All ten passengers started their own tones of laughter.

—Renata Adler

 

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An ad hoc group of ten longtime and tentative friends rents a house on the Spanish island of Formentera. 

 

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They call it the Yoga House. 

 

Through tailored Pilates sessions and targeted behavior-modification techniques, they hope to remedy the deteriorated lifestyle inherent to their high-pressure, low-stakes, medium-impact jobs in the fashion industry. 

 

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The power dynamics among them are surprisingly benign, and the general mood could be defined as relaxed but focused. 

 

It’s a definite requirement of the Pilates instructor that they be ready for him at nine thirty sharp every morning. 

 

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The house chef deploys an equally strict diet involving fresh, locally sourced fish and “umami variations.” 

 

They drive two orange Méharis and a couple of teenagey scooters to and from the rocky beaches. 

 

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Most of their daily allotted time online is spent monitoring the progress and estimating the arrival of a sixty-meter behemoth carrying Paul, the most respected fashion designer of his generation, and a small crew of suitably stellar friends. 

 

At night, they dine on the terra-cotta rooftop of the Yoga House and explore their personal issues collectively through a mixture of role-play and soft-core talk therapy.