He never got away from the place where he grew up. Maybe because he was scared. Maybe because the globe, the one he got for his birthday, was enough for him. Or maybe because he believed that there was nothing beyond the boundaries of that place. Only the sea. There, on the island, his life was wearing down. Between the vineyards, to which he dedicated an almost mysterious attention, and the books, in which he got lost. And it was just like that that he met Odysseus for the very first time. He met him in his books. And so their journey begun. They traveled through the land of the Cicones, along the Thracian coasts. They sailed to the island of Aeolus, welcomed by the keeper of the winds. They escaped the giants in the land of the Laestrygonians. They descended in the obscure Underworld, looking for Tiresias, the blind prophet. And then Scylla and Charybdis, Ogygia and the land of the Phaeacians. A journey that tasted like infinite, but that sooner or later, like all things, should have ended. Once he read the last page, he closed the book. And abandoned himself to the nostalgia. Lost in the remembrance of those faraway places, he decided to collect a memory from each of them. Fourteen places, fourteen memories. Then he moved the plant and set fourteen wine bottles on the floor. His wine. He poured a drop of memory in each bottle. Then put a label on it, conferring to each bottle its own identity. He believed that a sip of that wine mixed with memory, would have taken him back there. There, in all those places he traveled through together with Odysseus. He believed that this was the only way to bring everything back home. Back to Ithaca.