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You deserve a medal!

If you have made it to the end of 2020 with a sense of optimism and hope, you deserve a medal.

If you adapted your routines, your habits, your ways of engaging with others in whatever way you thought best, to survive 2020, you deserve a medal.

If you fought off despair, depression, loneliness and fear through this year, and managed to get up and go on, you deserve a medal.

If you were able to maintain some semblance of normality, to do the necessary to get by, even when it seemed pointless, you deserve a medal.

If you had your life turned upside-down through changes to your living and working arrangements, but figured out how to face each new day, you deserve a medal.

If you were separated from people, places and even pets that mattered to you, and managed get on with things, when you just wanted to sit down and cry, you deserve a medal.

If you were able to stay compassionate and support others, even when you felt bewildered and in need of support yourself, you deserve a medal.

This medal is for all the ordinary heroes of 2020, every individual who faced the year with courage and fortitude, and made it to today. May the resilience you cultivated in 2020 improve your life in the future and may 2021 be kinder to us all.

Packing up, remotely

Image by PaolaF from Pixabay
Packing my home of fifteen years. The happiest years.
Bare feet cross stone floors in light-filled rooms,
Past hand-made bookshelves, bursting.
To lie under dappled shade and roses on the long veranda.

I'm packing remotely. 
A phone strapped to his chest, Andrew is my proxy presence.
I can't be there to touch the linen, feel familiar door-knobs.
I won't get to say goodbye.

My house in Johannesburg grows less homely every day.
A home needs care: sweeping, tidying, re-arranging.
Neglect shows quickly. Dust accumulates.
Air becomes stale. The rooms sag.

I went back in December.
Hasty decorations for Christmas; had mum over for lunch.
It wasn't the same. Part of me had left.
Part of me regretted neglecting the house. And mum.

Andrew is full of energy, shaking out the black bin-bags.
Chuck that. That's for charity. That one I'll keep. 
I'm trying to be ruthless. 
A lifetime of gathering splayed across a sprawling, suburban house 
has to be squeezed into a very small apartment.

We get stuck on white linen tablecloths.
Skype-blurred views of once-cherished possessions.
"Is that floral or geometric?" 
"Both geometric. One a kind of starburst, the other little squares."
Domestic minutiae. I keep both.

Two hours of bumpy, blurry video and I'm as nauseous 
as if I'm crossing the sea with my belongings in that container.
My eyes hurt. My head hurts. My heart hurts. 
I take a walk.

That night, awake, I wonder, 
"Will I miss the blue and yellow check that I chucked?"
Yes. But I don't need six table cloths. 
Trying to reason with memories of lunch in the garden,
salt to stop the wine-stain and the scent of wisteria.

Pursue joy


There’s something about relentless uncertainty that is very wearying to the human spirit. Not knowing when or if I’ll get back to Johannesburg to see my family and pack up my house makes it really hard to plan. I’m trying to put plans in place, but there are so many unknowns that I can’t really make progress. I keep getting tied up in knots over which of the many possible paths will become available to me, and the probability of each, and contingency plans. It’s exhausting. And then I’m inclined to do nothing and that leads to lethargy and that faint hint of depression snapping at my heels.


So much of life seems to be on hold, in the face of relentless uncertainty. I don’t think humans were designed for this. But we may well be re-configured by the experience.

One of the things I’ve noticed while trying to “live in the present” is that I have to focus on the immediate pleasures. Like a cool breeze sneaking through the 30 degree heat, good chocolate and the delightful colours and curves of roses. I’m also taking more of an interest in music, because music manages to express some of the frustration, hope and longing and that eases the pain.


Then I was reminded in an online chat about the importance of creating when a friend shared with me an audio clip that he’d composed using samples from the BBC National Orchestra. Imagine that! He gets to sit at home (still locked down in South Africa), compose, and have this amazing orchestra play his composition. He called the piece the Coronavirus Suite.

Creating is the one sure source of joy. I’ve been drawing in the past months. Just drawing faces, women’s faces, without thinking too much. The time I’ve spent drawing has been peaceful. It’s a break from the endless thinking and questioning and uncertainty. Such pursuits also allow a little bit of self-expression and it seems that expressing this crazy experience is the best means we have to try and make sense of it.

202002 dismay 1

The challenge seems to be that, with life curtailed, we don’t stumble on joy as often as we used to. Joyous things appear patchily and increasingly rarely. And this has led me to the conclusion that we have to pay attention to the sources of joy and go after them. We can’t leave this to chance. So I’ve been compiling lists of things that bring me joy and using these to consciously plan my days. Each morning I look over my plans and make sure that there are one or two things included that I know will feel joyous.

My lists start with the easy things, like “eat chocolate” and “blow bubbles”, and build up to “take a shower” or “go out for a walk” because when I’m in a slump, as Dr Suess warned, “unslumping yourself is not easily done”. I need very small steps that give me the energy to take bigger steps. But the really big steps, at the end of my lists, when I get to create, have the best effect.


Perhaps the reconfigured humans of the future will pay more attention to their emotional states and intentionally seek ways to find more joy, to mitigate fears and anxieties. I mean, pre-Covid one could be haphazard about this kind of thing, relying on joy to just crop up in day-to-day life, but this demands more vigilance.

Pursue joy.

Birds, drawing





Black birds mark-making, one from above to below, another from left to right

Grey skies a canvas for lines of flight

One by one, feather pens trace arcs across the clouds

Ink-black strokes, brushed with skillful flourish

Streaks of hope, trails of perseverance, curls of curiosity and flourishes of delight

I leave my window thoughtful

Can I make marks with meaning on this sunless day?

The virtual future of work?

I was really excited to learn, five weeks ago, that my dream of working from home had come true, despite the less than pleasant circumstances. I love working from home.

For me it’s about comfort. I get to work in an environment that I feel comfortable in.

Comfort is not, however, about what I wear. I still put on work clothes on work days, but then I have generally felt comfortable in my work clothes. It’s also not about flexible hours. I’m ridiculously disciplined so that I still keep office hours. On work days I sit down to work at 9am and I stop at 6pm. I also take carefully spaced breaks for tea and lunch.

For me it’s mostly about working in a place where I am surrounded by colour, pattern and texture. Here, my peripheral vision is filled with interesting fabrics, materials and shapes of my choice. My office, by contrast, has white walls and grey furniture with the odd red chair thrown in. All straight lines and right-angles. It makes me very uncomfortable. It’s also about temperature and light. At home I get to match the temperature of the room with my body and I have a lot more natural light.

Oh and I now have a large monitor at home, courtesy of my employer, which makes computer work much easier on the eyes than my tiny laptop screen.

These things may not matter to you. The point is that we are all individuals. Working at home means that we get to tailor our work environment to our individual preferences and needs. I need colour, pattern and texture like other people need comfortable clothes.

Do I miss my colleagues? A little. I see them twice a week in online meetings and we  exchange messages during the day. I do miss the easy idea-building that comes from face-to-face meetings, but mostly I love getting my work done without interruptions. At work I need headphones and music to stay focused, even though I find audio input tiring. At home I can focus surrounded by blissful silence.

I love that work has transitioned so seamlessly to this model. After a lifetime spent trying to convince employers that I would be more productive, healthier and happier working from home, it’s surprising and actually delightful to have it forced on me. I am still puzzling about how to take workshops that I facilitate online, but that’s an interesting challenge. Besides I really do think that face-to-face training is wasteful and has limited reach.

(And yes, I speak from a position of unspeakable privilege. I have a job, a salary, a comfortable apartment. I am healthy, for now. I know that these conditions cannot be assumed, although I do think that they should be more widespread in an optimistic future.)

So I’m starting to think about what happens after all this is over? Do we just go back to how things were before?

Well as far as the logistics of office work goes, I hope not. I hope that companies will appreciate the benefits of not having to have office space with the associated costs and effort. I hope that the excuses of how difficult it is to set up and supervise remote workers will have been exhausted. I hope that the convenience of a quick electronic exchange will replace many meetings. I hope to see company policies that discourage complicated and exhausting air travel to far-flung places as wasteful and environmentally damaging. I hope that cities free of traffic and parking problems will be valued enough for company car allowances to disappear and cities to impose special taxes on businesses that encourage commuting.

I would like to see a future in which companies ensure that employees have good living, and hence, working conditions. (Imagine the benefits for family members, for education, if employees all had high-speed internet to their homes.) I would like to see more virtual workplaces where we take advantage of technology to keep in touch while working in comfort. I would still like to meet face-to-face with colleagues, but not in an office. I want to work for an organisation that takes these meetings into restaurants, parks or creative co-work spaces, places that support the idea-building stuff that humans do so well when face-to-face.

When this grand, global experiment in living and working differently is over, what changes do you want to see?

Colour in my historic apartment

So, what do you do when you move into an apartment that is beautifully decorated in neutrals, and you are a colour person? Especially when it’s an historic apartment on loan to you that you can’t really alter much?

That was my predicament at the beginning of the year, when I moved into this amazing apartment in Guimarães back in March 2019. Here is is, in all it’s neutral glory…

Living room small

The real challenge was the wooden partition consisting of the exposed structure of the original wall that divides the apartment. Interesting, and attractive as a museum artefact, but hard to live with.

Well, I found a way to introduce colour.

Here’s what I did with some scraps of fabric, cardboard (thanks, Ikea) and cold winter nights with scissors, glue, needle and thread.

IMG_20191124_114218 (2)

I cut cardboard panels to fit the (very irregular) spaces in the partition, collected some fabric off-cuts in related colours and glued and sewed the fabric onto each triangle.

The covered card is simply wedged into place in each opening, so as not to damage the historic construction. They are reasonably solid, except in the face of vigorous vacuum-cleaning.

Some details of the different panels

I particularly like the line of purple triangles along the top. I think they echo the ramparts of the local Guimarães castle.

Here’s to a colourful time in 2020!



Cute lion cubs and bad feelings

Last night, my insomniac meanderings through social media brought me to this super-cute video ( Great animation!

Canned lion cub

Of course the video has a nasty twist at the end that leaves a bad feeling. Made worse by having actually gone out of my way to play with the lion cubs. (You can sign the petition against canned lion hunting here.)

This is why I generally ration social media and filter ruthlessly. I don’t like the way so much of it induces bad feelings. Especially when those bad feelings are laid like a trap at the end of what promises to be a good experience. (Who doesn’t love a cute young feline?)

But there’s a lot of bad stuff in the world and just running away from it, putting your head in the sand, is not always possible, or desirable. Those bad feelings ought to motivate me to do something, to make the world better. Right?

It made me think about all those paperback books I paged through, left behind by my partner’s parents who fled Nazi Germany, that pondered how “looking the other way” allowed great evil to flourish. We need to bravely face the things that create bad feelings in order to act.

And that made me think about the guilty luxury of holing up here in peaceful Portugal, far away from South Africa with all it’s pain and turmoil.

And that made me think about Maria Phalima, the South African doctor who walked away from her profession. You can watch her story on YouTube (

Maria Phalima

She describes a healthcare system where doctors are overwhelmed and burned out. As she explains, she had become someone she did not want to be. Her choice to leave was about choosing wholeness and fulfillment, choosing not to suffer. As she says: “The world needs us at our best.” (Here’s a non-affiliate link to buy Maria’s book Postmortem: The Doctor Who Walked Away.)

She describes her experience in public healthcare as “hellish” and that’s pretty much what South African higher education started to feel like in the last few years. Not that people were dying around me (although some were beaten up), but that the under-staffing, pressure to do more, student protests, and bitter tensions over race obscured the reasons for what I was doing. I had lost all compassion for students, where once I had believed that teaching had to be underpinned by love. It was a time filled with bad feelings.

I took early retirement from a tenured academic position in South Africa’s top university, and retreated to Portugal. I love Maria’s idea that I have a right to well-being, to thrive instead of suffering.

But how do we deal with the bad feelings that come from facing ugly realities, without feeling overwhelmed? How do we act responsibly while still allowing ourselves space and energy to contribute positively to the world?

In fifty-eight years on the planet, most of it spent compulsively learning (five degrees, two graduate diplomas and any number of certificates of competency to show for it), the most useful thing I’ve learned is how to do a grounding meditation and let bad feelings flow away into the earth. (I learned that from Jeffrey Allen through Mindvalley. There are cheaper ways to learn it.)

That practice allows me to start each day with a clean slate, with energy to enjoy life on this beautiful, crazy planet. But my meanderings, from pure mathematics to the hippy world of energy, have also taught me a more valuable lesson.

The troubling thing about the cute lion cub video is that it sets up the hunter as the bad guy: the fat white American (of course he’s American, or maybe German) with a gun, who is, after all, the cause of this evil canned hunting.

The petition says that “Those who conduct canned hunts should pay for their actions, as they heartlessly take innocent animal lives.” Actually, they do. They pay handsomely for the experience and in the process, they create jobs.

I am not defending hunters. I want to live in a world where life, in all it’s glory, is respected. But demonizing the hunter is not going to get me there. I have a much better chance of that world if I can regard the hunter as yet one more of the infinitely variable shapes of human. That will allow space for me to engage with the hunter, to understand what makes him tick and why he chooses to do this. That will allow space for the hunter to be receptive to my world view.

And that’s the real problem with social media. It creates barriers to communication by presenting fixed positions, by “othering”.

And that’s the beauty of learning to meditate. It not only helps me to deal constructively with bad feelings, it also allows me to cultivate compassion for those “others”, which opens up paths of communication.

I look forward to the day when these skills are taught alongside reading and arithmetic, as fundamental tools for being good humans. I hope, one day, to be proficient enough to be able to face more of the world, without letting the bad feelings overwhelm me.


One brain to rule the city

I’ve been watching YouTube videos of Alibaba’s City Brain in action, and I must say I’m impressed.

The City Brain is an attempt to take all the data generated in a city and to use that data to manage the city by making intelligent decisions in real time.

So, for example, cameras trained on a road intersection produce massive amounts of data, but it’s in a format that is very hard for people to use effectively. This data can be interpreted, using algorithms, to identify the type of traffic and the directions in which it is flowing. The City Brain can then change the timing of traffic lights to improve the traffic flow. It can also identify problems, such as a stationary vehicle blocking a lane, or an accident, and alert the appropriate authority.

Another example is connecting fire alarm systems with street maps and building plans. Instead of just sounding an alarm, a smoke detector can inform the city fire department exactly where a fire is, can work out a route for vehicles to get to the fire, and can control other traffic along the way to allow quick access. It can also give fire-fighters information about the building, how to access it and how to navigate around inside it.

The City Brain combines data from maps of the city, cameras, traffic lights, navigation systems in public and private vehicles, sensors around the city, social media apps and networks. It provides services that include detecting traffic events, predicting congestion, optimizing traffic lights, dispatching emergency services and adjusting bus frequencies based on demand. One of the benefits of the city brain is that it’s a software based solution that uses existing data sources, so its relatively low-cost. The system does not need new infrastructure installed to make it work.

The system was first implemented in Hangzhou, China where it is reported to have increased travel speeds, reduced travel time, reduced emergency response times, and increased the accuracy of identifying incidents. It has since been rolled out in four more cities in China as well as in Macau and Kuala Lumpur. There are plans to roll it out in the Middle East.

All this is cool, but the best part, for me, is that drivers in these cities report that they drive better because they know that they are being watched.

I get excited about this because I’ve tried, too often, to drive out of Braamfontein (in Johannesburg) at 5pm on a weekday. Some drivers in Braamfontein think nothing of swinging out onto the right-hand side of the road (we drive on the left) and facing down oncoming traffic if it gets them a few car-lengths ahead. Trying to drive across an intersection when errant vehicles on your right are crossing in front of you to turn left, is a heart-stopping experience. So I really like the vision of order that a City Brain might bring to urban traffic.

Effectively, the City Brain acts as a panopticon, keeping an all-seeing eye on city drivers that results in them policing their own behavior. Now the panopticon design was intended for restrictive institutions like prisons, factories, asylums and schools, all places which sought to control the behaviour of many with the oversight of a few. Is it a good thing to constrain people so that they feel obliged to drive carefully because they are being watched?

I think so. People are not good at self-regulating. They do stupid things that make life in the city dangerous, so an external impetus to behave better improves the city for everyone at minimal cost to the individual. The City Brain is not trying to limit freedom in the way that a prison (or school) does. Rather, it is trying to make the city a better place in which to live and get around.

Could the City Brain become a monster that tries to control individuals more closely? Yes, it could, potentially, decide that you should not go to a particular part of town and you might find all routes there blocked. So we would need to make sure that important human freedoms are protected.

Does the City Brain make use of personal information in intrusive ways? That’s not clear from any of the information I have seen. I would hope that the use of individual social media data is something that can be opted into or out of. The system ought to be able to work with aggregate data, for example to assess the demand for public transport. But I can also see the benefit of using personal data. For example it would be helpful if an ambulance could be informed that the person involved in a traffic accident is diabetic. Presumably each city can decide which data can be used in which situations, in line with relevant legislation.

I think that big cities are going to find it hard to resist this kind of management tool, if it does deliver the benefits it claims. So a conversation about the potential implications, unintended consequences and where we draw the line for data use, is probably worth starting.

Drivers in Hangzhou clearly feel that they can be identified, presumably through car registration information. When cars are driver-less, the close connection between an individual and a vehicle will go away. There will also be no need to control the behaviour of the driver. Presumably, driver-less cars will obey traffic rules in the first place and when the City Brain does need to control them, for example to take charge in an emergency, it can be done directly with no messy, conscious, fleshy human getting in the way.

Personally I’m hoping that the whole traffic problem will fade away as private ownership of cars becomes a thing of the past. Shared car services and public transport will be good for the planet, and also for the physical spaces we inhabit once we grass the parking lots and plant trees. I sold my car earlier this year and I hope never to have to own another. In the meanwhile I can’t wait to have the City Brain tackle the traffic in Johannesburg.

Image by Tumisu from Pixabay.

A small city throws a big party

It started with a three-page letter from the municipality in our mailbox. Painstaking translation revealed that there was to be a party, the streets would be closed, and those unfortunate enough to own cars would have to move them for the festivities. There was an offer of alternative parking, for the night.

Then I noticed that the shops along my usual stroll to work were turning white. White pompoms appeared and window displays developed a white theme. White clothing, white stationery, white jewellery, white shoes, white hats, white furnishings. Round signs appeared in the windows: Noite Branca.

I checked online and found pictures of the streets teeming with people, all dressed in white, drinks in hand. Videos confirmed music. I wondered if I could book accommodation in the next town at short notice. Crowds. Noise. Not my scene. But, being recently returned from a trip to Aveiro, I decided that I wanted to be at home. Our apartment faces away from the street. I have earplugs.

Saturday morning, the preparations began in earnest. Men with really long ladders were stringing white balloons across the street as I walked back from the supermarket. Apartment balconies were festooned with white ribbons, cloth, more balloons. The streets were emptying. Restaurants were setting up stands along the pavement. The chains between the bollards that keep the cars off the pedestrians were unlocked and rolled up.

The party was billed to start at 8 pm, so after dinner, we took a stroll around the town. It was about 8:30 pm. There was a festive air. Families were about, dressed in white finery. The children looked especially fine, in new outfits, being posed and photographed against the prettier than usual old city setting. Restaurants revealed large tables, crowded with families and friends, all dressed in white, dining enthusiastically and noisily. Groups in the street were greeting, kissing, laughing, hugging.

Mime artists were setting up, with elaborate outfits and props. I thought the operatic music added to the one performance was a great touch. It certainly drew attention. Hopeful vendors laden with balloons, white hats, and headbands twined white flowers and flashing lights paced expectantly. A couple crossed our path, dressed in black. Was it a protest? Or were they just tourists who packed light and didn’t have anything white?

There were three big stages set up, one for a live band, the other two with screens and sound systems. Music was playing, accompanied by advertising on big screens. The McDonald’s ad seemed really out of place. I am not aware of a McDonald’s here in Guimarães, although there is one, no doubt. It just seems such a remove from the little restaurants with their excellent meals. Fully-stocked bars had appeared on the streets.

We sat on the side of a fountain for a bit, until the relentless bass wore me down and we strolled home for a cup of tea, deciding that the party wasn’t going to start for some time.

IMG_20190706_215126On our second foray, things were hotting up. The streets were full, with groups of teenagers running across our path, parents dancing with smaller kids in the square, and lots of people moving from one square to the next. Shiny balloons with flashing lights distracted me. On the steps of a church a graffiti artist had set up shop, with a crate of spray-paint and paper, he was producing, and selling paintings, on the spot. Twenty Euros each. On a street corner a group of small boys hunched over a file full of Pokemon cards, oblivious. The bars were busy. So were the stands selling food.

At ten, we faded. The bands had not yet emerged. I’m sure they played. The party was billed to last until 3am. I’m sure there was dancing. I was in bed, with my earplugs in.

So here is what I am thinking this morning…

How cool is it that public parties here are for everyone, from the kids we saw everywhere to the ancient woman being pushed in a wheelchair, greeting an equally ancient man and summoning him across the road to talk?

How cool is it that the town puts on a public party? There is no entrance fee. Yes, there are vendors and local businesses all trying to sell something, but the atmosphere, the decorations, the music are all free. What a good way to spend taxes.

I try to think of analogous public events in Johannesburg and I can only think of sports events and music events; mostly with controlled access and appeal to a narrow sliver of the population. Sunday markets perhaps? Again, a particular demographic. Perhaps size has something to do with it? Perhaps it is easier to have wide appeal in a smaller city with less diversity.

And safety of course. In South Africa we’d never let our kids roam free they way they do here. I learned this week that Portugal has been ranked the third safest country in the world. Maybe it’s the frequent partying that engenders good will, fellow feeling and that elusive social cohesion. Imagine tackling crime by throwing parties.

An apartment in Guimarães

Moving from a four-bedroomed, stand-alone house in Johannesburg, complete with wonderful folding doors that open up to a large tree-filled garden, I was apprehensive about how a small apartment in Guimarães would compare. We discussed it on our flight over. What were we hoping for?

I was actually looking forward to living in a smaller space. I was tired of the work involved in a large house and the amount of stuff that accumulates to fill it. I was also excited about the prospect of living within walking distance of shops and restaurants.

There were two considerations that were really important to me. First, I wanted light. I get easily depressed and even more quickly in gloomy surroundings. Already we would be giving up the brilliance of those endless African skies and so the thought of small windows was terrifying. Second, I wanted high ceilings. If I had to live in a smaller footprint, I at least needed space above me to be able to breathe easily. After that, my only other hope was for a view that included some greenery to make up for the garden I was leaving behind.

Guimarães of course, is famous for it’s beautiful old medieval buildings. Like these. This is the street outside my apartment. I was worried about what old buildings might look like on the inside.

Our street small

The view down our street

What we have has exceeded all our expectations. Our apartment is one large room, 10 by 12 of my normal walking paces. The ceiling is high, the walls are white and there is plenty of air for me to breathe. One whole wall is taken up by four giant glass doors that open to one of the characteristically narrow balconies that adorn Guimarães buildings. It’s just wide enough to stand on and fits a chair, perfect for my morning meditation.

Living room small

The living area

The cherry on the top is that our balcony overlooks a walled garden with an assortment of small trees. Looking up we have a view of colourful buildings and the Montanha de Penha with the Santuário de Nossa Senhora do Carmo da Penha at the top. Facing away from the street also means that the apartment was quiet last night (Friday), although the street was bustling.

Walled garden small

We look down into a walled garden

The sun rises to our left and fills the room with light in the morning. I estimate that the windows face South-South-East, which is great for optimising light but avoiding the worst of the afternoon heat. We turned on the heating yesterday evening as things cooled down, but today the apartment has been warm all day.

The building we are in is newly renovated. Renovations here mean keeping the outer façade of each building intact, while modernising the interior. There is a small kitchen area and a bathroom, cleverly constructed with cupboards in front and an opaque glass wall dividing them. All very modern. In our apartment is a divider of the structural wood from the original building. At the door is a plaque with information about Senhora da Oliveira who the apartment is named after. It’s a bit like living in a museum, which is, I guess, what a heritage village is.

Apartment name small

Our apartment is named

We are the first tenants to move in, which has resulted in some excitement. Last night we had a visit from the owner of the shop downstairs to say that when we showered, she was getting water pouring into her shop. This morning we were called back from our shopping to let the man in to sort that out.

We arrived to new furniture and linen and a well-fitted, but totally empty kitchen. So this morning (Saturday) was spent buying essentials – a chopping board, mugs, a saucepan and spatula. Having spent the past six weeks getting rid of stuff, I am very wary of filling up this pristine space, so it really is only the bare essentials. We managed to cook up a pasta meal for lunch, and make tea, so I’m now quite comfortable.

The décor is very plain. Cream sofa, cream curtains around the bed. Those of you who know me will appreciate that at some point I’m going to have to bring some colour in here, or go mad. We’ll be doing that in time. For now, it is enough to have a comfortable bed to catch up on sleep and rest.

We are right bang in the middle of the old city and surrounded by tourist attractions. Walking home from our foray to buy local SIM cards we pitied the tourists who had to take all this in during a short trip. Our nine months means we can take our time, savour the streets and churches one at a time and try more of the myriad restaurants and pastry shops.

So far, the omens are all good.

View of the hill small

View of Montanha de Penha from our window