Two Nights on the French Riviera was written here, in Mykonos. Yes... yes, it sounds strange. The author's physical body was at that little table you can see in the photo. Not the one in the foreground; the one behind, with the sofa against the wall. When you write, you lose yourself in thought after thought, and it was the only place more sheltered from the noises released by the few tourists, allowing him to soar beyond momentary reality and mentally return to where he grew up—on the French Riviera, using his mind and his thoughts.
It was November... Mykonos is stunning when the seagulls and those sharp blades of bronze-gold light accompany the sunset. All this, accompanied by whiskey, cigarettes, and still water from the fridge to hide those sins: too much whiskey and too many cigarettes are not good for you!
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