There's something about tradition that brings people together: church rituals, Christmas family dinners or summer balls are endured by all generations alike as part of a link that mustn't be broken through the ages. And when its setting is made out of endless hours of labouring over a single perfect flower, everyone agrees that there must be something special about the occasion, even if its meaning has been lost in time.



Today a friend was telling me I was dressed like a Greek landscape: strong blue cardigan, white shirt and a tanned face. But those are also the colours of my country; colours impossible to describe through cloth, photos or words; the colours of my saudade inscribed as strongly in my soul as to make my body ache for its presence.