Hometown Blues

An impromptu homeward bound and back sounds like a good idea so I decided to pay a quick visit to my hometown instead of spending another meaningless weekend doing nothing (i.e. devouring pepperoni pizza slices in bed, relentlessly netflixing). I surprised my parents by showing up out of the blue late in the evening on a very quiet Friday.

I didn't exactly miss that small lukewarm town; I missed my parents, my old friends (and no, it's not because they pick me up at the airport already complaining about how hungry they are) and the bedroom my mother once painted red to please me when I was a faddy teen. The town itself, however, has become terribly tedious, I can't believe I've managed to live in such a stagnant place for so long. It's like Chernobyl or Silent Hill but in the sunny Algarve. I felt like Alice in Wasteland. Empty streets, closed cafés, an uneventful night out, cheap wine, maudlin memories soaking in fig liquor and waiting to drown. The absence of footprints along the stretch of sand.

Going back to Lagos brought me a strange sense of nostalgia tied to a helpless feeling of emptiness. It's like coming back to a home that is no longer your home but in a way, it still feels like it is, do you know what I mean? It's bittersweet. Time and space stood still, nothing has changed. I feel torn apart between two countries, not belonging exclusively to one or the other. Am I supposed to feel free or lost?

Anyway, I had a good time: I ate like a greedy pig, rode my much-missed bicycle, drank proper medronho, shared a chicken croissant (yes, it's a thing) with my partner-in-feast Cláudia, had insightful conversations with Daniela when she drove me back to the airport to the sound of Roxy Music and promised myself to fly to Portugal more often, for the sake of family, friends and food.