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A breath of fresh air. Today is one of those rare days in Milan, when the sky is blue and the air is clean. From my terrace I can see the peaks of my beautiful Alps, and I feel nostalgic. I go back in my room and I look at my instruments. Only with memories I can travel: those are the only very precious things I have in this delicate moment. It's the seventh day of isolation, here in Italy. The Covid-19, a new dangerous virus born in China, is spreading in Italy. The government's directives are clear: to avoid any human contact in the most absolute way. Going out only to buy basic necessities like food. No human being is prepared to face such a situation, but what about me, hardened traveler, forced to isolation. I think what all those trips have taught me in years.T he great strength of a traveler is adaptability. Sleeping in a alpine bivouac with a snowstorm, traveling on a collectivo in Peru for ages, and now, doing literally nothing , seems to me the most difficult thing to do. I have to take action: I will travel with my imagination. I pick up my classical guitar. My fingers begin to pinch the strings timidly. Samba immediately transports me to, Brazil. I find myself in the blink of an eye among dozens of children who play, scream, dance to the rhythm of the tambourine. In that Center where I was volounteering, their smiles were stronger than the dramas and battles that every day, each of those children had to fight . They welcome me, after realizing my arrival, running and screaming towards me . They ask me to play football, they teach me to dance Funk Da Favela moving the butt properly, they tell me that one day they will go to live in Italy, because Italians make pizza without olives. Their joyful eyes give me a bitter peace. I greet them with a big smile. I go away,back to my bed, the big smile remains printed on my face. Now I take the acoustic guitar, I press the metal strings, which release a serene harmony. I close my eyes and now I am standing in the golden dunes of some cliffs kissed by the Atlantic Ocean, in a small village in Portugal. A warm bonfire dampens the freezing wind that the Atlantic blows over us. The four of us around the fire, getting warm in the sunset, with salt on our lips and our clothes wet. Singing. Dreaming. Four freakes in a car full of beans and surfboards. Today we got carried by the powerful waves, following the tide. She led us to this magical unexplored land. I allow myself to swing on the hammock, I close my eyes, and I am in my room again. Like every journey, it must finish, because running away from reality is never the answer. I sit on the piano banquet. I want to hear every note flowing through my veins and I play Debussy's Arabesque, I see an inexplicable fact here, at the End of the World. The moon rises together with the sun. I's the summer solstice, the longest day of the year. After an heartbreaking walk I reached the top of Laguna Torre, Patagonia.I love that honest effort, which only by facing those impervious ways I can savor. Mountains never lie. They are damn honest and pretentious. The rocks are kissed by the first light of the sun. I can only admire them, in all their greatness, power, indifference. The moon and sun have gone up to heaven together. A tear of gratitude wets my face. I close my eyes, keeping them closed more than I should, and I get lost in the illusion of still being embraced by the power of those peaks. Illusion is addictive. I open my eyes, playing the last note. This improvised method of traveling with memories worked. Maybe now I will understand the purpose of all my travels. At the end of this isolation, I will never take anything for granted again. I am happy to finally understand what waves and mountains taught me. Now, I know what real resilience is.