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.
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.
I kind of assumed it’d be one of those things we talk about, but never do, but it turns out it’s one of those things we talk about, then buy books about, then talk to experts about, then spend a bunch of money on.
I’ve written and junked entire chapters and rewritten others and shoehorned new ones in to fill holes I somehow missed the first seven dozen drafts. I’ve written and thrown away hundreds of thousands of words between outlining and drafting and editing and revising.
Notice there’s water on the floor, wonder if it’s pee, melted snow, or water from his bowl. Clean and sanitize as though it’s pee, just to be safe, while Norman destroys the dishcloth.
I left the appointment wondering how tennis and bouldering could result in the same sort of injury, and also how much umbrage I should take at Dave’s assumption I wasn’t in training for anything in particular.
