train compartment 
The 18:15 train to Turin is a certainty. Arrivals at the station and find it there, ready on the platform 6.
Certainty of a journey ugly and uncomfortable, but still a certainty.
Today, however, the platform 6 is empty, inspected by zombie pigeons patrols looking for filthy scraps of food and hay bales-crossed by dirt that roll toward the horizon.
After the moment of loss, I press on toward the departures board with a present that is certain: the train cleared.
And I'm back in the race to the track 2, or the track at the end of the world, almost another station, from which part of an intercity Turin.
The voice says that passengers can board without paying extra, and here's what happens.
A shapeless multitude of travelers heading to Turin is flowing in my direction, as the crowd tries to escape from the destructive fury of Godzilla.
coaches already overflowing with people, spewing out of the gates travelers with their luggage. Yet the mass of goats in an attempt insists to conquer the coveted cattle car.
reach out to the coaches and I can go farther.
The kids are piled in the corridors, multi-layered on the floor.
When I see two vacancies in a compartment with six, I do not know if you try. I look hesitant present: a young couple, a look-alike dude Frizzi and a mustachioed middle-aged man, curled up on itself.
- They are busy, right? - Asked in rhetorical tone, already resigned.
Five minutes later I'm sitting in the comfort of my privileged position to observe the chaos of bodies that continue to rise and huddle in the hallway. The seats were inexplicably free, but something else is going to upset the precarious balance of this microcosm of self-propelled.
A gray-haired woman of about sixty, a mixture of Margherita Hack and Maga magician enters the stage. It is regurgitated in the crowded corridor at the door of our compartment.
- It's free? - Asks panting and holding a mini-trolley which seems to weigh a ton. We are looking at. Some of us nodded in silence.
- Thanks, I'll be right - say, spring and the trolley on the feet of the guy with the mustache in front of me, plunging into the corridor. The loss of sight almost immediately.
while he does not move a finger, notes interdict the heavy baggage lying on his shoes.
Not a minute passes that it introduces a new character. Middle-aged, tanned, open white shirt, beard and wavy hair salt and pepper, a little 'intellectual journalist, a little' latin lover seventies.
in unstable equilibrium holds a stack of magazines and newspapers, on which he has supported two phones.
Pops tickets may be dropped everything to the ground.
- I place the 52 - state by reading the number on the reservation.
Cala a quiet panic. No one speaks, but worried that snake eyes crossed and say, "... now what?", Then say: "Who will rise?", And finally say, "I do not!!"
anyone dare to say - perhaps the 52 is near the window ...
But they immediately denied by the window: - No, near the aisle!
And all their own way to interpret the seat map printed on the other hand on the glass partition of the compartment.
Meanwhile Mr. Reservation sits peacefully at the empty seat of the lady vanished.
- There was a lady a bit '... extravagant - dare the man with the mustache and the trolley feet.
The other even looks up from the newspapers, shrugs, uninterested and unresponsive.
And now back to the lady.
has a moment of loss, it is not clear whether the right compartment.
Then he sees his trolley.
The tension becomes palpable. The man with the mustache he pretends to nothing looking at his shoes and whispers the couple worried about looking at the dude who seems undecided about what to do and see me.
The only one who has not the slightest reaction is Mr. Reservation.
I imagine moving absurd, pathetic scenes and claims. Disputes, controversies and discussions.
Meanwhile, out there in the hallway, the boys produced an annoying background noise.
Just then, a ray of sunshine strikes me blinding one eye. I see the light.
is a clear sign, telling me that I must act for the good of all. I have to sacrifice himself to interpret the lamb sacrificial, atone for my sins with a grand gesture.
- Madam, sit down in my place - Proclamation. Silence.
She staged some fake compliment, but I raise a hand and shake my head resolutely.
My mates are still sitting speechless. Their eyes do not break away from me, full of gratitude and disbelief, illuminated by the light that now spreads all over my body.
remain so in ecstasy throughout the trip, and almost seem to want to kneel to give thanks and glorified as the new messiah of the railway line Milano-Torino.
But I pretend to read a book, I keep leaving an apparent humility to worship in silence.
time off, all you lavish praise, thanks and greetings for my sacrifice. The young wife of the couple would almost give me his body, with the consent of her husband, but I politely refused leave in peace.
The only one who is still caring coach reservations, So before you get off the launch of a terrible curse, then I go home satisfied, levitating a few inches from the ground.
The smell of train is a unique and mysterious aroma, the result of horrible fragrances that blend into the convoys saturating the environment. 
