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Portugal
The heat chilled by the twilight, deeper shadows in street canyons... Golden gleams on the walls... Clean laundry hanging on the lines... Cats in the doors, hidden under the pillows... Old ladies in the windows curious about a stranger’s face... Winding steps, narrow corners... Yellow trams climbing up the hills... Doors decorated with ceramic tiles... Squares, monuments, churches, houses, harbour - the frame-city of the mouth of the Tag River... Lazy sunsets, Italian supper on the balcony... Claret in the glasses, bitterness of a tart olive... The smell of seafood with cold Portuguese green wine... Sweetness of fruit ripe in the sun... Colors of the street, of the people passing by, of the mixture of cultures and skin tints... Miniature shops lost in the backstreets, restaurants and bars... Silver trails of rails on the calcareous-basalt set... Laughter and loud conversations, quiet twangs of a guitar coming from a curtained entrance...
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