Stepped out of the plane and melted into the searing white heat of the Mediterranean. There was hardly any wind and the heavy air was thick with the scent of jet fuel, hot tarmac and jasmine. Away to the north, green mountains thundered into the sky, their peaks shimmering behind a hot, humid haze of dew suspended drop by drop in the air. Behind me was the dappled plain of the sea, protected in the embrace of the sienna hills. The airport terminal was a low concrete bunker with little distinction between indoors and out—the sort of disregard possible only in warm lands. Closure was made with the help of a series of battered shutters, without need of glass or screens. The sky was heavy and lightly cast over, but not melancholy. The tumescent shroud lay over the land and dispersed the ferocity of the sun. So, there on the tarmac, the sun did not beat but rather spread its heat through air and liquid to sit heavily around me, melting like butter over my skin, down my throat and into my eyes.
