Its unbelievable how things can get really overwhelming sometimes, sitting down in a coffee house listening to quintessencial Doors music, when the guys used to play the blues like nobody else, no Light my Fire bullshit but plain good ole’ blues with Morrison tearing his voice to the point of almost vanishing behind those lyrics going yabada yabada, full of childish poetics burning in sweet rendezvous and filling with light this rather dim coffee house, waitress looking timidly behing a big counter selling muffins and cakes and pastries and whatnot and the cook wearing those big and flushy chef hats patting his finger on the stove following rythmically the tune. And everything seems to add up by no means in a perfect way but perfectly imperfect, giving this little place a unique vibe that mingles with the sweet air coming from the streets. People pushing bicycles carrying boxes full of vegetables stumbling with others looking God knows where, no pun intended, lets move on! Cup of green tea, leafy, pure, almost cristalline steaming on my table, a half smoked LM light, ex pats laughing histerically two tables away from me hugging their local chicks and pouring gallons of black coffee into their throats, doors made room to the sun that’s filtering the atmosphere with a yellowish orangie ray of sunset saying here I am. Dali’s the town and the city, altogether if that makes any sense to you guys. A refugee camp for bohemians and Chinaman litteraty and why not ultra hip ex pats playing the game and of course the true hobos and dharma bums: tired backpackers looking for a place to leave the bag under the bed for an even number of days. “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to loose” chants lady Joplin whilst I immerse myself over the cobblestones streets of the village.