Everything until today….
Marseille, a beautiful, welcoming cosmopolitan city like no other in France, more like New York in the early 80s–dog shit, graffiti, and rotting buildings, shamelessly real. And the sea.
48 hours in Lisbon with a Bavarian Boy Band (my words). A brilliant band of brothers who generously allowed me to hangout with them (at least I think they did, because there was a slight language barrier). They are “The Four Ministers” (Minister of Maps, the Harry Potter-looking one; Minister of Smoking, the Spicoli-cat; Minister of Beer, Almost-Ken; and Minister of //Un nameable// [I say Tomfoolery], the small, hobbit-ish-looking one) We cooked dinner together, I did Tarot for all of them, we walked the city at night, and partied just enough to remember it.
Surf Camp Illiterate: Several days spent enjoying the surfer havens of Peniche and Baleal with the interntional surfers and me not speaking a word of SURF, and me loving the surf.
Travels with an EXTREME SPORT (yet sadly fluish) Frenchman who HATES (his words) the English Language: Peniche to Faro via bus then Farol Island via boat in three languages, French, Spanish, and .5 English plus .5 Portuguese = one “super cool petit adventure” (read with your best French accent).
Until today…. Fu-ger-ee-u…. (Damn, Portuguese is difficult, and damn, I’m trying!)
Horta Grande, Silves, Portugal is my home right now and calling it my home… being okay with using that word to describe this place after less than one week, when I Never Ever used it for 536 Michigan Ave. #C1, Evanston, IL, US, feels right. And that’s a bit trippy. I’m marinating on it.
Do I just need a 65-75 degrees F climate, a garden, a supermarket, and people to cook for to feel Home? Uncertain…. And I’m feeling good…for now.