When I was a child, dad had a small farm. Located in the barren Brazilian backlands, the farm lacked many things. There was no electricity, to begin with. No running water either. The farmhouse was dusty and lit only by fire. There were bats all over the place. And I won't even say anything about what going to the toilet was like.

Yet, despite the absolute lack of comfort, we loved going there. Even though dad never managed to grow anything in the farm's poor, barren soil, that little piece of land was his pride. There was something about that small farm, humble as it was. The dusty farmhouse always seemed to embrace us at night, with its earthy sincerity, its harmless bats, its archaic teapots on the kitchen's fire.