I have taken this quarantine very seriously. I follow all orders and medical advice. I have been in total social isolation and confinement for over a month. But I do miss being free and dirty. Yes, because if now I don’t wash my hands for at least 20 seconds I feel really nasty. This must be what people who experience obsessive-compulsive cleaning disorder feel. In fact, at the end of all of this shit, we will all visit the psychiatrist taking with us some nice disinfected cookies along. I already made an appointment for July, because in the same way that the toilet paper rolls were used up and sold out, the psychiatrists will also be gone. As a shitty curiosity, before this Corona pandemic outbreak, the percentage of the disease in the general population was 3%. I went to find out some more to know if I should worry about myself. In the article they say that a serious sign is that if we find ourselves constantly repeating behaviours or rituals such as cleaning the house, washing hands or organising objects. Now, this was without a slight of a doubt my first 30 days of quarantine. Today is my 44th day of confinement, and I cannot say that I am getting any better, but now I have nothing else to organise. Everything is in their absolutely right place. The days go by well when I have no contact with the outside. I play the piano, sing, read cool books and write some shit, I watch Friends on Netflix, I’m already in the third season of the third round; and finally, I feel safe here walking from the living room to the bedroom, from the bedroom to the bathroom, from the kitchen to the terrace. But I don’t stay there in the terrace if I hear someone coughing on the second floor. I am afraid Corona might experience suicidal thoughts and throw himself out of the window, fall on my hair, I then scratch my head and put my hands in my eyes. And that’s it, tinoni, tinoni, here comes the ambulance. And I wouldn’t even know which bus would have hit me. At home I feel good and secure, but when I have to go downstairs to the door of the building to get the purchases that Continente delivers to the building entrance, my life turns to shit. And in addition to that obsessive-compulsive disorder, we are all already suffering as well from agoraphobia, this shitty disturbance characterised by symptoms of anxiety in response to situations that we perceive as unsafe, and among these are open spaces, shopping centres and in more serious cases, everything that is outside the home. It’s just me? Anyone? Something that was once certain for me and uncomplicated, it is now a scene of terror. First, I wear my waterproof motorcycle jumpsuit, so that afterwards I only have to immediately wash one piece of clothing when I return home, and I must say that that jumpsuit looks great on me, tight and sexy, at least that, only to be spoiled by my ugly winterly beanie hat where I stuff all my hair inside, whether or not it is a sunny day, a surgical mask with two elastics that force and bend my earlobes, and terribly ugly glasses to protect my eyes, which I would have used just to go riding a bike to Monsanto that I never managed to go to, and there I am, totally ready to go and face this shitty enemy of ours that is invisible and silent. I think to myself, as I lock the door of the house, in a repetition mode so as not to lose focus, that I cannot put my hands in my mouth, in my nose, nor in my eyes. I cannot put my hands in my mouth, in my nose, nor in my eyes. I don’t take the elevator because I can be inside and imagine it stops on any floor and some potentially infected human gets in? And then, it’s the thing, some doctors say that the virus hovers in the air inside the elevator for 3 hours, Jornal Expresso says in the same article in different paragraphs, come on at least in different paragraphs, that it lives in metal and plastic for about 3 days, and then a bit ahead it says 5 days. So I tell them all to go to shit and go down the stairs. I’m going down the steps and thinking, don’t take buggers out of your nose, don’t take buggers out of your nose, the light goes out and there goes my elbow to turn on the light. Do not rub your eyes, do not rub your eyes, and the elbow that until then was of no use except to feel the famous elbow pain at one or another moment of envy, is now the main artist chosen to turn on switches and push doors. Don’t stick your fingers in your mouth, don’t stick your fingers in your mouth, and I finally get downstairs without meeting anyone on the stairs, literally for my health, and I listen to see if whether or not there are people in the lobby. The coast is clear, the little obsessive-compulsive General who lives now in my mind shouts, in a hurry, go go, the coast is clear and I assertively cross my potentially contaminated fingers so that no one appears, and I go in my astronaut mode. And then the insidious transport of goods begins. I arrive at the door of my house, without having put my hands in my mouth or plucking my eyelashes or sticking my fingers through my nose compulsively. A victory, indeed. The bags are all at the entrance door, in my mind visibly contaminated with that shitty virus, I open the door and then two by two, I take the bags to the terrace. At the entrance I take my shoes off and barefoot I walk in the house without touching anything towards the terrace where I start to accumulate my groceries on the floor that will be contaminated of course, and then I go back to the entrance, I put on my shoes to get more bags from the outside, the red danger zone, and then back in again barefoot and I do this about 10 more times until there are no more shopping bags left outside. I left the house key and shoes logically at the entrance. I go to the bathroom to wash my freaking hands for 40 seconds because at this point 20 seconds is no longer satisfying. And I do as they taught me on TV: first I soak my hands, I leave them very moist, humid, wet, then I take a sufficient amount of soap to wash the entire surface of my hands, I start rubbing my palms against each other and with my lubricated fingers interlaced, I rub the palms and the back of the hands again. I wash the backs of my fingers and clean my thumbs with circular motions, I also make circular motions on the palm of my hand to clean my slippery fingertips, I rub my fists also first one and then the other, then I soak my hands again under running water that splashes everywhere with the fingers intertwined I rub them together and finally dry everything well with a paper towel. And this is all the sex I have had in these quarantine days. And after this shitty sex, I put the sexy jumpsuit in the washing machine and take a shower. The first phase is completed. Then you have to wash the rice, beans, noodles, the canned ones under the tap, with water and soap, and my phone starts ringing and I can’t interrupt because otherwise I will contaminate the phone and then I will have to sanitise it and I don’t think it has done him well so much alcohol gel because it is already starting to go off with no reason, so I continue to clean the fruits and vegetables with a tablespoon of bleach for 1 litre of water. And then I wash my hands well after cleaning the food, before cooking, after cooking and before eating, the palms, the back, the wrists, the tips and between the fingers, and I’m about to go out to the streets looking for the subway handrails to lick them for a long time, I’m about to go looking for bus stops to get many buggers out of my nose and to place them one by one under the seats of the bus stops like a good prep student shall do to keep alive its tradition, and then I will end up rubbing my hands on the floor of the street and stick my fingers in my eyes until it bleeds. All of this just to make sure I get this shitty Corona virus and I can end this shit once and for all.

Troquei a merda do curso de jornalismo pela merda da publicidade. Estive uns 5 anos a trabalhar horas extra sem receber por elas e depois um dia troquei a terra pelo ar. Sou assistente de bordo desde 2011 e em Setembro desse ano comecei a trabalhar para a Etihad Airways. Troquei a minha amada Costa da Caparica pelas praias da Corniche em Abu Dhabi e troquei os meus biquinis brasileiros pelos burquinis. Usei o véu branco durante 3 anos, mas depois e porque nunca estou parada voltei a trocar a Arábia pela Europa e durante outros 3 anos voei de Londres para o resto do mundo a bordo da British Airways. Tirei uma merda de uma pós-graduação em tradução para os média que não me levou a lado nenhum à semelhança do meu mestrado em jornalismo, mas insisto em fazer cursos e o próximo vai ser de fotografia. Voltei para Lisboa em Dezembro de 2018 para rasgar outros céus, e enquanto estiver viva vou escrevendo sobre as minhas mil e uma aventuras e viagens pelo mundo neste site Mala de Cabine da Sofia, um título bastante próprio para um bloque de uma assistente de bordo, diga-se de passagem; e quando estou prestes a explodir, escrevo a título de catarse noutro site as merdas que me passam pela cabeça e as merdas que me incomodam o coração da única maneira que posso: numa Merda de Site. Se quiser continuar neste site de viagens, pensamentos românticos, factos banais e cenas do quotidiano bem mais positivas, fique, que é muito bem-vindo. Neste momento por causa do Corona estou em quarentena em casa. Mas assim que voltarmos todos a ser livres, voltarei a voar e a espraiar-me aqui convosco também. Talvez antes, se deixar a imaginação voar um pouco.

Edinburgh is full of mystery, history and funny stories. There are about 16 thousand historical buildings of different epochs. Last time I counted, it had 112 parks, and more trees per head of population than any other city in the UK. Therefore a lot of places to hang people, they’d have thought in the old days, I bet. Hang on a minute, am I the only one here thinking like this and doing silly word play. Edinburg has a nickname, the Auld Reekie or old smoky, because in the past a lot of coal and wood were burnt for heating and the air was always full of smoke. So if your hair has been falling out, thinning, or breaking off at the ends you might want to follow the advice of the city residents, who in the 17th century believed that running the burnt ashes of dove’s droppings on their heads would cure baldness. Worth a try.

A cidade de Edimburgo tem muitas coisas curiosas. Por exemplo, reparei nas tantas janelas fechadas com tijolos. Percebi um pouco depois, em conversa, que em 1748, o governo escocês instituiu um imposto sobre janelas e todas as casas que tivessem pelo menos sete teriam que pagar por isso. Comprar tijolos é mais barato, realmente. No mesmo dia, corri a cidade velha de uma ponta à outra e parei pelo Grassmarket para beber uma Coca-Cola (product placement), que hoje é uma área de pubs, restaurantes e lojas, mas que antes era um mercado medieval onde acontecia a maioria dos enforcamentos públicos. Começo a notar um interesse meu um tanto mórbido por enforcamentos. É uma ideia presente nos dois textos, nas duas línguas. Pode ser coincidência. Mas moving on, não pude deixar de reparar na falta de gosto barra brilhantismo na escolha do nome de um dos pubs da área: Last Drop (a última gota), onde dizem os locais que os condenados à forca iam tomar seu último gole de álcool. Esses não morreram com cirrose. Para além de muitas janelas, muitas árvores, muitas chaminés, existem muitas pessoas ruivas. Não que tenha algo contra elas, tenho até um amigo ruivo que me iliba de qualquer acusação de preconceito. Mas enquanto que na maioria dos países os ruivos representam 1% da população, na Escócia as pessoas de cabelos vermelhos são 7%. Notei também que boa parte dos bancos de praça da cidade têm donos. Em Lisboa e noutras cidades do mundo os cães têm donos, os carros têm donos. Em Edimburgo, os bancos também. Todos os que vi têm placas com o nome de pessoas, que vim a saber já falecidas, e que costumavam sentar-se ali. É tipo um cemitério vivo e bem mais alegre do que se ter uma placa numa campa. Mais vale estar eternamente sentado num banco de jardim do que enterrado, não é? Quem paga por essas placas são as famílias, para homenagear os entes queridos. Ficam todos avisados, se eu morrer amanhã, quero ser cremada e quero ter um banco de jardim. Com Wi-Fi, por favor.

San Francisco is home to a little bit of everything. Whether you’re a first time visitor or a long-time local, San Francisco’s Golden Gates welcome us all. This time I didn’t spend much time there because my layover was actually in Oakland. So the cable car was the perfect idea for us to have a beautiful glimpse of the city. At Powell and Market streets, there is a cable car turntable which serves as the beginning stop for two lines, the Powell-Mason and Powell-Hyde lines. The first line I mentioned was the one I picked on the 3rd of February. It begins there at turntable and then the line runs from there up and over Nob Hill and down to Bay Street at Fisherman’s Wharf. When you hop aboard these rolling landmarks you’re climbing hills the same way San Franciscans did in the 1870s. Isn’t that wonderful? I also love to travel in time.