Front row cool: The mountains, the myths, and the men who never tried

I think I’ve finally found it—or maybe it found me. Out here, in the shadow of the Apuane mountains, where the light cuts differently, where the air is sharp enough to shave with, where the silence has a pulse. Tuscany, but not the postcard version. No rolling vineyards or clinking wine glasses. This is the rugged edge of it—the wild, unpolished side. This is where wolves still roam the forests and the locals nod in quiet respect when you tell them you live here year-round.

 

It’s funny. You spend half your life leaning against metaphorical red sports cars, trying to look the part. Trying to be cool. Then you land here, in the front row of nowhere, and suddenly cool is just the way the sun drops behind the peaks, or the way the fog spills over the ridges like it’s rehearsed it for centuries. There’s no audience, no applause. Just you and the mountains, sharing secrets. And for the first time, you’re not performing. You’re living.

 

Gore Vidal nailed it, didn’t he? “Style is knowing who you are, what you want to say, and not giving a damn.” It’s Brando on a Triumph, cigarette dangling from his lips, the whole world watching but him barely noticing. It’s Lennon standing on a rooftop in London, guitar strapped across his chest, fingers numb from the cold, playing until the cops shut him down. It’s Dylan at Newport, plugging in his Fender and sending a shockwave through folk music, leaving purists wailing in his wake.

 

Cool doesn’t bend. It doesn’t apologise. It just is.

 

And I think I found mine somewhere on Ruta 40. That jagged vein of rebellion slicing through Patagonia, endless and indifferent. I remember pulling off the road near Gaiman, that Welsh outpost stranded in the middle of Argentina like it had wandered off course and decided to stay. I planted a tree for George by the river, watched the wind ripple through its leaves, and thought: this is it. This is front-row living. Not the cheap seats. Not leaning against something shiny, waiting for someone to notice. This is the mud-splattered truck, the winding road, the dust on your boots that you don’t bother to wipe off.

 

I used to think cool was about getting somewhere. Now I know it’s about being somewhere.

 

That’s what these mountains have taught me. Up here, there’s no hiding behind trends or borrowed style. There’s just you and the silence, and you better be damn comfortable with who you are, because the silence has no mercy. It’ll strip you down to your essentials, reveal if you’re the real thing or just another imposter leaning against a red sports car, hoping someone sees.

 

I traded that noise for this—this raw edge of Tuscany, where the wolves still howl at night and the locals nod like you’ve joined some secret club for the quietly unyielding. I’ve sat still here long enough to hear my own thoughts, not the ones filtered through the chaos of city streets or boardrooms or bars. But the ones that bubble up from somewhere deeper, somewhere primal. The kind of thoughts you only get in the front row.

 

Because even though I’m growing old, my heart remains young. Our soul always keeps the same age. I know this is the perfect age—each year unique, each moment precious. Don’t regret growing old; it’s a privilege not everyone can afford.

 

I get it now, clearer than I ever have. Staying young isn’t about hanging on to youth; it’s about living like it still matters. It’s about waking up each morning with a question mark instead of a period. Maybe that’s what George knew when I planted that tree for him by the Rio Grande in Gaiman. His spirit running like roots deep beneath the surface, unseen but unyielding. I can feel him there sometimes when the wind catches the leaves just right. He’s cool. Always was. Not the kind of cool that fades with fashion but the kind that’s carved from stone. Permanent.

 

That’s the thing—when you realize that growing old is a privilege, not a burden, you stop trying to hide the wrinkles. You stop painting over the grey. Hell, you celebrate it. I think of Lennon in his final years, sitting at his piano, Yoko by his side, the lines on his face like the rings of a tree—proof that he’d been here, that he’d lived. Imagine wasn’t just a song; it was a declaration of survival, of hope.

 

Brando got fat, got grey, and still managed to be the coolest son of a bitch on screen. He didn’t try to hide it. He sat in his garden in Tahiti, surrounded by chickens and grandkids, his belly round, his hair white, still Brando. Still cool. Because cool, real cool, doesn’t give a damn.

 

And now, here in the Apuane mountains, I’m starting to get it. I’m not leaning against someone else’s idea of cool. I’m not parked in the third lot with my arms crossed, waiting for approval. I’m here, in the front row, living in the wild edge of Tuscany, writing, travelling, storytelling. Sitting still and listening to the wolves howl.

 

That’s what cool is. It’s not the car. It’s not the jacket. It’s the grit under your fingernails, the sweat on your brow, the courage to be fully yourself in a world that wants you to blend in. It’s sitting in a Renault Kangoo on a stretch of Ruta 40, wind howling through cracked windows, laughing because you know you’re exactly where you should be.

 

It’s George’s tree swaying in the Patagonia wind, roots gripping the soil of Gaiman, whispering back to me across the miles. It’s the freedom to be unpolished, to be raw, to be you.

 

Because the front row isn’t crowded. It’s just for the ones who get it.

 

Springsteen got it. Thunder Road wasn’t just a song; it was a declaration. Show a little faith, there’s magic in the night. He knew the front row wasn’t for the ones who played it safe. It’s for the mad ones, the wild ones, the ones who never left the dance floor. And Cohen, God bless him, sitting there with his crumpled hat and that world-weary grin, singing “There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.” He knew that front-row living is about the scars, the mistakes, the beautiful imperfections that make you real.

 

And now, I’m here. Front row, living. Cool, not because I’m trying, but because I finally stopped.

 

Maybe that’s the real secret—the one Kerouac whispered about on Route 66, the one Thompson yelled about from his typewriter, the one Dylan strummed out with eyes half-closed. The front row is always there. You just have to stop pretending and take the damn seat.

 

Because cool never tries. Cool just is.

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