Acres of hardwood (6)

Remember Wilhelm Tell? Behold the musket above the sliding doors, a present from our Swiss friend Christine:

Spaceporn

"You haven't been particularly creative neology-wise, writes a friend, but now you've created a new one, at least implicitly: Spaceporn. As neologism go, it's not a particularly good one..."--with friends like him, who needs enemies--"but it deserves a place in your tiny dictionary of self-made neologisms."

No, it's not Glenn who sent this letter, but he's right. In fact, appointing a space doesn't make it smaller, it enlarges its appeal, and hence its psychological roominess. Compare this three pictures:

This evening

The view of Alcobaça from the bedroom, taken with Chang's new iPhone "Pro"

 

Acres of hardwood (5) -- The carpets have arrived

 

Acres of hardwood (4)

 

The living room this morning, with the new dining table, made to order, at the center. It's extendable up to 12 people.

Same story, now in the afternoon (today was our day off)

Yesterday, on the beach

 

Acres of hardwood (3)

 One day later, and somebody said, "Let there be light!"

Charlie working on the medicine cupboard in the main room, with the hallway beyond

Acres of hardwood...

 Remember our post of Nov 15? Well, we are progressing with our acres: 

The hallway, now with the beginning of Chang's new picture gallery...

...and Michael's office, with the bookcase in place, and with the silhouette of Charlie at the kitchen table beyond.

That's all?

Well, here are three drone pictures of the house: 

It's the place in the foreground

It's in the cluster of the six houses in the foreground with the town of Alcobaça in the background

The same perspective, now with the sea on the horizon.

That's all?

Not quite:

Michael, Charlie and Chang taking a break in yesterday's sunny garden

This afternoon on the Praia do Norte

It's a surfer's paradise with Guiness Book of Records surf. It was fairly quiet today, although the waves still topped four meters or more.

The museums are closed

Our friend Maud sends this:

 

The prettiest town hall in the world -- Alcobaça, Portugal

 This is where we live since three weeks:

Fog moving in...

...with Charlie and Michael walking on the boardwalk of Nazaré:

 

We thought we'd end up in a little apartment...

 ...what with all the money trouble we were in.

Instead we got a big villa with acres of oak hardwood floor:

Yes, this is the elevator

Hallway

Kitchen

Kallax, installed by Charlie

The mezzanine

Staircase

View into the living room

Remember Kylie Minogue?

 

[Verse 1]

Feel my heartbeat

It's the same old feeling coming over me tonight

Me tonight

Feel it buzzing

Said I'm never gonna call, but tonight, I think I might

Think I might

[Pre-Chorus]

Gave my heart a ride, bump in the night

No one can take me higher

Know it's been a while, baby, a while

Do you still feel the fire?

Still moving -- Michael's office as a preliminary draft

 So, we are now in place since 11 days, and there's a lot of progress. 

One observation: the locals are very special, and the more you get in contact with them the more consistent the Portuguese experience gets: most--almost all--feature a strange combination of sweetness, softness, and something that passes as natural kindness (even when it comes to bureaucrats). Chang and Michael are exchanging views every day, telling each other that they are so happy here, and even happier than the day before.

And here's the view from the bedroom this morning, at 07:50 local time: 

We moved, we moved -- into our new home

The south-easterly view from our bedroom on a rainy Sunday morning

Chang and our new friend Charlie in the off-kitchen area (still on Sunday morning). Charlie is helping us moving in, we are very grateful. 

And the picture above Chalie's head?

Well, that's Karl Marx, of course, drawn by Doekel, the daughter of a friend, with a take on a poster by the SDS ("Sozialistischer  deutscher Studentenbund"), from 50 years ago.

We moved, we moved -- and met our first Covid-victim

Yes, we finally did it--did it precipitously, since Chang feared that the Lusitanians wouldn't let us back in, what with the excessive French Covid infection rates. We did the journey from Cannes to Portugal in two days (normally it takes three). The first night we spent in a rural Airbnb near San Sebastian, where we met the first Covid-victim of our life---the charming Airbnb owner---who told us that she got infected in March---fever, self-isolation in her bed-room---a whole month---food served through a window. She got an X-ray, but the lungs didn't appear affected, even though there was fever and coughing. But now, seven months later, she still feels secondary effects---palpitations and fatigue, mostly. We handed her a bottle of Beaujolais---we had to explain about "Beaujolais"---and left early. Eight hours later we arrived here:

The InnBar on Nazaré beach, Friday, Oct 23, 2020, around 6PM local time

To be continued.

 

Trump loses -- singing under the shower

Yes, we know, it won’t happen, it’s unimaginable--in the same way that his win over Hillary was unimaginable...

...but wouldn’t it be nice if you were singing under the shower and come up with a space opera along these lines... 

...Twitter closes his account 6 minutes after Biden is sworn in...

...Trump arrives at the airport, but the Deutsche Bank has already impounded his Boeing 757, whose front wheel is now chained to one of these cannon balls they used to use for chain gangs...

...he's led with his Ivanka-soaked family to some VIP lounge for shelter, but can't get in because his credit card no longer works and the black reception girl behind the counter hates Q-Anon...

...a "situation" develops under the Klieg lights from the cell phones of some other VIPs waiting patiently in line and anticipating that he’ll finally loses his temper in public...

...which he does...

...Trump loses it, he really loses it...

...for the first time in public...

...no more coding, no more “good people on both sides”; no more birth certificates, no more “bad hombres”...

...no, the N-word exits his fish-snout, irrevocably and irredeemably...

...and the black reception girl behind the VIP-lounge counter that hates Q-Anon...

...she dials the Black Panthers unit at the DCPD to have n° 45 arrested for Blatant Racism...

...and The Donald is shackled and perp-walked through the main hall of Ronald Reagan National Airport...

...while his Irina-soaked family is frantically dialling all their friends with influence and heft and help out with one of these Lear Jets that are programmed to fly only to West Palm Beach Airport, but nobody answers...

...to be continued...

Talk, talk -- Niccoló's advice

 

The library nobody wants to piss at

Our friend Glenn sends this:

Donald Trump tried to go after former McCain Campaign Strategist Steve Schmidt, the head of The Lincoln Project, on Twitter. Schmidt didn't hold anything back in his reply:

 “You’ve never beaten me at anything. This is our first dance. Did you like, Covita? We are so much better at this than your team of crooks, wife beaters, degenerates, weirdos and losers.

You are losing. We heard you loved Evita. You saw it so many times. Where will you live out your years in disgrace? Will you buy Jeffrey Epstein’s island? One last extra special deal from him? Or will you be drooling on yourself in a suite at Walter Reed? Maybe you will be in prison?

 I bet you fear that. The Manhattan District Attorney may not be around to cover for you or your crooked kids anymore. Eliza Orlins doesn’t believe in different sets of rules for the Trumps. What about the State Attorney General? You know what you’ve done.

Oh, Donald. Who do you owe almost $500 million in personally guaranteed loans to? It's all coming down. You think you and your disgusting family are going to be in deal-flow next year? Are you really that delusional?

 You are lucky Chris Wallace interrupted you after Joe Biden said you weren’t smart. You started to melt down. That’s the place that hurts the most. Right? Fred Sr., knew it. You’ve spent your whole life proving it. You aren’t very smart. You couldn’t take the SAT on your own. What was the real score? 970? We both know you know.

 Are the steroids wearing off? Is the euphoria fading? Do you feel foggy? Tired? Do you ache? How is the breathing? Hmmm. Are you watching TV today? We will have some nice surprises for you. Everyone is laughing at you. You are a joke. A splendid moron turned deadly clown.

 Did you watch Martha McSally in her debate against American hero, fighter pilot, test pilot, astronaut Capt. Mark Kelly? She is so embarrassed by you. She is ashamed and full of self-loathing for the choice she made in following you over the cliff. She is in free fall now. She will lose, like most of them, because of you.

 We hear from the White House and the campaign everyday. They are betraying you. They are looking to get out alive and salvage careers and their names. It’s Ivanka Trump and Jared Kushner vs. Donald Trump Jr., and Kimberly Guilfoyle on the inside. They are at war over scraps and who gets to command what will be the remnants of your rancid cult.

 It’s almost over now. You are the greatest failure in American history. You are the worst president in American history. Disgrace will always precede your name. Your grandchildren and great-grandchildren will grow up ashamed of their names.

 One day, I suppose there will be some small and not-much-visited library that bears your name. It will be the type of place where a drunk walks by, staring at the wall for a minute, before deciding it is beneath his dignity to piss on. That’s what is waiting for you.

Joe Biden is a better man. He’s smarter. He’s winning.

 Do you remember when you didn’t want to name Donald Trump Jr., Donald because you were worried about him being a loser named Donald? You were right about that. He is.

 But it is you who will be remembered as America’s greatest loser. You will be crushed in the election!”