Everything in a fog.
Took a ferry in a fog, walked by the sea in a fog, climbed a lighthouse in the fog. Palm trees covered in a fog, buildings painted pastel by the fog.
The only bright bulb was an orange punch buggy in the middle of the street. One of the few cars around.
But there were plenty of loud birds and neighborhood dogs, winding streets both Portugese and Spanish. Plenty of options—you can get pesos or dollars out of the ATMs here. And plenty of rain.
Getting out from the rain in a little restaurant by the sea—Buen Suspiro, number 92. Eating local cheese and drinking local wine with a friend I made on her way to the Olympic games. What a fascinating life we lead.
I emerged from the fog with a little matcha mug, and that was that.