...To The Land Of The Gods

Deeply nestled into my friends' home the past several weeks, I required some serious oomph to get myself back on the road.  Once again I prepared myself for traveling solo, and living in hostels, and eating fewer than three square meals a day.  Living as a traveler is always an adventure, rarely very comfortable, and hardly ever cozy; I didn't take my Swiss respite for granted.  With a little wistfulness, I said my goodbyes and shoved some contraband cheese and a bit of anxiety into my backpack.  I was finally headed to the land of Homer, and Zeus, and my personal favorite, Tina Fey's mother: Greece.

I have been given by Athens a most chaotic welcome.  My olfactory senses are daily assaulted by the scents of too much cologne, and cat urine, and the burning diesel emitted from the mopeds careening through the city.  The street vendors spill off the narrow sidewalks into the streets, hawking food, and crafts, and junky junk.  Giant listless dogs sleep on every corner, seemingly unaware that the blazing heat of the Mediterranean summer has abated.  Street performers work the tourist traps, while savvy preteens play their plastic flutes for change they demand should you dare make eye contact.  I can't help but appreciate their confidence.

This is a gritty city with lots of edge.  East meets west, old meets new.  It is the city of the gods.  And while the presence of these infamous immortals can still be felt hovering over this ancient metropolis, they must now share power with their fiercely defiant, 21st century ancestors.  As history attests, the Greeks are not easily defeated.  They are not broken by the weight of their forsaken economy, but continue to boldly celebrate life.  They welcome strangers and are gracious hosts to tourists and refugees alike, but will not sacrifice their culture to outside influence.  They are a people who, instead of being silenced, blast their convictions and frustrations onto every available surface, creating some of the most powerful street art I've ever seen.



Athens has taught me some things, and reminded me of others.  It has reminded me just how much I love losing and finding myself in new cities.  Of how much I love befriending locals and trying mysterious street food.  I now remember how much I love to find a perfectly discreet seat in a bustling plaza from which to watch the world around me.   Entirely anonymous among the crowd, I try to observe as much as I can; parents feeding their toddlers souvlaki, lovers aware of only one another, and elderly civilians shaking the hands of the rookie police officers.

In only a matter of days, I have received no fewer than three marriage proposals.  I have been given a bracelet by a street vendor, accompanied by a special blessing that my presumed wish of bearing many children will come true.  I have received three phone numbers, invitations to both a backyard barbeque and a wedding, and heaps of advice about where to visit while I'm here.  I have become moderately obsessed with hunting their world-renowned street art, often in the least savory but most lively of neighborhoods.  I've made myself quite at home in what appears to be the skid row of Athens, and now know to return to my hostel before ten if I want to avoid the bewitching hour of the neighborhood ghosts.  Athens has invigorated me.  And I can't wait to see what's next.

... To The Confederation Helvetica

Ahhhhh, Switzerland.  Or the Confederation Helvetica, as it's formerly known.  Despite being landlocked in central Europe, it is a country that officially declines membership in the European Union.  It is the land of the Suisse franc, and four national languages, and of course, the Alps.  It is a land where cows wear personalized bells, in order that their farmers are able to find them when they wander from their alpine pastures.  It is a country known for perfection, and now I understand why.  It is the most placid, serene place I've ever visited.  And oh, how I  could use some serenity.

This is a gentle land of gentle people.  People who live peacefully among one another the way they have globally for generations.  Here they create and maintain meticulous systems for everything, from thwarting speeding by revoking licenses on the first offense, to providing a free note in the parking garage to assure you find your way back.  Public restrooms are everywhere and fully loaded with both toilet paper and hand soap (be still my heart).  They are also pristinely clean, tempting you to eat your $30 sandwich on the floor.    And speaking of $30 dollar sandwiches, oof.  One of  her few imperfections, the exorbitant cost.  Of everything.  That, and the radio.  If you’re lucky enough to get clear signal through the mountains, prepare yourself for cringey pop from all over the world.

Though I was not originally planning on stopping here, I was easily convinced by Zazou and her husband who relocated here earlier this year, following a world tour of their own.  In a quiet little village just outside of Lausanne, I've built myself a cozy little nest on the floor of their apartment.  I've unpacked my backpack, and stolen Pierre's hoodie, and familiarized myself with where things are in the kitchen.  I've studiously investigated the differences among their chocolate, and enjoyed a trilogy of Swiss French cheese dishes, la raclette, la fondue, and la tartiflette.  I've allowed the softness of this place to infuse my spirit and slow me down.  Quite simply, I've allowed myself to crash.

We've mastered a few killer hikes, up fiercely steep mountainsides.  We've had multiple dance parties in our socks and sweatshirts as we cook our oatmeal in the morning, and when we compare our Spotify playlists in the evening.  We've snuggled under thick blankets and watched too-intense-for-my-tender-sensibilities television shows.  In short, Switzerland has graciously shared with me her most valuable treasures: her peace, and her people.  I'm indebted to her.  I promise one day I'll gladly return to pay her back.

... With A Little Bit Of Magic

The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on fire.  Ferdinand Foch

I met him, of all times, during the brief week my mom and I had together in Portugal.  He was gorgeous, and kind, and I was more than a little dazzled.  I made a pale effort to maintain my I’m-a-woman-alone-and-don’t-get-near-me face, and made sure to wear my faux wedding ring.  Despite my weary old habits though, I knew immediately that something was happening, something bigger than me.  He was, quite simply, a force of nature.  And one with whom I would have to reckon.

We exchanged contact information and a few of our big, fat, crazy dreams.  He made me laugh and made me wonder.  I learned only a little about his story, but enough.  Enough to appreciate he is a proud man of great depth.  Enough to see an old soul reflected under the surface of his youthful playfulness and wit.  Enough to finally acknowledge, and believe in what we were sharing: indisputable, undeniable magic.

But timing, as they say, is everything, and we had only the maybes of our magic.  Because he'll need all of his to thrash the disease that keeps returning to drag him back into the ring.  To defeat once and for all the disease that doesn't deserve him.  Because he is oozing with life.  Powerful, mischievous, fiercely courageous life.  Life full of adventures yet to be lived.  Life generously shared with the countless who love him.  And ever so briefly, life he shared with me, too.  


For reasons beyond our control, we knew I couldn't stay to fight for him.  Instead he sent me firmly onward, to boldly persist on this wild, ridiculous ride.  To live worthy of having encountered a bona fide force of nature.   So I'll take a bit of our magic on the road, a Portuguese mojo of sorts.  And since I can't give more, I'll leave the rest with him, an extra right hook I hope.  To show this bullshit disease who's boss.  For it too, will have its reckoning.  And it too will learn; you don't mess with magic. 

... With My Mama

Mothers are the necessity of invention.  Bill Watterson

My mom and I have always had an interesting relationship.  I wasn't easy growing up.  Independent, self reliant, yes.  But never easy.  I was intense, and broody, and passionate about everything.  And I'm quite sure, exhausting for her to try to keep up with.  Our relationship isn't without complicated history, but requires effort and patience from both of us, always.  She is however, someone I rely on more as I get older, decidedly
so over the past 4 months, as she's become one of my primary supporters.  I don't know what I'd do without her.  Which is why I was tickled when she decided to join me in Portugal.

Lisboa

Mom is a woman of many roles, and many talents.  She has devoted her professional life to working with students with special needs, both learning and behavioral.  She relishes her role as grandmother, and has a bustling social life.  She's incredibly active, defying stereotypes often ascribed to women of a certain age.  She's a friend to many, a yoga student to few, and an identical twin.  She's also now officially a world traveler.

Palais de Pena, Sintra

Mom arrived in Lisbon the morning after I'd arrived from Porto.  She was jet lagged, and excited, and  practically spinning in circles when I overheard her in the lobby of our hotel.  It was a sweet reunion, as I crashed into her from the adjacent cafeteria, giving that sluggish crowd a bit of an early morning spectacle.  I knew what it cost for her to be there, both financially and otherwise.  To take the time away, to have to figure out international travel alone, to treat me to proper hotels and three meals a day (!!!!!), no small thing.  I didn't take her generosity, or courage, for granted.

Street Art, Cascais

As my mom is my mom, our time together was full of escapades.  We spent our first few days tackling all Lisbon had to offer, which for us meant a lot of fresh fish and Portuguese wine.  We then headed further up the coast, where we hiked old Moorish castles, explored pristine palaces, and of course, ate more fish and drank more wine.  We laughed our asses off, and talked about life, and bickered the way only we can.

Our goodbye came all too quickly, as goodbyes are wont to do.  It was awkward and a little hurried as we hustled in opposite directions at the airport, her home to the west, me northbound to Switzerland.  With a little sadness and a lot of pride I watched her walk away to find her way home from this international stage.  I had every confidence she'd figure it out, the way I have every confidence she'll do it again.  Like mother, like daughter, as they say.  I sure hope so.

... Into Portugal

Beautiful Brittany

Portugal is a country of startling beauty, and startling juxtapositions.  It is a country only just beginning to emerge from the economic crisis of 2008, with a citizenry who work long hours at multiple jobs to make ends meet.  More often than ever before, folks are impelled to work without a contract, as employers can no longer afford to pay the exorbitant government tax to keep their employees "on the books".  And while the unemployment rate is slowly decreasing, it remains a disquieting season for the Portuguese people, as they gently but firmly explained to me during my visit.

Parrot Play

I arrived in Porto raw, raw from the physical toll of the camino on my body, raw from the emotional toll of the my final camino goodbyes.  Most recently, to an American named Brittany whose wisdom and experience eclipsed her chronological age.  Brittany was terrific company during my final days in Spain, and someone I greatly admire.  She's someone who knows her own mind, and has a tenacious strength unlike many I've seen.  She also has a wicked sense of humor, a real homage to her northeastern roots.

A valiant (failed) effort to like Port wine

Upon my arrival, I was relieved to find myself in one of the coziest hostels I've stayed in to date.  A recently converted, six story home from the 17th century, nestled into a hillside in the heart of Porto.  A hostel full to capacity of people on their own adventures.  A contingent of spirited Dutch professionals, in town for a week of surfing.  A Kiwi and a Welshman, proudly representing their respective rugby teams as they moved closer to the rugby world cup finals.  A lovely, brilliant young German, living in Portugal to become fluent in what will be her fourth language.  An older Korean woman, traveling alone without any English.  So brave.

Porto

I spent my days exploring the city, hiking the coast, and trying to learn as much as I could from my roommates, both Portuguese and otherwise.  It was here I began to really fall in love with this country, and these people.  They are a people of great pride, with deep, complicated history, and passionate opinions.  They are a people of the sea, and like the sea they are known for the world over, they reflect the same limitless depth, bold diversity, and coastal temperament.  So while they may appear placid and serene on the surface, I think they, like their ocean, boast a depth and a power capable of producing the largest waves in the world.  They are a people to be reckoned with, these Portuguese.  And I think I love them.