Barb, Stuart's wife, has come out to the airport to see us off. We take so long in our preparations she nearly leaves in frustration; clearly Barb is not someone who is accustomed to the tempo (molto lente) of messing about in small aircraft. She takes one last photo, pronounces us 'indistinguishable' (by coincidence we've assembled nearly identical wardrobes: zip-off khaki cargo pants, blue sun-screen shirts and sunglasses; Stuart has provided the long-brim sun hats with the funny skirts a la the French Foreign Legion), and we're off.