Musings on the way to Cadaqués in '02: A retired doctor spends three fabulous months in an adorable art town, meets the adorable town folk who accept him as one of their own and writes an adorable book, complete with photos and recipes and his adorable face on the flap. So simple, so naïve, so wrong, her reality was not so adorable, but even more compelling.Was this a narcissistic misadventure? I pondered that question and said, no, for the umpteenth time. Writing has always been irresistible to me, those sinuous roots that take me here or there, always another path, always a rush, always a high, always a tear and directly connected to my amygdala. Of course, the effort, though perhaps noble, will come to naught, if there is no product at the end, so I had better keep that in mind. Those were the thoughts that went round in my head, during the cool, quietude of flight