February 4. City over the Rainbow.

Famous scene with Streetcar 

The next day, I turned into a tourist. Got up early, same breakfast, same women, same atmosphere. But I met Alicia, a little Chinese woman who was nice to talk to. With her and some other guys we walked up to the castle. If you’re visiting Lisbon, you should walk up to the castle first, provided the weather is good. You’ll have a great view over downtown Lisbon and the red bridge in the distance.
We entered the castle without the other guys, and took a lot of pictures. I’ll upload them to different albums on Picasa, so my readers can see the photographic harvest of every single day. That castle was interesting indeed. Built on a hill with an abundancy of defense structures I didn’t know they existed. Man is ingenious defending himself from other men, he’s freaking brilliant. So the weather was so wunderful. We went to Belém where the tower of Belém is, the Torre de Belém is a nice building with canons still inside. Free entrance for students and
people who have student complexion like myself and Alicia. The tower is part of the Tejo defense. There was a tower on the other side of the river as well and once the artillery was
powerful enough they covered all of the water. No Armada could sail in here. I have to tell a secret about the tower, or something I like to call a secret but is just a publicly know fact. From the second floor, you can see a Rhinoceros shaped corbel unter the bartizan. I gazed at it, it made me happy. We had some Pastéis de Belém which is known as the best even the recipy is a secret. The sun, o the sun it was hot for early February. We went back to Lisbon, had a simple dinner in the Barrio Alto. I brought Alicia to a bus she went to Sevilla she didn’t have so many days off. The busses leave at the Zoo, and I lived near the Zoo with couchsurfers Rui and Viviane, the sun was still shining late that night.

For some photographs, see this album on Facebook if you are a member of Facebook.
Otherwise, see this Picasa album.

February 1. In the Dutch enclave.

A lot of Dutch live in this area. It’s popular to live here. Not like the Algarve, this is popular among people with style, and maybe money, too. We went to a second hand market somewhere
in the hills. A lot of Dutch expats, yes they called themselves expats, were around, and a very tall Brit. Two meter six he was, that Brit. He sold flowers I guess. For basketball he was too short, he told me. You have to be seven feet tall for basketball. We went to have some coffee and I was
introduced to the inner circle of the Dutch enclave. A graphic artist, a woman who adored traveling the world with huge beads around her neck, a former director of a company I won’t
mention here. All were nice, friendly, interested. We went to have dinner at a private place. A trained cook served guests at his mansion, so saving the cost of a waitress. It was great. We had a quiche, white meat, spinach, puree. There was a little discussion about a Dutch expat who had behaved badly in some ways. The guy had sinned against the moral code. He must be talked about. The food was so great I could cry.
That night I saw a James Bond movie with my friend, who is actually quite famous and a bit of an idol of mine in my adolescent days. That felt great, a bit unreal too. But inspiring for that is all the most important. We saw something about oil pipelines, too. The biggest problem for the early oil industry was the transportation of the black gold. I tried to look up some old poetry on my computer but couldn’t find it. The pipelines have to be connected very carefully. Modern day
measurement techniques help to make them absolutely safe. The old poetry might be in my storage room in Berlin. I’ll look for it there. Except for earthquakes, they can always distroy
the vulnarable pipelines.

February 1. In the Dutch enclave.

A lot of Dutch live in this area. It’s popular to live here. Not like the Algarve, this is popular among people with style, and maybe money, too. We went to a second hand market somewhere
in the hills. A lot of Dutch expats, yes they called themselves expats, were around, and a very tall Brit. Two meter six he was, that Brit. He sold flowers I guess. For basketball he was too short, he told me. You have to be seven feet tall for basketball. We went to have some coffee and I was
introduced to the inner circle of the Dutch enclave. A graphic artist, a woman who adored traveling the world with huge beads around her neck, a former director of a company I won’t
mention here. All were nice, friendly, interested. We went to have dinner at a private place. A trained cook served guests at his mansion, so saving the cost of a waitress. It was great. We had a quiche, white meat, spinach, puree. There was a little discussion about a Dutch expat who had behaved badly in some ways. The guy had sinned against the moral code. He must be talked about. The food was so great I could cry.
That night I saw a James Bond movie with my friend, who is actually quite famous and a bit of an idol of mine in my adolescent days. That felt great, a bit unreal too. But inspiring for that is all the most important. We saw something about oil pipelines, too. The biggest problem for the early oil industry was the transportation of the black gold. I tried to look up some old poetry on my computer but couldn’t find it. The pipelines have to be connected very carefully. Modern day
measurement techniques help to make them absolutely safe. The old poetry might be in my storage room in Berlin. I’ll look for it there. Except for earthquakes, they can always distroy
the vulnarable pipelines.

February 1. In the Dutch enclave.

A lot of Dutch live in this area. It’s popular to live here. Not like the Algarve, this is popular among people with style, and maybe money, too. We went to a second hand market somewhere
in the hills. A lot of Dutch expats, yes they called themselves expats, were around, and a very tall Brit. Two meter six he was, that Brit. He sold flowers I guess. For basketball he was too short, he told me. You have to be seven feet tall for basketball. We went to have some coffee and I was
introduced to the inner circle of the Dutch enclave. A graphic artist, a woman who adored traveling the world with huge beads around her neck, a former director of a company I won’t
mention here. All were nice, friendly, interested. We went to have dinner at a private place. A trained cook served guests at his mansion, so saving the cost of a waitress. It was great. We had a quiche, white meat, spinach, puree. There was a little discussion about a Dutch expat who had behaved badly in some ways. The guy had sinned against the moral code. He must be talked about. The food was so great I could cry.
That night I saw a James Bond movie with my friend, who is actually quite famous and a bit of an idol of mine in my adolescent days. That felt great, a bit unreal too. But inspiring for that is all the most important. We saw something about oil pipelines, too. The biggest problem for the early oil industry was the transportation of the black gold. I tried to look up some old poetry on my computer but couldn’t find it. The pipelines have to be connected very carefully. Modern day
measurement techniques help to make them absolutely safe. The old poetry might be in my storage room in Berlin. I’ll look for it there. Except for earthquakes, they can always distroy
the vulnarable pipelines.

January 31. Life as Literature.

Birthday of Beatrix, the Dutch queen. Felt even more connected to my native country. I woke up at nine, and was taken care of again. I’m so grateful. We went to the village with the new dog that day. The new dog can’t be together with the old one yet, since they’re not used to each other. The new dog pisses in the room to mark his new territory, and the old dog scares him away as he was taught to scare away rats and unwelcome visitors. The village was nice, the people as laid-
back as they could be. Standing gloomily at the side of the road, noddig at each other and then walking on, slowly as ever. Old people live here, but the colors are young. We had a coffee in a small place and spoke about life here in the countryside. One day, I want to move to such a
place, away from the huzzle of a numbing metropolitan existence, away from the tube, the noise, and the concrete layers.
That day I read some poetry which was a stupid overkill of halfbaken metaphorical amuses. Definitely not my chef d’oeuvre. It would be a good thing when poetry could kill, my friend told me. Yes, stab somebody with a sentence, no need to wipe off the blood afterwards, no traces, no
guilt. And no need to sharpen the blade. We had a Portuguese dinner again. Potatoes and fish, good fish.

There was an American guy who came to clean the pool. I must keep him incognito, so he can’t be identified. He had had a remarkable life. Deserted in Vietnam. Refused to kill villagers, the children. Raised his voice and said no to napalm and agent orange and crimes against humanity
that didn’t go by that name in those days. A humane hero, at least in my imagination. I liked him, he was very relaxed about his walk of life. And still, how many child molesters, rapists, brutal pleasure killers walk around with purple hearts wagging on their fat bellies? He was nice, okay?
We saw it on the tv that evening, a soldier in Iraq left alone with his trauma. The guy had to shoot children who could possibly betray him on his secret mission to kill high-profile figures. He was 26, left alone by the army, his wife, a drug addict with hallucinations. It was the guy who
found Saddam Hussein. The tv documentary stirred in the hot soup of his misery and told us that we should be compassionate with the poor basterd. With that cowardous child killer, who chooses his carreer in the army over the life an innocent child, the life of God knows how many childs. The pool was so dawn clean after he had done his work. It was the cleanest pool of the village. All blue tiles glistening in the heavy sunlight.

In the afternoon we visited some Chinese shops that sold cheap stuff. You could buy crutches there. In Holland they have to be ‘arranged for’ and it cost you ten times more money. It was funny in its uselessness. How hard they work, the Chinese. My friends bought garden earth and with the earth we took a taxi back but we forgot the earth and had to call the taxi again and he came and delivered the earth and with the earth we went into the house.

January 31. Life as Literature.

Birthday of Beatrix, the Dutch queen. Felt even more connected to my native country. I woke up at nine, and was taken care of again. I’m so grateful. We went to the village with the new dog that day. The new dog can’t be together with the old one yet, since they’re not used to each other. The new dog pisses in the room to mark his new territory, and the old dog scares him away as he was taught to scare away rats and unwelcome visitors. The village was nice, the people as laid-
back as they could be. Standing gloomily at the side of the road, noddig at each other and then walking on, slowly as ever. Old people live here, but the colors are young. We had a coffee in a small place and spoke about life here in the countryside. One day, I want to move to such a
place, away from the huzzle of a numbing metropolitan existence, away from the tube, the noise, and the concrete layers.
That day I read some poetry which was a stupid overkill of halfbaken metaphorical amuses. Definitely not my chef d’oeuvre. It would be a good thing when poetry could kill, my friend told me. Yes, stab somebody with a sentence, no need to wipe off the blood afterwards, no traces, no
guilt. And no need to sharpen the blade. We had a Portuguese dinner again. Potatoes and fish, good fish.

There was an American guy who came to clean the pool. I must keep him incognito, so he can’t be identified. He had had a remarkable life. Deserted in Vietnam. Refused to kill villagers, the children. Raised his voice and said no to napalm and agent orange and crimes against humanity
that didn’t go by that name in those days. A humane hero, at least in my imagination. I liked him, he was very relaxed about his walk of life. And still, how many child molesters, rapists, brutal pleasure killers walk around with purple hearts wagging on their fat bellies? He was nice, okay?
We saw it on the tv that evening, a soldier in Iraq left alone with his trauma. The guy had to shoot children who could possibly betray him on his secret mission to kill high-profile figures. He was 26, left alone by the army, his wife, a drug addict with hallucinations. It was the guy who
found Saddam Hussein. The tv documentary stirred in the hot soup of his misery and told us that we should be compassionate with the poor basterd. With that cowardous child killer, who chooses his carreer in the army over the life an innocent child, the life of God knows how many childs. The pool was so dawn clean after he had done his work. It was the cleanest pool of the village. All blue tiles glistening in the heavy sunlight.

In the afternoon we visited some Chinese shops that sold cheap stuff. You could buy crutches there. In Holland they have to be ‘arranged for’ and it cost you ten times more money. It was funny in its uselessness. How hard they work, the Chinese. My friends bought garden earth and with the earth we took a taxi back but we forgot the earth and had to call the taxi again and he came and delivered the earth and with the earth we went into the house.

January 31. Life as Literature.

Birthday of Beatrix, the Dutch queen. Felt even more connected to my native country. I woke up at nine, and was taken care of again. I’m so grateful. We went to the village with the new dog that day. The new dog can’t be together with the old one yet, since they’re not used to each other. The new dog pisses in the room to mark his new territory, and the old dog scares him away as he was taught to scare away rats and unwelcome visitors. The village was nice, the people as laid-
back as they could be. Standing gloomily at the side of the road, noddig at each other and then walking on, slowly as ever. Old people live here, but the colors are young. We had a coffee in a small place and spoke about life here in the countryside. One day, I want to move to such a
place, away from the huzzle of a numbing metropolitan existence, away from the tube, the noise, and the concrete layers.
That day I read some poetry which was a stupid overkill of halfbaken metaphorical amuses. Definitely not my chef d’oeuvre. It would be a good thing when poetry could kill, my friend told me. Yes, stab somebody with a sentence, no need to wipe off the blood afterwards, no traces, no
guilt. And no need to sharpen the blade. We had a Portuguese dinner again. Potatoes and fish, good fish.

There was an American guy who came to clean the pool. I must keep him incognito, so he can’t be identified. He had had a remarkable life. Deserted in Vietnam. Refused to kill villagers, the children. Raised his voice and said no to napalm and agent orange and crimes against humanity
that didn’t go by that name in those days. A humane hero, at least in my imagination. I liked him, he was very relaxed about his walk of life. And still, how many child molesters, rapists, brutal pleasure killers walk around with purple hearts wagging on their fat bellies? He was nice, okay?
We saw it on the tv that evening, a soldier in Iraq left alone with his trauma. The guy had to shoot children who could possibly betray him on his secret mission to kill high-profile figures. He was 26, left alone by the army, his wife, a drug addict with hallucinations. It was the guy who
found Saddam Hussein. The tv documentary stirred in the hot soup of his misery and told us that we should be compassionate with the poor basterd. With that cowardous child killer, who chooses his carreer in the army over the life an innocent child, the life of God knows how many childs. The pool was so dawn clean after he had done his work. It was the cleanest pool of the village. All blue tiles glistening in the heavy sunlight.

In the afternoon we visited some Chinese shops that sold cheap stuff. You could buy crutches there. In Holland they have to be ‘arranged for’ and it cost you ten times more money. It was funny in its uselessness. How hard they work, the Chinese. My friends bought garden earth and with the earth we took a taxi back but we forgot the earth and had to call the taxi again and he came and delivered the earth and with the earth we went into the house.