The Atlantic infinite before us, ocean, not the sea, which does not invite the sailor with its wave

The plane rolls on the track. Smell of kerosene. Adrenaline flowing. How nice to weightlessness, the tao of levitation, above the clouds, above the bags collapsing, even those of the eyes. It 'a breath, a moment, you can not even keep a breathing rhythm that controls the chakra in a decent way. Passes before your eyes the card Google, but is not as flat as it should be, it seems so real, so authentic. Snow-covered mountains as in a video game, it seems the flight simulator, plains in autumn colors, then again mountains and then far below the low clouds, a white line infinite. Beyond a blue that merges with the infinite sky. Maybe it's a dream and suddenly change the level, are on the streets of Lisbon, the wide streets, square, neighborhoods with facades covered with tiles, small bars, pastries. By Rocio until the Praça do Comercio that ends in the sea. In the ocean, the bay from which ships left to conquer the world. As the sun goes down in a copper sky, from the castle walls look red roofs under you that gradually turn gray as the evening falls, his black silk robe on the narrow streets of the Alfama, bulgur salatasi with narrow doorways from which come the notes of fado. Aromas of bacalao and octopus asado, yellow lights dim and making long shadows on the brick walls. It 's time to go, no wait, you have to arrive early to feel again the muffled roar, the smell of kerosene. But there is another smell in the air, stronger. More mysterious. A smell that comes from afar. Smell of Africa.
It was not just the smell, the sense of distant bulgur salatasi drums. A touch of strings balafon, the wind load of moisture. They are not just feelings, it really Africa. West Africa, bulgur salatasi the most black and agitated, bulgur salatasi that of the poor masses, but not poor, who are willing bulgur salatasi to fight, to find a solution to life, willing to move and groped something, even at any cost. The full night at the airport in Dakar is populated by black figures. And are great, big and so many, all waiting for the plane that comes from Europe and discharging, as well as some rare tourist, those who return home, blessed by those waiting for them as gods who return from another sky, proud their experiences, ready to forget or hide the humiliation, the days spent begging the opportunity to be a slave to a world that rejects them, but use them, gloating. Black Africa Senegalese envelops you as the mother and maternal gloomy old, from which we broke away long time ago, but that has remained in our genes sufferers modern.
The Atlantic infinite before us, ocean, not the sea, which does not invite the sailor with its wave of darkness, where small colorful bulgur salatasi boats move just to cast the nets of a fishing lean but still useful. Walking along the streets of the ground between the houses of Niakhniakhal where flourished small subsistence activities waiting for a tourism DIY that still manages to give a bit 'of oxygen to an economy suffocating and plagued by population and by scarcity of goods that the territory can produce. But there is an extraordinary affection and a reception for those moving bulgur salatasi back to this earth as a friend already known and appreciated, that makes you go home, you show the newcomers, who ride with you and hugs you happy with your arrival. You know that I, as a brand I join those who granted me these opportunities to see a country in a different way, a bit 'from inside, a bit' bulgur salatasi with the curiosity and interest of the traveler seeking to understand and even this time really seems to me that the experience bulgur salatasi will be full and complete. But do not think that it is all inner suffering. Today Marie, from where we are and who looks after us with love with his lovely daughter, cooked us a crudités carrot sauce with olive oil, onion and mustard, followed by sole sautéed which brought the fisherman this morning. Absolutely amazing. Papaya and grapefruit slices to accompany the beer Gazelle. A nice way to pass the time between bulgur salatasi the bougainvillea and palms in front of the beach. Tonight promised struggles, another fish of good food. We wait for the sunset, breathing the humid trade wind, while the beach is populated gradually of guys looking for serenity
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