The air is silver with sea mist—the hills of Setúbal, beyond the Rio Tejo, glimmer watercolor like, their serenity at odds with the roar of airplanes eternally circling Lisbon. Right now another growls overhead, descending towards the eastern side of the city, laden, no doubt, with late season holiday makers. As I finish writing that last sentence the sky opens, and rain falls. Rain. Precious rain, which we have been awaiting for so long it is impossible to remember the last time I smelled it or heard it making music on the roof.
A Glimpse of Setúbal
A Glimpse of Setúbal
A Glimpse of Setúbal
The air is silver with sea mist—the hills of Setúbal, beyond the Rio Tejo, glimmer watercolor like, their serenity at odds with the roar of airplanes eternally circling Lisbon. Right now another growls overhead, descending towards the eastern side of the city, laden, no doubt, with late season holiday makers. As I finish writing that last sentence the sky opens, and rain falls. Rain. Precious rain, which we have been awaiting for so long it is impossible to remember the last time I smelled it or heard it making music on the roof.