We wound our way through the Alps, mastering hairpin bends without power steering. The car kept stalling on hill starts. I’m sure it must’ve been stressful but all I remember is laughing. 

We only had one album to listen to, the one we found in the glove compartment. You hated it by the end, said it made you car sick. Do you ever listen to it now? I do. 

We drove with the windows down so we could smell the passing pine trees. The air was fresh even in the summer heat, but we still stopped to cool down in whichever lake we found ourselves by.   

We kept ourselves going with unfamiliar snacks found at service stations, standing in the aisle and trying to decode what was inside. “Do you think nocciola is some kind of nut?” you asked me. It was always in vain – every time we stopped the language had changed again. French to German to Italian.  

We slept at hotels and hostels, sometimes in the car, once under the stars. I found a photo of us years later, shoved between the pages of a book I had been reading just after that trip. We were standing in front of the car and you had a map in your hand. You must’ve been checking the route again. I never really cared where we were going. 

I thought we might drive forever.