“If life is only a path, we should sow flowers on it.”Montaigne
A travel stop, Funchal isn’t where I’ll stay. Here, the ocean is calling, it’s a rampart and an evidence of limits of a city that remains a fleeting mystery, almost laconic.
By this other exposure, I felt the urge to remember the patchwork of a previous trip that amazed me as nature is so beautiful there. By the bright colours of its decor and the dense October sky, the city calls out for stories whose pasts reminds us that life is not always rosy. You have to escape from the endless stream of tourists to discover a kind of friendly secret breath, one of a possible echo of the original mother-nature forest that awaits a sort of revenge. Here everything is latent, a flower, a storm, a fire, a flood; all of this makes me think of the next generation, the always provisional elevation.
*Funchal is also called the island of flowers.