It was eighteen months since I’d been away anywhere. The last time had been to Palma, because I always regarded it as the most perfect place. In November, when the fog so cruelly oppresses and depresses us in Austria, I had run through the streets of Palma with an open-necked shirt and drunk my coffee every day in the shade of the plane trees on the famous Borne. And in Palma I’d been able to make my definitive notes on Reger. True, I later lost them, to this day I don’t know where, thus managing to destroy the fruits of two months’ intellectual effort trough a piece of gross carelessness. Quite unforgivable! Just to think that I might now be sitting on the terrace of the Nice Palma, eating my olives and drinking my glass of water, not just absorbed, but utterly captivated by the sight of the others on the terrace, who would be just as taken up with their own fancies and fantasies as I was with mine!