It’s Easter Sunday and the church bells are ringing over Palermo. We’re sprawled on the rooftop terrace of our apartment, watching the seagulls over the domes and palazzios and the Arab-Norman towers, the blue hills and the just-glimpsed sea. Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde is mingling with the shouts of a market trader and the table is littered with olives and espresso and remnants of last night’s wine.

Next week, I fly to Rome and then Bangkok and I throw myself into making a living. But right now, here, in the soft spring sunlight and surrounded by my dearest friends, time is suspended, exquisitely, in a timeless Sicilian afternoon.