the wind rips your cap away, draws the heat from your face and fingers, pull the very breath out of you. It’s close to 4k up and your lungs are tight, you can already feel that dizzy exuberance you remember from other high places, the opium of the upper atmosphere. This is how mountaineers step off mountains, every last bit of heat stolen from them, wind shrieking and hissing, drunk on the air mixture. I totter to a railing and look out at the foaming air below the cable car station, then run for the lift and the rock tunnels. It’s all Doctor Who research station passageways of steel doors and pipe coil, drips and icicles, bumps and groans from the wind beyond. I shelter in the observation restaurant, feeling queasy and jet-lagged and giddy as I chomp on my rosti.
