In which we acclimatise nicely to villa life.
All of this to explain how I come to make a snap decision — a bad one — on the ferry between Rhodes and Marmaris.
Rhodes, sunshine and the (brief) return of Paris
He scrawls his number on a card. “You have trouble, you call me, Alexandra.” (The Greeks love my name.) “Just call,” he urges, eyes crinkling around the edges.
Have I said this before? How wonderfully disorientating I find it to land in a foreign place after dark, not knowing what to expect when you wake the next day…