A quick trip down to the throbbing metropolis of this part of rural Portugal reminded me of what it is to be local. The florist sports a remarkably dreadful strawberry blonde, mullet, toupee. No one has quite pointed out that he needs, after these passing years, to be dying the grey out of his sideburns and moustache to make it even slightly believable.
And yet if someone were to come up from the Big City, all 15,000 people of it and fully 20 km away, and make fun of the remarkably dreadful strawberry blonde, mullet, toupee all of us locals would be rather put out by that. Because it’s our remarkably dreadful, strawberry blonde, mullet, toupee.
I’m sure great philosophers have tried to delineate, define, quantify even, community and what it is to be local but I can’t help feeling that I’ve grasped the nub of it right there.