Berlin-Barcelona, Washington-Cagliari, Larnaca-Taranto. Chapter 3.
A month in my life.
As my four readers know, (as Alessandro Manzoni wrote, but I am more humble and say four and not twenty-five) as a volunteer I transport organs from the hospitals of living, voluntary donors to the patients, often on the other side of the world. You can read my article on the subject here. My journeys are filled with the books I read, the books I listen to when I go running, the work I do remotely in airports, hotels, co-working spaces and bars, but first and foremost the people I talk to. And those I think of: the donor and the patient, two strangers living at opposite ends of the world whose destinies and genetic material will be forever united.
In these three posts, I would like to tell my four readers about special moments from three missions I carried out all in a single month of a particular year. Of course, I can’t share the specifics because the routes of our transports are kept strictly secret.
3. Larnaca, Cyprus — Taranto, Italy
On one of the taxi journeys the elderly Cypriot taxi driver asks me if I am married. I say no, noticing with annoyance that everyone always asks me if I belong to someone instead of asking me who I am and what I believe in. As if, being a female sapiens, I were a useless object or a stray dog. After a while in the conversation I mention my son, and he asks surprised if I am divorced. I say no and he shakes his head confused. He says that in Cyprus if you don’t get married no child can be born at all.
Everyone who talks to me asks if I am from some Arab country. A waiter asks me if I am Spanish because I look a lot like a friend of his who everyone says looks Spanish. I would like to show all these people my DNA test results consisting of seven nationalities and ask them if they really believe in nationality, a concept that was only developed at the end of the 18th century.
The fridge magnets of Larnaca, Cyprus, depict adorable little white Greek houses, but in reality, the city is made up of light brown houses, falling apart.
On my way to dinner, I pass a group of protesters against Mcdonald’s, masked and with screens showing gruesome videos of slaughterhouses. I ask the protesters to recommend a vegetarian restaurant where I could go to eat. They reply that they don’t know any.
From the moment I pick up the cells to when I deliver them, the time will be punctuated for two days and one night by alarm clocks every hour to adjust the temperature. I pick them up at three o’clock in the afternoon and work until late at the hotel. At three in the morning, I go to the airport. I do Larnaca-Athens, Athens-Milan Malpensa, I go fast through Milan, take the Milan Linate-Bari flight, then take a two-hour train ride from Bari to Taranto and finally a taxi. I deliver the goods happily late in the evening after two days and a sleepless night, after seeing an incredible sunset light up the beautiful city of Taranto.
This time the transplant will save an adult career man.
I am very, very tired. It’s one o’clock in the morning. In the street, there are boys playing the accordion, and boys on scooters without helmets. I am hungry, but too tired to go out to eat.
I ask the reception desk for a cup of hot milk and lie on the hotel bed with my jacket still on.
My heart beats fast from exhaustion, and from all the magic and meaning I am lucky enough to have in my life.
If you want to be part of this, register as a donor today in your national registry: https://lnkd.in/dWzArY4