Iberian Ambivalence: Part I

 8 min. read

 University of Alcalá de Henares campus entrance (c) Mauro Lima

The year 2025 will be memorable for a lot of reasons, not all of them positive. One thing for which I can be personally grateful is the many opportunities I’ve had to present my embryonic research findings at international conferences.  My year in academic interventions rounds up at the International Congress of Afrodescendant Cultural and Literary Studies (ICACLS) in Madrid.

My ambitions to attend the Congress start a whole year beforehand at a conference in León, at which I co-present with my supervisor, Brigitta. We become cheerfully acquainted with a larger-than-life Congolese academic, Reggie, based in Spain for decades. On dropping us off at Madrid to catch our plane, he mentions he’s also planning a colloquium in the autumn of 2025.  Brigitta and I are both initially enthused. The conference in León has been enchanting, more like a working holiday than purely business. I look forward to more of the same the following year. In the end, Brigitta’s extremely busy schedule will not allow her participation.

As the months elapse, other conference opportunities come and go. I submit papers for several, with Reggie’s not far from my mind. Still, I have my doubts. Whilst the congress is promoted as a multilingual gathering (French, English, Spanish), it seems heavily Hispanophone. I question if my Anglophone paper would be a good fit. I also have plans to visit my sister in Japan to celebrate her birthday around the same period. I wonder if the scheduling will be too tight.

I submit my abstract for ICALCS at the last minute, the deadline having already been extended. I only half-expect my paper to be accepted.  To my surprise, the response is prompt and positive. I supplement my personal contribution with what little external funding remains to subsidise my travel.

A week in Spain will be a way to ease myself back into European life after a wistful few weeks in the Far East. Organising my participation ahead of the conference isn’t straightforward. My cognisance of Spanish has long evaporated, not having studied it since secondary school. I have some limited reading comprehension thanks to residue knowledge, and my familiarity with other romance languages. The ICALCS organisational team have little to no English. Fortunately, one team member, Manuela speaks fluent French. I’ll discover later that she’s half-Marseillaise. She ends up being my ICALCS liaison pre-travel.

Take off for Madrid is a mere few days after I return from Tokyo. My outbound journey to Spain is already off to a ropey start, with Brussels Airport still subject to hair-raising delays one whole month after a cyber-attack that affects most of my travel during that period.

A few days beforehand, the manager of the recommended university-campus based accommodation sends an email summarily announcing that the last night of my reservation is cancelled. Given that this has been arranged months in advance, I don’t take kindly to this last minute change. I’m even more peeved to discover the manager cancelled all ICALCS-related bookings for the same date in favour of another conference party. It’s unprofessional to say the least, unethical even. Typical Spain, says one irritated fellow guest Maurice, a facetious Bajan academic that I’ll befriend during the congress, who's in the same predicament.

Alcalá de Henares (c) Sergey Konstantinov

A direct bus from Terminal 2 of Adolfo-Suárez Airport deposits me near the gates of the University of Alcalá de Henares. On arriving at the campus, a day before the conference begins, Reggie greets me congenial as ever, and introduces me to his multilingual team. He explains alternative lodging will cost double the price. It’s a busy season in Madrid. This begins a litany of small disappointments that characterise much of the week.

The accommodation is old — like a less-glamorous riad—but clean, functional and value for money. Breakfast is included. Unconsciously, I’m expecting a standard continental breakfast; a selection of cereals as a minimum. In the end, calling it ‘breakfast’ is a stretch. More like a hot drink and one mediocre pastry. For dietary balance and my waistline, I can’t eat like this every day. I skip out on the morning meal the rest of the week. Considering that conference registration isn’t cheap, the catering options are minimal and not very healthy. The alternatives are not that economical, even with the congress discount. I ask the student assistants the way to the local supermarket and stock up for the week for not much more than the price of the conference lunch. Alas, I find out too late that, bar a fridge and microwave, the hotel kitchen has no cooking facilities or utensils. I have to improvise. 

The weather is also less optimistic than I anticipate. I periodically check the forecast the weeks ahead of travel. Sunny intervals everyday with an average of 23 degrees Celsius. I simply re-pack some of the summer wardrobe I took to Japan. I don’t even bother with an umbrella. With my limited luggage allowance, it’s one less thing to carry. I’ll soon regret that decision. Whilst my first day in Madrid is temperate, the rest of the week is occasionally cooler and wetter than for which I’m prepared.

First world problems, I suppose.

The biggest challenge of the week is linguistic. Spanish is the working language of the congress, almost exclusively. To the extent that I wonder why my paper was ever accepted. When I ask Reggie if there’ll be interpretation, it’s an unequivocal ‘no’.  

My default outside of English is French. If it involves interaction in another romance language, my brain switches to my so-so Portuguese. No hablo español, becomes my catchphrase for the week.

It wasn’t merely in my imagination that the conference was advertised as trilingual. Other participants (with whom I have languages in common) confirm they had the same expectation. Somewhere along the line, the linguistic policy changed.

I struggle to communicate with one of the main organisers, Lucia. At the tapas-based social on the first night, she approaches me apologising in memorised English. I ask why. I don’t speak English. Lucia claims to have a bit of Portuguese. Hmm. Not enough apparently for us to communicate with some fluidity.  It’s particularly an issue given she’s responsible for arranging alternative accommodation for my last night. 

I usually do well in even unfamiliar social settings but the language barrier is making me nervous. It helps that, having not eaten all day, I’m famished and can busy myself with the dishes brought out by the kitchen staff at regular intervals. (I’m not usually zealous for tapas – or for Spanish cuisine in general – but I’m hungry enough not to split hairs).

On the other hand, I don’t want to stand out for the wrong reasons. I have a torturous conversation with an exclusively Hispanophone guest. The poor man tries to ask me questions about my studies in a belaboured mix of French, Spanish and English. I can’t wait to liberate us both from this awkward exchange. I eventually find some Anglophones and Francophones in attendance.

(c) Carlos Perales

I’m approached by a bilingual Spanish-American professor, over from the US, as well as a native Hispanophone academic who has studiously acquired the Yorkshire-inflected English accent she picked up when based in the UK. (I find that there’s a certain kind of continental European academic who, in an attempt to set themselves apart amongst those who have mastered English as a second language, affect an authentic-sounding British accent. I’m told by non-native speakers that it is more difficult to acquire than the more common transatlantic variety. I’m always impressed by the aptitude of aforementioned 'faux' Brits but there’s a part of me that wishes I’d keep my admiration to myself. I suspect that’s the desired effect.) 

I also finally meet Manuela in the flesh. A few of these multilingual exchanges save the evening for me. Struggling with fatigue and my belly properly satiated, I beg off early to the hotel. 

The conference itself is an uphill struggling. The programme is jam-packed, lasting almost 12-hours per day for most of the congress. The schedule is so full, I have the impression that every abstract submitted was accepted. 

There are multiple round tables, plenaries and parallel panels with four or five speakers at a time. I understand enough Spanish to know that they cover themes that would be of great interest. I dutifully show up for some but I can’t follow the vast majority of it. The endeavour itself is tiring. I use the time instead to work on my own presentation and other academic tasks. Nevertheless, I greatly miss participating in the interactive moments. I'll feel on the edge of the congress the whole week.

Annetta, a sympathetic bilingual academic from Costa Rica, wonders out loud why there is no interpretation. There’d be students willing to do it for the credit, she reasons.

From what I gather, I’m the only participant who is not proficient in Spanish. 

It wouldn’t be worth it for just me, I counter.  On the contrary, says Annetta. There’s another academic (a compatriot of Nigerian extraction of which I’ll hear much but never meet) who’s not Hispanophone. Neither does he speak French. I feel for him. There are many Francophone Africans in attendance, including of course, the man of the hour, Reggie. With the exception of the occasional Lusophone I come across, having French in common with other participants is a saving grace. That, and seeing familiar faces from the León conference who speak English, such as Maria-Teresa and Clarissa.

My proficiency in French spares me from being completely anti-social between sessions. Reggie jokes that I’ll learn Spanish by force. Having lost the love for the language a long time ago, this experience is not endearing me it. I’m so used to academia being dominated by English, it’s humbling being in the linguistic minority. 

If my experience of the congress falls below the expectations set by León, it’s not all bad. The campus grounds and surrounding city are picturesque; the stuff of wedding photos.  A UNESCO-heritage site, Alcalá de Henares is the hometown of Spanish literary giant, Miguel de Cervantes. If in doubt, the abundance of local businesses named after him, the dedicated museum and bronze sculptures of Sancho Panza and Don Quixote (pictured left) are a dead giveaway.

When the effort of trying to decipher academic Spanish gets too much, there are plenty of romantic-looking streets to explore or a tranquil church sanctuary to disappear into.  So much the better, given the patchy weather. The rain only adds to the romanticism. 

The congress itself is extremely diverse. Hardly surprising, considering Reggie’s strong views about white academics potentially monopolising Afrodescendant-related studies. There is still quite a lot of that during the conference. You know the coup: Caucasian academics wearing Dashikis and Dutch wax, seemingly turning Afrodescendant-related studies into a cottage industry - that kind of thing. However, true to Reggie’s word, the congress in large part reflects the core demographic.  There’s even a photo montage amidst the conference literature, dedicated to all the Afrodescendant women taking part and/or behind the scenes.

The congress is much larger than the 2024 conference at León where Reggie and I first met. On one hand, it’s heartening to see so much participation from across the Hispanophone world and beyond. Each day, I seem to come across more and more participants. At the same time, it lacks the intimacy of a smaller gathering. Many a time, my mind will drift nostalgically back to León, autumn 2024.

Part II

Soundtrack: Play This Song (single) by Mariah Carey & Anderson .Paak, Red Moon (single) by Tom Misch, Without You (single) by Larse feat. Obi Franky, I Hope That We Never Fit In (single) by Peter & Kerry, Technicolour (single) by Joya Mooi & Ric Wilson

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. 

Brigitta, 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, Brigitta manages to find a hail-Mary replacement; one Dr. Johann Larsberg. Cue another page insert.

During these intense weeks, Brigitta 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? Brigitta 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.