloriously fiery autumn foliage of the Carpathians.