Azores – Crystal, Clearly

Maybe Yes, Maybe No

Money can’t buy you happiness, but poverty doesn’t give a whole lot of joy either. It’s as if having more than enough isn’t likely to make you happier, but having less than enough definitely detracts from happiness.

It is not just that we want more but that we want more than others, who at the same time want more than us; this fuels an endless race.

–Robert Skidelsky
How much is enough?: The love of money and the case for the good life

To understand the culture of a place it helps to have an understanding of its history. The history is often better understood with some attention to the economic pressures that shaped it. I found it an odd juxtaposition between the individual and the national culture. The individuals in Portugal, especially in the Azores, are truly some of the kindest, most helpful, most generous people you could ever hope to meet. They would give you the shirt off their backs and then some. The nation though is proud, sometimes authoritarian, and historically ambitious. Portugal seems always yearning, trying to get, and keep, its piece of the global pie.

There is a whole lot of drama in the tales of Portugal’s efforts to not be absorbed by Castile. Geographically, Portugal seems almost precariously balanced along the Iberian Peninsula’s west coast, as if Spain is slowly pressing it into the Atlantic. Still it holds on, to its borders, its language, its foods and traditions. I mean, I don’t think a country can actually hip check another country into the ocean or anything, I just feel like there’s this unspoken pressure on Portugal that makes it difficult for it to lean back and relax as if this is enough. I think this pressure was very formative for the character of the nation.

There is an old story of a farmer who goes through a series of fortunate/unfortunate events, each made possible by the last. When his horse runs away the neighbors sympathetically tell him that’s awful. The farmer stays calm, “maybe yes, maybe no.” When the horse returns bringing wild horses with it, the neighbors are so happy for the farmer telling him this is wonderful. The farmer is again quite calm, “maybe yes, maybe no.” And so on and so forth, each bad thing makes a good thing possible and vice versa. The story as it’s been told to me is about a Chinese farmer, but the Portuguese economy follows a very similar rhythm.

The pope was like a Coppola-directed Godfather back in the day. Without papal approval the kingdom could be taken by anyone who showed up with a better fighting force. But if the pope said you were legit, none of the other Catholic kingdoms could mess too much with you or they’d potentially be in trouble with the God Papa himself. You wanted him on your side, for sure. In the 14th century, the kingdom of Castile had an arguably legitimate claim to the Portuguese throne. The Portuguese court chose to go a different direction though and made an alliance with another (still Catholic at the time) kingdom to discourage pushback from any of the other Catholic kingdoms (looking at you Castile).

The Aliança Luso-Inglesa is the longest ongoing political alliance of its kind. Since 1386, Portugal and England have been obligated to help each other in times of need. It also opened up ongoing trade which was great for Portugal in some ways (for a small island the UK has a history of importing a lot of consumer goods). It’s also been limiting, like when Portugal abandoned its attempt to Tic-Tac-Toe from Angola to Mozambique because the UK was basically doing the same move, but on the vertical. Real Life Lore has a video that does a great job of explaining a lot of stuff about Portugal’s history and plans for the future, specific to territory expansion (and contraction and expansion again). Is this alliance good for Portugal? Maybe yes, maybe no.

In addition to the long-standing treaty with England, Portugal belongs to the usual clubs, EU, NATO, etc. This has some of the same, “maybe yes, maybe no,” impact on their economy. When the EU is strong it lifts up all of its members including Portugal, and when it trips they all stumble. Additionally, the EU is kinda like the Godfather that the Pope used to be for these countries and so they all have to play nice with each other if they want to stay in the club.

The descendants of the Irish diaspora, including myself, are insanely loyal to their heritage in a way that baffles pretty much everyone else. That said, I’ve had Irish dairy products… in Ireland even. They are some of the best in the world. There is no butter as good as Azorean butter. I said what I said, and I’m not taking it back.

Azorean butter is sooo good

The cattle industry in São Miguel is such a big part of the island economy that at one point (in very recent history) there was a 1:1 ratio of cows to people on the island. Also, that stat is from my class notes, not like some official report, but I trust my professor. No shade to the beef, but I don’t eat much meat and can’t give a fair review, imo. Theoretically, it’s the volcanic soil, or mineral rich spring water, or something that makes the grazing special. Whatever it is Azorean dairy products are amazing, but I guess the EU is like we have enough butter exporters, come up with something else.

The Azores have a grand agricultural history. They were making a pretty penny on a plant called pastel, a.k.a. woad, but then that dye was eclipsed by the vivid blues of indigo. Azorean plantations are smaller, and far less horrific, than what the word evokes for most Americans. Not that Portugal’s history is angelic by any means, but their plantations were more straightforward economic endeavors. The pineapple plantation we visited was charming with a small scale aquaponics-esque irrigation system. The tea plantation was similarly very nice, with the bonus of a friendly cat that allowed us all to pet it.

These plants have nothing on the impact of oranges, though. There are multiple languages in which the word for the fruit is the same as, or a very close derivation of, the word for Portugal. The Portuguese were insanely successful and prolific in their exporting of this golden fruit (that they themselves had acquired from China). Over time other countries developed their own local orchards. The Portuguese oranges are delicious, but not nearly as hardy as Spain’s Valencia oranges. Add a bad blight of the Portuguese orange industry to healthy competition and their golden age of orange trade came to a disappointing end.

This boom-bust cycle seems to exemplify Portugal’s economic history. It’s like the game keeps changing just when it seems certain that they’re winning it. The Portuguese are adaptable though. Much of what I saw while I was there was the shift to a tourism based economy.

There’s no great demand for Portuguese pineapples (they’re tasty, just not competitive market-wise), but there’s a lovely gift shop for tourists who want to visit a Portuguese pineapple plantation, which honestly, I recommend if you get the chance. The whaling industry has definitely fallen out of favor, but whale watching is always fun and a lot of the same skillset can be applied. Portugal is a great place to be a tourist. You’d be hard pressed to find more gracious hosts. And as a bonus, everyone in the hospitality industry, or under thirty in general, seems to speak English fluently.

Unfortunately though, it’s not exactly a secret that Portugal is a great place to visit. Their success at attracting tourists may even be ruining some of the things that the tourists are there for. Sintra was breathtakingly beautiful, but honestly, fairly low on my list of places to return to. There were a lot of tourists there and aside from the views it felt the least like being in Portugal of any of the places I visited. Is tourism good for Portugal? Maybe yes. Maybe no.

I’m by no means an economic scholar. You can probably get a better intellectual analysis from, oh, just about anyone. I just reckon we all want to have enough. I understand what enough looks like on a small scale. I want housing security and food security for myself and my kids. I want enough to put away something extra so that I still have that security if a few variables go wonky. I want enough to travel, and have adventures, enough to say yes to fun opportunities and to help others. Money can’t buy you happiness, but poverty doesn’t give a whole lot of joy either. It’s as if having more than enough isn’t likely to make you happier, but having less than enough definitely detracts from happiness.

I don’t know what enough looks like on a national scale. I’m worried about inequities where people who own short term rentals for tourists have more than enough, and people who want to live near where the work is don’t have nearly enough. But problems with inequity aren’t the same as the question of how to have enough in a competitive global market.

Portugal has some shameful chapters in its history, but don’t we all? At the end of the day, I’m rooting for them. I hope the country finds a sustainable path to economic security. I don’t know what that is, but I want that for them, and for me, and for you.

Money don’t get everything it’s true
What it don’t get, I can’t use
I want money
That’s what I want

–The Flying Lizards
Money

The Flying Lizards – Money

Bom Dia!

It had become my neighborhood, and I was overjoyed to participate in my new community, even if that was mostly by greeting people like the untrained labrador retriever that I am in the depths of my soul.

“Hello and good-bye.” What else is there to say? Our language is much larger than it needs to be.
Kurt Vonnegut
Jailbird

There is something to be said for a comfortable routine. Back when I was taking community college classes online, I found it very difficult to get any schoolwork done if my now ex-husband was home. I would take my laptop to the local Starbucks and handle business there. This was back when Starbucks was a cozy place designed to encourage lingering about, with comfy chairs, plentiful outlets, and fast-enough wifi. I often joked that if I ever completed my associate degree, I would owe the coffee giant a line on my diploma or at the very least special thanks (thank you Victorville Starbucks).

The coffee is okay. It keeps me awake, and that’s enough most days. What I loved the most was that they always made me feel like Norm on Cheers. Everybody knew my name, and they seemed genuinely happy to see me. And I know it’s a corporate strategy, but I’ll be darned if it doesn’t work like a charm. In an interview with Oprah, Toni Morrison talked about the importance of being demonstrably happy to see her children. It makes a difference. I am still that child. I will do almost anything for people who make me feel like they are happy to see me.

Our professor is not a morning person, so we didn’t have class until the afternoon. In the morning, my roommates and I, in varying combinations, would go to the farmer’s market¹, the swimming hole, the regular market, a Loja Chinesa², or some combination of the above before class. Ponta Delgada is a very walkable town, occasionally steep, but as well laid out as it can be with that topography, I reckon.

Totally blending in with the locals

I don’t know much Portuguese, but I used my limited lexicon with great enthusiasm. I greeted every person I met on these morning outings with a heartfelt “bom dia!” I felt like Belle in the opening number of Disney’s Beauty and the Beast, except these people had no idea who the crazy lady, with the thick American accent, greeting them so ecstatically was. Fortunately, the Portuguese seem to be a very warm and welcoming people, and as said above, we like it when people are happy to see us.

I’ve never been any good at blending in. I was never going to pass for a local, but still, I felt a part of the community. I felt seen at my little pizza place around the corner. I felt camaraderie with the seniors braving the chilly Atlantic waters every morning. I had favorite stalls in the Farmer’s Market. It had become my neighborhood, and I was overjoyed to participate in my new community, even if that was mostly by greeting people like the untrained labrador retriever that I am in the depths of my soul. What a delight to say good morning to someone in a language that is not your own and have them respond in kind as if you belong after all.

I was genuinely happy to see every person I crossed paths with during those first weeks in Portugal. It was such an unlikely miracle that I, the always-broke girl, the living-my-life-like-I’m-in-a-telenovela tragic girl, the always-struggled-with-school girl, was somehow studying abroad, and on this island paradise I hadn’t known had existed just a few months earlier. I was so happy to be there and so happy for these strangers that they could be there, too. Our very existence in that unlikely place was enough to be giddy about. Squee!

Little town, it’s a quiet village
Every day like the one before
Little town, full of little people
Waking up to say…
Beauty and the Beast Soundtrack

Beauty And The Beast – Belle [European Portuguese]

A daily market with a regular address, not the weekly street fair type I’m used to in California. ↩︎
This literally translates to “Chinese Store,” and can refer to any number of dollar store type establishments. ↩︎

The Rooster

I was there long enough and involved enough, that I can’t help but feel some affiliation- like Portugal is partly mine and I am partly Portugal’s.

There are symbols of that place that I greet like old friends now. I’m so happy to see them, even if they make me a little homesick for a place I never quite called home.

There is a powerful need for symbolism, and that means the architecture must have something that appeals to the human heart.
Kenzo Tange

Once upon a time,
a pilgrim was walking to Santiago de Compostela as many pilgrims have done over the centuries. This pilgrim had the misfortune of arriving in Barcelos the same day that the silver had been stolen from an important, wealthy man.

A stranger with no one to vouch for him, the pilgrim was as poor as he was pious and truly had nothing but his own word in his defense. He was also the only suspect. So it came to pass that he was promptly arrested, convicted and sentenced to death by hanging.

The day he was scheduled to be hanged, he begged so earnestly for one last chance to plead with the judge that the guards took pity on him and took him to the judge’s house. The judge was having a dinner party that evening, and there were guests in their finest attire, and a great feast was laid out on the table. Unwashed, disheveled, and shackled, the pilgrim threw himself on the judge's mercy. It was to no avail. The judge declared that the hanging would go on as planned.

Just as the guards were going to take the pilgrim away, he pointed to the roasted chicken on the table and looked the judge right in the eyes as he said, “As truly as I tell you I am innocent, I tell you now that this cock will crow three times at the moment I am hanged.” The dinner guests all laughed at this ridiculous claim, and the pilgrim was taken directly to the gallows.

Much to the shock of the judge and his guests, the roast chicken did stand up and crow, not once, not twice, but three times. Realizing he’d sent an innocent man to his death, the judge ran from his house to the gallows, praying it wasn’t too late.

Though the executioner had attempted to hang the pilgrim, a flaw in the rope saved his neck. They were just setting up for a second attempt when the judge arrived and insisted that the pilgrim be set free at once.

And so it is that this rooster, Galo de Barcelos, has become a symbol of faith and justice and of Portugal itself. Like any oral tradition, there are countless small variations, but also details that remain consistent. Colorfully painted figurines of this rooster can be found in gift shops carrying Portuguese kitsch and they are supposed to bring good luck to your home.

Studying abroad is a strange space, somewhere between visiting a place and living there. I lived my life in Portugal the same way as in California. I went to my classes. I hung out with my friends. I ran errands. I did chores. I worked from home. Sometimes, I say I lived there because my daily life was very real and very there. Sometimes, I say I visited because I still had a home in California that I knew I’d return to. However you phrase it, I was there long enough and involved enough, that I can’t help but feel some affiliation- like Portugal is partly mine and I am partly Portugal’s.

There are symbols of that place that I greet like old friends now. I’m so happy to see them, even if they make me a little homesick for a place I never quite called home. Of course, there is the rooster. There is also the ornate Manueline architecture that is so distinctly Portuguese. And the flexible cork that they use like leather to make purses and backpacks, and from which the little coin purse I bought in Lisbon is made.

Portuguese pavement is my favorite, though. I still marvel that the Portuguese can get anywhere on foot, mostly because the sidewalks are so stunning that I wanted to stop and admire them every few steps and also because they have worn quite smooth in some places after centuries of people walking on them. They can be treacherously slippery, especially in hilly Lisbon.

Ducks and a rooster napping in the grass under a bush — The big, black, rooster napping with the ducks

A photo of lush hydrangeas blooming in the foreground with a duck pond and manicured lawn in the background, and old buildings on the horizon. — The big, black, rooster napping with the ducks

The Azores have all the symbols of Portugal and some of their own. The hydrangeas were very showy while I was there in June. Between the live ones in full bloom, the delicately embroidered ones on tea towels and aprons, and representations on postcards and magnets and anything else you could hope to buy in a souvenir shop, it’s hard to hate on them. Unfortunately, they are as invasive as they are iconic.

Romantic gardens still abound on the island of São Miguel. The local economy flourished in the 19th century, and wealthy merchants wanted to emulate nobility. There’s a certain recipe to follow for these gardens, beyond just having exotic plants. They took one of these, one of those, carefully curating specimens and completing collections. There are no ancient ruins on the island of São Miguel, on account of not being settled by humans until the 15th century. That’s okay, if you can’t grow your own ruins or grottos, custom-built is fine. More than a century later, some are rather convincing, too.

The university where I attended classes has its own romantic garden, and lush hydrangeas (and modern facilities too). Best of all was the one big, black, rooster whose strutting presence on the grounds, compounded by the souvenir tchotchkes, sent me down the Galo de Barcelos rabbit hole in the first place. I just had to know what the Portuguese obsession with roosters was all about.

I never did believe in miracles
But I’ve a feeling it’s time to try
I never did believe in the ways of magic
But I’m beginning to wonder why
Fleetwood Mac
You Make Loving Fun

A New World Woman in an Old World Town

If, as Billy Joel says, “Los Angelenos all come from somewhere,” the Azores are the bookend, a place where everybody has gone or is going or is missing someone who has left. Those islands are shaped by emigration as much as California is by immigration.

In Los Angeles, by the time you’re 35, you’re older than most of the buildings.
Delia Ephron

I grew up in North Hollywood, in neighborhoods that used to be Mexico, which once belonged to Spain. My family’s quarter-acre has been in three countries over the past 200 years, and that’s not even considering that it has never stopped being Chumash, Tongva, and Fernandeño Tataviam land. Portugal was born in 1143, but not baptized (papal approval) until 1146 and it has not changed its borders significantly since.

My state’s history and my family’s both began in the late 1840s. My mother’s great-grandparents were the children of Irish famine immigrants. They found their way to Los Angeles in 1912. That is as far back as my history goes. My father and his parents came to Los Angeles in the 1960s, after the whole family had spent most of a decade traveling between the Central Valley and Northern Mexico as part of the Bracero program. Neither side of the family talks much about what was left behind. My family history, as I know it, begins in California, or at least on the journey to California.

This is my heritage. I am a self-proclaimed Irish-American Chicana. When I am abroad and asked where I am from, I answer California. My sense of Americanness is that of the immigrant. I feel simultaneously an outsider to WASP culture and most of U.S. History, and yet a fervent attachment to California, the only home I know. My heritage is in hand-me-down stories of Ireland and Mexico as they existed when my families left them, not how they are today.

My heritage is in Los Angeles, where my families converged. According to DNA testing, my ancestry spans three continents and a multitude of ethnicities, including 2% Portuguese. I have no family connection to Portuguese culture, though. It may be a small part of my ancestry, but not my heritage. I was warmly welcomed there as a stranger and that says a lot about the Portuguese in general, and Azoreans in particular..

Compared to the rest of Portugal, the Azores are still relatively new, yet compared to California, they are ancient. The Igreja Matriz de São Sebastião has been a functional church since the 16th century, so many generations, nearly 500 years of people coming and going as if this sort of thing happens all the time. Los Angeles is an industry town; buildings go up and down like set dressing. In Ponta Delgada, the farmer’s market kept the same layout when it moved underground during renovations, changing only as necessary..

The mountains across the street from my grandmother’s apartment grew twelve inches the morning of the Northridge quake, and I’ve long thought that was one of the most Los Angeles things ever to happen. Even the mountains here can change overnight. There is something incomprehensibly stable about the Azores. They have earthquakes, even volcanoes, and still manage a sort of continuity that is entirely foreign to me.

Michael Connelly says of my home town, “Los Angeles was the kind of place where everybody was from somewhere else and nobody really dropped anchor. It was a transient place. People drawn by the dream, people running from the nightmare. Twelve million people and all of them ready to make a break for it if necessary. Figuratively, literally, metaphorically — any way you want to look at it — everybody in L.A. keeps a bag packed. Just in case.” He’s not unique in this observation. If, as Billy Joel says, “Los Angelenos all come from somewhere,” the Azores are the bookend, a place where everybody has gone or is going or is missing someone who has left. Those islands are shaped by emigration as much as California is by immigration. The people are friendlier than in Los Angeles, but their stories are the same, just told at different ends.

There is a pizza place near my apartment in Ponta Delgada. Nothing there is fast. I’d often order a bite to eat and a Kima to take away. When I went alone, I was invited by someone ten to twenty years my senior to join them at the table next to the cigarette machine. I accepted the invitation and made conversation while waiting for my inexplicably slow food.

Pedro had returned to Ponta Delgada now that he is retired. He had been a truck driver in Canada for nearly his entire adult life. He had been born in Ponta Delgada, but he left as soon as he could get out. His mother owned a big house in town, and Pedro told her not to sell it. I found it particularly revealing that he said he told her, not asked or advised her. Decades later, Pedro still seems annoyed that she sold the house, even while admitting that it was a lot for her to take care of alone.

On another occasion I sat for a long time with Nelly. She did not speak English as well as Pedro, but her English was still better than my Portuguese. She used her phone to show me pictures of a statue and swans in a park not far from here and ducks named (by her) Fernando and Chuka. Nelly owned a big house in Ponta Delgada and would rent rooms to people and give them rides anywhere they wanted.

Then Nelly asked me, “we are friends?” There is only one correct answer when a sweet older woman takes your hands in hers and asks this. I affirmed that we were. She showed me pictures of her face bruised and swollen and explained that her husband had died and her son had moved away a long time ago. She had a partner, but he… She made a punching gesture and showed me lumps where her jaw bone should be smooth. She told me, “this is not my face.”

Nelly was planning to move to Lisbon. Her friends thought her crazy to move away, but she wants to be far away from her ex-partner and is hopeful doctors there can fix her jaw. I was married to a man who brags that he never hit me, and friends and family thought I should stay too. He was only mean when he’d had too much to drink, or not enough to drink, or a rough time at work, or was stressed about something. Sometimes, he was great though. It can seem like madness to leave a good house behind, but most of us are willing to jump from high windows when we know the house is on fire. And we’ll jump out of entire countries when they are on fire, too.

I have met people like this in Los Angeles: people who left home in search of adventure, or safety, or a fresh start, some who were saving up to go back someday, and some who knew they would never return. Despite Billy Joel’s claims, Los Angeles is where I am from. I grew up in a city that people run away to, and now I know what it is like to sit with them in a place where people are from.

Drivin’ down your freeways
Midnight alleys roam
Cops in cars, the topless bars
Never saw a woman
So alone, so alone
The Doors
L.A. Woman

The Doors – L.A. Woman

Something a Lot Like Home

It is strange the extent to which when I am at home I daydream constantly about traveling and when I am traveling all I want is a place to nest. I wanted to see my home away from home, unpack, imagine where I’d take my morning coffee, etc.

I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.
Maya Angelou

The internet is great for researching weather and fun tourist spots. I try to research etiquette, too, though, in my experience there is no one etiquette. I’ve never been anywhere that is really a cultural monolith without any socioeconomic, religious, or ethnic variation. It’s still helpful to read about how to be on my best behavior abroad, but being kind and respectful almost always involves a certain amount of improvisation. Research helps, but it’s not enough.

I remain both frustrated and soothed by the constraints of predictability, so I seek adventures and then research the crap out of them in advance. What I couldn’t research at all were the things that were probably going to impact me the most. As a student, I have no say in my lodging or my housemates. I didn’t know my neighborhood or my amenities. I could assume it would be reasonably close to the campus and have those things students reasonably need, like wifi, but who’s to say what the deciding parties (Berkeley Study Abroad and Study in Portugal Network (SiPN) actually deem reasonable.

We arrived at the Ponta Delgada Airport as a cluster of acquaintances and strangers. Some of us had met briefly at an orientation (that seemed forever ago by the time we arrived). Some of us had some Berkeley swag visible. These things helped us to identify each other, and we all sort of clustered together. None of us really knew what to expect, and the person who was picking us up was on her way, but not there yet.

Some of us took the opportunity to buy SIM cards and/or get coffee and snacks. Then our professor’s logistical assistant arrived and packed every one of us from that flight into a van that seemed too small for so many people and all the luggage we’d need for the next two months. Then we got to the narrow streets of the neighborhoods we’d be living in, and the van seemed much too big. Still, by some combination of miracle and superpowers our driver managed to distribute us to our new homes.

Most of the students seemed to be fairly evenly divided between two hostels, Thomas Place and, I think the other one was Marina Lounge, but I’m not sure. I wasn’t in either hostel. Our professor was very kind to us old broads, which is to say, the three women over forty in her class. She insisted that we be given the apartment that had been selected for her. This was a huge blessing.

The kids were able to check into their rooms right away, but our place wouldn’t be ready for hours. It is strange the extent to which when I am at home I daydream constantly about traveling and when I am traveling all I want is a place to nest. I wanted to see my home away from home, unpack, imagine where I’d take my morning coffee, etc. When the van dropped us off at our address, we were only allowed to hand off our bags.

For the next few hours we were set free to explore Ponta Delgada. We being myself and the one other woman in my household who had arrived early. Many of the students in this group were Portuguese majors or otherwise fluent, or at least semi-fluent, in Portuguese. Not my household. Neither one of us knew more than we had googled in the few short weeks leading up to this trip. Into the deep end we went, all at once.

Cool. Cool. Two mature women set loose in a strange town where neither of us know the language. Why not? Fortunately, we were still on something approximating company manners at that point, keeping our freak flags folded in tidy triangles out of each other’s view so very little mischief was had that day.

We discovered Café Central, which was kinda like an Azorean Denny’s. None of the food was great, but none of the food was bad either. The menu, and at least some of the staff were English-Portuguese bilingual and you could sit on the patio and people watch as if the whole town were going to walk by eventually. Also, their hours were the best on the island. We often ended up there on Sundays, when everything else was closed. Definitely not the best food on São Miguel, but they were hard to beat for convenience.

We headed back towards home, which is a weird thing to call some place you’ve never been, but even if it wasn’t yet that day, it definitely became something like home to me over the month. On the first day we weren’t quite sure where it was and made a few wrong turns. Google maps can only do so much if my reception is spotty and my reception is often spotty. Still somehow we found our way.

My traveling companion called dibs on the single room with the big bed, leaving me in the double with the roommate who was yet to arrive. I unpacked, satisfied both with my sense of being home and the knowledge that my grand adventure had finally begun. I think that eleven year old me would be proud to know that I was traveling the world, almost as much as she’d be horrified to know that I was in school in my forties.

Fearless was my middle name
But somewhere there, I lost my way
Everyone walks the same
Expecting me to step
The narrow path they’ve laid
R. E. M.
Walk Unafraid

First Aid Kit – Walk Unafraid (Official Video)