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About Funchal

Gets me giddy, y’know—fingers itching, heart thumping like a drum solo. But—argh!—tuning’s a nightmare, slippery as a greased eel. Pegs wobble, drives me up the wall—nearly chucked it out the window once, but then it sang, sweet as a lark, *alauda arvensis*. Surprised me, that—thought it’d croak like a dying swan, but nah, pure magic.

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Lunch was bomb, though. I scarf down that bifana like I hadn’t eaten in days. I’m feeling good, ready to tackle the rest of the day. But then, I get a call from my buddy, João. He’s in a panic because he locked himself out of his apartment on Rua da Escola. I’m like, “Dude, how do you even manage that?” But I can’t leave him hanging, so I rush over.

Jorge Palma and band suffered food poisoning in Madeira