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The story of mankind started in caves and dark places and we terribly often feel a certain nostalgia towards them. “Faster, faster. First time with them and you are already late!” I felt the pressure increasing on me like the claws of an eagle getting tighter on its prey. The day was yet about to start, the sun lazily waking up, refusing to announce a warm, sunny day, even though June was just around the corner. Neglecting the nagging voices of whether I should go or not, I quickly grabbed few sandwiches and rushed to arrive at the meeting point. They were already there, waiting, half of them still asleep and ignorant of what the day was about to bring. South Americans, Europeans, Asians. All places and cultures in once. I loved that city. Pisa, tiny in size, but big enough to welcome us all. “Okay guys, everybody fasten their belts and we’re ready to go!” – shouted the leader of our group, making sure everybody obeyed. It was a mystery, the secret place we were about to discover that day. Our destination was Portovenere, a small town situated on the Ligurian coast, jealous of its neighbors, the Cinque Terre, for not being so admired and recognized as much as them. However, nobody knew what the magical, mystical and awe-inspiring thing was, words that our guide didn’t get tired of repeating during the entire trip. My excitement, if I can call like that the feeling that goes way beyond the flat meaning of the word excitement, a mixture of adrenalin bubbling, just about to burst out of my pores, fear that makes my heart melt easier than an ice cube, dissolving in the hands of a child playing with it. Once there, the plan was to do a hike around the island of Palmaria, a little pearl in the middle of luxurious yachts and million-dollars-worth sail boats. We hit the track among the woods, stopping occasionally to admire the vastness of the sea, drinking its calmness and pouring potions of pines and sea into our hearts. It is strange that even though the sun was playing hide-and-seek with the clouds, still, the whole landscape beamed in its full glory. Most of the time we walked in silence, everyone filming in their heads its own movie of what could await us. We stopped to take a cold swim on a deserted beach, hidden by the eyes of the public. The water was unusually cold, allowing us only few minutes of pleasure before we were forced out to get back on track. The more we walked, the more impatient I was getting of what was that thing, splendid and dark at the same time, as our leaders used to say. Just when we got out of the woods and made our way to the nearby fortress, everybody stopped out of a sudden. No words, only sighs. Sighs of child-like wonder, trembling of the senses that makes you question if what you see is nothing, but a dream. And it was staring at us. On the bottom of the reef, among the minacious rocks surrounding it, like the guards that prohibit the entrance of a castle. Gazing at us, in all its power and dignity. If ever black holes are to be described, it would be with the darkness that cave emitted. Daunting and shouting at the open sea in front of it, but at the same time soft and smiling at the sun, swallowing greedily its rays. We knew it. It was it. The cave that inspired him, as we got to know later. The cave that inspired the star. The star of Lord Byron, the famous poet that used to come here and awe at its beauty. The merciless beauty that inspired his works, his masterpieces. The impudent queen that shut us all as soon as we saw her. A miracle that goes beyond the miracle of the leaning tower in Pisa, a wonder that sucks you in like a quicksand. And it was true. Every word. It was the best trip so far. Meeting her, the cave of the star.