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Two years ago, and two months after my grandmother passed, I arrived at Rome. Still shook, I wanted to know a fraction of what I had studied from text-books during my university years. Italy held for me the keys to wonder and amazement, and the keys to connect with history. I was to contemplate the same monuments and landscapes that great emperors, philosophers and artists who shaped our present had contemplated. Many branches of my family come from Italy, and one in particular is kept alive in our memories: my great grandfather was born in Argentina but volunteered as a pilot in the Great War. Eduardo Olivero embarked with 17 years and later became part of the Italian Ases, led by Francesco Baracca. I visited Tarquinia, Bagnoreggio and Firenze. I was amazed, overwhelmed and nostalgic for places I had never seen before but felt pounding in my heart. Some of them, which I had studied extensively for Art History exams seemed familiar. I spent hours at museums where even the smallest carving brought back the voices of professors, books and films. Yet, I was still missing that special connection with my own past. In his memoirs, Olivero mentions Genova, Boves, Pisa, Malpensa and Isonzo. Despite my best planning efforts, I could not get there. Still mourning, I felt I would not be able to visit all the places my grandmother told me about. I was disappointed since part of the journey was paying a modest homage to her. Unexpectedly, I got a reply from the historians at the Baracca Museum, in Lugo. They invited me to visit them. Three trains later (and one missed station) I was there, dragging my suitcase through the almost deserted streets of a napping Lugo. Mauro, the historian, welcomed me at the museum and, before I could realize it, I was taken to see a fully-restored Spad aircraft. The machine was silent, but the images of stories I had lived through the oral tradition of my family gave the sleeping plane a distant humming. The air that had supported those wooden wings was roaring from the past, and I froze at its presence. They insisted in taking my picture with it, but I was reluctant. I didn’t want to break the invisible aura around it: that particular aircraft was piloted by none other than my great grandfather. ¿What other object, place or memory could I ever find closer to him? That plane made of steel, wood, fabric and paper had seen him in his darkest and saddest hours, had contemplated the horrors of war and the heroism and brotherhood of friends. He flew this, trusting it would take him back home, day after day. Time machines don’t exist and we fantasize with them as we like to reflect on time, to ponder over our mortality and the possibilities of our future. Here, I was presented with an unexpected and vertiginous ride to the past, one I could not hear, nor see, but one I could feel again burning through my veins. After the photo was taken, they showed me the rest of the museum. They spoke in Italian and I did so in Spanish. There was no such things as a language barrier. We wanted to connect and made use of everything we had at hand: English, French, cellphones and gestures. They told me the love the town has for their hero and I told them about the love my family has for ours. I left Lugo in a hurry: just a block away from the station we spotted the train arriving. There was no room for a proper goodbye. Mauro picked my bag and run with me through the platform. I was grateful, and with all my heart I thanked him. Once the train started moving, I went through the book they gave me as a gift. A photo had Olivero staring away with the squad. The horizon hurried by the window. The memory of my grandmother came back vividly. The journey was complete and, together, we were ready to go back home.