OK, I admit it. I’m a hotel junkie capable of spending happy hours plotting and planning my next hotel-travel adventure. I love travel and (nice) hotels. Here’s a paragraph I wrote for my book then jettisoned. I might as well stick it here (poor orphan paragraph with no place to go) –
The day I entered this world (I was born under a restless, questing star), the heavens decreed that I would require a mountain to climb and a pack on my back to be truly happy. A metaphorical mountain, that is, because in reality craggy peaks are not my preferred terrain. As a teenager my ambition was to explore the outer world and satisfy the wanderlust that lived in me. I was a seeker. Of what, exactly, I cannot say, but whispers came to me across oceans – speaking in foreign tongues and smelling of spice and the sea and exotic lands – and I knew I had to go.
As I write this blog post at 2:45 in the morning (while googling hotels for my next trip to Puglia in 2018), there’s birdsong outside my open window. What bird warbles in the middle of the night … and in the middle of Paris?
I’ve just googled the question and come up with this: With the development of cities and light pollution, many birds continue to sing at night, deceived by artificial lighting. But only one bird sings in the dark. Who is he ?
Le rossignol (the nightingale, of course). Or le merle noir (the blackbird).
Back to hotels, below are two, one of them a stunner –
The first is a Parisian hotel, the type my parents would have stayed in. And the second is on the Greek island of Santorini. I must return to Greece one of these days …
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