I fly around the world to see original works. I will sit or stand in front of a painting for twenty minutes or more, and once a certain slack-jawed tiredness builds up, continue to stare.

Vanda drove me down the Bairro Alto, seventeenth-century homes rushing past, facades streaked in sun, steam lifting off terra-cotta roofs from the downpour last night. Leaving Lisbon. In silence.