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It is early February and I am sitting in a train that is rattling and rumbling over the tracks as if it was driving me back into another century, past times of steam locomotives and fancy railroad traveling - instead I am just sitting in a rundown regional train, slowly moving towards the Italian coast. Yes, I know, February does not really seem like the ideal time to travel to Mediterranean beaches and the grey clouds on the sky above are nodding in agreement. Sometimes you just can’t choose when to take your holidays, that’s what I told everyone who had looked at me bewilderedly when I declared I was going backpacking in Italy, alone, in winter. Yes, it is cold. Yes, I can’t go swimming in the sea. Yes, everything is going to be closed. Yes, I know, it won’t look like the pretty postcards. Truth is, I like it. I like the emptiness of it. It feels like visiting the dark side of the moon - an empty beach, a grey sea, an abandoned village that normally would be packed with tourists as soon as the first rays of sunshine appear in early spring. In the wagon of the squealing train I am sitting in, there is just one other person besides me, a middle-aged woman with bleached hair and sun-glasses on, arguing vociferously into her phone. I do not understand a single word but the beauty of the Italian language is, no matter what, it will always sound glamorous with a pinch of drama. Stylish drama of course, dressed only in best quality, Italian leather shoes and a white shirt, the first inches unbuttoned revealing tanned skin and dark chest hair and maybe even that little golden necklace. If the train would have been crowded - who knows, I may never even have spotted her between all the towel-packed-beach-bag-carrying people. Now, to the contrary, the stage is all hers, with her classic Italian extravagance - wearing sunglasses in winter. Her appearance almost made me miss how finally, looking outside the window of the train, a ribbon of dark blue is painting the horizon: the Mediterranean sea. Yes, it is an eye-catcher even on a cloudy winter’s day. Soon after I am getting off the rattling train, onto a platform that is even more deserted than the wagons of the time machine that brought me here. Slowly, moaning and growing like an old lady, the train disappears into the next tunnel, revealing the full view onto the sea in front of me. It is breath-taking: nothing but blue on the horizon, framed in by brownish cliffs. I could look at this forever, just me and the sea, but it is already quite late and the sunless sky is starting to get darker. I need to find my hostel. I leave the train station and come onto an empty road. No one to be seen, not even a car, not even a stray cat. It is almost a bit scary, a bit haunted. To the right there is a small staircase, carved into the rocks. To the village, it says in Italian on the signpost. Shouldering my backpack, I start walking up the windy stairs, sometimes going left, sometimes going right, until suddenly - I arrive. Appearing without warning, I am surrounded by small houses made from stone, the colors of their facades bleached out, window shutters looking down on me like curious eyes. It is one of those villages they put in travel guides, picturesque, only that right now, I seem to disrupt its hibernation. I walk down the narrow alleys, going up and down, close-knit with the cliffs, always with a view on the sea underneath. In this moment, it feels like I am the only person on the planet, well, definitely the only person in this village. I am walking past little gardens, olive trees and vineyards, getting closer to my hostel for the night, when suddenly, a snowflake falls down, melting on the screen of my phone. I can’t help but smile - snow on the Italian Riviera - and I will forever be the only witness of this secret winter magic.