A gelatto refreshes our waiting in wealthy Rimini and soon, the low-floored bus takes my friends and I through a motorway which rises from the warm coast and soars through viaducts of spectacular height. As the altitude increases, a modest sign indicates the border between Italy and San Marino, the road turning onto his side revealing precipitous cliffs crowned by titanic stone walls.

The wind chill atop the mountain is somewhat refreshing, the gusts of wind blowing proud blue-and-white flags in front of the Medieval City gates.  My first milestone of the day is therefore conquered and San Marino becomes my 50th visited country.

Wealthy through centuries, San Marino is known for its financial and tourism industries, no national debt and a budget surplus perhaps better translated in the parked luxurious cars, which also surpass the number of inhabitants in the country.

The whole country is contained within an area of sixty-one square kilometers, which makes it ideal for a one-day visit. Around us, the modest houses blossom in the summer sunshine and the medieval walls defy gravity, their foundations hugging the scarped hill sides in stomach-wrenching angles for centuries. Walking trails draw concentric paths through the pale greenery of the hill and link, one by one, the watchtowers once used by guards to protect the enclave.

Last but not least, an spiral staircase takes us to the depths of the Torture Museum, the dramatic instrumental music played on the background adding to the overwhelming darkness of the cold dungeon, at times tying knots of nausea deep in the gut. Confession chairs covered in spikes, wooden pyramids used for tearing bowels apart, whips, cages. It is all part of the European history; of royals and prisoners, of churches and inquisitions. A history so revoltingly nasty, so morbidly tempting to see.

The wind grows milder as the bus descends to the coast, where we indulge on small dishes of bruschetta next to the dark brown sand. The Adriatic is still perhaps a bit too cold to swim in, but a dip certainly helps in loosening up the muscles after the medieval hikes of San Marino.

Night sets in, spelling a cast of exciting heaviness on my every step. I walk to the swimming pool preparing myself for the now inevitable. For a series of calls, for the pain.

    ‘A feeling I hadn’t had since 2007. So refreshing and exciting!

    A quick warm up and suddenly everything else happened in fast forward mode. The preparation , the stretching, the waiting around the calling room, first call, second call, the naked skin exposed to the light breeze at the pool main deck, our names and countries called in the speaker while the crowd stare at these eight athletes, only the still silky water standing between the anguish of anticipation and the relief of success.’

– Silence. I stare at the still water.
– Whistle blows. I take a deep breath and position myself on the block. My eyes stare at my feet.
– Canned ‘Take your marks’ is heard. I tense.
– Beep. I jump, the cold water triggering both an instinct of survival and prompting strokes of brute strength.

And so, twenty-eight seconds later, a demon is defeated and a second milestone is conquered, for now I have swam in the Swimming World Championships and the buzz is too exciting to fall asleep for the night.

I leave Riccione before the local businesses open their doors. The haze of the oceanic breeze keeping me company to the train station, where a sour-faced manager issues me a ticket to Milan and charges my card through the lacerations of a worn out Plexiglas window counter.
The Regional train cruises through flat lands of dry vineyards and stone houses drying empty to the sun, the carriages at times speeding through empty stations at Monza, or leisurely rolling through Imola until we reach Bologna, where I sip on an espresso and munch on a Nutella croissant to break my fast, the plastic table balancing at the sway of souls wearing Hugo Boss jackets.

The Frecciarossa reaches three-hundred kilometers an hour and the Ferrari-like cabin vibrates at the negotiation of every broad curve. Italy grows more and more industrial, the vineyards now swallowed by smokestacks and ammonia factories, the buildings of Milan finally casting dark shades over the train tracks as we arrive in Centrale. At the main station, I accidentally bump into my Finnish friends from Venice, their backpacks now overflowing with supplies for a voyage across the Alps to Switzerland and their minds filled to the brim with memories of a warm night in Venice.

I take the bus to Bergamo Airport, the afternoon traffic evoking memories of 2009 when a stand-by cabin crew duty became an everlasting first impression of a remarkable country.
A rainbow is drawn over the Alps upon departure and rain is poured over our aircraft upon arrival in Dublin Airport almost three hours later.

It is now time to set new milestones, to go further. To reach a hundred countries by the time I am thirty.