From Venice to Verona: Through Romance and Toward the Edge of the World
by CL Rogerson, world traveler and salty sailor
My stay in Venice was brief but opulent, like a dream that knew it couldn’t last but wanted to be remembered. With the taste of limoncello still lingering on my tongue and the warmth of hospitality tucked in my chest, I boarded a train, one of the few ways to leave that floating city behind.
It was my first time on European rails, and I had booked a first-class ticket, knowing I'd be riding the ribbons of track for hours over the next couple of days. First class felt less like a convenience and more like an invitation to enter another era. The cabin had four overstuffed lounge chairs, rich with worn velvet and wood accents, but I was alone. Just me, a glass of red, and Italy rolling by like a slow-moving oil painting.
The train had a bar car, which felt impossibly civilized. No trolleys of packaged snacks here, just espresso, aperitifs, and the murmur of multilingual conversations. If the Hogwarts Express had grown up and gotten its heart broken once or twice, it might look like this. It had its own kind of magic.
My first stop was Verona, a city of stone and story. I wandered its sun-baked piazzas and crumbling Roman arena, listening to the echoes of long-past gladiators and long-dead poets. The romantic pull of the city was irresistible, even if overly dramatized in tourist brochures. Still, I let myself get swept up in it. I sipped a glass of red wine in the same courtyard where Juliet supposedly stood, immortalized in Shakespeare’s words.
Maybe it wasn’t the balcony. But it was a balcony.
And sometimes, that’s enough.
Verona was a short stop. A breath between two longer chapters. But I’m grateful for the pause, for the sense of timelessness, for the quiet reminder that love and tragedy tend to walk the same cobbled streets.
Then, back on the train.
Northbound. Into the heart of the continent.
What I didn’t know was that Italy still had a final act to perform. As the train left the plains behind, the landscape began to lift. The hills grew into cliffs. The cliffs folded into mountains. The Dolomites, jagged and rising, flanked the valley like sentinels.
Hour after hour, the tracks climbed higher, threading between ancient villages perched like ornaments on the slopes. I watched as vineyards gave way to pine forests, and stone churches appeared like outposts on the edge of heaven. The mountains closed in, as if the very land was trying to hold onto me, not ready to let go.
And then, it did.
With nowhere left to go, the train plunged into a tunnel beneath the Alps, and just like that, Italy slipped behind me. A curtain closed.
The next act waited on the other side.
Until the next stop,
—CL Rogerson
About the Author
CL Rogerson is a world traveler, licensed captain, and storyteller with a sailor’s soul and a philosopher’s heart. After a career in healthcare and a lifetime of adventure, he now wanders the world full-time, sharing stories of connection, culture, and the open road. You can find him wherever the map folds differently.
