It's like walking into a cloud, well actually it is walking in to a cloud. After one of those sleepless nights, (it must have been the worrying thoughts on the upcoming encounter with the disciples of the vehicle God, at the Centro Inspecção Mecãnica em Automóveis) the misty white curtain waved into the kitchen while opening the door at six o'clock. Our little, 18 year old, four legged companion disappeared out off site within a few feet. He only sees about 20 percent, only hears about 20 percent and acts like an old man who's only pleasure left is winding up the nurses that take care of him. Even before I could lift him up to help him down the stairs, my socks were impregnated with the cold water that was mirroring on the marble tiles of the terrace and my bathrobe was covered in tiny air-filled drops that seems to stick on the terry like dog hairs. I carried the little man down the stairs and of he went for his daily early morning routine. I did reach the firewood shed a bit sooner than I thought I would, somehow the distance get's shorter in a foggy world. With a few logs I went back up, realizing it was slippery after the scratch on my knee that substituted the bump on my head, left by the gutter of the woodshed. I know, I should have had my first coffee before getting that active, but our little Jack Russel just can't wait that long anymore. The last warmth, from burning wood the night before, left thru the door opening and after putting the kettle on, ripping that stupid wrapped plastic from the fire-starter blocks, emptying the ashtray of the burner, lighting the fire, pouring instant coffee, rolling a fag because the e-Smoker is still charging, letting the dog back in, changing socks and pushing the button “on” at the laptop, I finally can get to my own morning ritual. Scrawling thru Facebook groups, most related to Portugal, recycling, woodworking and alternative musical instruments, posting a few ironic remarks, checking emails and look at some video's from my fellow woodworkers on Youtube. After the third coffee it's time to go into the workshop and make something. It's annoying when certain events dissuade you from that daily rhythm, like taking the car for it's yearly inspection at the CIMA center. Unconsciously I have put off visiting the test center to the last day, although I know they are just doing their job and there's nothing I could complain about, going there for the last 8 years. Normally I would be the first in line, going very early and wait for them to open the office door, but this time, well, I just don't seem to get myself down from the lonely hill. The world out there doesn't seem to exist, the kitchen is getting warmer and that fourth coffee looks like a very good option. I chastise the lazy feeling that predominantly hides from the outside world deep in the recesses of my brain, sling a washcloth over my face and some crucial parts of my, deteriorating, body that a certain age simply entails, get dressed, go outside to the van and just look over a few things that the car-judge certainly will check out during the process. The left turn signal on the back of the car doesn't work, but after dismantling the cover and spraying some contact-fluid, the problem seems solved. It must be around noon, the sun is shining bright, the valley is still covered in clouds. We are on top of our own little world and the village is hiding underneath a veil of white vapor. The test center will be closed only a half hour for lunch, contrary to the other buildings occupied by officials, so around that time I'm steering the old van backwards through the small street, off the hill, down to the main road. After about a 45 minutes drive, staring at those first few meters of the road surface that are visible, I'm steering into the “Power-wash” at the local Intermarché. The pressure of the water gun takes away half of the blended paint, but the underside of the van is as clean as the day it drove out of the showroom. The number becomes visible at the heavy chassis our car is blessed with, and the clean sparkling rust will make the people at the test center happy. They hate muddy cars so a first sign of friendliness reveals by the look at a freshly washed vehicle. “One of the break lights doesn't work”, a short but significant sentence, replied by me with “It must be the fault of the pressure washer”. After looking annoyingly for the exhaust, which has it's final part at the middle of the car, just underneath the sliding door, the four times repeated diesel test and shaking on the vibrating plates, which would even make the most experienced porn star blush, there's another problem revealed. “You need to change these rubbers and bolts”, the man says while ordering me on my knees to see the parts he's pointing out. “I will”. To my surprise he's returning from the little office with a green sheet, which means the car got through the test. “Just make sure you do the repairs OK?” I firmly confirmed and drove of the premises with my sunglasses on. The fog cleared and the sky looked blue, more than ever before. A few minutes later I'm treating myself to an “abatanado” and a piece of chocolate cake at my favorite café, talk a bit to the owner who had me as his first customer every morning at 7, for over two years, when I had to bring my love to the train station for her daily 2 hour commute to Lisboa. Yes, those dark day's are over, still, I sometimes miss these early morning encounters with other “work folk” in the beautiful hours, just before the city awakes. On the way back I visit some friends, just because I pass their village, and we've learned to combine as many things in one drive. The valley, the village and bus-stop at the corner of our street that leads upon the hill, are still hidden silhouette's in the ever lasting fog. It's a day where the outside world didn't reach our little paradise. When I get home, the kitchen is warm and cozy, my partner in love, adventures and creativity is sitting next to the wood-burner, again surrounded by balls of wool, making another fishtail sleeve for some kid to keep warm during these cold times. There's no need for worldly news on days like this to penetrate our little paradise, I could care less for some famous soccer player who died in a faraway country or who became the winner of “The Voice of Holland”. Just for one day I'm not seeing the racist remarks on the Internet about refugees, I'm not being informed on the highly corrupted manners of Portuguese politicians and bank managers. Just for one day I'm not worried about a nation that supports an absolute lunatic who wants to become president of his sick, commercialized Nation. For one day I embrace that unidentifiable beauty of a foggy day!
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