The fact is that this morning I woke up at 5 as were the 11, who has crossed the 830 the city half asleep for 12 hours to go the film festival (where Viggo Mortensen has combined a horrible red shirt with the words "Hungary" to a black dress and then wrapped in the flag of his favorite team) and then find myself finishing a piece for another paper at this time could be called the fast track out of a week in paradise. The output preferential means automatic ejection. And hopeless.
I was in the Seychelles, yes. Mea culpa. I stroked the white sand with his hands as a kind of hourglass, I put the iPod headphones to make room for the sea and wind noise in the ears accustomed to the urban casino. I swam with a turtle by the hand, I drank a drink "molecular" and I made human surfing in the crystal. I did the salute to the sun dipped into the jungle just as I thought it would make Christy Turlington (ok, come on, I did a little 'worse), I had a butler and I woke up at dawn to enjoy a show that is a few times see, I am immersed in a bath of stone decorated with candles, enjoying the privilege. Maybe save this page and see her tomorrow calmly, I tell myself. Why have I not told anything of my days in Mahé and anyone who reads will not understand anything. Then I think tomorrow I will not have time and there is little to say, you have to take it and go. Not a 5 star resort, maybe. But as with the blue sea and white sand it feels the same rich people.
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