This post was originally written in Portuguese and translated by Roberto Rocha.

A de facto campervan site in Wellingston, NZ.

By 8 am the sunlight starts to slither in the window, lazy as we. The windows are fogged and dotted with condensation from a 10-hour sleep. We crack open the curtain to see it it’s raining (almost never) or sunny (almost always).

From the window we can see the sea, the grass, the asphalt, the neighbours or the mountain. The most important decision to be taken presents itself: have breakfast here or drive to a prettier or more intimate backdrop? If we’re lucky there’s a bathroom nearby. Other times we ned to hold it in and brush our teeth with water from a collapsible gallon.

The tasks are divided without a word: while Roberto boils water and scrambles eggs, I make the bed. I get dressed, he studies the map. While he tans the toast, I set the table, which might be our own, or perhaps a park bench.

The coffee is made in small quantities. The toast is a bit cold, but not as much as some of the nights. The fruits are tasty, the granola fresh, the kisses sweet and the sky is ours.

We don’t have schedules, deadlines, or commitments. We use the morning to continue down the road, listening to choro or Bebel Gilberto, and deciding if it’s worth exploring the area a bit more. Sometimes we follow our guidebook. Else, we let the roadsigns or the wind point the way.

He drives. I offer ideas. He orients himself, I commandeer the iPod. We marvel at the sheep, the mountains, the blue sea, the sunset. We taste wines, stamp trails, dip in the ocean, map cities, snap pictures, eat nuts, take naps. Sometimes we meet other people. Most days we spend alone. We look for an Internet café and run around to accomplish necessities, like laundry and banking and groceries.

We eat. Barbecue, pasta, sandwiches, canned soup, boiled corn. Cereal bars, chocolate, cheap cheese, tea with biscuits.

Sometimes we watch Mad Men or In Treatment on the laptop, one of the few things that kicks us back to our life back in Montreal. Other nights it’s not needed: sleep comes quickly and it comes loaded. Our white noise is the hush of the sea or the wind whistling through a poorly-closed window. Time to say good night, my love.