Love,
I have resolved to live high in savage lands of eternal sunshine. Each day I fill up my purse with eucalyptus leaves, apples from the tree, odd stones, and dead wood telling stories. It all costs less than an espresso in Paris 10th or anywhere else.
Here I feel introspective brain steam without a word pronounced. Right now, sinking into skeins of thoughts, I’m coming to terms with being treated as a commodity in highly desired capitals no matter where on Earth. How soon will I miss the art, you may ask. Don’t we always have to miss
something?
Seated under the canopy of a magistral chestnut on a simple stool made from a truncated trunk, I cherish the childhood vision of my grandfather standing in the shade of his beloved cherry tree. And last night when Johan brought me fresh mint for herbal tea, I heard my grandfather’s laugh under his navy-blue beret, squeezing fresh mint in his palm for me to experience the scent.
Here everything finds its place, and the space holds you softly captive of uninterrupted thoughts and long readings in the shade. After a few days, the child within me—trapped under endless adult mirages—broke free and slowly reconnected.
Although glamping kit is the rage and sold out on Highsnobiety, trends struggle to reach the village and its ancestral atrium. Think of its intangible heritage resisting time and greed, fires and heartbreaks, to become the grid of new forms of creative living we, for most, seek to embrace and master somehow, somewhere, then and now.
Beijinhos to our tribe
Yours forever
