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…
The day starts properly when Chandler, goofing around, cuts his face on the salt of his giant pretzel and bleeds on it. The first injury of the day — and there will be many.
Say what you like about wealthy Moroccan nightclub-managing, boat-owning party boys, but their hosting etiquette does their mothers proud.
This… this is how all Friday’s should look.
Which involves a little bit of Harry Potter and a little bit of Jane Austen.
It’s only in typing this post out that I realise I might just be a little homesick.