Speeding
down along the A2 to the Algarve, my older daughter commented: “This is what I imagine Africa looks
like.” She’s right. The trees are different but the
landscape is not dissimilar to the Sahel, as you travel from, say Dakar to
Bamako on the train. A dry,
raised, savannah, with scrub and sandy soil, this is a completely different
climate, from where we’d been the last few days.
I’m setting now in a hotel breakfast lounge with an empty
espresso cup. I suppose I’ll be
here for a while. The house our
family rented for the next few days does not have any internet. I’ve gone into town and visited a place
to buy mobile phones in the nearby mall.
They had a USB stick, which I did bought. But there is a per-gigabyte charge that seems like it is going
to be impractical for anything beyond reading the newspaper and sending a few
emails. Certainly if I want to
upload photos to this blog everyday an alternative is going to be needed.
Getting off the grid, sounds romantic, but I have too many
balls in the air just now and one day of anonymity feels like a week in the
dark. I got a call at 2:00AM, a
call at 5:00AM, and then I just turned the phone off. But all that outreach works its way into your dreams and
leaves you agitated. This morning
I woke up determined get this connecting matter settled, just like I did, the
day before. The smaller cafes on
the way down to the beach were either closed or without connectivity. I spied this massive construction, “The
Presidente” and made my way over after a nice walk on Praia Da Rocha, which reminded me oddly with all these stairs up
and down the sheer cliffs of Fort Funston in San Francisco.
With connectivity comes musical discovery as well. And a good thing too. This hotel’s soundtrack is my idea of the
nadir of all recorded music, 80’s pop music, recorded when the hate of music I
didn’t like was at its most acute.
Without aural protection, I would up in the waitress face, 横眉怒目[1] demanding they turn it down. But as it is, Flock of Seagulls are only confronted for
brief moments when the WiFi kicks out.
Otherwise I’ve got a new friend to hang here with.
Who is this guy Benny Bailey? I’ve got his 1960 release "Big Brass" on and it’s new and yet
already familiar with Tommy Flanagan on the keys setting Mr. Bailey up for such
a refined story telling on this cut, “Alison”, which I will have to hip my
sister to and which she’ll appreciate is spelled properly with one “L” and not
two. Born in the same state
as my sister’s husband, in Cleveland Ohio, Mr. Bailey died about nine years back on
this side of the Atlantic, in Amsterdam.
Phil Woods, Les Span and Julius Watkins are also on this set, none of
whom have I profiled before, so we’ll dig in over the next few days. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Benny_Bailey
I’ve got the whole breakfast joint to myself now. It’s a rather uninspiring view but
that’s about right for a work environment. There is a restaurant across the way that overlooks the
beach. I could head over there and
really feel like I’m in the Algarve and perhaps I will later, but for now I
should keep pushing on work on this isn’t going to happen. Off to my right one of the hotel staff
has welcomed what I can only imagine are a number of guests in. They are now being walked through all
the items on the hotel’s three ring binder in German. Thank God for this noise reduction head set.
My sister, the one with the same name as the song, is
texting me. They’re all off
looking at caves. She has my
younger daughter and my mother has my older daughter. She is texting me that they have gotten separated from my
mom and my older daughter. “Tell
her to meet at the Henry the Navigator statue.” They all seem to have Verizon phones, which still don’t work
overseas. I can’t imagine ever
subscribing to such a service.
I’ve dialled their European phones numbers but these don’t work. I may need to find out where Henry’s
statue is and head there myself.
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