Between Fire and Flowers: A Mediterranean Journey Through Spain and Italy

Emirates Business Class: Where the Journey Begins

The journey began long before the wheels left the tarmac. It began when a chauffeur appeared at my door, ushering in that unmistakable sense of ease that only true service inspires. Emirates’ Business Class is no longer merely a cabin in the sky—it’s a world suspended above clouds, where hospitality feels instinctive and the rhythm of travel slows into something almost meditative.

It had been many years since I last flew with Emirates—so long, in fact, that my first flight with them marked their debut in Australia. What a pleasure to discover that they have only grown finer with time. Every detail of the 13-hour flight seemed designed not simply for comfort, but for pleasure. From the moment I settled into the generous seat, cocooned in cream leather and polished walnut, I felt a rare quiet anticipation.

I’m something of a technology devotee, so having full Wi-Fi access throughout the flight was transformative. I wrote, worked, and sent messages from 38,000 feet, connecting with clients as if I were still on the ground. Between productivity and pleasure, I found myself in the bar at the back of the cabin—a space I had once dismissed as novelty but soon recognized as one of the most convivial features of any airline. I met fascinating travellers, sipped champagne as the horizon turned rose-gold, and admired the seamless choreography of the crew.

And then there were the details—those pale aqua pyjamas, elegantly cut, soft as mist, the cinematic lineup mirroring Sydney’s latest releases, the quiet hum of efficiency that defines true luxury. Emirates, I decided, is not simply a carrier—it’s a state of grace in motion.

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Mallorca: A Return to the Earth’s Quiet Beauty

Mallorca was my first stop—a place I had long dreamed of revisiting. I collected my car in Palma and drove just twenty-five minutes inland to Gran Hotel Son Net, a former palace reborn under the same visionary hand that created Finca Cortesin, one of Spain’s most celebrated hideaways. The lineage shows. Everything here breathes refinement without ostentation, a grace born of good bones and better taste.

The first lesson Mallorca teaches, one you can only learn by being here, is that you do not want to stay in Palma. It’s delightful for an afternoon—perhaps a coffee on Passeig de Born, that gracious, flower-lined boulevard where stone urns overflow with deep pink blooms, and a lone guitarist strums under the Mediterranean sun. But the soul of the island lives in the countryside, in its sculpted mountains and ancient olive terraces, in the scent of pine and lemon that hangs on the breeze.

At Son Net, I stayed in The Cottage, an oversized sanctuary of soft light and pastoral charm. A sitting area and king bed overlooked the lush slopes of the Tramuntana range. The bathroom, with its freestanding tub framed by open shutters, invited lingering. Outside, a small private terrace became my morning ritual—a quiet breakfast of fresh orange juice and ensaïmada beneath a sky so blue it seemed to hum.

The hotel’s pool, fringed by cabanas in soft forest green, became an afternoon haven. A towel, perfectly matched in hue, appeared as if conjured. “A drink, perhaps?” asked a voice beside me, and I realized that here, impeccable service means you never have to ask.

But what lingers most about Mallorca is its natural beauty—the quiet grandeur of the landscape, the authenticity of its small towns, and the art that seems to flourish everywhere. We drove to the Miró Foundation, a modest building filled with light and genius, where his sculptures seem to breathe the island’s spirit. Later, winding through the serpentine roads toward Valldemossa and Deià, I understood why artists and poets have always been drawn here. Each curve revealed another postcard-perfect vista—cypress trees silhouetted against golden cliffs, cyclists tracing their determined paths, and the scent of wild rosemary rising from the roadside.

In the evenings, we dined at the hotel—once in the grand dining room, serenaded by a pianist and singer. The service was as gracious as the setting. It was there I first ordered a glass of Cava, Spain’s elegant answer to Prosecco, and wondered why I had ever ordered anything else.

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Sicily and Mount Etna: Fire, Earth, and the Art of Living

From the tranquility of Mallorca, the drama of Sicily felt like stepping into another world entirely—a world of contrasts, where beauty and danger coexist in a perpetual dance. Our destination: Mount Etna, Europe’s most active volcano.

“Bring warm clothes,” we were warned, “and courage.” Both proved necessary. Guided by Eddy, an expert mountaineer with an encyclopedic knowledge of Etna’s moods, we ascended in stages. First, the smooth comfort of the van, then the jostle of a specialized vehicle navigating narrow roads of black volcanic rock. As the altitude climbed, so did the spectacle—the fertile valleys giving way to alien landscapes of ash and snow.

At the final outpost, the air turned thin and sharp. The last stretch had to be done on foot, boots crunching over frost and pumice, the wind biting but exhilarating. From the summit, the panorama of Sicily spread out below like a painted tapestry—the blues of the Ionian Sea, the patchwork of vineyards and citrus groves, the distant shimmer of villages built on courage and hope.

Eddy spoke of Etna as if she were alive. “She grumbles, she sighs, and when she decides to wake, the island listens.” The Sicilians, he explained, have learned to read her moods—sometimes fleeing, sometimes staying to watch her fiery theatre. Their relationship with the volcano is one of respect, not fear. Listening to him, I thought of how humanity’s deepest beauty often lies in its acceptance of uncertainty.

After the descent, warmth and reward awaited at a vineyard nestled on Etna’s lower slopes. Rose bushes bordered the vines; the air smelled of wild herbs and fertile soil. We lingered over a long, late lunch—aubergine parmigiana parcels with ricotta so fresh it almost sighed, tomatoes that burst with sunlight, and pasta that reminded me why Italians will always own this art. The wines—minerally, volcanic, alive—told the mountain’s story in liquid form.

The next day brought a different kind of beauty at Verdura Resort, one of Sir Rocco Forte’s masterpieces. Set on 230 hectares—larger, they boast, than Monaco—the property unfurls along the southern Sicilian coast like a private kingdom. Two championship golf courses, a mile of beach, an extraordinary spa, and villas that redefine the concept of barefoot luxury. The atmosphere is refined yet relaxed, family-friendly yet sophisticated. When I learned that Google hosts its annual conference here, I wasn’t surprised. Verdura’s spirit is that rare alchemy of perfection and ease.

We visited during preparations for a grand kosher wedding for 250 guests from the United States, and the staff’s composure was astonishing. Nothing was too difficult, every request met with that quintessential Italian assurance: “Of course.” Verdura’s magic lies in this effortless grace—it’s a place that believes anything is possible.

Nearby lies the Valley of the Temples, where we walked among the haunting ruins of 5th-century BC Greek architecture. Our guide, Alice, brought the stones to life with wit and erudition—part scholar, part storyteller. Even the most disinterested traveller would find themselves enthralled under her spell.

But before the temples came a lunch I will never forget: a long table set in a clearing among orange groves, the air fragrant with citrus and herbs. Platters of roasted vegetables, seafood salads, cheeses, and a chilled herbal elixir made from basil, mint, and sage—simple ingredients elevated by freshness and joy. Straw hats lay on a nearby white couch for the taking, and for a moment, the scene felt plucked from A Room with a View. It was, in every sense, one of life’s perfect afternoons.

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Tuscany: The Soul of the Countryside

We arrived next in a small Tuscan village—a quiet stop between adventures, wrapped in fields of emerald and gold. My travel companion, Yael, gasped when she saw it: “It looks like a painting.” Indeed, Tuscany’s countryside defies prose. Wheat and wildflowers quilt the hills, sunlight turns everything liquid, and even silence feels musical.

Though our village was modest, the nearby Cortona more than compensated. One of those impossibly picturesque Italian hill towns, its cobbled streets curve around art studios, boutiques, and trattorias that seem untouched by time. We wandered for hours, stopping to admire ceramics, leather bags, and clothes in hues that only Italians would dare combine.

Lunch was the reward for our restraint. After much deliberation, we found a trattoria that promised authenticity—and delivered in abundance. Yael ordered ribollita, that peasant soup of bread and vegetables that tastes like Tuscany itself, while I savoured spaghetti with Gorgonzola and slivers of fresh pear. The combination was sublime—earthy, creamy, and faintly sweet. We lingered until the afternoon light softened, reluctant to leave.

Tomorrow, we would drive to Florence—a return to civilization, and to the business of travel itself. But for that one day, Tuscany reminded me that travel, at its best, is not about discovery so much as reconnection—with beauty, simplicity, and one’s own sense of wonder.

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Florence: Where Grandeur Meets Grace

If Florence is a museum, then the Four Seasons Firenze is its masterpiece. I had long admired it from afar, but staying there revealed its soul. The hotel is divided between two 15th and 16th-century buildings—the Palazzo della Gherardesca and the Conventino—set within an 11-acre private park that feels more like the countryside than the city. To be seven minutes’ walk from the Duomo and yet surrounded by fountains, sculpture, and birdsong is the kind of contradiction that only Florence can pull off.

I was here for the travel trade show, a whirl of meetings and lunches that somehow retained Italian charm. Appointments began at ten, ended at five-thirty, and included a two-hour lunch break—naturally. Between conversations about hotels, tours, and bespoke experiences, I found inspiration in the sheer creativity of the industry. One exhibitor offered “Jewish Italy” tours—tracing centuries of heritage from Venice to Rome—and I knew I’d found something special to share with clients.

The days blurred into a rhythm of purpose and pleasure: cappuccinos in marble halls, laughter under frescoed ceilings, evenings spent wandering Florence’s lamp-lit streets. The Four Seasons hosted with effortless majesty, reminding me that luxury is never about excess, but about the feeling that everything is exactly as it should be.

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Venice: Where Time Sings

Venice was the finale—a place that never fails to feel like the first time. The city shimmered in morning light as I wrote these words, the water gilded, the bells of San Marco tolling softly in the distance. I had forgotten how magical it is. To return was to fall in love again.

We explored by Vaporetto, gliding along the Grand Canal to Burano, the island of lace and colour. There, an elderly woman sat by her window, deftly threading a pattern she had likely known since childhood. Around her, the houses gleamed in hues of lemon, crimson, and lilac. A young man sang Italian arias nearby, his voice drifting across the lagoon. These are the moments that remind me why I travel—not for spectacle, but for connection.

Back in Venice, I indulged my professional curiosity by visiting a few of the city’s newest hotels. Among them, Venice Venice, created by the designers behind Golden Goose. It’s unlike anything else here—modern, artful, and yet deeply Venetian. Contemporary lines meet centuries-old soul. Even their signature sneakers, displayed near the entrance, seemed to wink at tradition.

Between visits, Yael and I wandered through the Jewish Ghetto, one of the oldest in Europe. We had hoped to meet the Chabad Rabbi, but found instead open doors and unlocked rooms filled with sacred books—an unexpected testament to the city’s quiet trust. We lunched at the kosher restaurant nearby: marinated artichokes, zucchini with parsley, flavours so vivid they silenced conversation.

That evening, in the neighbourhood of Dorsoduro, we dined in a local trattoria far from the crowds. Children played in the square, shop windows glowed with Venetian glass and fine paper, and the air carried the faint scent of salt and rain. It was the Venice I cherish most—the one that belongs not to tourists, but to life itself.

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The Art of the Journey

Travel, at its most meaningful, is a kind of alchemy. It transforms distance into understanding, comfort into curiosity, and moments into memories. From the high skies of Emirates to the sun-warmed stones of Mallorca, the volcanic slopes of Etna, the Tuscan hills, and the quiet canals of Venice, this journey reminded me that true luxury isn’t about perfection—it’s about presence.

It’s the stillness before a meal in the countryside, the laughter shared with strangers at 38,000 feet, the taste of a tomato grown in Sicilian soil. It’s the way the world expands each time we choose to step into it, fully awake.

As I boarded the plane home, pale aqua pyjamas folded neatly in my bag, I thought of all the beauty I had seen—and of how, in the end, travel’s greatest gift is not where it takes us, but how it changes the way we see.

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