And now for something completely different: southern Spain. Sunshine, hordes of tourists smelling of sunblock, hordes of Spaniards trying to sell the tourists stuff. A waterfront lined with vast cruise ships and luxury yachts, a beach, and a beautiful old town. And my Finnish friend Anita.

But first I had to get here – a long boring day of transit. I knew there’s a new way to get to Orly airport from the Gare de Lyon, so I got the metro to the train station and wandered around looking for a sign about Orly. Nothing, and of course, because France, no information booth. Finally as I was lining up in an endless queue at the ticket office to ask, I turned to the woman behind me and asked, and she told me the way to Orly is on the metro. It never occurred to me they’d build a metro line all the way to this suburban airport. But they did, of course they did, there’s a line from CDG too, metro lines all over this magnificent city. The transit system is second to none. Including that if you load your Navigo tickets on your phone, when you tap you don’t even have to turn your phone on.

So back down to the metro. Orly was a zoo, like Pearson – it seems the whole world is travelling these days. I’d booked with Transavia, a airline of which I’d never heard but which was very cheap. And thus very popular, long line-ups to an airbus jam-packed with families. The flight, a bit late, was fine, except for the woman right behind me who coughed incessantly, looked near death, and had me reaching for my mask. After landing, my bag, which I had to check, arrived immediately. Took a taxi to Anita’s apartment hotel, and there she was, unchanged from 20 years ago. Only her dog, now a chihuahua called Lily, is different. 20 years ago in Rome, she had a dog she’d found on the street in Indonesia where she was living, a most neurotic dog, unfortunately. But Lily, also an adopted stray, is happy. Anita loves dogs.

And so began another visit of walking, talking, eating, and drinking. At 9 p.m. we went – with Lily – out for dinner in a beautiful square and then walked the narrow pedestrian marble streets packed with people, like a holiday Friday night, only it was Tuesday. Every language being spoken. You can tell the Brits – they’re bright red. Today we went out for breakfast, then walked to the water; when Anita and Lily went home, I walked on to find the actual beach. So good to splash my feet in the Mediterranean. And then I actually found my way, through all the twisty streets, back.

After a rest, she took me to a bar founded in 1842 where the drink is in casks; you stand, they plunk your glass in front of you and chalk your bill on the counter, and if you leave a tip, they ring a bell. I loved it. And then for a late lunch of tapas, delicious. All this while jabbering about our current lives and our past lives. Anita has lived in many countries, working for various NGOs and the Finnish embassy.

This feels like a real vacation. There really isn’t much sight-seeing to do here, so we stroll and eat and talk and then rest at home, scrolling good news and bad on our phones. We’re going to eat Iberian ham and salad for dinner, here, tonight. With a little Spanish red.

One interesting thing: in February I bought a train ticket from Malaga to Madrid for this Saturday when Anita flies home, no problem. But luckily I mentioned this to her; she said there’d been a catastrophic train accident on that route months ago and the track still isn’t fixed; there are no trains from Malaga to Madrid. Nobody informed me. So we took a taxi to the station, where the first official stared in incomprehension at the ticket on my phone and said I needed to show the email from the company, and the second, a woman, instantly found the bar code and printed me a bus ticket. I get the bus to a certain point and the train from there. A later arrival in Madrid, but at least I’ll get there. Imagining arriving at the train station on Saturday with my bags and being told there’s no train. Ah, the joy of travel.

Church bells clanging outside my open window. The Catholic iconography — for some reason, Spanish Catholics focus on suffering, agonized Mary weeping, agonized Jesus covered in blood. Vast cathedrals throughout the town. Bougainvillea and hibiscus and doves. Noise, the Spanish are noisy and the tourists are noisy, but it’s fun noise. And mostly — the sun on my skin. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt that. Healing. Relaxed.

Below, happy camper having a café con leche. (Confession: I erased a few wrinkles. So sue me.) Anita at dinner in a lovely cathedral square. The beach! The ancient bar with the casks. Another view of the lovely square. Iberian ham at the market = dinner.