The first photo I remember taking

No, this is not it. I remember many others before, but this is the first one whose intention I remember. It is Porto, Portugal. This one, in particular, is not even the original, which was a slide.

And linked to this photo is the memory of that summer, of how we arrived in Porto, in the camper van. And of what happened before, arriving there. Here is the story.

Rolling south

1997: I am 14, Giorgia is, I think, 8 or 9. Hers is a family of experienced campers, mine is no less so. At that time we travelled a lot: I had already spent a number of summers in a motorhome, with an odd happiness; Giorgia and her family would go away in a motorhome during the summers and also for a few weekends in the mountains.

We're heading south, between Porto and Lisbon, surrounded by the Portuguese macaia: 80 km/h is the maximum speed our face-flat Arca Europa allows us and it's hot outside. There is silence all around and our two motorhomes are mostly the only vehicles travelling along the sunny motorway.

At the previous stop I had moved campers: I had climbed into the one where Giorgia was. Now the blue Arca Europa I can see from the rear window, following us a little bit at a trudge. It is a kind of unwritten rule of the last motorhome holidays with other motorhomes: someone tends to open up and lead the caravan, but then we take turns, so those in front can enjoy the view in the open field, without the encumbrance of the aluminium parallelepipeds of their travelling companions,

Giorgia's motorhome is a coachbuilt, one of those motorhomes that retain the cab of the van on which they are based and, immediately above the cab, have that kind of prominent beak: there is usually a bed in the beak and that area is called - lo and behold - an attic. At a certain point the atmosphere in the motorhome gets hot: the swallowtail comes in and takes over the atmosphere and mood. So, tired of doing nothing and bored, Giorgia and I decide to climb on top of the cabin and enjoy the journey, looking out through the window, which from the attic looks ahead onto the road.

If it is already hot down in the motorhome, the attic is an oven. What's more, there is no air circulation, not even a measly breeze.

I don't remember the chatter and the games, but I do remember that at one point Giorgia and I exchange a glance and, with almost no words, we understand each other: to breathe, we have to open the front window and let in some of the hot Portuguese summer wind.

The camper van windows were opened by turning small L-shaped handles arranged along the edges of the window: there was usually more than one, on at least three sides. The idea is to open on the first click, the one that lets some air through, even if the window appears closed. The advance on the motorway should push some coolness in.

Giorgia and I understand each other so well that almost simultaneously we extend our hands, one mine and one hers, towards the handles of the front window and, in unison, turn them.

It is an instant: the window handles slip out of our hands, the hot wind slips under the window sash, which, like a wing, rises in an instant, pivots on its hinges and comes off with a resounding crack. It soars high into the Portuguese sky and crashes to the ground dozens of metres further back, a little ahead of the flat-faced Arca Europa, which nearly crashes its window into the windscreen.

Giorgia's dad pulls over, surprised by the crash. My dad does the same a few hundred metres later. My brother is left with the task of getting out and picking up what's left of the window in the middle of the motorway.

Giorgia and I expect a loud scolding. But, perhaps because the situation is absurd, the calm of the place so unreal and the heat so deafening, the scolding arrives very watered down. The respective dads pull out their magic toolboxes, pride and serenity of men who never have to ask, and set about taping up what remains of the plastic window. They try to get it to stay in place so that they can continue their journey and think about it later when the holiday is over.

Epilogue.

Once back, Giorgia's father buys a window to replace the one broken on holiday. When the work is done and the first cold weather arrives, Giorgia and her family leave for a weekend in the mountains. By an unbelievable coincidence, the replaced window is left open: a few metres from departure it lifts up, detaches itself and again crashes into the road, this time breaking into tiny pieces and forcing Giorgia and her family to stay at home.

Shortly afterwards, campers with that window in that position ceased to exist.