Narrative Story
A long, long, time ago, way back in Venice in the twelve hundreds, I was a small kid. Every day I would wait for my father, Niccolo Polo to come back from his trip with my uncle, since they were merchants and traders. One of those days my mother died, nevertheless, I still kept waiting for my father, even though I hadn’t ever really met him.
When I was 14, the only day that I didn’t go out to see if my father would come out, was the day that he came back. When he met with me, he told me about his marvelous travels to the east. At first everyone was skeptical, but I believed every word. He spoke of the wonderful places of Armenia, Persia, Afghanistan, Pamirs and the illustriou
|