All of this to explain how I come to make a snap decision — a bad one — on the ferry between Rhodes and Marmaris.
And don’t forget it’s three cheek kisses in Europe.
Brussels and Spain. Cruelly summarised.
It’s beautifully, flamboyantly cliché. Ricky Martin has a house on one of the wide, green-canopied avenues. His music plays here more than is merited.
A catch up entry from March 2017, lost between the flimsy pages of my Google Inbox and iPhone notes.
And now I’m on a plane to New York. I have 60 hours in New York City: it feels like a challenge. I’ve never liked this city. However, I’m fairly certain that that’s my fault, not its.
It’s all I can do not to fall asleep in my Sam Adams, raw clams and marshmallows.