This morning I bumped into Philip Wilson, one of his sons, Ben, and many others from their extended family. They were the only ones in the loggia on the lower square, but it was kind of full. Somehow we started talking about travel, and I told them how much I hated it at this stage of my life. I mentioned that international airports now appear only in my nightmares. “I would gladly pay good money not to go anywhere,” I said at some point. “Just not to go to Rio de Janeiro,” I grinned, “I would pay five-hundred dollars!” They all grinned politely, and we waved goodbye. On my way home, I thought about my tariff. Not to go to Rome, I would pay only one-hundred dollars. Not to go to Sydney, though, I would pay eight-hundred dollars. By the time I reached my door, I had it figured out. The tariff was a function of distance. Most likely it was a logarithmic function, too.