Van Gogh and Bangkok

A fortnight ago today, I was getting ready to say goodbye to the Ria Formosa, to my love and to the two cats that accompanied us on this new adventure of longing. We had met so quickly but intensely in a vacation village that I have known since the 1980s, one that remained faithful to the original, local architecture and that still exists with barely any contemporary gadgets, which, in my humble opinion, is almost always a guarantee of a more pleasant, real neighbourhood. And so it was: when I arrived, Van Gogh was already there. Contrary to what was customary forty years ago, and still is painfully visible in such holidays accommodations in Mediterranean islands or almost any other southern destination for that effect, the animals on the loose did not not walk in packs nor in skin and bones. That's because they are fed and looked after by those who actually live there for most of the year, they’re not mere spectral of ghostly, uninhabited villas in Spring, Fall and Winter months - these an undeniably grotesque, countless part of the nowadays Algarve.

Bangkok arrived after myself, somewhat irritated by the familiarity already conquered by his father or brother; about the blood ties some doubts remain, as for the particularities of their personalities not so many, quite distinct in what concerns easygoingness and dedication skills. They resemble each other physically, but differ so much in their coexistent ways of approaching and just being around humans. Of these few days, apart from the resplendent Nature, the certainty of willingness as a must for perceived joy stands out, plus the established fact that the now more than pleasant months of May and October, still a far cry from the horrible hustle and bustle of mass tourism in the region we nonetheless adore, bring us closer to any actual residents and our own true need to exist only in health, peace and love together, even if for a very brief time span, away from this other world in the metropolis. Lame, I know. On the morning of my all too early departure, Van Gogh was asleep at the door, it was he who profited most from the spoils of such happy decadence. Or shall I dare to say perfectly imagined, created and sustained paradise for some? Still recovering from the dreamy, but much lived rented reality.