Yesterday I tried again. Against all knowledge. Made too early and saved too long. In a poorly insulating thermos jug. By the way, ditch water tasted like that.
Why am I still surprised. Simple and pretty logical. They apparently never learn it. Self-sufficient, despite repetitive criticism. And the multitude of jugs.
Which are sent back straight. To the kitchen, you could not imagine it. In fact, just waste. By the way, is Portugal the land of coffee culture?
The winter is creeping in. Noticeable to everything. Even though some of them do not. Certainly believe that the Portuguese autumn silently turns into spring. That perception is on the (too) positive side, in my opinion.
Ah, what, it’s just an idea. After all, it cools down unnoticeably. From t-shirt to long-sleeved weather. Confirmed by my observation. After a look up, combined with the feeling temperature.
Maybe something too wishful thinking? Unlike lies that bear the character of mythomania. No mention of lies, or sickly phantasy.
For convenience repeating Bob Dylan. Mindful his ballad Subterranean Homesick Blues. You do not need a weatherman. To know from which way the wind blows.
On the way a look over the reservoir. Along which high pine trees keep watch. Beautiful and fearful at the same time. To see how nature has a lacquer on civilization.
The mountains and rivers leave it indifferent. Whether or not we climb or sail them. Nothing means man for them. Because their existence has lasted forever. Devoid of houses, barns, bridges, electricity poles and internet.
Desolation leads the way, driving through the Alentejo. Even more striking, because a lonely chalet looms up past the bend. With a dish attached to it. A satellite antenna that looks like a wart.
The dilapidated shack is in the grip of climbing plants. Like veins that keep the walls upright. Curiously busy sniffing the dirty cracked windows. On the wall a faded promotion of Schweppes tonic.
You regularly encounter them. Rust licks at the edges. From metal relics that have seen better times, And yet, despite their old age, dilapidated barns or ruinous ruins.
Next to the grubby doorway, almost halfway gone. Below it as a postscript. A dingy sign with: Nicola coffee. Alright then. Who knows, this is the perfect location for a cup of comfort.
Welcomed in the yard for this pick-me-up. Undaunted, despite the ferocious barking of a pale dog. Inside, a smell of sweat and sweet onions in the air.
My darkest premonition swells. Against the glass, whirled buzzing blowflies. Even more indefinable species. Sticked to yellow strips. Down curly from the ceiling.
Smoke streamer fluttered under the low ceiling. Just snakes when the smoke is caught by the light. From a stray sunbeam that beeps through the window.
In a corner of the counter. On a red hot plate. Coffee simmering in a dirty pot. Adeus, I do not dare to do that. Anyway, that almost mythical coffee culture. She does not always seem to match.
Although, most of the time, beyond doubt. For sure, except for our breakfast. In the morning, just give up. For the sake of fairness not every day. This morning as by surprise. No old, cold coffee.
Really a plus, as Portuguese coffee should taste. Exception forms the rule says a proverb. Today no shameless false start. With brown filtered seawater, but then again brackish.
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