At least, for Papa it isn’t. And I can understand that driving for ten hours just to be yelled at when you get there by a gang of over-excited Italians might get on your nerves.

Destra!

Sinistra!

Italians shouting and waving their arms about as if Papa were taking his first driving lesson.

Avanti Avanti Avanti!

Papa manoeuvring the car among dozens of other terrified drivers, with their trailers and their jet-skis on the roof, their convertible sports cars with the surfboard sticking out, their Renault Espaces crammed to the gills with rubber rings and lilos and towels piled so high they can’t see anything through the mirror.

Avvicina avvicina!

The lorries, the cars, the camper vans, the motorbikes. But everything fits in! Always. To the centimetre. That’s the first miracle of the holidays.

Stop stop stop!

When they were little, I imagine these Italians on the ferry were experts at things that locked together. So for them, getting three thousand cars onto a boat in less than an hour is just a giant game of Lego.

An Italian smiles and raises his thumb.

Perfetto!

Papa’s Fuego is one of the three thousand pieces of this game. He opens his door, trying not to scratch the Corsa to his left, and sucks in his stomach to make his way over to us.

Earth, next.

The real change happens between the moment when you take off your things and lie down in your cabin, and when you get up four or five hours later; it’s a bit like a snake sloughing off its skin.

Often I’m the first to put on my flip-flops, a pair of shorts, a Van Halen T-shirt, dark sunglasses and emerge out on deck.

Terra! Terra!

Everyone stands by the railings to admire the coast, from the Biguglia lagoon to Cap Corse. The sun is starting to fire its laser beams at anything that moves out of the shadows, and I slip down the corridors of the boat, sniffing unfamiliar smells. I step over a large groggy-looking guy with fair hair who is lying in the corridor on his rucksack. He’s so hot! The girl attached to him is still asleep, her back bare, her mane tousled, one hand under the Swedish guy’s open shirt.

One day I’ll be the bare-backed girl. And I too will have an unshaven backpacker for a mattress, with blond hair on his chest to act as my comfort blanket.

Life, you aren’t going to disappoint me, are you?

For now I’ll settle for the salty air of the Mediterranean. Leaning against the railings, all one metre forty of me.

Breathing in freedom on the tips of my toes.

Fire, alas.

Ladies and gentlemen, please return to your vehicles.

The fires of hell!