somewhere in the south of spain was an island forged in the heat of the summer. you could follow the roads north from the city to a small town which sat high above the rocky coastline with dry streets and a towering church. it was called Sóller, the golden city where the afternoons were warm and you felt dizzy in the heat under the white umbrellas that lined the square. you could drink apéritifs in cafes as the night fell and the tram passed through every few minutes carrying

a few hundred miles south of the Austrian border sat a small ski town nestled in the heart of the Italian Alps. the mornings were quiet and cool and you felt clean walking the streets before the sun rose and brought light to the valley. in the spring you could hike from Lago Di Braies to a small Rifugio further up the mountain where you felt warm by the fire and the wind would rise in the evenings with a deep howl from the valley below. on spring days the gravel felt fine und

in the deep south of Italy a small fishing village sat perched on the very edge of the Adriatic Sea. it was the summer of 1994 and a sense of yearning swept across the beach below, in the evenings the horizon would slip into the sea and you felt that in moments like these maybe this really was the edge of the earth. the cliffs seemed to fall away into the blue water below, bodies scattered across the rocks, the water broken every few seconds with people diving from the cliffs