The Village Where Time Slows – An Ode To Samode
I went for a day, just passing through,
With no itinerary and nothing to do;
Was instinct perhaps, or an urge, or a call
To a village where the days don’t rush at all.
Short, vivid moments from the road.
I went for a day, just passing through,
With no itinerary and nothing to do;
Was instinct perhaps, or an urge, or a call
To a village where the days don’t rush at all.
I wasn’t supposed to stay in Lisbon. It was just a stopover of two nights to reset after the flight, pick up a few things, and to catch the ferry south.
On a spring evening in Athens, a quiet inventory unfolds from a balcony: of dogs, dishes, a violin, and laughter, each sound a fragment of life, stitched into the rhythm of the city.