Human memory is not always the best travel companion. The attempt to remember is full of difficulties and contradictions. When days and nights merge into an unclear whole.

Difficult and confusing to distinguish individual parts. Anyway, every memory is good enough. Similar to a journey that never ends.

Roll around

High rods as beacons peaking out of the sand. As if they keep a group of fishing enthusiasts together. The dark short-haired silhouette stands out sharply. Against the blazing light of the bright sunshine.

About the unrelenting wave current that washes up. The playful dog is entertaining. In his hum with digging. From a big pit in the sand. On the deserted beach of Maria Luisa.

The proof is provided. Due to the absence of footprints. In the waterline and higher up.
As if the steep stops are an alibi. The floaters left to their fate. Because of all the attention focused on entertainment with the dog.


Street noises enter. Through the door that is invitingly open. Laughter, slamming doors, footsteps on the sidewalk. Strange hedgehogs enter the Sociedade Recreativa Alcantarilrense.

A refuge apparently. For older residents of Alcantarilha. They are housed in groups. Seemingly quasi nonchalant staring at front of him. Their distant looks in the hold.

From the prominent television screen. Which a Portuguese soap opera series passes by. Amazing in two ways. After all, you can guess. What exactly is happening here.


Late November and therefore dressed up very well. Meanwhile, but grumbling. To those foreigners who order ‘dois bicas’. Sweetening from delicious balls of almond marzipan.

The woman is vigilant. Posted next to the toilet. Anxiously gesturing when I touch the doorknob. She points to later. To the 'Sala dos Jogos’, in the back. There you will find the men’s room, not behind this door.

After coffee Marion threatens to go the same way. Oops, immediately a correction follows. Accompanied by loud hands clapping. Not that way to the gentlemens! This is the door for the ladies. You make a mess of it.


Ah, 'estrangeiros’. In the past everything was better. That comes down to it, in short. A well-worn expression. If you are already (far) over half. Sadly, such a frequently heard idea. Sometimes dripping with irritation.

Thought loss from an uncontrollable brain. It happens to me just like that, sometimes. Meanwhile enjoying photogenic moments. With authentic vistas to colorful buildings.

In Loulé, one of the oldest places in the Algarve. Heritage from the Moorish domination. The influence can still be seen. Wandering through the narrow streets. From this magnificent place. That almost gives a desolate look.

The merchants are busy. With the cleaning up of streets and cleaning of the market hall. Lodging provided by the historic building. In the heart of the city. Reflected by a watery sun in the late afternoon.


A single terrace still full of go-getters. Attempting to stretch the finiteness of the day. Fine beams of sunlight break through the clouds. In Caffé Creme, life revolves around a persistent, indifferent maelstrom.

From a rain shower outside. To bad news inside on the news. Peppered with plane crashes, natural disasters or terrorist attacks. Presented by the home theater. Such a sight glass that conjures up images on a shiny rectangle.

The omnipresent mourning tube. Can be found in random Portuguese pastelarias. Newsfact, after news fact passes in review. The issues of the day. Brought in an endless list. Confirmed by eyewitnesses.

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Albufeira, Faro, Portugal
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