Do the French snore, I wonder as I clamber into my bunk.
I am swimming in the middle of the strait dividing Europe from Asia Minor and I sense most of us are not going to make it.
A mile and a half across the bay, lies the prize of San Francisco - a thicket of skyscrapers shimmering in the early morning haze.
There is a scene in The Loved One, Evelyn Waughs novella of 1948, that takes place at a fictional pet cemetery in Los Angeles called the Happier Hunting Ground.
Democracy's jet-lagged volunteers stumble out of Simon Bolivar international airport into the full glare of the Venezuelan sun.
Twenty feet down through the hazy blue of the Caribbean, several lean, grey Zeppelins cruise silently by.
Panthera pardus, Africa's most secretive and intriguing wild animal, drew us to Namibia.
At Linquenda House, Harare's gloomy immigration department, the official inspecting my visa extension form asks me what I do.
At what point do journalists working in the shadow of a repressive regime give up?
The meeting that killed cricket in Zimbabwe took place on 11 March 2004.