I am about to join what will become a smash TV series, “Les Globe Trotters”. With a dream-team of actors and crew, and the patient director Claude Boissol steering his ‘kids‘, I will see Istanbul and Teheran and join them for the last time as winter settles in Bucharest. I arrived wearing the latest tiniest mini skirt in a land that had never seen one before, I realized this when I noticed the people in the lobby of the hotel watch me in shock.
 “Les Globe Trotters” was a long fantastic voyage. Everyone worked hard, laughed and cried, countries changed weekly and were quickly explored –food-food-food, clothes and books and things that shone, colours that pleased: our homes became eclectic. We knew these would be memories that would not expire.
 The image of a man appearing suddenly, from nowhere: he beckons us to sit with him in the middle of the pink desert: Please share my tea. Everywhere is sand, close by is a cluster of tall rocks with holes gouged out.
 The desert is his living room. Seated strait-backed, knees folded, he nods, we nod, he smiles so do we, his eyes are grey-blue, his skin wind-chapped and tan. A gracious king of the desert with tall glasses of boiling hot mint tea sweetened with sugar welcoming us to his world so very beautiful, and quiet.
 Maybe the Little Prince never did die after all.