In which we acclimatise nicely to villa life.
Coming to a screen near you.
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…
Apart from that, we shall eat and drink and shop. What’s French for ‘like, obviously’?
In which I crush on rainy Italy.
I panic. We panic. I swear a lot. It’s basically what you’d expect a scene with two Aussie girls in a little Italian town to look like. There are impatient Italian drivers yelling and gesturing furiously, an old man watching as he smokes from his balcony, horns bleating, lots of nervous sweat, a dog.
What would you do upon arrival in Dublin, seven hours ahead of your friends? You’d charmingly chat to your elderly AirBnB hostess about the myriad literary delights Dublin is uniquely positioned to offer — Joyce, Stoker — and then you’d go to the Guiness factory, wouldn’t you? Yeah you would.
You know you’ve done it right when the waitress eyes off the table speculatively and then has to strategically remove the sugar bowl to accomodate all of your food.