A dream comes true today: not only do I get to admire the Godzilla rock in person (on the right), I also notice how much the other part on the left looks like Godzilla of the early Japanese era. I’m in my happy place.

There’s something ironic about Albufeira, where the majority of tourists are English and somewhat demanding, and the majority of waiters serving them are taciturn people of Indian descent.

I’m in Albufeira, mixing a family visit in with my desire for a silent retreat. A big apartment with ocean view and a pool, I can’t ask for much more.

I’ve been to Albufeira a few times before, but now that I have no travel companion distracting me, my attention focuses on the sharp dominance of British tourists. Pasty white skin (often visible in too great a volume) that doesn’t seem to ever tan. “You can pay in pounds” signs by the cigarette stand. Beer at 8:35 in the morning. An entire street of restaurants showing the game.

I keep looking for local life. Where do people live among all these hotels, where do they shop, where do they eat, where do they go to the doctor, how do they get around town, where do they do their laundry?

Well, someone is ready for their first vacation in 14 months.

Good start of the day

First time making jollof, and I can tell you this much: what criminal ever thought of serving rice unseasoned?