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

A Short and Sweet Stay in Dresden

Dresden, Old City.

The festive season now a fond but distant memory, it’s back to my new normal. Life is still in a state of flux. I do what I can to maintain some sort of routine. I resume job hunting and my interim personal development activities.

I also now have a window to make good on the promise to visit my Tunisian belle, Coral in Eastern Germany. Befriending this kind, bright and thoughtful soul is undoubtedly one of the highlights of my Strasbourg experience. Since she relocated to Dresden last summer, it’s been more of a challenge staying in touch than when she lived just over the Franco-German border in Freiburg. Having made several fruitless plans to reunite during the second half of 2019, we finally put a date in the diary mid-January. At least it gives me something to look forward to amidst the deep winter lull.

Emails fly back and forth. According to my research, whether I travel by train or coach it’s still a lengthy trip involving at least one pit stop. I opt for coach as the more economic choice. With the ongoing industrial action in the face of Monsieur Macron's intransigence, travel by road is also currently the most reliable option.

As my Dresden trip draws closer, reluctance creeps in. It’s nearly 12 hours each way. I’m highly apprehensive about the overnight bus ride (including a three hour stop at Nuremberg). I’m not exactly heading to sunnier climes either. To my shame, I don’t even bother to check out what Dresden has to offer its visitors. I’m relying on Coral to show me her favourite spots, plus a top-up from one of the free walking tours I’ve read about. In the corner of my mind the City has vague connotations with wartime; more so than other German metropoli. Despite Coral’s insistence on Dresden’s charms, I imagine a grim and grey post industrial town. It doesn’t help that the region is strongly associated with the Far Right. And yet Coral seems to have made a life for herself there.

The weekend of travel arrives. The outbound coach is half an hour late. On the plus side, it's virtually empty to my pleasant surprise. I survive the first and longest leg of the trip by reading and sleeping in the customary awkward position. At Nuremberg, when I try to retrieve my modest luggage without his assistance, the gruff bus driver barks a reprimand in German. Still slightly groggy, I respond in polite but firm English; sounding more primary school teacher-like than as stern as I’d intended.

Looking around I feel uneasy. Nuremberg is in full, rowdy Friday night/early Saturday morning mode. It’s cold and grimy and I hear too many loud male voices.

The curmudgeonly driver’s tardiness at least eats into the waiting time. Thanks to a local hotel I’m redirected to the nearest train station, where I pass a couple of comfortable hours out of the cold. I’m hurrying back to the coach stop before I know it.

When I finally reach Dresden late Saturday morning, the temperature is milder and there’s a hint of sunshine. My face is bare of make-up and I’m recovering from sleep. I’ve texted Coral in advance to let her know I might look a state. She collects me at the Flixbus stop, waving away my enquiries about where to buy a tram ticket. She’s taken care of it.

I feel more self-conscious than I banked on. It takes a while for me to make consistent eye contact. It’s the first time Coral’s seen me in my natural state. Even when she stayed round Christmas 2018, I was glammed up and ready to go in the mornings.

The Kulturpalast, Dresden
 (courtesy of Aasarchitecture)

If you hadn’t said anything, honestly I wouldn’t have noticed.

She’s being too kind, not with the traces of bygone acne still visible.

By the time we reach her cosy and inviting flat, my vanity is forgotten. Initial plans to shower and nap fly out of the window as we catch up. Apart from one lengthy autumn phone call, Coral and I haven’t had a proper face to face conversation since early last summer. In her enviably calm and softly-spoken fashion, she expounds on the drama at her new workplace. Her line manager has fallen on his metaphoric sword and tried to pressure her into doing the same. She came to her senses before making a rash decision. Nevertheless, the incident has taken its emotional toll. She describes it as a couple of years of stress condensed into a few months.

The discussion turns to happier themes. She has a new man in her life. I’m due to meet him the following morning. For now, I’m curious to know how their paths crossed.

Coral shares the backstory. Following a fleeting and disappointing romantic episode, a close friend encouraged her to sign up to a 'sophisticated' dating app. She met Sandeep after a few pleasant but unremarkable dates. The kismet was there from the beginning, she says.

Coral gently encourages me to consider giving dating apps a try. I demure as politely as I can. I explain I once signed up to a site many, many moons ago for a laugh. Since then I’ve had no inclination. I have strong feelings about the whole Lonely Hearts industry. I deflect, not wanting my aversion to be a reflection on Coral’s personal choices.

The day is far spent by the time I do freshen up and change clothes. The walking tours would be long finished by now. We step out at dusk, making a quick stop off at her local shopping precinct to buy some items I haven’t had the time of late to pick up at Kehl.

I’ll have to make do with seeing Dresden after dark. It has its own night time appeal, Coral reassures.

Indeed, the City is a revelation. I’m almost glad to have had low-to-zero expectations, only to be enchanted all the more.

Once the heart of the old kingdom of Saxony, I’m awe-struck by the majestic and imposing beauty of the baroque architecture.

A luminous modern-looking glass structure catches my attention. Coral introduces the Kulturpalast; a former government building from the era of Communist East Germany. Now converted into a civic centre, inside are plenty of seating areas, a gorgeous modern library and a concert venue dedicated to the City’s philharmonic orchestra. I'm enamoured with the rose-coloured space. According to Coral the locals tend to have a poor opinion of relics from the DDR period. It takes an outsider to appreciate it, I reply. She confesses she’s never spent much time in the building. That'll now change.

The Fürstenzag, Dresden
(courtesy of Trip Advisor)

Coral shows me more of the old town, pointing out historical sites such as the various places of worship and administrative buildings. Most have been rebuilt after Dresden was levelled by allied carpet bombing during the Second World War. We stand underneath the eye-catching, if intimidating, Fürstenzag mural. It depicts the various Saxon monarchs; many of whom have  blood ties to the modern British Royal family. 

Coral takes me to one of the bridges overlooking the Elbe river. She insists the view of the old town is even more stunning from the other side. As well as Germany, the Elbe traverses the neighbouring Czech Republic and touches the periphery of Poland. Prague, Coral’s favourite European city, is only an hour away by bus she tells me. That explains why my connecting coach was heading in that direction. The Czech capital is somewhere I feel I should know but have never visited. I suggest we cross the border if and when I’m next in town.

Coral’s Italian restaurant of choice is full to Saturday night capacity. We head home for some delicious home cooking via a quick detour to Aldi. (I want to see if the budget supermarket superstar is as good in its country of origin as its UK homologue. Not bad but not as good, either.)

The following morning after I've done my ablutions, Sandeep materialises soundlessly in Coral’s living room.

I have a key…

Still. Secret Service levels of discretion.

Sandeep and I hit it off immediately, thanks to his fascinating back story. I get so carried away in conversation I worry I’m neglecting Coral.

Having lived all over the Indian subcontinent and collecting a bevy of languages along the way, Sandeep is a fountain of knowledge. He’s well versed in linguistic, regional and religious history, disabusing me of many of my half-baked notions. ‘Hinduism’, for example, is a western conceit for something that does not fit easily into a single religious practice. We talk about the state of politics in India, Britain (continuing a conversation Coral and I started the night before) and across the African continent. Sandeep explains why he first voted for Modi and how he’s since become disillusioned.

At first horrified, I learn a lesson about those who support Populist-Nationalist leaders.

Dresden Cathedral: Restored after the original
was bombed during the Second World War
(wallpapers.io)

 An insightful polymath, Sandeep is as far from the ill-informed, frothing-at-the-mouth patriot you can get. The truth is always more complicated, as if I needed reminding. I’m very aware of aggressive comments and violence towards religious minorities in India. Sandeep argues there’s a history of some anti-Hindu sentiment that stoked nationalism. I’m a little sceptical (all the more given it proves hard to substantiate when I do my own research). However, out of respect to Coral and conscious that Sandeep would have first hand experience of things that don’t make the front pages, I give his account the benefit of the doubt.

We’ll spend the whole day together, in and out of the flat and eating establishments. Our topics of conversation seem to cover the length and breadth of the human condition.
Talk shifts around topics such as faith, misunderstandings around Afro hair (it's my turn to disabuse this time) and the ease of language acquisition for lifelong polyglots like Sandeep. We discuss post-colonial trauma, all three of us having lived through the reality in one form or the other. We broach lighter themes such as childhood literature and TV favourites, and the comedy of Eddie Izzard (of whom Sandeep is a fan).  

In spite of their efforts to be inclusive, Coral and Sandeep can’t help gazing into each other’s eyes or stealing a kiss. She wasn’t exaggerating when she spoke of their organic rapport. They could have known each other for years rather than months. Case in point: Sandeep has a passion for fine art and photography. At one point he shows me a life-drawing of an ex-girlfriend. Coral doesn't show the slightest sign of unease. I laugh nervously, telling her she's a stronger, less uptight woman than I would be. Theirs is a candid and easygoing relationship.

I’m happy for Coral. Yet as is typical when I’m around a couple, I feel like the awkward third wheel; as if my presence intrudes on a sacred intimacy. If it weren’t for my love and respect for my friend and curiosity to meet the man who captured her heart, I’d avoid the trio set-up like the plague.

Late afternoon, we head out for another impromptu dusk excursion.  Sandeep shows us around Neustadt; the Boho district of Dresden where he happens to live. The aesthetic is distinct from the Baroque Old Town. It rather reminds me of some of the major French cities like Paris or Lyon.  Sandeep has an impressive knowledge of the boutiques, novelty cafés and restaurants that characterise the area.  We take detours down side streets and attractive passageways. The whole neighbourhood is a giant canvass. Murals and artistic graffiti abound. Residential buildings double up as art installations. One spellbinding aquamarine facade in Kunsthof for instance, is also bestowed with cone-shaped water receptacles, said to create sweet music when it rains.

Kunsthof in the Neustadt district, Dresden
(courtesy of Welt)

Coral and Sandeep treat me to a delicious mango lassi. Later, we enjoy a hearty supper at a falafel restaurant serving generous portions at ridiculously good value. Whilst dining, Sandeep speaks more of his dreams to retire early from a career in architecture.  He plans to live off the fatta-the-land somewhere in his native India or The Med. He feels more affinity with the Iberian peninsula and southern Italy than Germany. The warm weather is better suited to him, for a start.

It’s my turn to treat the couple. I sneakily settle the bill in appreciation for their hospitality.

Late that evening, not long before midnight, I retire to my guest room. It's been a full day of verbal and visual stimuli. It’s time to leave the love birds to it.

On the way back from a late night shower, I see no sign of Sandeep. He leaves as inconspicuously as he arrived.

Coral takes a leaf out of his book the following morning, heading out earlier for work than she mentioned. She’ll explain later that she didn’t want to disturb me before my long coach trip back to Strasbourg.

It's not clear when we’ll next meet up. I don’t like emotional farewells. Still, I’m not happy to be deprived of a heartfelt goodbye hug.

Soundtrack: Free Nationals (self-titled album).