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At sunrise, I would be on Mount Athos, a self-governing republic of Orthodox monks in Northern Greece, where I once had an unforgettable sun-worshipping experience.

To say that my Greek guide, who accompanied me on that particular pilgrimage to the Holy Mountain, was a snorer would have been a gross understatement. Had Oscars been awarded for snoring, he would have definitely snatched up the one for the best and loudest soundtrack. Since the accommodation for visitors on Mount Athos is more than basic, we had to share one and the same cell in the monastery of Philotheu.

After several hours of gentle whistling and diplomatic coughing, I had to resort to far less gentle pushes and far less diplomatic Russian swear words which I shouted at the top of my voice. The magnificent, Oscar-winning snores continued unaffected. I got dressed, picked up my cigarettes and went out on to the monastery's balcony hanging precariously above the cliff.

It was still pitch dark, and the lonely light of a detached mountain skites - a hermit's dwelling - was blinking in the distance, like an unknown star. Soon I heard the rhythmic and monotonous sounds of semantrons, the wooden drums calling monks to the morning liturgy. I looked down: the black-hooded monks were sliding across the monastery yard towards the church in treacherous semi-darkness, like white-shrouded ghosts in a slow-motion picture, shown in the negative by the erroneous cinema operator of dawn.

An invisible multi-voiced choir inside the church was chanting psalms with amazing synchronisation and grace. The red-robed monk of the rising sun was descending slowly from his heavenly skites above the sea and covering the world with his pink see-through cassock. Suddenly, everything around me was full of light, harmony and meaning. And although out of three main virtues of a Mount Athos monk: chastity, obedience and lack of personal possessions - I could only boast the third one - for a fleeting moment I felt like taking a monastic vow, and spending the rest of my days in that truly divine part of the world.

"Thank you for snoring last night!" I said to my guide at breakfast.

For breakfast, I would go across the globe, to Melbourne. One can easily put on a couple of kilos by simply staring at the mind-boggling displays of cakes and biscuits in the windows of countless cafes in Ackland Street in its cosmopolitan seaside suburb of St Kilda. No other city in the world comes close to Melbourne in quantity (if not always in quality) of food: I once saw a burger stall doing brisk trade in the lobby of a local cardiology hospital.

As a four double-espresso-per-day person, I like having breakfast in one of the Ackland Street coffee shops, most of which are either Jewish or Italian. Trying to watch my weight, I sip my coffee breathing salty sea air and gaping at the cream-capped culinary Everests in the shop windows. The view in itself is so hedonistic and so filling that it often helps me forsake my regulation morning croissant.

At lunchtime, I would be back in Europe, in Malta. The Oleander restaurant in the village of Xaghra on Gozo, the second largest island of the Maltese archipelago, overlooks the Nativity of the Virgin church with a marvellous trompe l'oeil of a painted clock on its ornate facade. The clock is designed to confuse the devil when he starts dealing with the souls of the dead - an old Maltese tradition. I am not sure about the devil, but these painted clocks all over the country must be very effective in confusing unwary tourists, of whom there are many - too many in Malta, if not yet in Xaghra.

It is probably due to the painted clock that lunch at the Oleander is normally long and unhurried. I would start with stuffed squid; the world's best squid can be found on Gozo, followed by bean soup and fenek - rabbit casseroled in red wine and garlic. The restaurant is usually buzzing with locals gobbling on their beloved gbejniet, Gozo's homemade goat cheese, and washing it down with plenty of beer. Watching them, one comes to understand a popular Maltese joke. The Gozitans are the butt of jokes in Malta, like Newfoundlanders in Canada, Tasmanians in Australia, Georgians in Russia, and the Irish all over the English-speaking world. This goes to the effect that the Gozitans should incorporate gbejniet into their coat of arms.

There is no better place for my dream afternoon than Hay-on-Wye, a small town in the county of Powys on the border of England and Wales. As a passionate bookworm, I absolutely adore browsing through the stocks of the town's thirty odd second-hand bookshops.

Books in Hay are literally strewn all over the town. Apart from the bookshops, they can be found on numerous unattended open-air bookstalls, exposed to the elements: sun-beaten and often soaked with rainwater. Looking for a book you need is similar to digging for gold bullion in the sand: you never know what you might come across and whether you are going to find anything at all. It is precisely this uncertainty that makes the search so exciting and so similar to a treasure hunt. I remember ferreting out a thick Victorian monograph ‘Social History of British Sea-Weeds’ one day and agonising for half-an-hour whether to buy it or not. In the end, I decided against it: seaweeds, no matter how socially active, were not exactly within the sphere of my interests.

And you know what: I have been regretting it ever since…

Come dinnertime - and my imagination transfers me to Vaduz, the tiny capital of the pocket-handkerchief alpine principality of Liechtenstein. I remember how Felix Real, an acclaimed Liechtenstein hotelier and restaurateur, got upset one evening when I, being a teetotaller, refused the offer of Vaduse Rose from his cellars.

"But it is so good, so good - um-m-m…" he was saying kissing his own fingers as proof. The old man was so distraught that I became seriously worried about his health, and, possibly, even his life. Grief-stricken, he stumbled out of his "Real" restaurant in Vaduz to continue suffering in the privacy of his house (or so I thought), and I was left in the hands of three buxom blonde waitresses who immediately brought me a menu the size of the Gutenberg Bible. The names of the dishes sounded like a French prayer - "Homard, langoustines et coquille St Jaques grilles a l'estragon"… Amen!

As soon as I had coped with the starter of wonderfully delicate smoked eel, they brought me a set of six knives and forks (plus a special little spoon for the sauce) and threateningly placed them on a wooden board on my table. My main course of lamb fillet was delivered on a gleaming trolley, which resembled a gun carriage carrying the body of a Soviet General Secretary of the 80s to be buried near the Kremlin Wall. Stainless steel lids covering the plates looked like brass cymbals, and I could almost hear the sounds of Chopin's Funeral March (was it mourning the contents of my wallet?), when the waitresses synchronically lifted them. The trolley was then solemnly driven back to its kitchen stable. It didn't want to go and was kicking the waitresses with its obnoxious wheels.

At this point, Felix Real reappeared in the restaurant. He was smiling. My mounting appetite must have cured his distress.

Approaching night would find me in Venice, the city that I will never stop loving. I know it is banal to fall in love with Venice, but isn't it more banal not to fall in love with it?

At sunset, when the water in its canals gleams with a magic translucent light of its own, as if slowly, almost reluctantly, discharging the sunlight it has accumulated during the day; when blinds fall like thick black eyelids on the gaping eye-sockets of tired old houses; when the gentle tolling of distant church bells mingles with the soft smacking sound of lovers' kisses - there suddenly comes a whiff of fresh sea breeze, a reminder of the days when Venice meant ships, spices and trade routes to be explored.

At dusk, I like sitting on the bank of the Grand Canal listening to the soft splashes of water against the ancient Venetian stones. It is then that I start seeing Venice as an ageing but still graceful woman suffering from insomnia and shuffling restlessly around the house in her loose-fitting slippers in the night.

After a full and tiring globetrotting day, I would have little problem falling asleep in my bed in the North London suburb of Muswell Hill - the place where I belong and where my home is. It will always be there, even if I don't live there any longer…

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