the best of times, the worst of times

California sun caresses your cheek. The breeze blows no cooler or warmer than the temperature outside, no sudden surprises, or cardigan laments. We can't work out whether it's the nearby bay, the greenery in full bloom, the vast Zabriskie Point style spaces here at the base - but the air is sweet and soft around you. To the skin it's the difference between delicious tumble dried towels and their rough cousins, left to crisp out on the line. A barefoot coffee on the balcony was a gentle way to start the day after what turned into a raucous raclette party set to a soundtrack of Schlager music meant to remind of home - but who's is unsure. Inboxes with messages from friends sent whilst I was sleeping bulged. There are few better ways to greet the morning, I thought.

That was, until I read their contents. It turns out that whilst I was sparko from a full day's work and a couple of glasses of Sion's finest, my friends and colleagues in a parallel universe -  at World Radio Switzerland - were receiving the heavy news that from September turning the dial to 101.7 will be futile. That our national radio will no longer be on FM full stop. Nor will it be public service. Professionally speaking, life will be different to say the least. I'm probably not allowed to divulge more than that, but suffice to say a wise crack from a co-worker, an arm on the shoulder or even a pint was missed.  Kill the violins already, there is still a flight to get ready for - Solar Impulse should, all being well, take to Californian skies in the small hours of Friday morning, direction Phoenix Sky Harbour. And I had another task to take my mind off the matter once I reached the hangar, met with cries of 'elenaaa, 'elena, viiite, there's a Monsieur Roberrr you 'AVE to interview' echoing from one end of the redwood hall to the other. 

Monsieur Roberrr, Monsieur Roberrr. I racked my brains. Everyone seemed to be on high alert and I still had no idea who I was to interview, let alone what I was going to ask this immoral sounding monsieur... I grabbed a notebook, disconcertingly devoid of any prompts, and made hastily in the direction of the plane where B and A seemed to be entertaining what I could only make out as a stripe of fair hair, rather open shirt and leather jacket. It wasn't until I got within one hundred meters of the target that I saw it - the trademark beard, the wide smile and the outwardly relaxed stance concealing the backbone of hard graft that made him a billionaire. It was SIR Richard Branson and he was making for the exit. Something about a flight to catch, his assistant told me. The notion of the head of Virgin Airlines dashing for a plane like the rest of us seemed improbable and pushing it paid off - upon registering an English accent in a sea of Swiss, Sir Richard gave in and agreed to a few questions ... graciously stating that there were no hard feelings after Bertrand beat him to it in the round the world balloon race, and admitting that given half a chance he'd take Solar impulse for a spin in a heart beat. After a rough start to the day, it was almost reassuring to meet someone so engrained within the British psyche, someone you just feel you know ... "Rich,"I had to stop myself from saying "what a crap start to the day, good to see you mate - you don't happen to fancy buying a radio station in Geneva do you?!"

Voila, that's it for now. I'm going to pop outside to contemplate the gorgeous weather again.

Hopefully I won't come back looking like a box of these:

Fondest Regards,

Helena