Stumbled across this miniature lake in the Borghese Gardens in Rome, and wandered around in a rapturous daze for five minutes before we had to leave. With the geese, and the little wooden boats, and the sun-drenched flowers and the long fronds of leaves trailing ripples in the water, I felt this strange ghost of familiarity; like, hey, I know this place. Maybe because it seemed to be lifted so perfectly from the illustrated fairy tales of my childhood. Or one of my more idyllic dreams (I kept thinking of is this the place I used to love, is this the place that I've been dreaming of). I think maybe a large part of why I'm obsessed with travelling to new countries is this desire to recapture some fleeting scrap of imagination, or some subconscious memory that's been dormant for years. The paradoxical sensation of returning to a place you've never been to. That make sense?

One month til LA. Two months since Rome. We were walking down a very crowded Via del Corso one day and this man passed us on his bicycle, weaving through the throngs of shoppers, with a huge orange cat flung over his left shoulder the way you might fling a backpack or a sweater. The cat was clinging on for dear life. Shit, I wish I'd got a picture of that.