Smoky Sunday

It is 13:56. Having got in at 4:45 this morning, i optimistically set the alarm for 10:30, only raising at 12:30. The sun was trying hard to shine and the usual elderlies were shouting on the street. I got out my i-pod, picked my soggy trainers from the balcony (rained last night? – or the cat again?) and ran off up and up and down and around and to the Jardim do Torel and up and down again, talking to a tramp, doing handstands, hearing the thunder coming. It started to rain, little warm droplets on my muscles, and people gathered under the trees on the cobbled streets. The hazelnut-roaster continued to roast, the smoke drifting down the street. Rua da Prata, full of restaurants, was buzzing as ever with tourists shovelling their lunches in under large brollies. All the waiters start to smile because I have become a regular runner there, I suppose. Up and up, getting close to home now. It is a real Sunday, a raining Sunday. Peoples balcony windows are open, perhaps they are having a Sunday lunch with their families. In my street all the old men are starting up their Sunday Sardine barbeque and the street is hazy with fishy smoke; or the sardines are lying in silver piles, eying hopelessly up to the sky, caked in salt and ready to be roasted. The artist downstairs has covered his floor in sand now. I come in, get in the shower, make a coffee on the gas stove to the sound of the neighbours TV. Now i have an hour before the protest in Martim Moniz against the new Immigration plan of Sarkozy. I am doing some research on it now.

This dog on my street had had a little bed made for him!!

The manifestation was fantastic: there was a great turn out despite the clouds and occasional rainfall. There was such a mix there: Africans, Indians, Portuguese, old, young... there was a real energy going on with a samba band keeping the rhythm at the back and a group of African guys shaking various beaded instruments in a frenzy of rhythm and shouting. Coming down the main street of Baixa, it started to pour down, with heavy fat drops. The samba band pounded on and the crowd shouted and danced. The stream of people carried on down into Praca do Commercio, energized, for speeches and art displays. By this time it was 17.00 and I had not eaten all day. Me and Toni were soaking but happy, hungry but energiful, and we went home, to the cat and Ana and the little flat, with a baguette and cooked up a storm with bowls creamy pasta and bread. It has been a wonderful, wonderful day. Now I am going to sleep with the sounds of applause outside the window for something in a bar nearby and Zul (cat) next to me.