Luigi - The rainbow in Milan

Milan - Fluttering dress

Verona - Rolled up pants and sleeves

Cinque Terre (Corniglia) - Yim

Cinque Terre (Vernazza) - Un bello ragazzo italiano (mediterranean look)

Florence - British flavour

Australian girls are awesome

It’s impossible to be in Florence and not wonder about those gentlemen stuck in their impeccably tailored suits, who use handkerchiefs in their lapels the same way we use our “everyday” ties and who wear those bright-coloured socks that seem to be part of the best Agatha Ruiz de la Prada collections. A fashion editor from la Repubblica reminded me: “Firenze non è Pitti Uomo”. He’s right. It’s too hot in Florence. I look around and all I can see is mini-skirts, flip-flops, tank shirts, naked biceps, sweaty cleavages and naked shoulders. And tourists…thousands of tourists. Emma is in front of me. I look at her and I wonder:

- What am I complaining about?

Siena - When a shy guy looks like a rock star

Siena - Daddy cool

Florence - Turquoise dress

There have been more than twenty years but I still remember... We went out to dinner after another day at the beach. Over her tanned skin my mother was wearing a turquoise dress. Since that day turquoise it’s my colour for women

48 bipolar hours

I went to Genoa on purpose to buy a new camera. I ended up spending an entire monthly wage in a new one. Not that that the new camera is that exceptional…I simply don’t earn that much (I know my director sometimes visits this blog, and to be honest, I’ve never been known as subtle guy…)

I arrived Cinque Terre too late to find an accommodation and I ended up begging to stay in the last place I was planning to sleep - Camping. The idea of me sleeping on the beach and waking up in the middle of the night being kicked by some Carabinieri didn’t particularly seduce me and In the end I was still able (in spite of my low moral) to capitalize the little charm I still had to convince the receptionist of campsite to let me sleep in the open air.

There’s no use to try to denying it… travel alone is really amusing but when things go really wrong you have simply two choices: or spend half an hour of roaming with your best friend, or risk a major vulnerability. Sleeping in the open air in the middle of families in tents and caravans, with the new machine inside my sleeping bag which closure I had just discovered it was broken was not exactly the picture I had for my vacations.

The next morning I know a Finnish guy. The empathy is immediate and that social boundary has suddenly effect on my moral. He goes to Rome but I decide to go to Florence. I look for a place to dine outside the tourist area and I manage to find a beautiful terrace full of Italians. This is where am I writing you. A group of Florentine people invite me to make a toast with them and I recall that in Italy, beautiful women notice me more than in any other country (cast the first stone who never found comfort in the care of strangers) but that, instead increasing my libido, brings me to the memory only what I really need to cheer me up: when you travel alone, you’re just by yourself when you really want to be by yourself. I look back to my last 48 hours and with a ridiculous smile on my face I recall that famous phrase from the mother of Forrest Gump: “Life's a box of chocolates, Forrest. You never know what you're gonna get”

My Princedom for a camera

The two Dutch guys start to feel the same nausea that I have come to complain. In Monaco, nothing sounds real or human. But they still count the number of Lamborghinis and Maybachs. One of those guys screams something. I assume it is the Bugatti they still didn’t find. The moment I turn back there is a mismatch of wills between the orders of my brain and muscle reflexes in my right hand. The camera falls. 10 seconds after my ass is on the floor and my hands on my head. I think about the walls of my room plain of people I met while travelling, the unexpected happiness of running a blog, and especially, in my will of doing this trip alone. It is not easy to understand for those who don’t really know me but, that episode makes me wonder half the decisions I have taken in the last half year. I’m touched, first with the international scurrility I hear around me, then with fraternal silence that I feel on by backs. I tell them I could hardly imagine a moment like that without tears in my eyes. The phone rings. It is the girlfriend who I still don’t manage to call her ex. Already with a blurred vision I ask those guys:
- What did I just tell you?

The official footwear of the French Riviera

Smells like Saint-Tropez

Saint-Tropez has a lot of people to shoot and little space to do so discreetly. I kept my camera inside the bag and only took it when I saw this Lacoste polo in a terrace. For those who do not understand why and have patience to read the text you can click here...

The other side of Cannes

United Colours of Croisette

Marseille - (after oriental shirts) 4 pleasant chinese girls

Toulouse - Gianpaolo's oriental shirt

Hendaye - Colonial look

Off I go

Today was my last day at work before going on vacations. Tomorrow I will be smiling like these two danish girls... See you!

Did I ever mention I've got a crush on striped shirts?

Flower power

Some travellers just prefer light colours

Aninhas

(I was crazy about publishing a post in which I could have a portrait of motherhood even before it occurs, I just didn’t expect such a young or beautiful mom) But I didn’t need to tell her this to make her smile and there was no need to ask her to put her hands around her belly to do so.

I show some photos to my sister with the same excitement with which, until very recently ago, before an important date, I was in her room to ask "do I look fine?” My sister recognized Aninhas, she did her the only single braid that she had in her hair. And she answered to me:

- Yes, you look fine…you look just fine

100 posts and counting – Clear blues rectangles over gray background

My first friend to have a blog started it 5 years ago. “Since July 16th 2004” can be read at the top, even before his playlist, his Twitters updates and other mini-applications available by Blogger. The other day I saw a blog that celebrated its 2.000.000 million visit. Anyway… everyone has its stage, and mine, 6 months of existence and 100 posts are reasons more than enough to be celebrated here. I say this because my life changed a bit. For anyone who spends the days sitting in an office with enough natural light to stop complaining about his life, that answers phone in a standardized way and acts in the way that best combines his own will and what the entity that rewards him expects, this blog represents a strong contrast. Approaching all these different people allows me to experience moments that all the social conventions from our life would hardly make it possible. And then, more than mine, The Lisbon Taylor… is me. That’s probably why I feel so personal about everything people write me: each critic, complement or simple warning touch me as if they talked about me, my hair, my integrity or lack of it.

It seems fair that I leave here a few acknowledgements. I should admit that it (still) is more fun for me to write for 1000 or 2000 people that for 100 or 200, to know that people liked my pictures and my writings and a number of parallel statements that, I believe, resume the feedback I get from comments, Facebook or e-mail. First of all, two fraternal thanks. The first one goes to Mário Fazendas, for his brilliant translations, that as you will see later have brought me great joys. Going through The Lisbon Taylor, the criteria is pretty simple. The translations that impress you the most are from Mário, and the ones that have at least half a dozen mistakes have been made by a consortium between me and Google Translator. To another good friend of mine, Rui Quinta, among other things, I thank him for the nicest business cards I have ever seen (capable of making Christian Bale in American Psycho sweat like hell), making it possible for the people I approach on the streets not to think of me as a disturbed guy kindly asking them to be a part of his blog.

I would also like to thank Time Out, TVI 24, SIC Mulher, This Is Our Thing, to Sancha Trindade and the coverage on Meia Hora and Time Out again (the hand that first feeds you is always the one you’ll never forget) for, in such distinct ways and through different resources, having shown a genuine interest and contributing for the revelation of the Taylor. Not forgetting all of those that were creating links and publishing posts about The Lisbon Taylor on their blogs. I would also like to thank Fashion Real Street Star and Shopping & Shopper for allowing me to find out that “global village” is not only a mere theoretical concept. I give special emphasis to the 3 monthly pages that Shopping & Shopper (a bilingual magazine, based in Beijing) plans to save for my work, in what was, up until now, the most striking proposition I’ve ever received. But more important, I’d like to thank to all of those that visit me regularly, especially those that are telling what they feel; and more than anything and anyone I’ve mentioned, to those that are pictured here, because without them… there wouldn’t be a Taylor.

All I have to do now is to dedicate a few words to the picture of the day. However, today exceptionally, this blog is more important than its guest. I can only say that, some day, the author of this all would have to be in the same place as were the ones he comes across with. The photo is from João Vieira.

Two sides of a same elegance

Dress in black and having almost 6,5 feet tall are definitely a good help but I still think there is something more about his elegance..

La Chemise Lacoste – my father's legacy

I think my dad has always been there for me more than most dads can be. Today still… as I’m about to get into my 30’s, he’s still the person with whom I’ve spent more hours holding hands, the one I went to the cinema with more often, and probably, with whom I’ve stayed longer watching a Lacoste window. I grew up watching my dad using and abusing that Crocodile and I still recall the day that, in the middle of Downtown, we bought my first polo shirt.

“You never really own a Patek Phillippe, you merely take care of it for the next generation.” This is probably the nicest advertising slogan I know. Let truth be told, something that is good for a luxury watch will hardly apply to a piece of clothing. But in my group of friends, I’m not the only one having the privilege of wearing a Lacoste polo shirt that has already belonged to their mother or father. And I just can’t remember another kind of cotton piece that can be washed 20 times each summer and can still hold on to the same rhythm for 30 more years. But I’ll go further, just a little bit further…

Since my teens, I’ve lost my fixation for brands and, above all, for the exhibition of its most distinctive elements. But there is one of those elements that has always resisted to my maturation – the Crocodile. I’ve never told this to anyone but I have a pair of corduroy trousers with the Crocodile stitched on, and when I wear them, every time I pass by a mirror, I always make sure that the pullover I’m wearing doesn’t hide my dear Crocodile. I don’t do it for the status (besides…the Crocodile can be found in a promenade in Saint-Tropez just as it can be seen on the toughest neighbourhoods in the outskirts of Paris); I do it because of a certain je ne sais quoi that I can’t find in me without it (after all, isn’t this the main goal of Marketing? Designing products with such attributes with which the consumer can feel identified?) For some reason, Lacoste is the most counterfeited brand in the whole world. For some reason, I wore those trousers on my first date with my girlfriend.

I still remember the satisfaction of carrying the bag – “no Dad, let me take it!” – with the white Polo shirt, just imagining how it would look on me the next day. Only now I start to realise that the first years of our lives are the most important. And only now, that my hair is starting to fall and what’s left of it is starting to have white shades, I go back to those days when the father figure is our hero and I understand that, like it or not, for good or for evil, that story about primary socialization (give or take) is really like this – it marks us forever.

The other day a friend told me that one of the things that led him to study Arts was his mother’s impressive talent for drawing. I didn’t tell him, but I’ve noticed that I’d never heard him talk about his mother legacy with such pride. Me and Rui, we have the same age, we’ve studied in the same school and we’ve fought for the attention of the same cute teacher (of the same school)… it doesn’t intrigue me that now we look over our shoulders the same way. For all of this and something more, it will be no surprise that even before my son can wear that red polo shirt you see in the picture, his mother, right in the middle of her pregnancy, will indulge me by wearing one of those beautiful piquet dresses, almost as timeless as the famous Polo 1212. Fetish? Maybe. Father legacy? Definitely. Marketing credit? Hell no… it’s Lacoste.

The Nailhead suit pattern - Queluz National Palace

The nailhead is a classic pattern that causes a geometric effect similar to a repetition of an head of a nail. Very common in gray or blue, this pattern is probably one of the best choices for those who, after 2 or 3 different plain suits, would like to have a different suit from the others, but do not feel comfortable to use (or simply do not like) listed or chequers suits.

When, 2 months ago, I wrote that the gray suit would be possibly my 2nd choice (after the dark blue and before the 1st chequers jacket) I was specifically imagining this nailhead light gray suit, ideal in a warm and sunny day

Harlem 1981, Lisbon 2009

Yesterday, a few hours before finding Edson, I had been trying to put into order the boxes and drawers that make up the usual mess of my room. I found a suitcase bursting with VHSs with some movies and series. There was a tape labelled as Hill Street Blues. The music grew on me immediately and I decided to rescue the old video.

I don’t know if in another day I would have stopped to address Edson. Maybe yes. maybe not. Yesterday I didn’t hesitate. The revival move me, Edson took me back.

Carolina and her colours

A Frenchman in Lisbon - sober black

White jacket & white hat

White jacket is not something that many men feel comfortable to wear. White hat is not something that many men feel comfortable in using. But there are still some men that don’t seem to feel uncomfortable in using both, and if possible, at the same time

Fashion & Countryside

Day by day we’re more heedful and respectful to countryside. And that works to fashion as well. There are much more garments or accessories that we “steal” from countryside than we can imagine…

Speaking about stripes..

..I will always love blue & white

Stripes & stripes

Ericeira - Mr. Nicolau

After taking the photo I came to the conclusion that we all noticed Mr Nicholas the moment we arrived to the beach. This wonderful mix between Hemingway and the Latin man who makes the delights of women from Northern Europe wouldn’t be easy to ignore. In this portrait...the eternal Lacoste Polo-shirt he’s wearing is just a small detail