Pedaling through Paris

There’s no Sunday like the Sunday at La Latina (Madrid)

The blue(s) brothers

What Mr. Horácio doesn't know

It was in the half-light of an Italian restaurant in Bairro Alto that I first told my friends that I was going to start the Lisbon Tailor. One of the them laughed at the idea, another, frowning, asked me why the hell would someone want to do that, a third one called me a faggot and the remaining 2 or 3 thought that ignoring me would be the best way to let me know how stupid my idea was. From all of those reactions two consensus emerged: stupid idea, cute name.

I don’t buy tailor-made jackets. Not that I wouldn’t like that. But that would mean having to give up on some trips and of my drunkenness moments, which I consider far more significant to my happiness than the added value of having a coat measured to fit or going to San Giorgio, choose a pattern that best describes what goes on in my mind and ask Mr. Horácio to fit the sleeves so that I can feel comfortable inside a lousy jacket. What Mr. Horácio doesn’t know is that it was in one of those days, when he was busy trying to correct in a jacket what I cannot correct in my own body, that I thought about a name for this blog. The cute name for the stupid idea that I could not stop thinking about. The name of Mr. Horácio’s craft

Paris and how mundane a glimpse of style can be

Truth be told, I would have photographed him even if he only showed half of this neatness

(And from his expression, he knew that very well. Even in Paris, when you leave home like this, you already know that you’ll be noticed)

Some photographs leave me in a good mood for the rest of the day. Photographs just like this one

Federica – a beanie and some Hunter boots (in the end...a more sophisticated and contemporary way of saying "wellies")

The most simple of the styles in the most routine of the tasks in the most common of the days (Brera)

How to keep casual and relaxed wearing a coat and a scarf close to the buttonhole

Mr. Cruz

The fabulous colorful world of Amélie

I already had the movie, the leading actress and her charming craziness, Yann Tiersen, Yann Tiersen's music, the image of the girl in my gym rehearsing to the sound of Yann Tiersen. And as if all that wasn’t enough, I came across Amélia so delightfully dressed. And on top of all that she has a Web site, a Web site that goes with all that I wrote previously

The refinement of the classic man (pinstripe suit and bowler hat)

Cold can be a bitch. But not when you have an overcoat such as this one

Girls who are boys who like boys to be girls who do boys like they’re girls who do girls like they’re boys

Scalpers boy (C/ Velázquez, Madrid)

The (most) oriental side of the Place Vendôme

Marais in light tones

Tinkerbell woke up today with a Rockabilly touch

Commes des filles

Comme des garçons

Portrait of style

Marcel (Rue Saint-Honoré)

Singapour à Paris

Mr. Cruz

Can someone explain me why Swedish guys always look cool?

Milan in dark tones

Sebastiano

Ana

Sara

I met Sara here. In general, people write me to give me their feedback or asking for a photo. And when I'm abroad that seems to happen more often and quickly. Maybe out of curiosity, because they consider it more exotic or, who knows, for fear of getting home and finding a sloppy or senseless link. In this specific case, Sara didn’t write me. I didn’t think much about it but if someone had asked me “Zé, was there anyone you met the last time you went to Milan and whose contact slipped you by?”, I would answer “Sara.. probably Sara”. Nobody asked and I didn’t answer and I must confess that I didn’t loose my sleep because of it. The truth is that, out of pure chance, we met again online days before I went back to Milan. She gave me her number and a clear indication to use it while I was there. But I lost it. And it was in a mixture of joy (mine) and disappointment (hers) that we found each other in another outdoor café (again, by pure chance) in Brera. I joined her and her friend and before I left we agreed on having dinner that night. And so we did. I met Sara and some friends at Tratoria Toscana in Corso di Porta Ticinese. There I was introduced to several people whom the next day I would have difficulty remembering their exact name, their origin and what the hell they were doing there. But there was someone, besides Sara, that also charmed me. Alejandro (that unlike his skin, hair and clear eyes might suggest) is Mexican. He shared an apartment with Sara for some time and during that night I also started feeling that I had shared a house with them. They made me feel welcomed into their lives and I felt the enormous trust that one feels instinctively when we like someone but whom we know will return to their place some thousand kilometers away, taking all we confided with them. And that’s how I knew details about Sara’s boyfriend and Alejandro’s loves and flirts. But when I met Alejandro I didn’t assimilate him in the reducing sense of a “gay Mexican”. Because Alejandro was not gay in the true sense of a man that sleeps with another man. Alejandro was gay in all the plenitude of the word. In the same sense that I learned in my 7^th grade French classes. Because that was not the strict meaning that my teacher taught me. Gay as in someone who is bright and cheerful. Someone with a contagious joy. Someone that embodies the original meaning of the word and that we all seem to have forgotten. And when I remembered that meaning I found a joyful person in all those people that I met that night, in all those that talked, smiled or touched me. In all those that welcomed me, that wanted to know my origins, where I came from and where I was going. Like someone once wrote in the comments box of this blog “true freedom is not saying that we like women or men, but being able to like both and be completely happy with that, without dichotomies and the need to define ourselves as straight, gay or lesbian”. And that comment (or his fear of it) transported me to an article that José António Saraiva once wrote where he seemed to fear the extinction of the differences between the genders, as if the habits revolution is leading us to the inevitable condition of androgynous. I don’t criticize him and I don’t find it strange. If I were thirty years older I’m sure all of this would sound really bizarre. Even because, to be completely honest, I consider to myself the most dichotomized of worlds between males and females, between rude and violent creatures and fragile and sweet human beings. Because among my group of friends just one drink is enough for us to start treating one other as “machos”, using brutality to prove one´s high levels of testosterone that we have available for the most delicate of the females. You see, without this dichotomized world I don’t even feel lust. But that world does not overlap over the other one, the human one. And in that world I fall in love not with women but, like the anonymous on July 18^th, 11:53 PM, suggested, I fall in love with people. With my closest family members, with my dearest friends and with some of those that I run into and that I don’t have time to know more deeply. That night I fell in love with Sara and also with Alejandro. My feelings for them were deeper than those I felt about the feminine silhouette with whom I would lay with later that day. Because that passion is much important that the libido spiral drew by my lust. After all, this last one doesn't make me much different than a dog in heat. The next morning, when I left that well-decorated apartment and scribbled the note that I had seen been scribbled so many times in films when I was a kid, it was not its recipient that I had on my mind, but Sara and Alejandro. And that’s why I yesterday wrote to Alejandro and asked if I could also write about him. For the same reason that he replied saying that that was the most flattering thing that I could have asked him. For the very same reason that when I heard Sara saying that she wanted to take some photos to start a blog with a friend I reminded her “I’m still around tomorrow, call me when you wake up and we'll take care of it”. And so we did. And now that it’s done, if Sara asked me again (just like she did in that Corso Garibaldi outdoor café where we ran into each other) “what’s your favorite photo?” I would probably have answered her:

- yours, Sara, your photograph

Moscow in Milan

More than here…

Celeste has everything to appear here

Rossio in warm tones

Raquel & Chloé

Smells like James Dean

“Non uso mai i collant” she told me

I know you don’t Sara. Or do you think I don’t remember the photos we did in May?

Andrea – untrimmed beard, unstraightened tie (just like prince charming)

(and of course, the cardigan makes all the difference)

Sabrina & Noisette

Niccolò’s cape (Via della Spiga)

I’m an urban person, I really am. Or at least, in some degree, I consider myself as one. But I love the rural features, and most of all, the sensible presence that this piece conveys and that doesn’t go against its nature. Although rustic, it has a modern cosmopolitan flair that goes beyond the pieces that the urban flocks use. I’ve said it before here, wore it here and here and, almost enchanted, ended up here. And enough with this, since unlike the dozens of people that wrote me asking, I don’t sell capes, cloaks or shepherd’s coat. Nor does our leading man. But there’s one thing I can assure you, I would be greatly successful if I did. And so would Niccolò, that’s for sure!

I always heard that

the most remarkable features could spring from the most insignificant details

Filippo