Sintra, day 33.
We drove up to São Pedro de Sintra exhausted and dirty,
but with a year worth of food and clean clothes that Silvia and Tony scrupulously prepared for us.
When we met them earlier at the airport in Lisbon we categorically avoided any contact, in line with the tragedy of modern times: the inhibition of primordial needs, like hugging your daughter or your mum after many months of being apart.
I got out of the car for a few minutes and as I made sure nobody was around I removed the mask, quietly sat on a bench and enjoyed a brief moment of true beauty in over sixty hours of agony, an odyssey that took place in various airports and other sad places.
It’ll be difficult to forget the day we were denied entering the country where I was born and grew up, possibly even more difficult to forget the sadic laughter of the staff after we had to admit defeat and left. Don’t you worry silly cunts, karma will come after you.
I most likely won’t forget many other things, but I’ll have to make an exception this morning, after such a good night of sleep in this pretty prison we chose for our quarantine.
Pastel de nata and a nice coffee… we’re back to life.