"First thing I saw was a bird on the wire. In still mellow light looking over knobby trees and vine, eventually setting off for brachiating further and further away. There are sounds in the distance from where the bird went flying off to, stretching its wings out in still fresh-cooled down air from the nights’ peace, and all those souls on that island are about to wake for the beginning of something new. And so are the roads we take. With all their bumps, holes, cracks, worn down and driven over a hundred thousand times that sometimes belch you out on silent-shiny shimmering tar on this chilly midsummer day. Snaky lines we draw on yet blank paper whilst driving up and down, never knowing what will be next, what will surprise, astonish, remind us of places been or known from tales in our memories of early days in Tuscany, Mexico, South Africa or even by the Northern Sea. You name it! Driving along those cypress hills, with heavy winds sweeping cross the scope, touching the tops of the statue-looking trees and making them dance all at once – a beautiful dance of green that chaperons the lady and me until we reach that ocean drive, descending down freehand in speed – yet it ain’t haste but a certain thrill of anticipation which calms by the moment we stop pulling the throttle and arrive by the sea. We hit the crazy colors of the shore and halt the movement with only the eyes wandering from beige sand over tiffany blue water, drowning and loosening in mere infinity of dark, poignant swell."
Excerpt from the diary.