Nothing spills fun from travel like watching what one eats and what one spends. Today I pored (poored, poured a beer) over my favourite habits, offering rueful salute to the haphazard way I approach them, tinkering with mid-flight correction, with a 4-day jaunt to Toulouse coming up and, near the end of Feb., a 6-week hiatus from Lisbon to get to Morocco and back, no travel or accommodation arrangements yet confirmed.
Outside, wind has blown hard all the way up to Graca from the waterfront, which this aft I hit with a run/walk, serving notice to knees, mainly, to expect more such treatment.
As for diet, wow, the amount of bread--every three of four doorways leads to more. And breakfast in Portugal, or any form of half-lunch or pre-dinner snack, means sweets.
I've got to hide under Lisbon for a few days, is what this means.