I never did do much dreaming about Paris or London. My dreams have always had more to do with the souks of Fez, cliffs of South Wales, the swirling hems of gypsy girls in the middle of the night, windy crossings into Brittany from Portsmouth ("never let them rope you into sailing from Calais unless you have a lover waiting in Paris etc....") Lucy's Tiger Den, Bangkok. I never, as a child, sat in front of an atlas hoping to reach random cities or distant unknown rivers. My favoured destinations were pre-destined, maybe. All family winds pointed in some directions and not others.
	I have arrived late on a dry dry train into Granada. At last, for the first time, I am here/there in Southern Spain. And before I even have a place to stay I'm being whisked off by some waiter to drink Port. And really, I thought, even at the time, this isn't at all what I had in mind.
I catch the Alhambra out o the corner of my eye and I wonder how I live my life that the sight should be so distracted by the rhythmic breathing, (still a few feet away, but prepare yourself, Tracey, to take flight. Quick, think, which way back toward the train station) of this stranger. But this, after all, was adventure. And the funny thing is, it actually was.
	(Just for fun, find this story's echo in most any country of your choice: I've somehow landed on the back of a moped shrieking into the darkness away from a sad red velvet bar somewhere in Athens -. I'm being driven to the dark parking spot at the top of a high hill to - get this- make love within sight of the acropolis. Now how many have fallen for that one? Not me, this night. But standing in for Acropolis, in cities all over this world are other features of the cityscape or the housescape: tall pines, a cool interior courtyard in Marakesh, the one light in an undistinguished apartment coming from the fridge...(the apartment might even have been my own).