Portugal | the strange and new

lovely Lisboa, my favorite European capital

Lisboa tumbles down its seven hills and plunges into the Rio Tejo.

The steep, winding streets ooze with old-world charm, an atmosphere aided by the system of yellow trams that rattle up and down and around the city. I am in love with it, and my typical M.O. of wandering aimlessly rewards me for hours on end.

Later, the manager of a restaurant in Chiado emcees a fado performance while I eat copious amounts of bread and await the arrival of my entrée. The staff is indistinguishable — waitresses sing, singers bus tables, and one of the cooks emerges from the kitchen and surprises us with a rendition worthy of a much grander performance hall. Instead, the staff scurry around her, delivering plates of bacalhau to diners in the dim, low-ceilinged space.

Our emcee, a short, rotund man with a balding head, claps energetically to get our attention and announce the next performer. He waits until 90% of his customers have actually paused their conversations and looked up at him to proceed.

As I am a solo diner, my table is by the door, and the chair opposite me has been appropriated by a nearby group that continues to grow exponentially. I engage in some friendly eavesdropping, finally giving up my table to waiting customers after my picked-over plate has been swept away and the bread basket has been reduced to crumbs.

The next morning, I stumble upon a big street market on Avenida da Liberdade — furniture, antiques, jewelry. I am intrigued by a sparse booth manned by a well-dressed gentlemen who engaged me willingly in conversation about his wares: boxes, trays, and candle holders made to resemble Lisboa’s black and white sidewalks, which I have been obsessed with since arriving in the city.

After the earthquake of 1755 wrecked Lisboa, they rebuilt it with these patterned sidewalks: black and white to represent a city in mourning, and the patterns each represent something, like the waves of the ocean, the wings of a seagull, or a sailor’s compass.

Though I am not typically a souvenir-purchasing kind of traveler, I acquired a square tea light holder hand-made out of limestone and painted with one of these sidewalk patterns. I have no home, no bookshelf, no mantlepiece upon which to display it — yet — but it remains safely tucked away until I do.

I didn’t have enough time here. I want to spend more lazy afternoons drinking tea at outdoor cafés, getting lost among the city’s winding streets, climbing its staircases, and riding its trams. I want more sunsets viewed from one of the city’s seven hills, watching the red-tiled roofs glow as the sky turns golden, pink, and orange.

on waking up for sunrise in the Algarve

I came to Lagos (pronounced by locals as “Lagosh”) to see the sea cliffs.

I saw them in afternoon light, then I came back for sunset.

The next morning, I woke up early to see them at sunrise, but it was raining when I looked outside.

I got back in bed and laid on my back, covers up to my chin. The room wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t warm.

I may have dozed, and the next time I looked out the window, the clouds had begun to clear up.

Then, through a gap in the curtains, I saw the end of a huge rainbow.

I leapt out of bed with frantic energy, threw on clothes, and grabbed my camera. I ran down the lane until it turned to dirt and the lighthouse appeared in front of me.

A few days later, I was in Sagres (“Sagresh”).

This is the end of Portugal, the end of the Iberian peninsula, and the end of Europe. In fact, Sagres feels like the end of something — it’s flat, windswept, and has a very big sky. The lighthouse at Cabo Sao Vicente marks the westernmost piece of land in Europe.