There’s no rule that says you’ve got to be a great driver to own a supercar. Oftentimes, quite the opposite is true.

Only one village, Vatnsoyrar, isn’t on the coast, and wherever you are on any of the Faroes’ eighteen islands you’re never more than three miles from the crashing, frigid ocean. Like the human body, the Faroes are mostly water.

We are sitting having complimentary breakfast on the roofdeck of the Sofitel overlooking the Vieux Porte de Marseille and bitching.

The sun glints off the morning swells and the aluminum masts of the sailboats, which bob like a vast paddling of sleeping ducks along the quay. Below us lies the Palais de Pharo, and, just across the narrow harbor mouth, Fort St. Jean, past which a ferry is lazily steaming out to the Chateau d’If, the island prison from “The Count of Monte Cristo.”

New York Times