Under the Tuscan Sun

He’s not going to do it.The waiter just slapped a medieval-icious silver sword on our table, and started peeling the foil off the top of our bottle of Franciacorta Rose. I mean, seriously? It’s dangerous. He might get glass in my glass of bubbly bubbles. Isn’t swiping the top of a champagne bottle with a…

Souk, Souq, Suq

I can smell it as the abra touch-parks at the riverbank. The aromas lead me stumbling up the gangplanks and into a throbbing intersection. I ponder for a moment – safe stroll through the subway, or manic death-wish rush through Deira traffic? I opt for the road – the thought of darkness, dankness and urine…