Most of my daydreams contain a grain of truth, nestled alongside a seed of doubt.
Sunday morning, a call from the middle of the Adriatic. My parents, a struggle to interpret at the best of times, now victims of telephonic time slip. Our words bouncing there and back via Norway. The last scrap of sense surrendered - they answer my questions before I’ve asked them.
And later, from the foot of the mighty mountains he calls, seducing me with details of snow irrigation and new world wines of cash machines and high altitude climbs. And when we say goodbye I ask him to give my regards to the condors.