Eric, this is why you should go to Portugal!

Café Pastéis de Belém; Belem

Restaurante Rosinha; Matoshinos

The amazing thing about Portugal, is that you'll probably discover a couple of best's. Just as I did.

Have a blast, Eric-o!

Crave.

I miss Leuven, so so much.

There isn't a day that goes by without me thinking of my lovely little room in 17 Ierse Predikherenstraat.

And running in the wind in my blue tracksuit to Origin O' Leuven to get my fix of organic chocolate and hummus.

And walking up Naamsestraat to get tofu and oyster sauce from the Asian supermarket.

And getting plastic-bag burns from hurling all my grocery shopping back from Delhaize @ Heverlee.

And bringing my bound readings and a highlighter to the laundromat and (making an attempt at) reading while waiting for my laundry to be done.

And "ein warme waffle, austublieft!" choruses I'd echo each day at the stall on Dieststraat.

And running on gravel and grass in the tiny park down the hill.

And the dreary wooden doors of the auditorium.

And the gothic structures on every surface.

And my heart skipping a beat while walking in the rain to the train station to pick the visiting boyfriend up. All the while worrying about whether the banana cake I'd baked for him was cooling well by the window sill.

And the rain, oh pitter patter.

I want to be there. Be home. Be there, and not here.

Home!

And so it is, just like you said it would be

I'm the sort of person who begins things never thinking of the end; or that the end will come anytime soon, for that matter.

But it's been six months and tonight is my final night in Leuven.

The floors have been scrubbed, the photos peeled off the wall, the fridge emptied, the bags packed. Everything's ready for its vertrek, it's departure; everything except for me.

I don't want to say goodbye. I don't know how to bid this perfect life farewell full-knowing I will never have it again.


Can't take my mind off you

3 working days, nay?

I have;

:no chargers so my handphone AND camera are both dead and gone.
:no toothbrush. 'Nuff said.
:no toiletries. Zip, nada, nothing.
:no access to the anti-itch histamine cream I so desperately need for them damned rashes.
:no access to any of the stuff I so gleefully picked up at the Spanish summer sale.
:no way of going to Amsterdam.
:no idea if I am ever going to get my LV bags returned.
:no idea if I will retrieve the birthday present I got for Lulu.
:none of the memories I picked up while travelling.


He has;

:no Eurail pass, so ditto, no Amsterdam.
:no shirts. (So thank God for the 10Euro section at Springfield's)
:nothing to sleep in. (And thank God for my Dutch flatmates)
:no credit card.
:no money.
:no Barca memorabilia.
:none of the stuff he picked up at the Spanish summer sale.
:no idea if he will get his Balenciaga wallet back.
:none of the magnets he collected from every city we visited.


We have;
:no idea why they lost our baggage.
:no idea whether our baggage is still in Barca or en-route to like, Malaga.
:no idea when we will get it back.
:no sodding person in the Spanish Airport telling us anything.
:every reason to be pissed off.

Hot couture

Hola mi amigos!

Seville is a beautiful town and its architecture is so lush and decadent but the heat, the heat! It sticks to your skin and there's really no way to get rid of it when your hostel puts you up in a room that casts serious doubts on the issue of ventilation.

We've been mucking around at night because it's just too hot to do anything. I suppose this is all good now that I only have 12 days more before I return home to (even) muckier Singapore and I best be prepared for the tropics.

Second-largest might not be second-best

So today we arrive on Portugese soil, a first for theboy and I. We had absolutely no inkling whatsoever about the language ('tis pretty serious when you arrive without knowing how to say 'Thank you' in the local language) and not much knowledge about the people and the culture.

But after half a day in Porto, the only thing that is definite about Portugal is the fact that it can be described in one word: Beautiful.

Taking the bus to the beach revealed bridges so high-up it felt like we were just midway between aeroplanes and the shore, an entire bus-side view of the ocean opening up as we were going at 90miles/hour, houses in stucco and sunwashed beige popping up like mushrooms amongst basil-like clumps of mountain vegetation... It kind of makes you lose words for a couple of minutes and then emerge from your thoughtfulness with a very intelligent Wahhh-wowww.

We picked the residential beach to begin our happy larking. I had to shout for theboy to hear me because the waves were crashing so hard on the rocks, and the water was a distinct blue-green. He ran like a young un to get his feet wet in the water, picking up conch shells and a particularly pretty rock that tickled his fancy. And I just lay on my beach towel lapping up some sun, my toes buried in a grainy mass of cool sand.

(Okay I realise the last paragraph sounded like a Joseph-Conrad-gone-happy piece of writing)

He actually opened a mussel to see what it looked like inside. And before doing so he approached me with a cautionary question: Do you think it will bite me?