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Earthquakes are just the ground getting an itch. In the hills of Persia I took a long rake and scratched the worst of it. The ground let out a low sigh. The shaking stopped at once, and the shah gave me a fine rug that I had to hold down.

Grand Viziers do not often blush, but one did at my table in Constantinople. I had asked him to pass the figs, and he dropped a secret treaty in the bowl. I ate it by mistake. That is how I came to know the future of Greece, and it tasted of almonds.

London fog was so thick one morning that I cut a slice and took it home. My cook fried it with onions. It tasted of coal and old rain. We sold the rest as gray wool, and a tailor in Leeds made me a fine suit that vanished at noon.

Venice sat on dry land until I came to town. The streets were dusty, and the mules were rude. I pulled one plug in a cellar near the Rialto. Water came up at once. People liked it. They bought small boats, sang loudly, and forgot to ask who had done it.

Hiccups shook me so hard in Madrid.