Guimaraes internment facilities
From last night...
So sitting here in my cell, with my Oolong, and bare in mind that as tea is bending the rules, the convenience of hot potable water is probably akin to witchcraft and this, from my knowledge of Monty Python, tends to elicit a harsh and disproportionate response. And whilst the tea is very good, I’m not sure about aligning myself with evil minor deities and eternal damnation in order to enjoy it.
Still on the search for accommodation proper and have started looking for flats. I went to see a place tonight and I really don’t know where to start.
In even the darkest recesses of my being I am sure it just didn’t have to be so weird. Remember I am from the UK. So perhaps these conditions are normal, but to what end does one really need a very large door big enough to drive a truck through? Am I living in a country entirely built on the now receding art of haulage? The buildings have all the outward appeal of anything I have seen in the older cities of Italy, but I didn’t get into them, did I?
Through the big door was, I imagine a hallway. Except it had more of the ambience of a decorated (sparsely) garage. It was also completely lacking any evidence of heating. Lots of undressed stone.
We had a very nice staircase which as you ascended had scary paintings of the undead. On each landing there was a dresser with photographs of mortals that had perished in the hundreds of years or so that the owner had lived in the property. These were surrounded by candles in remembrance, which would under normal circumstances have made me sad. but here just creeped me out. It was also gravely cold on the steps and the multitude of plates which punctuated the decaying portraits evoked a paranoia preventing me from walking too close to the wall. Probably for the best, something could have grabbed me. The rooms were barely whitewashed and more frugally decorated than that of a 16th century pauper. And I hate to harp on here, but heat? Maybe it had nipped out for a coffee. It was colder that the vacuum of space and less inviting as a place to spend a few months.
This is all tragic for many reasons. The building was beautiful, and the owner was very nice, I assume so anyway, I couldn’t really grasp a word. The ceilings were quite low too, this would have made life difficult when I had spiked my hair. I also imagine me dressed all in black leather looking like an evil Bart Simpson would not have gone down well. I would imagine my not smoking and my “kind face” would not have been enough to see past the red wine habit, constant use of the kitchen, Industrial music and eyeliner.
I'll keep looking.
It's raining here today and it's nice :o)
So sitting here in my cell, with my Oolong, and bare in mind that as tea is bending the rules, the convenience of hot potable water is probably akin to witchcraft and this, from my knowledge of Monty Python, tends to elicit a harsh and disproportionate response. And whilst the tea is very good, I’m not sure about aligning myself with evil minor deities and eternal damnation in order to enjoy it.
Still on the search for accommodation proper and have started looking for flats. I went to see a place tonight and I really don’t know where to start.
In even the darkest recesses of my being I am sure it just didn’t have to be so weird. Remember I am from the UK. So perhaps these conditions are normal, but to what end does one really need a very large door big enough to drive a truck through? Am I living in a country entirely built on the now receding art of haulage? The buildings have all the outward appeal of anything I have seen in the older cities of Italy, but I didn’t get into them, did I?
Through the big door was, I imagine a hallway. Except it had more of the ambience of a decorated (sparsely) garage. It was also completely lacking any evidence of heating. Lots of undressed stone.
We had a very nice staircase which as you ascended had scary paintings of the undead. On each landing there was a dresser with photographs of mortals that had perished in the hundreds of years or so that the owner had lived in the property. These were surrounded by candles in remembrance, which would under normal circumstances have made me sad. but here just creeped me out. It was also gravely cold on the steps and the multitude of plates which punctuated the decaying portraits evoked a paranoia preventing me from walking too close to the wall. Probably for the best, something could have grabbed me. The rooms were barely whitewashed and more frugally decorated than that of a 16th century pauper. And I hate to harp on here, but heat? Maybe it had nipped out for a coffee. It was colder that the vacuum of space and less inviting as a place to spend a few months.
This is all tragic for many reasons. The building was beautiful, and the owner was very nice, I assume so anyway, I couldn’t really grasp a word. The ceilings were quite low too, this would have made life difficult when I had spiked my hair. I also imagine me dressed all in black leather looking like an evil Bart Simpson would not have gone down well. I would imagine my not smoking and my “kind face” would not have been enough to see past the red wine habit, constant use of the kitchen, Industrial music and eyeliner.
I'll keep looking.
It's raining here today and it's nice :o)
posted by Panic Stricken at 3:23 pm
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