It was approaching 11pm. I walked down Warmoesstraat, the main street through the red light district, assaulted by lights, logos and liberalism. This was my third encounter with the city since visiting twice as an eager eighteen year old. I had imagined that maturity might have tamed this vision of madness that once again confronted me.

My head swivelled from side to side and an imperceptible current towed me down the street, through this alternate reality. My eyeballs tingled with an explosion of colour and creativity: words and images jumped out from every direction; “Freeland Coffeeshop, Route 66, Chickitas Sex Paradys, leather rubber twisted gear.” (Read on …)

Deliciously ice cold tap water, gleaming white supermarkets, perfectly packaged cheeses, watches weighted with glittery bits, and the magnificence of the lake, a glistening great silvery body of sparkles that spreads out within the city: my first fresh breath of Geneva.

Belongings dropped at our rabbit warren style hostel, Iain and I strode out into the city, heading for Lake Geneva. I had never before encountered a lakeside city, and with little expectation, followed the ordinary, linear streets toward the centre. (Read on …)

The banderillero swaggered across the dry yellow sand, knelt in front of the bullgate, crossed himself – slowly, carefully – and spread out his pink cape. He was perhaps my age, probably younger. From our cheap seat, near the top of the Plaza de Toros, Claire and I could not see or hear the gate open. We saw only a blur of brown muscle, the flash of a cape, their meeting, melting, and then the banderillero rolling to the side, away.

The bull paused, sniffing. It was the second of six: blood had already been spilt in the ring. Its head oscillated, eyes acknowledging the crowd and, perhaps, its circumstances at the centre of a confusing spectacle. Again it charged. (Read on …)