I like this house, I really do. During the morning I feel like I’m on the beach. In the afternoon I feel like I’m on the street. At night, I’m wherever the song takes me to. I’m in one of those restaurants that still exists in this town, where the food is good and comfortable, the wine is a joy, and the owners are the best people you’re never going to be friends with (so that you know, I’ve counted three of these gems so far, resisting as they can in post-crisis Lisbon: Batata Doce, Raízes, and A Camponesa). I’m singing a Mountain Goats song while the machine washes the dishes. I’m drinking a decaf while resisting to watch season something of show x, y, z. I have seven articles / chapters about the EU’s economic and monetary union open on my desktop. I also have memories, feelings, a bottle of water, and some books. And Carol, thank God. I’m singing out of my head, and I don’t want to put any real music in here. It’s quiet, and at the same time, full. I like it. I really do.