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The late afternoon light has turned everything to honey when you turn off the main road onto a narrow lane barely wide enough for your car, marked only by a weathered wooden sign that reads "Mas de la Lune" in faded script. The road—more dirt track than actual road—winds between fields that stretch away on both sides, and the car bounces gently over the uneven surface, forcing you to slow down, to take your time, to enter this place at the pace it demands rather than the pace you might prefer.

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The afternoon light is softening when you step out of the small hotel onto the narrow cobblestone street, the fierce heat of the day giving way to something more gentle, more forgiving. The stones beneath your feet are smooth and uneven, worn by centuries of footsteps, polished by the passage of countless lives that have walked these same paths through the centuries when this city was Constantinople, when it was Byzantium, when it has always been the bridge between continents, between worlds.

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The road narrows as you drive deeper into the countryside, the pavement giving way to white gravel that crunches beneath your tires, creating a sound that is somehow both crisp and soft, a rhythmic accompaniment to your journey. The rental car handles the unpaved road with ease, and you slow your pace, allowing yourself to absorb everything around you, to let the landscape work its ancient magic.

On either side of the road, the hills roll away in waves of green and gold and amber, each one layered behind the next, creating depth that seems to go on forever. This is Tuscany in late summer, when the wheat has been harvested and the fields glow in shades of honey and straw, when the grapes are heavy on the vines and the olives are beginning to darken, when everything is ripe and full and ready.

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The afternoon light is softening when you step out onto the pathway, the intense white glare of midday giving way to something gentler, warmer, more forgiving. Everything in Santorini is white—impossibly, brilliantly white—the buildings painted and repainted until they seem to glow from within, reflecting the sun with such intensity that you need to squint even as evening approaches.

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The platform is nearly empty when you arrive, the evening crowd having already departed on earlier trains. Only a few people remain—an elderly couple sitting on a wooden bench sharing a piece of fruit, a young woman with a backpack reading a book, a man in a linen suit speaking quietly into his phone. The air is warm, carrying with it the particular quality of Italian summer evenings, when the heat of the day has softened but not yet surrendered to night.

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The city is silent when you step out into the night, a silence so rare in Venice that it feels like a gift, like something precious that has been saved just for you. It is past midnight, that hour when even the latest diners have returned home, when the bars have closed their doors, when the gondoliers have moored their boats and the vaporettos have stopped running. The city belongs to itself now, and somehow, to you.

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The light is already fading when you arrive, though it is only late afternoon. This is the way of winter here, this far north, where the sun makes only a brief appearance above the horizon, painting the world in shades of blue and silver before retreating again, leaving behind a twilight that lasts for hours.

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The path appears before you just as the sun begins its slow descent toward the horizon. You find yourself standing at the edge of a garden you don't quite remember finding, though it feels as if it has been waiting for you, patient and still, measuring time in the opening of petals and the unfurling of leaves.

PS do you have of flying? Download SkyCalm on iOS today: ⁠https://apps.apple.com/us/app/skycalm-fear-of-flying/id6746972686