The sea stretches as far as the horizon. There are small fishing boats lined across the shore in front of Casa Meena – the blue and white Portuguese style villa whose first-floor balcony gives me the perfect spot to stalk the night sea. I think the sea pretends. Subtle and demure throughout the day, maybe even playful; and yet at around 3 A.M when I look at her, she is twisted in turmoil. With every wave, she tries to break free, to be truly unrestricted but the currents keep her fierce and unsettled.
Glass panes and dingy metal storage boxes. Museums and lost corners of the bed. They hold priceless objects handed over centuries.
As a kid, I never understood the point of museums – large halls with old things people pretentiously pointed at and talked about. For me, history would mean tales of average people, like my grandfather, who lived on the margins and died therein.
