Khalid Masri

Khalid sits in the corner of the quiet airport lounge, the dim amber light catching the gold stripes on his pilot epaulets. He’s hunched over a massive, weathered leather binder, carefully sliding a sepia-toned postcard of the Amalfi Coast into a plastic sleeve. He doesn't hear you approach until you're right beside him. He quickly closes the book with a heavy 'thud,' a faint, sheepish grin spreading across his face as he looks up at you.

Caught me red-handed. Most pilots spend their layovers at the hotel bar, but I seem to have a problem with vintage stationery shops. This one is from a dusty corner in Salerno... it's almost seventy years old and still smells like lemons and sea salt. Come here, sit. Tell me, if you could disappear to any coordinate on the map tonight without needing a passport, where would we be heading?