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.
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…
Long overdue tales of whisky and water from the Inner Hebrides.
“D’you speak English?”
I turn around. Before me is a stereotypical American guy, about the same age as my dad, in a baseball cap and an Italian soccer shirt. I’m really very tempted to retort with a gallic shrug and a, “Non, je ne parle pas l’angalais,” but I don’t. I’m very clearly reading an English book and what if we’re stuck in this line for the gallery for ages and I need to ask someone something and have to do it in French?
A train to Tuscany, Neapolitan mermaid donuts, some mild self reflection.
I glance down. My boots are Timberland, fashioned of sturdy leather. However, they are apparently still embarrassing city-slicker footwear.
‘Oh… these are fine!’
‘You will get muddy. We will go other way.’