Life is elsewhere!

I don’t usually write full travel diaries. Most of the time, I just talk about the feeling a place leaves in me, the aftertaste of it, and that’s enough. But this time was different. The flavors, the colors, the people, the experiences, the rhythm of life of the Cabo Verdeans… something about it all insisted on being written. It wasn’t just a memory I wanted to keep; it was something I needed to unfold slowly. So here it is a small series of impressions, one for each of the 8 amazing days I spent there.

To begin with, it was always a country I knew by name. I knew where it was, of course. I knew a few people from there, had heard some references, seen fragments of it from afar. But I had never really thought about visiting. It felt distant, abstract, like one of those places you assume will remain on the map and never enter your story. And yet, little by little, the references began to find me: a song here, a conversation there, a story, an image, a passing comment. With every new piece of information, it started to feel less like a place on a map and more like an invitation.

And then, after an irritatingly rainy January and February in Lisbon, nearly seventy days of grey skies and endless drizzle, a week of vacation appeared like a small act of mercy. The opportunity for a break from the wet monotony felt urgent, almost necessary. That’s when the idea emerged: a trip to Santiago Island, in Cabo Verde, the largest of the ten islands, home to the capital and to most of the country’s population.

Four hours on a low-cost flight, and I was there. With very little information about what to expect. At first, that uncertainty worried me a bit. I like knowing things, mapping them out. But soon I realized that this lack of precision is, in many ways, part of the country’s culture. It doesn’t mean things don’t work — they do. They simply follow a different logic, one that asks you to loosen your grip and trust the rhythm.

Arriving there, I encountered a country with a strikingly defined identity, clear, proud, unapologetically visible. It begins with the music. And here I need to mention the title of this post: it is simply the first verse of the most famous song by the country’s greatest monument — the artist who shines brightest, Cesária Évora, the barefoot diva.

It is worth opening a paragraph just for her, because her story feels almost improbable. She came from the outskirts of a peripheral country, from a very humble background, and conquered world stages singing in her mother tongue — Cape Verdean Creole. With a delicate voice that somehow filled every space, she could transmit emotions like few others. She could make you feel nostalgia for situations you had never lived, or long for places you had never been. Naturally, she became the country’s most iconic figure. Her face appears on murals, posters, T-shirts, and rightly so. A celebrity whose image feels not commercial, but deserved.

Praia, the capital, is a quiet city. Its historic center fits into just a few blocks on a plateau — a central square, a main commercial street, administrative buildings, the army headquarters, the police station. And yet, it doesn’t feel imposing or grand. It feels intimate, almost tender — like the welcoming center of a countryside town, suspended above the rest of the neighborhoods that spill down toward a breathtaking view of the Atlantic Ocean. The heat, more than desired, made itself constantly present, not aggressive, just insistent, wrapping itself around every step.

But what truly caught my attention was the fruit market along that main commercial street. An explosion of colors emerging from an immense abundance of fruits, vegetables, foods I had never seen before and, above all, the people. Buying, working, strolling, talking. The market was less about commerce and more about life unfolding in real time. There was such richness there, of scenes, of textures, of sounds, of movement, of characters. Every corner felt like a still frame from a film I didn’t want to end.

A little farther from the center, though not far at all, just down a staircase, lies another market: Mercado de Sucupira. Another explosion of color, but this time less about food and more about everything else. Clothes, fabrics, electronics, souvenirs, household items, objects whose purpose I could only guess. It is a true labyrinth, almost psychedelic in its intensity. You walk in without a plan and surrender to it, letting the narrow corridors decide your path, letting the noise and color rearrange your senses.

And then there is morabeza. A word you hear early on, and often, but one that resists translation. It is usually rendered as “hospitality,” yet that feels far too small. Morabeza is not just about being welcomed, it is about being received without suspicion, about being folded gently into the rhythm of a place as if you had always belonged there. It lives in the unhurried conversations, in the way time stretches to accommodate a story, in the easy laughter shared between strangers. It is subtle, unforced, almost invisible, and yet it shapes everything. More than the landscapes, more than the music, it is morabeza that lingers. It is what turns a destination into a memory you carry with warmth rather than nostalgia.

And so, that very first day gave me this lesson: morabeza. A kind of Hakuna Matata, in its own way, not in the literal sense, but in spirit. A philosophy of ease, of trusting that things will unfold as they should, of choosing lightness over control. There could hardly be a better translation for the soul of this country.

To close this first day, on an island embraced by what feels like the most emblematic ocean in the world, I couldn’t fail to mention the sea, always present, always breathing in the background. I said goodbye to the day watching the sunset, which disappeared before even touching the horizon, swallowed prematurely by some atmospheric trick I couldn’t quite name. And even that felt fitting. Somehow, even the sun here seems to follow its own rhythm, adopting the country’s particular way of being, unhurried, unpredictable, quietly sovereign, or CABO VERDE NO STRESS, present in many magnets sold as souvenir of the country.

Nägemist ja aitäh, Tallinn

Arriving in Tallinn to pursue a doctoral project was, at first glance, a challenge wrapped in uncertainties. The mere notion – or rather, the lack thereof – of what lay ahead filled me with anxiety. The fear of venturing into an unknown place, with no concrete references, no friends or acquaintances beyond those with whom I had exchanged emails, was inevitable. Nothing could truly prepare me for the experience of landing at night in a strange city, with an indecipherable language and a culture so distant from anything I had ever known.

The first impact was the overwhelming sense of solitude amid the crowd. Tallinn was still cold – it was early April 2016. A reserved city, where silence seemed to naturally inhabit the streets and the faces of its people. But as soon as the work began with those I had previously communicated with, I realized that behind the apparent distance, there was warmth. The local people, though discreet, showed an admirable willingness to help. More than that, it was an incredibly tech-savvy city, where technology permeated every aspect of daily life, making it agile and efficient. My contacts were always helpful, always pointing me to someone else I should talk to. It was fascinating to see that, after a few conversations, given how small the place was, I would often be referred to someone I had already spoken to or who was on my list. This gave me a reassuring sense of being on the right path.

As the days passed, the city began to reveal itself. Small details turned into emotional landmarks: the daily runs on completely flat terrain; the croissant and cappuccino from an Italian café that became a comforting ritual; the cinema with double subtitles, in Russian and Estonian; a traditional deer soup in a restaurant that retained its medieval character, said to have been founded some 800 years ago, dimly lit by scarce candles, where one had to fish for pickles from a barrel using a stick with a nail at the tip, and where the attendants charged in euros but simply said "money"; the wood-made houses from the traditional neighborhoods, the extremely well preserved medieval constructions of the old town, a few words learned from this still-mysterious language, carrying an interesting musicality. Above all, Vana Toomas, the legendary guardian of the city, must never tire of admiring from his privileged position atop the tallest tower in town: the breathtaking beauty of the Baltic Sea, whose singular shade of blue deserved a name of its own – Baltic Blue.

And it wasn’t just the places that marked this journey. Unexpected people crossed my path, and improbable colleagues became allies, building a support network that turned Tallinn into one of those places that remain forever in memory. It was a period of small daily triumphs, joyful moments, and discoveries that became precious recollections. I returned there twice more, always with a heavy heart when it was time to leave.

At the conclusion of this first stay, a symbolic celebration: Victory Day in May. A song marked that time, and I had the chance to witness a performance by the original artists at the same event. I didn’t understand the lyrics, but something in its melody and how it was sung carried a clear and comforting message: in the end, everything would be alright.

Pea meeles head, las halb läheb oma teed! Keegi teine ei teada saa mis toimub sinu sees sa kogu elu oma laulu lood kord kaotuse, kord võid koju tood.

A Smile Against the Weight of Life

The image of an elderly woman, dressed in colorful clothes, delighting in the midst of a flock of pigeons is a pure portrayal of freedom. She smiles, light and carefree, as if, in that moment, the entire world had shrunk to the simple pleasure of being. Around her, the pigeons fly freely, indifferent, and in a way, she flies with them, unbound, fully immersed in that brief moment of happiness.

Happiness, like freedom, is a strange feeling. It appears unexpectedly, interrupting the continuous flow of anguish that so often settles comfortably within us. For many, the freedom to be happy is terrifying. Because, to be happy, one must let go of worries, loosen the reins that hold us to the predictability of life. And for those accustomed to the safety of anguish, that can feel almost unbearable.

But there, in the smile of this woman, there is no fear. There is acceptance of uncertainty, surrender to the present. She knows that happiness is fleeting, that it doesn’t last long, and that perhaps, like the pigeons, it will soon disappear. Yet, in that brief moment, she has found something that is worth more than any lingering anguish: the freedom to feel alive. And that is what makes happiness worth the effort. As brief as it may be, as momentary as it often is, those flashes of happiness are what give us the strength to keep going.

It’s true, as many poets and philosophers have said, that happiness isn’t constant. It demands sacrifice, courage, and sometimes it feels impossible to reach. But even in its uncertainty, the mere possibility of happiness is enough to fuel hope. As Ecclesiastes reminds us, the alternative is only vanity and vexation of spirit. Happiness, fleeting as it may be, is a reason to seek more out of life.

In that woman, surrounded by pigeons, dressed in vibrant colors, we see the proof that happiness exists, even if only for a moment. And if we have to pretend, then so be it. Because, in the end, pretending to be happy is also a way of wanting it, of bringing it closer. And who knows, maybe that forced smile will turn into something real?

So, smile. Keep moving forward, even knowing that happiness is uncertain. Because when it comes, even for a brief moment, it’s enough to set us free from everything that weighs us down.

The Theater of Indifference

This moment, captured from the window of the restaurant overlooking the heart of Brussels, is a portrait of a society in silent and prolonged collapse, where indifference has been normalized and nihilism has become an underlying current in daily interactions. From above, we observe an elderly woman, already hunched over and with an apathetic expression, bending down to rummage through the trash, ironically located in front of the Royal Passage. Her gloved hands, due to the cold, search among the scraps and crumbs for something to eat. Beside her, a sign points to short, walkable distances to the city’s tourist landmarks—places of beauty and history, and yet, in this central spot, her suffering goes unnoticed.

The irony is devastating. Through the well-maintained streets of the European capital, tourists and passersby continue their hurried lives, absorbed in their own journeys, whether in search of consumption, distraction, or pleasure. The wealth, pomp, and palaces are all around, but what remains invisible is the brutal loneliness of this woman, sunk into her own invisibility. In the end, no one cares. No one looks. No one wonders about her story. And if there is anything in common between this woman and everyone else, it is precisely this indifference: no one cares about anyone.

The dignity of this woman has already been dissolved by time and neglect. Her body, perhaps already accustomed to misery and oblivion, bears the mark of a society leveled down, where the value of human life is lost amidst an overload of material stimuli. The presence of the royal palace just a few minutes' walk from there, almost like a silent shadow, further highlights the discrepancy between the ostentatious luxury and the human degradation unfolding just meters away.

The conformism stamped on the woman’s face reflects the burden of a life that no longer asks for anything. She may no longer need to be seen, no longer expect compassion or even the recognition of her existence. Perhaps, for her, indifference has been offered so many times that it has become her only wealth. There is no indignation or revolt. There is only the cold resignation in the face of failed human beings, who inhabit a world where human relationships have become transient and where suffering is disposable.

In this scenario, the normalization of indifference is revealed. This feeling of emptiness and insignificance permeates the landscape. Life, surrounded by material wealth and tourist attractions, loses its deeper meaning. And those on the fringes of society, like the woman on the sidewalk, are relegated to the role of invisible shadows, a stark reminder that, at the center of the world, true abandonment is present, even if no one notices anymore.

It is as if the passage echoed in Leonard Cohen's verses:

"You strike my side by accident As you go down for your gold The cripple here that you clothe and feed Is neither starved nor cold He does not ask for your company Not at the center, the center of the world"

served as the soundtrack for this grand theater of indifference.

The sun slowly sets over the horizon, painting the sky with shades of orange and pink, as the darkness of the night begins to take over the world around. In the heart of the São Paulo countryside, this scene has witnessed so many lived moments, but today it feels sadder, more solitary, and therefore, strangely more colorful. There is a characteristic melancholy in the way the last lights bid farewell to the day, as if even the sun itself were longing for something that will never return.

It is on nights like this that memories come, silent but overwhelming. They arrive like a wave, invading the already tired mind, filling the silence with echoes of a childhood that now seems so distant, while at the same time, it's right there. Like in that song that says: "The memories always come to me on such empty nights, and they mess so much with my head." There’s no way to avoid them, no way to escape this avalanche of memories that become more vivid as the sleepless night progresses.

Back then, the afternoons seemed endless. The open sky, the gentle breeze, and the laughter echoing from one or another friend, who thought we were inseparable. There was something magically eternal about the games we played under the setting sun, games we played without realizing that time had other plans. Each sunset was a farewell to another day full of adventures and laughter, but it was also a promise that tomorrow would bring everything back, until one day it was the last, and we didn't even realize it.

Now? Where are those friends? Where did the conversations shared under the trees or on the street in front of our houses go? Lives took different paths, and time, relentless, kept us apart. At the same time, we have the comforting sense that nothing was left to live. And when sleep finally comes, the day has already begun, and life goes on its course, while the heart still carries the weight of an ocean of longing.

Sometimes I wonder if they remember too. If they, too, on empty nights, feel the same pang of nostalgia, the same feeling that time would never touch us.

But time passed, and with it, the landscapes changed, just like us. Not even the sunset is the same, now that it ends in the sea and no longer in a lush pasture with an equally vast horizon. And so, longing settles in, like the last ray of sun bidding farewell.