Over the Alps?

At 5:30 of the morning of our departure, we were still dubious whether we’d be able to leave.

Nabil was stuck in London, his flight having been cancelled the night before, and I was waiting for confirmation that his rerouted flight via Basel took off. When he called to let me know that they also cancelled that flight, I decided to throw in the towel. I mean, there are times when Fate sends you signs and woe betide those who ignore them, as the ancient Greeks had discovered. I resigned myself to it being “maktoub” that we would not fly this weekend.

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La Maremma in Two Acts

They are always fashionably dressed. The men wear their shirts over their shorts and it’s a sacrilege to wear socks. The women wear free flowing dresses, Raybans perched on their foreheads. Both stroll with a breezy insouciance, Rolex Submariners and golden bracelets nonchalantly displayed. The tourists have arrived.

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Flying Back

It was the longest final approach I had ever done. We had just flown over the French-Spanish border, some 40 miles out from our destination, when Girona Tower cleared us for a direct approach — unheard of from a busy airport so far away. We thanked the controller for his kindness and flew for about 15 minutes with nary a word from another aircraft on the radio. It was a surreal experience: we had the airport for ourselves.

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A Stitch in Time

It took them 45 seconds and 3 hours to take off my one stitch.

I was in the A&E of Orbetello hospital to remove a stitch on my left eyelid, done back in Geneva. We were on holiday in Tuscany and I had to have the stitch removed before heading back home. We were advised by local friends that the best course of action was to visit the A&E, known here as “Pronto Soccorso” and this was where the adventure began.

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Slow Travel to London

Slow Travel to London

There’s nothing like cycling a strenuous uphill to focus your concentration on the here-and-now, to the exclusion of all else: there is only the cadence of your breathing as you narrow your vision to the pedals, counting one revolution after another. Here you are in your own bubble, and you fight the urge to look ahead to see what’s remaining of the hill. The satisfaction of reaching the crest is reward enough — until the next uphill.

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