A Festive Transition

 4 and a 1/2 min. read

Image: Hi Mac

As well as ruffling feathers at conferences, I also find time to host two successful December dinner parties. The first ends up being an unintentional dry run for Christmas. I don’t plan for it to be so close to Yuletide; more just a case of finding a suitable space in my diary. I realise it’s the first time I have hosted more than one person for a good while. Maybe that’s why unconsciously, in terms of numbers, this soirée will be my most ambitious to date.

I invite a mix of recently made acquaintances, in addition to my long-time confidante Karin. Guests include Vision, my University colleague originally from Zimba; Mélanie, who recruited me for a migration rights consultancy in Spring 2024; Anne-Marie, a thoughtful and beautiful young woman of Congolese, Rwandan and Eritrean heritage that I met at a Palestine solidarity event; Romana, a straight-talking, multi-lingual I know from a monthly language event, also of mixed-Congolese heritage and Kathleen; a Brit I’ve met at various cultural events and who generously offered me a ticket to see Robert Glasper in autumn.

My choice of diverse and intergenerational guests turns out to be propitious. After the initial awkwardness, a natural kismet emerges. The ambiance is celebratory. Luxury-loving Romana brings a bottle of champagne that will remain untouched all evening. (I’ll eventually gift it to my mother during her Christmas visit.)

We have a number of candid conversations about race, misogynoir, culture shocks and interracial dating, amongst multiple themes. In particular, Vision opens up about life adjusting to Belgium and the scandalous not-so-micro-agressions she has encountered living in Flanders. 

I couldn’t be more pleased about the amazing feedback over the coming days. Vision comments on how easy I make it look to find compatible friendships.  Being in a committed relationship, mothering a young child, and as a full-time post-doc, she struggles to find the time to socialise. She presumes it's easier for me as an outgoing singleton.

If only you knew, I reply, proceeding to outline in brief how difficult it has been, and to some degree continues to be, finding solid community in Brussels.

Image: Juan Gomez

In reality, the only guest in attendance I’ve known for longer than a year is Karin.  It’s also the first time I’ve hosted a group in years. Until late 2023, I had entertained a sole guest within the space of a year. Owing to the disposition of said invitee, it was a disaster. I needed to break out of this subconscious hosting moratorium.

My reluctance had a lot to do with the aforementioned bad experience and general relational disappointments, including the abrupt end to my friendship with Lorenzo.

Speaking of the devil, I happen to bump into my Italian former BFF en route to a shift at the Red Cross. That afternoon, I just about manage to board the close-to-full bus. I have little choice but to sit at the back. If I had sat in my usual spot, I’d have never seen Lorenzo. I don’t initially recognise him. He’s grown his fair locks to Rip Van Winkle lengths. I wonder whom this smiling hippy-like figure is. It’s not that he recognises me straight away either, he later admits. I'm differently coiffed to when we last saw each other, almost two years prior.

Lorenzo smiles not from recognition but because of the serene state of mind in which he’s currently in. I mention to him that, ironically, I have a long overdue call scheduled with our mutual friend, Melissa, the following day.

I am guarded at first. There is no apology or acknowledgement on Lorenzo's part for the way he torpedoed our friendship or the deep relational trauma caused by the insensitively-handled rupture. The bus ride is too short to address it, yet it’s something I’ll remain displeased about. Nevertheless, perhaps out of shock, the grace of God or both, we manage an organically cordial conversation before I have to rush off. If I could have anticipated our meeting, I wouldn't have responded with anything approaching magnanimity. As I alight the bus, I mutter to the Almighty that S/He has a wicked sense of humour...

Returning to the subject of my Christmas plans, I have no intentions to travel. I decide against it long before the PhD is even on the horizon, after the chaotic and stressful commute to the UK in 2023. 

Image: Debby Hudson

Whilst sis will also stay put in Japan this time, it is agreed mum will join me for the second half of the Yuletide pause, as is now habitual. For Christmas Day itself, I resume my custom of hosting non-relatives who also remain in situ over the festive break.

This year my guestlist is made up of my colleague Geraldine and Nadia; a Canadian-born, Italian-Libyan I know through my activism. She is unable to fly because of a health issue. Nadia is accompanied by her sister, Mariam- sleepy from jetlag. A good acquaintance from church, Wallace, makes a cameo. Originally from Uganda, she has a harrowing story that her ready smile belies. Living with a precarious migration status, travel isn't currently feasible. 

If this once again ends up being an all-female affair, it’s not for lack of trying. My male guests are no-shows. (One doesn’t even do the courtesy of letting me know. Despite his earlier confirmation, my efforts to follow-up are met with radio silence. My experience in Belgium reminds me once again of the male species' unreliability.)

On Christmas day itself, my stove decides to go on strike. This thus entails some improvising with the oven and microwave. Fortunately, I begin most of my Christmas meal preparations days in advance. However, it does mean my mashed potatoes aren’t as fluffy as I’d like and the veg is a little too crunchy. My guests are very kind and complimentary nonetheless; whether from a genuine place of contentment, pity or politeness, I can’t tell.

Soundtrack: California Holiday by Kadhja Bonet; a Christmas mix compiled by yours truly.

Happy 2025 to La Vie Continentale readers.

A Breathless Semester

 6 min. read

Image: Nathan Dumlao

The unplanned mini-hiatus since my previous posts is a reflection of how hectic the final quarter of 2024 has been; not least, December. The first two weeks of the month are consumed with preparation for and/or participation in two big conferences. The first of which is the major annual event of LILAC (Liminality in Literature Academic Centre); the University sub-department to which my team belongs. For this particular event, my colleague Elif has been recruited - or coerced - into joining the organisational team. She is balancing these responsibilities with her own research, as well as preparation for various other conference papers.

When applying for the PhD, my professor friend, Danny Dorling, advised that there would be a lot more event organisation and project coordination than one would gauge from the vacancy ad. 

Birgitta, our supervisor, is a gentle and emotionally-intelligent soul but also a woman of very high standards; be it strict adherence to grammatical rules or conference planning.

One week after the LILAC event, the EMW (English in a Multilingual World) gathering takes place. This time it’s my colleague Geraldine and I, alongside several other LILAC colleagues of varying seniority, who are roped into organising. The conference booklet becomes the bane of our existence. Subject to much proofreading, revisions and weeks and weeks of email exchanges, the booklet will still be riddled with mistakes after going to print. Most notably, the University’s in-house comms team manages to miss out a whole abstract page.  Their work generally leaves a lot to be desired. Despite the many exchanges and astute observations of colleagues, the oversight somehow escapes our collective attention. We resort to printing out inserts.

If that weren’t enough, there's a last minute cancellation by one of the EMW keynote speakers, who’s caught a strong bout of COVID. By then all the promotional materials, including the booklet, have long gone to print. Miraculously, Birgitta manages to find a hail-Mary replacement; one Dr. Johann Larsberg. Cue another page insert.

During these intense weeks, Birgitta prefers the team to be on campus as much as possible. Furthermore, a number of administrative meetings are squeezed into this period; likely in an effort to grab folk before the Christmas holidays and campus closures. I’m also obligated to attend sessions during the once-a-year Ethics Week, in order to complete the compulsory online training for PhD researchers. It’s a mind-numbing, box-ticking exercise as well as a missed opportunity. This year’s theme is on the use of AI in academia and military research. The sessions are mostly didactic and non-interactive. In addition, the University’s Free Palestine campaign group, of which I’m a member, criticises the event for ignoring Israel’s use of technology to terrorise Palestinians, as well as the institution’s continued complicity through collaboration with Israeli academia. 

Apart from Ethics Week and/or conference planning, there are numerous other events - not all during office hours - abstracts to draft for more conferences, team workshops for which to prepare and our own reading and research with which to contend. I feel all the project management and admin is distracting me from the ‘real’ work of study. This is something with which I need to make my peace quickly. As the official team project coordinator, these duties fall on my shoulders even more than that of my colleagues. I share my concerns with my life coach, Pieter. He's gone through the PhD process himself, whilst working and raising a young family. Piet advises me to observe the rhythms of one full academic year to better understand effective time management for the future.

Image: Claudia Wolff

Once the conferences arrive, they are stimulating and even fun; in a frenetic way. The good grub is an added bonus. The second keynote speaker at the EMW conference is Prof. Dr. Kristophe Meyer; a specialist in the evolution of varieties of English in the former peripheries of Empire. I learn a lot during his session about the growing influence of Nigerian pidgin - already amongst the top 12 most spoken languages globally, according to the statistics cited by Prof. Meyer. He also has quite the handle on UK - particularly London - argot, influenced by various waves of Afrodescendant migration. I'm tickled by this elderly Swiss-German professor's use of slang during his keynote address, as well as our own one-to-one conversations. Prof. Meyer makes many references not only to Naija but the South-East London multicultural landscape in which I grew up. His interventions thus take on a rather nostalgic air for me.

As well as keeping an eye on catering, alongside our most affable colleague Jessica, Geraldine and I try to catch as many of our immediate team members’ presentations as possible. Frustratingly, there’s a scheduling clash between Elif’s paper and that of new colleague, Maddox. In Autumn she took over from our former teammate, Janneke for whom the PhD wasn’t a good fit. She subsequently returned to teaching. Maddox came personally recommended by Janneke. It’s so far been an auspicious transition. Also hailing from Flanders, you’d never know from Maddox' naturalistic English and clipped diction.

Alas, during the EMW conference I’m caught between her accomplished presentation on travel writing, checking on the caterers and following Elif’s intervention. Something has to give and thus, I don’t make it in time to catch the latter part of Elif’s paper, much to my regret.

For the sessions of the LILAC and EMW conferences I do attend, I pose challenging questions. Whilst attending one particular presentation, I find it especially hard to bite my tongue. All three participating academics speak on Afrodescendant literatures and contexts with which none have any direct experience. Two of the speakers are European, one is East Asian. This wouldn’t be an issue if academia didn’t already strongly reflect the racial and class inequalities of the real world. I am the only black face in the room. I debate on whether to say anything at all.

I reflect carefully on how to formulate my question in such a way that makes my point, whilst causing the least amount of offence. Many of those who’ve packed out the session also specialise in Afrodescendant literatures.

I affirm that I’m not advocating academic segregation. Neither would I claim to represent the entirety of the 'Black British Experience' - whatever that is. However, what might be merely source texts to my paler-skinned fellow academics aren't just abstract stories to me. They often reflect something of my lived experience. It bothers me that certain (neo)colonial practices are being inadvertently replicated. A group that is minoritised in the Western context are effectively being objectified by 'outsiders' for research purposes. It risks being extractive, as phrased by one of a number of black academics with whom I’ve discussed this sensitive issue. How to avoid it?

One visiting professor comments about the power of literature to break down barriers and change perspectives, citing Richard Wright’s memoir Black Boy; one of my own personal favourites. She's not wrong. I don’t have to be an Englishwoman of the early 19th century to enjoy the work of the Brontë sisters, for instance.

Image: Shubham Sharam

Nevertheless, this appreciation does not redress existing macro/structural inequities being reproduced in academia. She further tries to find common ground by making a well-intentioned but tone deaf comparison to the prejudice her parents faced as Spanish migrants to Belgium. Once again, I diplomatically attempt to point out the limitations of such an analogy.

To my surprise, there are sympathetic nods and remarks during and after my intervention, by the likes of Prof. Meyer no less, for which I’m grateful. Still, I sense a shift in the atmosphere. One faculty member, about whom I’ve had reservations from the outset, approaches me with a feigned friendliness that drips with passive-aggression. When they ask for suggestions on how to address the quandary, I can almost hear a ‘wise guy’ left off the end of the sentence.

I remind them of my own endeavours to acknowledge the complexity of the issue, as well as remarks made by Dr. Larsberg during his own keynote speech. Referencing the work of a Polynesian poet, the main theme of his intervention is the decolonisation of literary analysis. Whilst Johann was not in the room when I raised my question, you’d think from his presentation that we’d previously consulted on the subject. He also uses terms like ‘objectification’ and ‘extraction’ to warn against colonial capture, all whilst recognising that there are no quick fixes.

Vindication.

As pointed out by my sweet and sympathetic Dutch colleague, Karolijn - also researching Black British literatures - awareness is the game. Or, as I like to call it, methodological humility. It’s incumbent on white or non-black academics in these spaces to acknowledge imbalances and colonial overhang.

A few days later, we will review this conversation as a team at our all-day Christmas outing in Flanders.  Maddox once again commends me for raising the issue. If not you, then who? Birgitta agrees that it's no bad thing for academics to be upfront about the motivation for their field of study. Particularly when it pertains to minoritised groups of which they are not part.

Um Parêntese Portugûes: Part II

 7 min read

Part I

Inside Faro Cathedral 
(image: Expedia)

By the next day, I’m familiar enough with my surroundings to avoid the unnecessarily circuitous routes to Faro city centre. I still take the occasional wrong turn but I’m quickly able to rectify my path. Besides, getting lost is part of the adventure.  I try but fail to resist the urge to scratch furiously at my mosquito bites. Despite diligent application of my roll-on repellent, the critters have chewed up the fleshiest parts of my legs.

On my jaunts, I’m in the habit of greeting locals in a way I wouldn’t in the UK, France or Belgium. At least not consistently. Faro has quite a friendly atmosphere, something I’ve picked up on previous trips to Portugal.

As also observed in other major Portuguese cities, the Black presence is well-established in Faro. There is scarcely the kind of othering that one might experience in certain contexts; even next door in Spain. I greet my fellow Afrodescendants with a nod and ‘Bom dia’ or ‘Boa tarde’. I spark conversation with folk of Mozambican or Cape Verdean heritage in shops and restaurants. One day, when my Portuguese skills are more assured, I’ll have more in-depth conversations about multiculturalism from their perspective. If there were one other country in mainland Europe with which I’d experiment taking up residence, it would be Portugal. At the same time, I don’t want to be naïve. It was also a major empire that held on viciously to its former colonies. It’s one thing to dip in and out as a tourist, and another to immigrate.

It’s yet again a glorious day; nothing like the Novembers to which I'm accustomed, even compared to when I was last in Portugal around this time of year. I have on my sight-seeing list mainly holy sites; Faro Cathedral, São Pedro church and the morbid Igreja do Carmo; the one with all the bones.  São Pedro is a hop and a skip away from my accommodation but is closed when I first stop by. Same for the Igreja do Carmo.

I therefore take a leisurely stroll to the Cathedral. I’ve noticed en route that Faro has a surfeit of beauty clinics; so many in such close proximity that I wonder how business remains viable. Perhaps the Faronenses still consider grooming a priority, despite these economically straitened times.

The animated fellow at the Cathedral’s ticket office  - fresh from ending what sounded like a heated phone conversation - goes on about the 'bargain' five euro entrance fee. I think. My Portuguese still isn’t as advanced as it should be. That I find the Brazilian variety much more pleasing to - and easier on - the ear than the European, only adds to the challenge. However, I still have enough of the language to feel at ease in the country and make my way around without difficulty. If I miss much of what the receptionist has said, the practice is still valuable. He offers me a guide in Portuguese which I gladly accept.

I usually don’t like to pay to enter churches but I make an exception. The interior of the Cathedral is inviting, if a bit gaudy - as these gilded Roman Catholic spaces often are. There are entire walls made up of azujelo; artisanal blue tiles, for which Portugal is famous. I’m surprised this area haven’t been cordoned off like other parts. I reach out to touch one wall and notice how brittle the tiles are. I’m suddenly overcome with emotion; as if their fragility reflects my own. 

Adjacent to the main chapel is a modest-sized museum, housing sculptures, slightly damaged portraits of various apostles and miscellaneous church regalia. Not for the first time, the latter unnerves me. I wonder how Jesus, a humble carpenter who epitomised simplicity during His earthly ministry, came to be associated with such pomp. A sincere desire to offer God the best became an end in itself.

I complete my visit with what I’m most interested in; the view from the bell tower. It doesn’t disappoint. I sit down on a piece of elevated stone, which appeases my mild vertigo but still affords me a decent view of the city from on high. The half-hourly gong of the bell is pretty formidable at this close distance, as is to be expected.

Feeling more and more confident about my navigation skills, I return to some of the areas covered on the tour the previous day.

I plan to finish up at the Skull Church, en route to my accommodation. Not before stopping off to replace my broken suitcase; an additional expense I do not need. 

I stop off at São Pedro’s - now open - for a few serene moments. An elaborate choral soundtrack, similar to that I heard playing in the Cathedral, streams through the church speakers at a low volume.

When I arrive at the Igreja do Carmo, I’m told it’s cash entry only. Having used up all my change, I’m not about to be ripped off by one of the many nearby commission-charging ATMs. I take it as a sign. I already had doubts about this macabre detour. 

After a pit stop back at the accommodation, I return to the bay to catch another splendid sunset.  I hope to spend a couple of hours at the waterfront before making my way to a free early evening Jazz jam, held in a bar-cum-arts centre in the vicinity. It’s the same kind of event I’d attend in any city I’ve lived in. I don’t know. These shows have a way of finding me. 

A solo guitarist has replaced the duo busking at the bay the day before. I intermittently swap between my own playlist and listening to his covers of Sting, Grover Washington Jr, The Cranberries and Prince. He’ll also be at the same location the next day, adding George Michael to his repertoire.

(image: Deposit Photos)

It soon becomes too cool to continue sitting by the bayside and the venue won’t let punters in before showtime. Hungry, I decide on an early dinner at a restaurant recommended by the tour guide. I can’t visit Portugal without sampling some of the local catch. For a while, I’m the only customer. The young mulatto waiter tells me it’s typical of the low season. I order some vegetable soup and a piping hot cod gratin with shrimp and a side of salad, on the waiter’s recommendation. Having cleared my plate, I have no regrets.

The Jam is in full swing by the time I arrive. A drums/keys/guitar/double-bass quartet combo is on stage, occasionally swapping musicians in and out.

There are no free tables, although a few spare chairs are scattered around. I pull one up. At an adjacent table a young lady, sitting with a sardonic-looking older man, sucks on an e-cigarette. (The establishment’s smoking policy is pretty lax). Her dress is so short that when she stands up, the gusset of her tights is on full view. A red-faced young woman behind me interrogates an androgynous-looking individual, in loud accented-English, about their relocation directly from Nigeria to Portugal. She speaks with an aggressive friendliness particular to inebriation. 

I’m eventually invited to join the table of a Colombian couple, Jose and Alicia, with whom I’ve struck up a conversation. It seems impolite to refuse, even if I dislike being the third wheel. Oddly, the conversation stops once I join them.

One of the guitarists is Alicia’s tutor. Whilst he has his moments, he doesn’t always blend well with the other musicians.

The couple disappear before the end. Showtime is over at a very respectable 9pm on what is, after all, a school night. I recall the advice I received on the evening of my arrival to avoid staying out beyond 10pm.

On the way back to my accommodation, I notice a young man from the audience walking in a slight zig-zag ahead of me. He stood out when I heard him speaking with a native English accent. He also bears a resemblance to French singer/songwriter, Julien Doré.  When I see him make a left turn towards the pier, I quicken my steps to follow suit. It’s poorly lit and I can’t see well without my glasses. When he walks a little too gingerly towards the edge, I shout to get his attention. 

Hey, hey!

I ask his name. He doesn’t want to divulge it. 

I’m just checking you're all right.

No, I’m okay, really. Just about to have a beer.

Oh well, fine. Jesus loves you...Umm...The universe would miss you if you weren’t around.

(I normally hate the vague, new-agey reference to 'The Universe'. In this case, I mean it in terms of the entirety of God’s creation)

Thanks for your concern. Really.

I continue on my way but then get it into my head that he could have been lying. I rush back. I can only make out treacherous shadows, before I see a young couple sitting calmly at the same spot. Tired and panicky, my Portuguese is especially garbled. They ask me to switch to English. If it weren’t urgent I’d insist otherwise. I ask if they’ve seen a man with long curly blond hair. They point unhurriedly to a dark mass lying on the pier. He overhears my concern and thanks me once again for checking up on him. Relieved, I return to my room with a clear conscience.

Faro Beach
(image: Travel in Portugal)

The last full day of my Faro trip, the weather begins to feel a bit brisk. Rain is forecast the following day, when I’m due to fly back to Brussels.

In the meantime, in light of the slight temperature drop, I’m second guessing my choice to spend a day at Faro beach. A very cheap and cheerful round trip by boat will have me there in 20 minutes. 

I’ve already made up my mind, so power through. I’ll be glad I did. It’s a wonderfully serene, not to mention temperate day by the coast. Being off-peak, the beach is far from crowded. It’s mainly smatterings of folk like myself, strolling along the coastline or a few going for a swim. A woman in a skimpy bikini dips her giddy toddler into the water.

The beach is so tranquil, that mine are the only footsteps I see in the sand for some distance. I park myself under a beating sun, tempered by the sea breeze. Apart from being beset by pesky flies, I spend a mellow afternoon reading, meditating or listening to podcasts at leisure, before returning on the last boat to catch the sunset in Faro city. I linger until it becomes too nippy to remain in one place.

I round off my sweet Portuguese parenthesis with some traditional barbeque chicken - or churrasqueira - in the neighbourhood.

Soundtrack: I Won’t Say I’m Not Hurting by Boddhi Satva; Candle Flame (Opolopo Remix) by Jungle; Options by Bluelab Beats feat. Farah Audali and the Better Days EP by Tom Misch.

Um Parêntese Portugûes: Part I

5 min. read

(image courtesy of Viator)

November rolls around with a biting cold and solidly overcast skies. Fortunately, the month also comes with a couple of public holidays, on top of the generous annual leave afforded by The University. Months in advance, I plan to take a break from the Belgian Autumn and head back to Portugal; one of my favourite European spots. It’s been almost three years since my last visit. I try to vary my location on each trip. I’m yet to know the Algarve region. At this time of year, it remains sunny and warm but at off-season prices. Still recovering from years of precarity, I keep it modest. I manage to find a very decent en suite accommodation deal, which ends up being even more economical than the flight. 

I’ve decided to base myself in Faro; close to the airport for my morning return flight to Belgium. Apart from a walking tour, my itinerary will not be as ambitious as usual. As well as being friendlier on my budget, I want this to be more of a restful break. It’s been a hectic quarter so far. Too much running around and too many day trips tend to detract from the relaxation objective. 

My direct flight touches down in Faro just before sunset; ahead of schedule, for a change. The weather is gorgeous. The only thing dragging on my mood is that the careless baggage handlers have damaged my hitherto near-pristine suitcase.  

At the bus stop, a motley crew of us tourists attempt to work out the bus system. We're all heading to the terminus in Faro city. I briefly befriend an Austrian solo traveller, who’ll be taking an onward coach to Porto during the wee small hours. We part ways as I go in search of my accommodation. My printed Google Map instructions, as is so often the case, prove all but useless. On the bright side, I have the opportunity to practise my Portuguese when a very kindly local goes out of his way to help me locate my AirBnB. I ask if it’s a safe neighbourhood. Yes, he replies, before 10pm.

By now it's too dark to go exploring comfortably. After unpacking, I head out for what turns out to be especially dry pizza and retire to my temporary quarters. Based in a residential area, things can nonetheless get noisy. I’m awoken one night by a group having a loud conversation at stupid o’clock, followed not long afterwards by the sound of construction work.

The Arco da Vila (when not covered in building works)
(image taken from Algarve Tips)

For the first full day of my break, I have purposefully chosen a walking tour that starts in the afternoon. I aim to enjoy a lazy morning, liberating myself from the guilt of not immediately exploring my surroundings. Having done a little research, I’ll leave the real exploration for later in the trip, to be done at a leisurely pace.

As a precaution, already noticing that the layout of Faro is confusing and the streets often not clearly marked, I give myself over an hour to locate the meeting place for the tour; the Arco da Vila. It’s supposedly meant to take roughly 10 minutes by foot. More like 40 minutes.

I won’t complain. The route is scenic. It's warm, with clear blue skies and there’s a romantic view of the marina. I notice that, like London and Brussels, Faro city is already kitted out for the festive season, albeit the Christmas lights are yet to be switched on.

I arrive at the Arco da Vila, in plenty of time for the tour. One of the city’s top landmarks, this 19th Century neoclassical arch is being renovated. Covered by scaffolding, it’s more of an eye sore at the moment than an attraction. A group of us gather, waiting for what we fear might be an errant tour guide. A young blond gentleman with dark glasses eventually manifests a few minutes late. He walks briskly, holding the signature red umbrella by which we’re supposed to recognise him.

We make our way through the sinewy streets of the old town. In between facts and figures, the guide tests our existing knowledge. He explains that the city layout was made deliberately confusing under Moorish rule, as a defence strategy. Monuments I’d read about now come to life, such as the Cathedral or the Igreja do Carmo; famous for its chapel composed of skeletons excavated from the grounds. I realise how strategic my accommodation is. The Chapel is a stone’s throw from where I’m staying. 

There are also the amusing, if extraneous bits of trivia. Like in my old stomping ground of Strasbourg, storks abound in Faro. The birds build giant nests which can weigh up to 200-500 kg, potentially causing a lot of problems if they tumble. Yet, the city authorities do not permit their removal.

Igreja do Carmo 
(image: Visit Faro)

The group strolls through familiar streets in which I’ve already lost myself. It’s a charming couple of hours, even if I’m not best pleased with some of our guide’s politics. He makes less than favourable comments about the previous socialist government, apparently disgruntled they tried to prevent the proliferation of AirBnB and deter predatory property speculators. Having now been taken over by a right-wing administration more predisposed to this kind of investment, I don’t see how this improves the housing crisis. The conversation itself is sparked by a Scouser enquiring about the many abandoned buildings. I try to challenge the guide on some points, acutely aware that mainstream opinion is wont to discredit any economically-left leaning project. Notwithstanding the controversial circumstances in which former PM António Costa resigned, I should have made a stronger case for the things the administration did get right, such as acknowledging Portugal’s colonial crimes.

I am crowned the champion of the tour quiz. I ‘win’ the opportunity to hold the red umbrella in a photo I’d rather not take. We finish just before dusk. When I ask about the closest beach, the guide is kind enough to accompany me to a spot parallel to the railway line, overlooking the sea. It’s not a beach but it is a great vantage point for the sunset. The scene is enhanced tremendously by the intoxicating tones of Farah Audhali, on BlueLab Beat’s superb new single, Options pouring through my earphones.

I plan another evening of eating in. An online Quincy Jones tribute awaits me.

I pass by the local Auchan; a French supermarket chain that has apparently made notable in-roads in this part of Portugal. 

En route to purchase supplies, I stumble across a duo - vocalist and guitarist - doing an acoustic cover of Jorja Smith’s Be Honest. It’s a curious arrangement; pleasing enough to grab my attention but harder to make out with the singer’s peculiar diction. 

Part II

Soundtrack: Thriller and Bad by Michael Jackson; I Won’t Say I’m Not Hurting by Boddhi Satva; Candle Flame (Opolopo Remix) by Jungle; Options by Bluelab Beats feat. Farah Audali