Haunted? I don’t know. While I have a flamboyant imagination, my actual paranormal senses are probably as blunt as they come. I don’t disbelieve, but I’d make a terrible ghost hunter.
We all do what we can and hope for the best, but we’re ultimately guessing at all of it, knowing there will be wounds even if things go as well as can be expected. “Adventure,” after all, sometimes means snakes on the plane.
Legacy residents of Alfama are tight knit, with their own dialect of Portuguese. As per tradition, the primary source of news in this region is via the older women who hang out their windows and keep track of the goings on below.
I can’t imagine even Madonna having it any easier with remodeling a UNESCO site than anyone else, but she’s purportedly living in an already remodeled Lisbon castle in the meantime with all her kids, so maybe she’s not in a hurry.
Samantha was able to point out locations for a free Fado show, her favorite restaurants and markets, and her experience moving here as an expat from Italy. Also the significance of the artwork we found in our flat.
If Porto is any indication, humans have been working on the proper stair height for more than 2,000 years, and only just recently agreed upon a standard.
“Most 15-year-old girls around here can finish one of those. As a snack,” which is when we learned that Portuguese are into food shaming, and also that Mike is susceptible to double-dog-dares from tour guides when it comes to his gastro-fortitude compared to that of a 15-year-old.
When is a dream a dream, how many should one person have, should you even call them that maybe, and what’s with the mice?
This post isn’t about throwing off machines by nonsense monologuing or whether I care about what grade some stupid algorithm decides to give any post of mine. It’s about dreams.
With my poor eyesight, I now have a deep distrust of items that look anything like little pinecones or dirt clods abandoned in the middle of the living room.
“Are you even writing anymore?” as if it’s something like a tree falling in the forest: not really there unless someone is able to respond to it.