My alarm wakes me at 5am. It’s rare now that I need an alarm to wake me, and I’m surprised how well I’ve slept. Usually I wake repeatedly during the night if I have an early start, and I’m nervous, surprisingly nervous, about my trip. Will the taxi arrive? Will I be able to find my tickets on my phone? How will I get across Paris? Will I make my connections? Will I be able to find my hotel in Milan? Surely some link in my complicated journey will fail. These are all trivial worries, but they have got to me. Is this, as I suspect, a function of age? I think back to when I first left Britain, oddly flying across the Channel with a car. Then those later journeys with little money, living off baguettes, Camembert (the only French cheese I knew), and fromage du tete. The strange smell of France, garlic and Gauloise. Then “abroad” was unknown, but now I’ve been multiple times on all the continents. I wasn’t nervous then, but I am now. Within 10 minutes I’m in the taxi, which I call a…
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