Infinite Latitude,
Vol. 1: Mediterranean

The Mediterranean is not a sea. It is a conversation between continents, a corridor of light between dusk and history. For five months, I drove the perimeter of this water — sometimes literally, sometimes in my head — collecting frequencies. The car in every cover is not a car. It is a question: where are you going tonight?

Ten destinations. Two bonus tracks, after hours.

Istanbul calls first — the city that touches two continents and refuses to choose. The Bosphorus carries everything: the Asian shore amber on the water, a street cat walking past with its tail held high.

Then south. To Dubai's edge, where the desert pretends to be still while the city counts itself. To Marbella's golden mile, where the palms stand sentinel. Down the Amalfi cliffs. To Ayia Napa's limestone caves at dusk. To Marrakesh past the medina arch, where the lanterns have been the same for a thousand years.

Across to Ibiza. To Mykonos under midnight blue, whitewashed walls breathing in. North to Saint-Tropez, where the harbor lights double themselves in still water. To Santorini's last breath of pink before the caldera goes dark.

And then back to the night, after the journey is done. Instrumental mix. Spiritual mix. Same destinations, lower voice.

You're invited.