His thin grey hair extends down to his shoulders. His face is marred—or livened by wrinkles, sun-spots, laugh and frown lines. His eyes track the lurching movement of the high-speed rail, watch the cows, sheep and wildflowers crisscross the countryside. The attendant brings him—and all of us—little cartons of pomegranate juice. He has nothing else in the way of food or drink, nothing to sate him as he waits for Rome. His eyes find mine and he raises his carton, tells me if not with words but his bright eyes– “Salud”. Juice for your health, young lady.
Augustus Leopold Egg