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Landing in Malaga, heading home to Fuengirola...

View from the (temporary) home in Fuengirola...

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Oh! Is it that age already?

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The Stuttgart rail station. I support this message.

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Art, on a run in Zurich.

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I took a trip to Sicily with a friend who lives in Zurich and speaks Italian. I was going for work, she joined because she loves Italy and why the hell not. We would have had a fabulous time no matter what. Her Italian turned the jaunt into something special.

A longer bit on Sicily and Syracuse and Ortigia to come. For now, a trio of meals, the first being breakfast on her apartment balcony.

Some bread and cheese — because Switzerland — and a delicious coffee she made. Quiet. Calm. Easy like a (Swiss) Tuesday morning, yeah.

We hop an Alitalia flight to Sicily via a four-hour layover in Rome. Some thread of the Alitalia union tapestry was on strike, so the lounges were closed. My friend suggests, "Why don't we pop into Rome?"

Again: Why the hell not.

We get in a taxi, she does the talking. About 45 minutes later, the taxi drops us off at The Vatican.

We stroll. It's lovely. Perfect Roman getaway.

We get in another taxi to visit the Spanish Steps, arriving at the base of a monument left empty by Covid. (This was late 2021, Roman authorities forbade gatherings on the steps.)

Hunger joined us on our sojourn with plenty of time before our next flight. I needed a package of masks to carry on in Italy, so we found a pharmacy near the steps and my friend asked the pharmacist if we could find a good meal in the area. I had no idea what was being said, but I recognized the universal "Ah! Sì sì sì" that meant we'd get our wish.

I buy my masks, we depart. We headed away from the main drag, then we headed away from anything except alleyways just wide enough for one little Italian car to squeeze by the cafe and restaraunt tables occupying a third of the street.

We find the spot — one we probably wouldn't have found without the recommendation, one we definitely wouldn't have waited for a table at without the recommendation.

Well. That pharmacist knew about good food.

The service was quick. The aperitifs were wonderful. The food was stellar.

It was time for the airport.

I call an Uber, it arrives with haste. In Italy. I mean, this is an usually good day. Maybe not Ice Cube's January 20, 1992, but still worth writing about.

Back to the airport in plenty of time and on to Sicily. We spend a couple of hours in the back of a car, shuttling to the resort where I'll do my work for a couple of days and my friend will enjoy the pool and explore the countryside. But before then, it's late and we're hungry once more, so we order room service.

I gotta say, telling room service, "I'll just have water and a salad," never looked, nor tasted, so good.

The day contained no major events. I don't remember the flights, I barely remember the airports and shuttles. I remember The Vatican for being big, the Spanish Steps for being empty.

What I'll never forget was the journey — a serene, sensational day on the move — and the friend who made it possible.

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Remember?

Remember?

A Subway in Virginia does, with a sign spicier than any of the sandwiches.

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Sir! YES!

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Eased into 2025 slow, steady, bright and blue and basking in the cradle of the sky, until the time came to leave this:

For this:

Nothing to make a new year feel real like leaving the beach to dig one's car out of the snow.

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The Hotel Los Corales on Roatan.

Anytime you see a turtle up on top of a fence post, you know he had some help. — Alex Haley

Suppose that counts for atop hotels, too.

I want to meet the man who saw a turtle and said, "People will LOVE the ninja version of that. — Jonah Hill

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Message at the Bariloche steakhouse. The "e" fell off, but was back the next day when, for some reason, I didn't take a photo.

Sung to the tune of:

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Just photos of the beach looking northwest, toward West End, while on a walk.

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A horse come home without its rider.

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A few years ago, work required me to sample the 2022 Bentley Continental GT Speed in Sicily. The car is superb (story here). Sicily is even better. 

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Boats just like this are parked all along the West Bay beach, occasionally looking abandoned, occasionally half-submerged in sand to use as anchors for a similar boat in the water.

This is the only abandoned boat I saw in the water. No idea why it's there. Perhaps if I'd tried some fried chicken, I could have found out.

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I'm at a seafood bar on the beach, surrounded by Americans who have come to watch the NFL Sunday games. It's like being in my local sports bar.

I'd planned on going to Antony's for jerk chicken and coconut bread for dinner, but Antony's was closed.

I text two locals, ask them where to have dinner. "The Drunken Sailor," one said. "The Italian food is delicious."

A text chain ensues — I'm looking for local dishes. The best I get for a recommendation is "fried chicken."

The Drunken Sailor it is.

I'd passed the place every day at least twice a day, never paid attention. This is the closest you're going to get to Italy while in West Bay — handwritten menus on chalk boards, Limoncello and San Benedetto, and a very helpful Italian server who sounded like he arrived on the last Alitalia (RIP) flight.

One bruschetta and one squid ink pasta with tomatoes and clams later, what do you know, The Drunk Sailor is delicious. Highly recommend.

(And based on how many folks ordered to-go pizzas while I ate, the pies are apparently all right, too. As opposed to, the next day, when I got on my first flight to go home, I saw a family in line with three Papa John's pizzas (PJ just arrived to the island, along with Bojangles). Wherever that family is, why? Why?)

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I don't have a dog because I don't have a life that would allow me to be fair to a dog. But I like dogs. And I really like Data and Blurry Data. That is all.

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A scene from my morning walk in Roatan. Sat on the opposite dock and swung my legs for a while.