One particularly humorous benefit of living abroad is the inevitable encounter with English mistranslations. Delightful, quirky, sometimes even scary, these offbeat misnomers are literally everywhere. My favorites include “Carribean Pirat” (on a T-shirt), “South Beach Saveguard” (on another T-shirt), and “Melissa Love Pirates” (on a brazen storefront).
Is anyone sensing a high-seas conspiracy here?
Now, please don’t think I’m being ethnocentrically superior; if you saw the way a confused KFC executive tried to translate “finger-licken’ good” into Portuguese, you would understand. At best the motto turns out to be funny, at worst, it’s highly offensive to any person who happens by.
You see, all these things stem from the misguided notion that one language is translatable into another. It’s not, and don’t let a bad foreign language teacher tell you otherwise. Words are not concrete things, they all have different shades and weights and social contexts and it’s silly to think that would carry across to a different language. One society has 20 different words for snow, and other has 20 different words for sand. How could they possibly correspond?
Now, I am reasonably intelligent person, I read more then anyone I know, and my test scores claim that I have a decent vocabulary. All of which means precisely nothing in Portuguese. I can’t even order a cheeseburger without getting a laugh or a funny look from the waiter (I still haven’t decided which is worse) and all because I’m stuck on the useless idea of “translation”.
Someone once told me that humility it thinking of yourself as one human being, no more and no less. And that charity is extending that same courtesy to everyone else in the world.
As a naive adolescent, I assumed that the notion of charity was the hard part because, let’s be honest here, what teenager doesn’t have a god complex? But now I realize that humility is, by far, the tougher course. Because now I’m humiliated in a thousand little ways every day by not even being able to communicate the most basic and simplest of my desires to the people around me. And even though I am learning, it is still frustrating to watch a fully functional human being in one society, devolve into little more than a child in another.
So, then, My New Year’s Resolution: I will be one who is hard-working at learning a new language, yet one who has a sense of humor when it does not always work out. I will be one who is ambitious about joining in a conversation, yet one who graceful when the conversation is not fully understood.
But above all, I will be one. No more, no less.
2009-12-31
2009-12-23
Christmas in Brazil
We can't say this about many things, but Christmas in Brazil is exactly like Christmas in the States. Yep, right down to the charming reindeer, the obsession with non-existent snow, the fat Santa, and the extreme shopping binges. Honestly, it makes me feel right at home. Some of the words are different, of course. For instance, Santa Claus is Papai Noel, Happy Holidays is Boas Festas, and Merry Christmas is Feliz Natal (though the Feliz Navidad song is still wildly popular). Below are just a couple of our favorite Christmas pics from around Brazil. Enjoy!
Belo Horizonte, Praca da Liberdade
Belo Horizonte, Praca da Liberdade
The World's Largest Floating Christmas Tree, Lagoa, Rio de Janeiro
2009-12-19
Welcome to Belo Horizonte!
After a 7 hour bus ride from Rio, Matt and I arrived in Belo Horizonte, the third largest city in Brazil. This city is nestled in the mountains, creating a cooler climate then Rio, despite being closer to the equator. So far, we're really enjoying this place. The city seems to be a lot more mellow, a lot safer, and a lot less crowded. I'm sure it will be a great two months. Check out our apartment tour by Matt below.
2009-12-13
The Botanical Gardens
On another blessedly sunny day, we decided to visit the Jardim Botanico of Rio de Janeiro, which is a beautiful, well-appreciated oasis in this bustling city. Originally began in 1808 in order to determine which plant species would acclimate to Brazil, the gardens are now open to the public. Wandering through this park is a bit like walking through tropical rain forest, complete with waterfalls and wildlife (no monkeys though!). In the picture below, you can even see the iconic Christ statue that looms over Rio.
The rest of our pictures from the gardens can be seen here.
2009-12-11
An American in Rio
And lo, on the seventh day the rain abated and the plagues were healed, and joyous mirth was beheld by all.
Okay, not quite that pretentious, but the ghastly weather and illnesses that have plagued us for the past week have been almost biblical in their proportions.
But, today we felt better and the sun was shining, so we did what any red-blooded American yuppie couple would do to celebrate: we high-tailed it to the nearest mall.
Anyone who has traveled to another country before has probably realized that American culture is never too far away, whether you want it to be or not. And this is particularly noticeable in Rio de Janeiro’s malls. American music, from Snoop Dogg to Taylor Swift, blares from every storefront, usually with all the lyrics fully intact. American authors line the bookshelves in every store, both in the native language and in English. American restaurants are among the most plentiful and popular in these malls, including, but not limited to: Pizza Hut, Subway, Outback, McDonald’s, Applebees, and T.G.I.F’s.
My favorite moment from the day was when we eagerly approached Burger King, thoughts of Double Whoppers dancing in our heads. Waiting in line, we were approached by well-coiffed women styled all in black who inputted our orders on Blackberries (BLACKBERRIES!), and then ushered us to a cashier to pay. From there we were immediately whisked to where our food was waiting and then motioned on to yet a second station where we were given our drinks. Trying to be fair (and trying not to laugh at the utter hilariousness of Blackberries being utilized at a Burger King), I said that at least that was the quickest I had ever received my fast food. At which point Matt commented, “the more things change, the more they stay the same,” and left the table to speak with someone, because they had gotten his order wrong.
I’m not one to get all up in arms about globalization. Like everything else, it has its good points and it’s bad points. And unfortunately, as an American living abroad, I am selfishly delighted by the rampant spread of our culture, because it means that I can always get a little slice of home whenever I need it. But as I stared up at the 50-foot plaster replica of the Statue of Liberty that graced the front of one of Rio’s malls, I thought to myself: Perhaps this is too much.
Because, really, I will never know what it is like to be completely separated from my culture. I will dabble, I will play, I will pretend. But I won’t ever suffer that final isolation, to immerse myself in another land, with no hint of my own in sight.
I think I might be missing out on something.
But I won’t ever really know, will I?
Okay, not quite that pretentious, but the ghastly weather and illnesses that have plagued us for the past week have been almost biblical in their proportions.
But, today we felt better and the sun was shining, so we did what any red-blooded American yuppie couple would do to celebrate: we high-tailed it to the nearest mall.
Anyone who has traveled to another country before has probably realized that American culture is never too far away, whether you want it to be or not. And this is particularly noticeable in Rio de Janeiro’s malls. American music, from Snoop Dogg to Taylor Swift, blares from every storefront, usually with all the lyrics fully intact. American authors line the bookshelves in every store, both in the native language and in English. American restaurants are among the most plentiful and popular in these malls, including, but not limited to: Pizza Hut, Subway, Outback, McDonald’s, Applebees, and T.G.I.F’s.
My favorite moment from the day was when we eagerly approached Burger King, thoughts of Double Whoppers dancing in our heads. Waiting in line, we were approached by well-coiffed women styled all in black who inputted our orders on Blackberries (BLACKBERRIES!), and then ushered us to a cashier to pay. From there we were immediately whisked to where our food was waiting and then motioned on to yet a second station where we were given our drinks. Trying to be fair (and trying not to laugh at the utter hilariousness of Blackberries being utilized at a Burger King), I said that at least that was the quickest I had ever received my fast food. At which point Matt commented, “the more things change, the more they stay the same,” and left the table to speak with someone, because they had gotten his order wrong.
I’m not one to get all up in arms about globalization. Like everything else, it has its good points and it’s bad points. And unfortunately, as an American living abroad, I am selfishly delighted by the rampant spread of our culture, because it means that I can always get a little slice of home whenever I need it. But as I stared up at the 50-foot plaster replica of the Statue of Liberty that graced the front of one of Rio’s malls, I thought to myself: Perhaps this is too much.
Because, really, I will never know what it is like to be completely separated from my culture. I will dabble, I will play, I will pretend. But I won’t ever suffer that final isolation, to immerse myself in another land, with no hint of my own in sight.
I think I might be missing out on something.
But I won’t ever really know, will I?
2009-11-29
School for Samba
Last night we went to see a samba school rehearsal. While Carnaval remains more than two months away, preparations have been underway for months and this particular school, Mangueira, holds a weekly musical rehearsal on Saturday nights.
In typical gringo fashion, we showed up about an hour and a half too early (our mistake!) Megan did dance; no the world didn’t end. Matt, to our surprise (and the surprise of most people there) dances the samba quite well.
Let me describe it this way: It’s 85 degrees, you’re in a large tin warehouse. The speakers are turned up so loud, you won’t be able to hear for days, and there’s a 60 piece drum corps banging away. Beers are cheap. The 800 or so people next to you are moving in way
s you honestly didn’t think possible, but you might like to imitate. Most importantly, everyone has a smile on their face.
It was definitely a night to remember – but also one to recover from.
In typical gringo fashion, we showed up about an hour and a half too early (our mistake!) Megan did dance; no the world didn’t end. Matt, to our surprise (and the surprise of most people there) dances the samba quite well.
Let me describe it this way: It’s 85 degrees, you’re in a large tin warehouse. The speakers are turned up so loud, you won’t be able to hear for days, and there’s a 60 piece drum corps banging away. Beers are cheap. The 800 or so people next to you are moving in way
s you honestly didn’t think possible, but you might like to imitate. Most importantly, everyone has a smile on their face.It was definitely a night to remember – but also one to recover from.
2009-11-26
Thanksgiving in Rio
Our Brazilian Thanksgiving wasn't quite the same as an American one, but we definitely had fantastic meal nonetheless. Our kitchen is a bit small for cooking such a large meal, so our friend Cari offered to have Thanksgiving at her place. Despite not being able to get a turkey, we were still able to make a near-complete traditional Thanksgiving meal. We even managed to transport the famous Campbell's-soup broccoli casserole to the southern hemisphere!
Giving Thanks
Celebrating an American holiday in another country is really not that bad. It’s like having this secret all day that makes you happy, hidden from the majority but somehow all the more special for it.
Shhhh...it’s Thanksgiving.
Plus, the lack of food induced stupors and shopping mania can allow me to really focus on what I’m thankful for this year. There a wide range of choices, but there’s one thing in particular to which I really feel obligated lately: technology.
I admit to hypocrisy about this last statement. Before embarking on this trip, I was definitely something of a technophobe: I hated my cell phone, sneered at all iPhone users, and routinely lied about the existence of my Facebook page out of shame.
But since leaving on this trip, technology , in all its varied forms, has become my true companion. With the push of a button, I can chat face to face with friends and family thousands of miles away. (Really! Skype us anytime at Matthew Barton.) My entire collection of music is accessible in the palm of my hand and a very generous library of books is digitized on my computer. E-mail is always accessible to pester people with all the random thoughts that fill my head. This blog, even, to share the stories and pictures from half way across the world. Yes, even I have to admit that technology has been valuable to me this year.
Almost invaluable really....
During one of the many blackouts that plagued us the first week in Rio, I tried to comfort myself with thoughts of the silver lining. Look, I thought, how many times do you get to fall asleep listening to the waves of the ocean and not the electric hum of humanity? When people first discovered new land, they didn’t have electricity or laptops either. Isn’t that a truer experience anyway, without all the trappings of technology?
No, it’s really not, I decided. I suppose I will never have the benefit of stepping foot on land that has never been sullied by human touch. But then again, those people never had the benefit of watching football on Thanksgiving with their family from 5000 miles away.
It’s amazing of a different sort, but amazing all the same. And I am most thankful.
Shhhh...it’s Thanksgiving.
Plus, the lack of food induced stupors and shopping mania can allow me to really focus on what I’m thankful for this year. There a wide range of choices, but there’s one thing in particular to which I really feel obligated lately: technology.
I admit to hypocrisy about this last statement. Before embarking on this trip, I was definitely something of a technophobe: I hated my cell phone, sneered at all iPhone users, and routinely lied about the existence of my Facebook page out of shame.
But since leaving on this trip, technology , in all its varied forms, has become my true companion. With the push of a button, I can chat face to face with friends and family thousands of miles away. (Really! Skype us anytime at Matthew Barton.) My entire collection of music is accessible in the palm of my hand and a very generous library of books is digitized on my computer. E-mail is always accessible to pester people with all the random thoughts that fill my head. This blog, even, to share the stories and pictures from half way across the world. Yes, even I have to admit that technology has been valuable to me this year.
Almost invaluable really....
During one of the many blackouts that plagued us the first week in Rio, I tried to comfort myself with thoughts of the silver lining. Look, I thought, how many times do you get to fall asleep listening to the waves of the ocean and not the electric hum of humanity? When people first discovered new land, they didn’t have electricity or laptops either. Isn’t that a truer experience anyway, without all the trappings of technology?
No, it’s really not, I decided. I suppose I will never have the benefit of stepping foot on land that has never been sullied by human touch. But then again, those people never had the benefit of watching football on Thanksgiving with their family from 5000 miles away.
It’s amazing of a different sort, but amazing all the same. And I am most thankful.
2009-11-16
Distilled Happiness
Upon learning that I was going to live in Brazil for 9 months, I fielded a wide range of questions. One that was delivered with perhaps the most perplexity, was “What are you taking with you?” A valid question, if there ever was one. Indeed, figuring out what to fit into two suitcases and a carry-on for 270 days is quite similar to the proverbial desert island question. What things can you not live, I mean really not live, without?
Luckily, clothing was the easy part. For a climate that only varies about 20 degrees year round and a society that prides itself on its partially clothed existence, clothing is really a no-brainer. Nope, it was really the rest of the stuff that poised a problem. And so I packed things that gave me comfort and peace, things that were familiar and restful: in short, I packed happiness.
Books took up most of my suitcase, 26 of them to be precise; a number which might seem startlingly small with my reading habits, but I’m sure I’ll survive. Several photo frames and a small photo album, just to keep things homey. Travel Scrabble and 2 decks of cards for Canasta, essentials for someone like me with quite the competitive streak. Too many products from Bath n’ Body Works because there’s nothing more relaxing then a luxurious shower. Spices from the venerable Spice House in Chicago, practical and indulgent at the same time. A mini scrapbook album, to keep my hands engaged while my mind wanders.
When I finally finished packing, I stepped back and cast a critical eye over my two suitcases. Since leaving Chicago, I had been discarding belongings like a snake sheds it’s skin. But after the throwing and giving away, the storage unit, my mother’s house, finally everything I would own in the world was down to these two suitcases. This was my happiness, distilled.
Yes, I know. “Things” cannot give you true happiness. And that may be right to a certain extent, for all these things that I was dragging across half the world do not create happiness in and of themselves; they simply are the triggers for the happiness already inside me.
But what a great exercise, yes? Grab a suitcase, put your happiness inside. These things represent everything I love in the world: knowledge, sweet smells, storytelling, fierce competition, memories, and familiar flavors. Things that will always be with me, no matter where or how long I travel.
I envision myself 20 years in the future, surrounded by a large beautiful home, with lawns and dogs and cars. But I will never bring myself to throw away this relic, a remembrance of a time when happiness did not sprawl across half an acre, but instead existed in it’s purest form: a suitcase.
Luckily, clothing was the easy part. For a climate that only varies about 20 degrees year round and a society that prides itself on its partially clothed existence, clothing is really a no-brainer. Nope, it was really the rest of the stuff that poised a problem. And so I packed things that gave me comfort and peace, things that were familiar and restful: in short, I packed happiness.
Books took up most of my suitcase, 26 of them to be precise; a number which might seem startlingly small with my reading habits, but I’m sure I’ll survive. Several photo frames and a small photo album, just to keep things homey. Travel Scrabble and 2 decks of cards for Canasta, essentials for someone like me with quite the competitive streak. Too many products from Bath n’ Body Works because there’s nothing more relaxing then a luxurious shower. Spices from the venerable Spice House in Chicago, practical and indulgent at the same time. A mini scrapbook album, to keep my hands engaged while my mind wanders.
When I finally finished packing, I stepped back and cast a critical eye over my two suitcases. Since leaving Chicago, I had been discarding belongings like a snake sheds it’s skin. But after the throwing and giving away, the storage unit, my mother’s house, finally everything I would own in the world was down to these two suitcases. This was my happiness, distilled.
Yes, I know. “Things” cannot give you true happiness. And that may be right to a certain extent, for all these things that I was dragging across half the world do not create happiness in and of themselves; they simply are the triggers for the happiness already inside me.
But what a great exercise, yes? Grab a suitcase, put your happiness inside. These things represent everything I love in the world: knowledge, sweet smells, storytelling, fierce competition, memories, and familiar flavors. Things that will always be with me, no matter where or how long I travel.
I envision myself 20 years in the future, surrounded by a large beautiful home, with lawns and dogs and cars. But I will never bring myself to throw away this relic, a remembrance of a time when happiness did not sprawl across half an acre, but instead existed in it’s purest form: a suitcase.
2009-11-12
Come Walk With Me...
One of the things that I like best about Rio so far is the beach culture. Now, hailing from Florida myself, I am not easily won over on just any beach, or little strips of sand pretending to be beaches (*cough, Chic
ago). But Copcacabana beach has a vibe that is truly unique, chaotic and social, commerical and physical. But above all, it’s fun...
Some enterprising beach bums earn a living with building these fabulous sand castles along the beach. They range from the fantastical, to the slightly risque, but all are wonderfully and artistically done. Watching them work on these sand artworks is an exercise in futility: you still don’t understand how they possibly have the patience to do that kind of work.
ago). But Copcacabana beach has a vibe that is truly unique, chaotic and social, commerical and physical. But above all, it’s fun...One of the first things you notice about Copacabana beach is the immense, patterned sidewalk that stretches the whole length of the sand. The black and white pattern itself is very iconic of Copa, having been created by renowned Brazilian architect Burle Marx, and can be found on numerous tourist items. This sidewalk is constantly filled with people, whether they’re walking their dogs, hawking some kind of beach food, or just taking an evening stroll by the beach.
Every 50 feet or so, you’ll also run into one of these things. Beach kiosks, as omnipresent as the sand, but oh so much more enjoyable. Offering everything from caipirinhas to ice cream, they’re 
constantly packed with people who just like to sit and watch the beach action. My favorite thing that they serve are chilled coconuts, which the vendors cut into with giant machetes and then stick a straw into it. Mmmm, fresh coconut water!
constantly packed with people who just like to sit and watch the beach action. My favorite thing that they serve are chilled coconuts, which the vendors cut into with giant machetes and then stick a straw into it. Mmmm, fresh coconut water!
Some enterprising beach bums earn a living with building these fabulous sand castles along the beach. They range from the fantastical, to the slightly risque, but all are wonderfully and artistically done. Watching them work on these sand artworks is an exercise in futility: you still don’t understand how they possibly have the patience to do that kind of work.
And finally, you eventually can’t help but notice all the interesting sports that people play on the beach. Everyone from small little kids learning beach soccer to old men playing paddle ball. And trust me it’s all a lot harder then it looks (how fast can you run in the sand?) But by far my favorite new sport is one called “futevolei”. Yes, that’s right, volleyball played without the hands. Don’t believe me? Check out this video we managed to snag below. And a word to my family: you better start practicing now, because this is what we’re going to play the next time we’re around for the 4th of July.
2009-11-07
Rio by Numbers
104 Temperature, in degrees Farenheit, on our second day in Rio
60+ Suggested SPF for “loiros e ruivos” (pasty-white people like us) on the electronic information board at the lifeguard station in Copacabana.
10,000 Estimated value, in US Dollars, of an American passport on the Brazilian black market
18 Number of bug bites within 24 hours of arriving in Rio
2.3 Average number of showers, per person, per day since we’ve arrived in Rio
.80 Cost, in US Dollars, of an ice cream cone
400 Projected ice cream expenditures, in US Dollars, for next nine months
52,849 Population density, in people per square mile, of Copacabana (just for reference, Hyde Park: 18,148; Port Charlotte: 1,943)
60+ Suggested SPF for “loiros e ruivos” (pasty-white people like us) on the electronic information board at the lifeguard station in Copacabana.
10,000 Estimated value, in US Dollars, of an American passport on the Brazilian black market
18 Number of bug bites within 24 hours of arriving in Rio
2.3 Average number of showers, per person, per day since we’ve arrived in Rio
.80 Cost, in US Dollars, of an ice cream cone
400 Projected ice cream expenditures, in US Dollars, for next nine months
52,849 Population density, in people per square mile, of Copacabana (just for reference, Hyde Park: 18,148; Port Charlotte: 1,943)
2009-11-06
Welcome to Brazil!
Ola! We just touched in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil 2 days ago and we're already loving it. Matt, of course, has already been here many times, but I'm enjoying it for the first time in a very touristy way. It is an incredibly beautiful place, unlike anything I've ever seen before: imagine a jungle next to beach that somehow has a city intertwined between the two.
Check out this view from our apartment:
If it makes you feel any better, our apartment is really really tiny. We'll make sure to blog in the upcoming months about everything form soccer to samba, so check in regularly.
The Top Five Best Responses to the Brazil Trip
* the following post contains profanity
As you can imagine, when you first tell people that you are moving to Brazil for a year, they don’t really believe you at all. After they’re finally convinced that you’re possibly not lying, people usually get pretty excited about it, all for various reasons. I’ve gotten a lot of encouragement (and warnings) about living in Brazil, but these were, by far, the best five:
5)Why are you going to Brazil? Are you pregnant?
-random female co-worker
4)Brazil...isn’t that where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid ran off to?
- my father
3)Brazil...you know they kidnap people like you in Brazil.
- my brother
2)Brazil... just think of all those hot Brazilian men!
- random male co-worker
1) You’re moving to Brazil? F@*#%n’ cool!
- husband of a friend
The last one, despite it’s profanity, or perhaps because of it, is by far my favorite. It was delivered with such sincerity, such aplomb and such quickness. The night that I got that response, I was worried about a million details everything from sunscreen to airplane tickets to storage units. Moving to another country is obviously not easy, and in the midst of all the stress and bustle, somewhere I had forgotten how very amazing it was to have this opportunity.
So when my apartment is the size of a shoebox, or it feels like 114 degrees outside, or I’m pissed because the concept of pasteurization is not an international one, I think back to that comment. You know what? I’m living in Brazil. And it’s f *#%@n’ cool.
As you can imagine, when you first tell people that you are moving to Brazil for a year, they don’t really believe you at all. After they’re finally convinced that you’re possibly not lying, people usually get pretty excited about it, all for various reasons. I’ve gotten a lot of encouragement (and warnings) about living in Brazil, but these were, by far, the best five:
5)Why are you going to Brazil? Are you pregnant?
-random female co-worker
4)Brazil...isn’t that where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid ran off to?
- my father
3)Brazil...you know they kidnap people like you in Brazil.
- my brother
2)Brazil... just think of all those hot Brazilian men!
- random male co-worker
1) You’re moving to Brazil? F@*#%n’ cool!
- husband of a friend
The last one, despite it’s profanity, or perhaps because of it, is by far my favorite. It was delivered with such sincerity, such aplomb and such quickness. The night that I got that response, I was worried about a million details everything from sunscreen to airplane tickets to storage units. Moving to another country is obviously not easy, and in the midst of all the stress and bustle, somewhere I had forgotten how very amazing it was to have this opportunity.
So when my apartment is the size of a shoebox, or it feels like 114 degrees outside, or I’m pissed because the concept of pasteurization is not an international one, I think back to that comment. You know what? I’m living in Brazil. And it’s f *#%@n’ cool.
2009-10-25
Ate Logo Portugal
"The perfect trip is a circle - getting there and coming home"
On a cold and rainy morning, we took our leave of Lisbon and Portugal, eagerly anticipating the trip home. What were we looking forward to? Pancakes, bathrooms larger then a cupboard, air conditioning, and football just to name a few. Portugal was....amazing, challenging, gorgeous and so many more adjectives both positive and negative.
I think the best thing about coming home from a trip, any trip, is not just seeing familiar faces and places. I think when you return home is really when you can begin to see the changes in yourself. In walking through the smoothened corridors of normality, hints of the exotic and the awareness catch like rough edges. You look at a gallon of milk, but suddenly it's not just milk anymore, it's knowledge that not everyone in the world drinks pasteurized milk, thanks for the gigantic supermarket at which you bought that milk, and wonder at how so many people can enjoy such similar things the world over.
Home is like a mirror, reflecting the dimensions in which you have grown (or shrunk) and showing us how to assimilate new thoughts into old lives.
Ate logo means "until later" in Portuguese. We're sure that we'll be there again later in life, if for nothing more then to relive a time in which we were so young and happy.
Thanks everybody for taking the trip along with us. We'll return in a week with the new Bartnik adventures in Brazil.
On a cold and rainy morning, we took our leave of Lisbon and Portugal, eagerly anticipating the trip home. What were we looking forward to? Pancakes, bathrooms larger then a cupboard, air conditioning, and football just to name a few. Portugal was....amazing, challenging, gorgeous and so many more adjectives both positive and negative.
I think the best thing about coming home from a trip, any trip, is not just seeing familiar faces and places. I think when you return home is really when you can begin to see the changes in yourself. In walking through the smoothened corridors of normality, hints of the exotic and the awareness catch like rough edges. You look at a gallon of milk, but suddenly it's not just milk anymore, it's knowledge that not everyone in the world drinks pasteurized milk, thanks for the gigantic supermarket at which you bought that milk, and wonder at how so many people can enjoy such similar things the world over.
Home is like a mirror, reflecting the dimensions in which you have grown (or shrunk) and showing us how to assimilate new thoughts into old lives.
Ate logo means "until later" in Portuguese. We're sure that we'll be there again later in life, if for nothing more then to relive a time in which we were so young and happy.
Thanks everybody for taking the trip along with us. We'll return in a week with the new Bartnik adventures in Brazil.
2009-10-14
The Algarve
This past weekend, we finally visited the Algarve, the southernmost state in Portugal, bordering the Atlantic Ocean. We had been anticipating this trip for over 2 months and thankfully, it exceeded all of our wildest expectation. The city that we visited was named Lagos, and it is characterized by these rugged, towering cliffs that overlook the sea. If that weren’t enough, hundreds of tiny beaches and hidden grottos dot the landscape, making it perfect for exploring.To be honest, most of the trails carved into the cliff are either for the very fit or the very stupid. Guess which category we fe
el into to? Still, I think you’ll agree the pictures were worth
it.We also ended up taking a boat tour of some of the grottos that are only accessible by water and they were breathtaking. The water, as you might be able to see, is perfectly clear and absolutely luminous. The rest of the time was spent sunning ourselves on a beach that was 220 steps down a sheer cliff. Click here to see the rest of our pics from this place.
Needless to say, Matt and I have fallen in love with the place, and are already trying to scheme our way back here in the future.
2009-10-01
Belem II
We visited Belem (yet again) this time to check out the Torre de Belem and the Maritime Museum. The tower was interesting, if one doesn’t mind traipsing up and down claustrophobic spiral staircases. What really caught our attention, though, were the actual barges of the Portuguese royal family that were housed in the maritime museum. Some of the boats here are from 1790, and carried all manner of princes and queens.
Too Present the Past
I have been considering the past a lot lately. It’s hard not to, when I traipse over roughened cobblestone streets in the morning that have existed, in some form or another, for approximately 300 years. It’s difficult to forget when I frequent a candle shop which has been in business at the same location for 220 years. And it doesn’t help when, every morning, my first view is a river that carried every major explorer for the past 500 years.
Much has been written about the “weight” or the “burden” of the past on its people. I sense no bowed shoulders or heavy thoughts here. What is fascinating, though, is the interaction that these people have with their own history. One of the first museums that we visited was the Museu Arquelogico do Carmo, a cathedral that remains open to the elements, yet is still filled with ruins and artifacts. Nothing is behind glass or temperature controlled. Nothing is “protected”. I ran my fingers of the roughened surface of a 350-year old tombstone, guiltily at first, and then more confident as I realized no one was going to arrest me. One picture remains indelibly burned in my mind: a child, no more than a toddler really, climbing inside an ancient Roman fountain in order to play. Part of me wanted to rush over there and yank the child out admonishing the whole way. The other part of me was charmed.
These images lay heavy on my mind, my own assumed “weight” of the past. Did the Portuguese have so little respect for the past? Was history too present for them to ever take it seriously? Or was I simply being neurotic in my foreignness?
Some days later, I visited the Parque das Nacoes of Lisbon, a futuristic water development north of the city center that was created in 1998. It boasts everything the modern human might want: a shopping mall, an aquarium, state-of-the-art hotels, and a cable car system from which to sigh over it. But as I stared at its tangled, gleaming twists of white and silver steel, it struck me that the overall impression was of a child grasping at ideas of modernity and the future without comprehending them. This place was trying too hard.
In the United States, it seems as if there are no barriers between us and the future. For the most part, we revel in technological change, welcoming and integrating with every step of the way. But this, in turn, creates a barrier between us and the past. We’re so careful of it, so proud of it, that we slap pieces of history under 5” glass and carefully regulated lighting, while never realizing the barrier we created in our protectiveness. In Portugal, it’s just the opposite. Their present and their past are inextricably linked, woven together so seamlessly that it’s hard to differentiate between the two. Their churches, their cobblestone streets, their bakeries, all a part of history and all utilized every day in the present. It is history without reverence, without precision, without detachment. But again, this creates a barrier between them and the future, to the point where they can envision it, but never integrate it.
Is one way better than the other? Who’s to say? Certainly not I. But as I was walking through the sleek modernity of Lisbon, awed with the aquarium built to float on the water, I tripped on something. I looked down. Cobblestones. Cobblestones amongst this expensive altar of modernity. I laughed all the way to the cable cars.
Much has been written about the “weight” or the “burden” of the past on its people. I sense no bowed shoulders or heavy thoughts here. What is fascinating, though, is the interaction that these people have with their own history. One of the first museums that we visited was the Museu Arquelogico do Carmo, a cathedral that remains open to the elements, yet is still filled with ruins and artifacts. Nothing is behind glass or temperature controlled. Nothing is “protected”. I ran my fingers of the roughened surface of a 350-year old tombstone, guiltily at first, and then more confident as I realized no one was going to arrest me. One picture remains indelibly burned in my mind: a child, no more than a toddler really, climbing inside an ancient Roman fountain in order to play. Part of me wanted to rush over there and yank the child out admonishing the whole way. The other part of me was charmed.
These images lay heavy on my mind, my own assumed “weight” of the past. Did the Portuguese have so little respect for the past? Was history too present for them to ever take it seriously? Or was I simply being neurotic in my foreignness?
Some days later, I visited the Parque das Nacoes of Lisbon, a futuristic water development north of the city center that was created in 1998. It boasts everything the modern human might want: a shopping mall, an aquarium, state-of-the-art hotels, and a cable car system from which to sigh over it. But as I stared at its tangled, gleaming twists of white and silver steel, it struck me that the overall impression was of a child grasping at ideas of modernity and the future without comprehending them. This place was trying too hard.
In the United States, it seems as if there are no barriers between us and the future. For the most part, we revel in technological change, welcoming and integrating with every step of the way. But this, in turn, creates a barrier between us and the past. We’re so careful of it, so proud of it, that we slap pieces of history under 5” glass and carefully regulated lighting, while never realizing the barrier we created in our protectiveness. In Portugal, it’s just the opposite. Their present and their past are inextricably linked, woven together so seamlessly that it’s hard to differentiate between the two. Their churches, their cobblestone streets, their bakeries, all a part of history and all utilized every day in the present. It is history without reverence, without precision, without detachment. But again, this creates a barrier between them and the future, to the point where they can envision it, but never integrate it.
Is one way better than the other? Who’s to say? Certainly not I. But as I was walking through the sleek modernity of Lisbon, awed with the aquarium built to float on the water, I tripped on something. I looked down. Cobblestones. Cobblestones amongst this expensive altar of modernity. I laughed all the way to the cable cars.
2009-09-24
Belem
The other day we took the tram to go visit Belem, a suburb of Lisbon. It is also, apparently the tourist mecca of Portugal, but for good reason. This particular monument, entitled the “Padrao dos Descrobimentos” is an homage to Portuguese discovery in general, and Henry the Navigator (the figure at the point) in particular. It is not overwhelmingly beautiful, but the view of all the sailboats from the top was spectacular. The ornate style of architecture in the cloisters of the Mosteiro dos Jeronimos also caught our attention. Check out the detail that went into every arch and column.
2009-09-18
Destinations Aside
“I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.”
-Robert Louis Stevenson
I was on a train today for the first time in my life. Ever. I mean a real train, not the fake touristy ones painted in bright primary colors crowded with families. Or the suburban trains that carry suits absorbed in their newspapers who are too busy to look out the window or make eye contact. No, this train was about more than just travelling from point A to point B. It was a glorious experience all by itself, destinations aside. I loved everything about it from the hushed rumble of the tracks, to the rolling, dipping countryside beyond my window, to the scratchy blue fabric of my extra-wide chair.
And it made me realize that I am enamored with traveling. Not the hotels or the food or the attractions. Nope, I like to move. And it honestly doesn’t matter to me the conveyance, though I can admit I have preferences. Driving a car is one of my few unalloyed pleasures in the world. There is nothing like it in the world, racing over smooth asphalt while the wind combs your hair. I’ll confess, I am not overly fond of planes, but there is always a moment or two when you look out the windows and... oh. The clouds, the blue, the light. It’s a sight unlike any other. Any time I’m in a new place I need to get out the door and start walking. And just walk and walk and walk. Not only am I moving, but I feel as if I’m absorbing the ground, the sounds, the people, the smells, the place itself with every footstep. But, oh, none of this matches the spectacular movement of a train.
Lately I’ve been reading some travelogues written in the beginning of the 19th century by British explorers in the interior of Brazil. The horrors that they describe in travelling are incomprehensible to the modern mind: the storms, that rats, the bugs, the lack of edible food. But along they continue on their merry, English way, undaunted and unfazed. What motive was strong enough, what desire pervasive enough to not only confront but persevere through those obstacles? It was not merely a destination that these men were looking for, they were swayed by some reason, some compulsion to constantly be on the move. They were not looking to arrive, they were simply experiencing. I feel an answering compulsion in myself.
It is rare that we ask ourselves why we want to travel. Most of us do for one reason or another, mostly because it is an expected social function: graduate, have kids, travel on summer vacations, retire. But I think the compulsion to travel can go much deeper and is much more individualistic then we suppose.
I realized that I travel simply to move. To go. My compulsion is to see as much as I can before I die and then I will be a happy person. I didn’t say it was rational or healthy, simply that it is.
Today on the train, we climbed over one particular hill and suddenly broke atop the tree line. Below me was a valley, shrouded in shadows and the golden light of dusk. Trees dotted the undulating hills, a study in randomness. Sheep grazed peacefully, their white fluff accenting the landscape. In the distance mountains rose, vaguely threatening and grey. As quickly as it appeared, it’s gone. I will never see that scene again. Even if I were to return there, to that exact spot, never could I arrange the sun or the sheep so exquisitely. I had it for one perfect moment and then I moved on.
-Robert Louis Stevenson
I was on a train today for the first time in my life. Ever. I mean a real train, not the fake touristy ones painted in bright primary colors crowded with families. Or the suburban trains that carry suits absorbed in their newspapers who are too busy to look out the window or make eye contact. No, this train was about more than just travelling from point A to point B. It was a glorious experience all by itself, destinations aside. I loved everything about it from the hushed rumble of the tracks, to the rolling, dipping countryside beyond my window, to the scratchy blue fabric of my extra-wide chair.
And it made me realize that I am enamored with traveling. Not the hotels or the food or the attractions. Nope, I like to move. And it honestly doesn’t matter to me the conveyance, though I can admit I have preferences. Driving a car is one of my few unalloyed pleasures in the world. There is nothing like it in the world, racing over smooth asphalt while the wind combs your hair. I’ll confess, I am not overly fond of planes, but there is always a moment or two when you look out the windows and... oh. The clouds, the blue, the light. It’s a sight unlike any other. Any time I’m in a new place I need to get out the door and start walking. And just walk and walk and walk. Not only am I moving, but I feel as if I’m absorbing the ground, the sounds, the people, the smells, the place itself with every footstep. But, oh, none of this matches the spectacular movement of a train.
Lately I’ve been reading some travelogues written in the beginning of the 19th century by British explorers in the interior of Brazil. The horrors that they describe in travelling are incomprehensible to the modern mind: the storms, that rats, the bugs, the lack of edible food. But along they continue on their merry, English way, undaunted and unfazed. What motive was strong enough, what desire pervasive enough to not only confront but persevere through those obstacles? It was not merely a destination that these men were looking for, they were swayed by some reason, some compulsion to constantly be on the move. They were not looking to arrive, they were simply experiencing. I feel an answering compulsion in myself.
It is rare that we ask ourselves why we want to travel. Most of us do for one reason or another, mostly because it is an expected social function: graduate, have kids, travel on summer vacations, retire. But I think the compulsion to travel can go much deeper and is much more individualistic then we suppose.
I realized that I travel simply to move. To go. My compulsion is to see as much as I can before I die and then I will be a happy person. I didn’t say it was rational or healthy, simply that it is.
Today on the train, we climbed over one particular hill and suddenly broke atop the tree line. Below me was a valley, shrouded in shadows and the golden light of dusk. Trees dotted the undulating hills, a study in randomness. Sheep grazed peacefully, their white fluff accenting the landscape. In the distance mountains rose, vaguely threatening and grey. As quickly as it appeared, it’s gone. I will never see that scene again. Even if I were to return there, to that exact spot, never could I arrange the sun or the sheep so exquisitely. I had it for one perfect moment and then I moved on.
Evora
Okay, we'll just be very honest: we did not like this town very much. Evora is a small town about a 2 hour train ride east of Lisbon. It's a designated UNESCO World Heritage Site and it's primary charm is derived from the fact that it was a medieval walled city. I'm not sure if you've ever been to a place that is a walled city, but it's a little creepy. The streets are narrow and winding, everyone is crowded on top of one another to stay within the walls so the buildings are quite tall. You can never get your sense of direction and the white and dandelion paint job eveywhere resembles an insane asylum. In short, it's just claustophobic.
However it did have some redeeming factors, mainly the gorgeous Temple of Diana in the center of the town dating from the 1st century AD. Plus, the chruches were incredibly gorgeous, as long as you could overlook the human skulls that were littered everywhere.
2009-09-13
Glorious Eden
Yesterday we visited Sintra, a small town about an hour outside of Lisbon. We had heard wonderful things about this place, but nothing quite prepared us for the stunning beauty and charm of this countryside. Sintra has not one, but two castles, both of which appear as if stripped right from a fairy tale. The first is known as the Moorish Castle, having originally been built in the 9th century by the Moors and later refurbished. The other, known as the Palacio da Pena, was built as a retreat of the Portuguese royal family in the mid-19th century. Two distinct styles, but each breathtaking in their own right. And,
yes we did actually hike up that hill and no, we can’t move today.
Normally, we don’t suggest this, but feel free to check out all of our pictures from Sintra here. We promise, they’re pretty.
yes we did actually hike up that hill and no, we can’t move today.Normally, we don’t suggest this, but feel free to check out all of our pictures from Sintra here. We promise, they’re pretty.
2009-09-11
Just In Case You Missed Us
We don't have very many pictures of either of us, but here are a couple just in case you missed our smiling faces (or Matt's back in this instance). Or thought that we were lying about the whole Portugal thing and just really 
great at Photoshop.
great at Photoshop.
2009-09-07
Meeting the Neighbors
Somehow, we haven’t yet mentioned our upstairs neighbors on this blog. Mostly because we didn’t want to seem like the stereotypical whiny American tourist. For the most part, our building is wonderful, the neighborhood is wonderful, and our apartment is wonderful...with the exception of our upstairs neighbors, whom we lovingly refer to as Vlad and Veeter. You see, Vlad and Veeter are obsessed with Lady Gaga. O-B-S-E-S-S-E-D. I have the feeling that some of you back in the USA, on a cold, quiet night might occasionally hear the faint tune of ‘Just Dance’ drifting to your ears from somewhere more eastward. It’s Vlad & Veeter coming to you live from the Rua da Bica de Duarte Belo in Lisbon.
Coming to Europe, we knew that we would have to acclimate ourselves to a lot of things and the noise of Lisbon was prime among them. I had even thought about writing a blog earlier this week about how we’ve acclimated ourselves to the noise now, finally. But tonight, we just couldn’t take any more Lady Gaga, so I finally decided to knock on V&V’s door and say something. To my surprise, even my most caricatured mental image of what V & V would look like didn’t do it justice. I was met at the door by a pleasant young man of about 30 years old, wearing underwear. Tighty whiteys to be exact. Oh, and a necklace in the shape of the cross to complete the outfit. Even more fitting, his name was indeed Jesús. So here I am, already nervous about overcoming linguistic and cultural barriers, trying to avert my eyes from the bulge in Vlad...sorry, Jesús’s tighty-whiteys while introducing myself. And yes, for those wondering, we did indeed shake hands.
As it turns out, Jesús was a nice enough gentleman and was more than happy to turn down the music, telling me to just knock on his door whenever it was a problem for us. So that problem was solved. Unfortunately I now have a new problem: every time that I hear Lady Gaga from now on, I’ll be able to think of nothing but Jesús and the tighty whiteys.
Coming to Europe, we knew that we would have to acclimate ourselves to a lot of things and the noise of Lisbon was prime among them. I had even thought about writing a blog earlier this week about how we’ve acclimated ourselves to the noise now, finally. But tonight, we just couldn’t take any more Lady Gaga, so I finally decided to knock on V&V’s door and say something. To my surprise, even my most caricatured mental image of what V & V would look like didn’t do it justice. I was met at the door by a pleasant young man of about 30 years old, wearing underwear. Tighty whiteys to be exact. Oh, and a necklace in the shape of the cross to complete the outfit. Even more fitting, his name was indeed Jesús. So here I am, already nervous about overcoming linguistic and cultural barriers, trying to avert my eyes from the bulge in Vlad...sorry, Jesús’s tighty-whiteys while introducing myself. And yes, for those wondering, we did indeed shake hands.
As it turns out, Jesús was a nice enough gentleman and was more than happy to turn down the music, telling me to just knock on his door whenever it was a problem for us. So that problem was solved. Unfortunately I now have a new problem: every time that I hear Lady Gaga from now on, I’ll be able to think of nothing but Jesús and the tighty whiteys.
2009-09-06
Home is Where...
I think that it is inevitable upon traveling to a foreign land that one always gets a bit homesick. I also think the biggest surprise is in all the small objects and actions that comfort us when we are far from home. And all this thinking has finally given me a definition of what “home” really is: Home, to me, is where someone can always make me laugh, unabashedly and fully, and in turn I can spark someone’s smile with a few words. And it is the place where my history is known and reflected, and where I can face someone and say “Remember when you...” with ease.
I know this is more complicated, and at the same time more simplistic, then it ought to be, but this is also the most honest version. Obviously some places are more like home then others, since my family can always make me smile, intentionally or unintentionally, and their shared history will always be the deepest. And , just as obviously, there is more than one home since eventually, after enough time, work or school can become these places of refuge. I also sincerely believe that I can travel anywhere with my husband and never really get homesick; why would I when there’s always someone to turn to who knows exactly where I’m coming from? And more importantly, knows how to laugh about it.
I’ve also found that there are certain objects or sounds that echo within me of home. I discovered Oreos in a grocery store the other day and was amazed as to how comforted I felt by this fact. But why not? Lord knows I have quite a long history with them and, honestly, who wouldn’t smile about chocolate? On the train another day, I was suddenly surrounded by American tourists. I closed my eyes and let the familiar cadences and gravelly tones wash over me, happy just to hear the sound. Until they started discussing Burger King. And of course, there’s no way to escape American pop music, but even hearing Britney Spears has its own edge of hilarity in such a different context then I am used to.
Most importantly, though, I’ve learned that this place, too, will eventually become a type of home. I will smile to see the beautiful landscapes. I will say, “Remember when...” and thousands of sun-drenched memories will appear. Eventually.
P.S. If anyone is still reading this blog, I'd love to hear your comments on what home means to you!
I know this is more complicated, and at the same time more simplistic, then it ought to be, but this is also the most honest version. Obviously some places are more like home then others, since my family can always make me smile, intentionally or unintentionally, and their shared history will always be the deepest. And , just as obviously, there is more than one home since eventually, after enough time, work or school can become these places of refuge. I also sincerely believe that I can travel anywhere with my husband and never really get homesick; why would I when there’s always someone to turn to who knows exactly where I’m coming from? And more importantly, knows how to laugh about it.
I’ve also found that there are certain objects or sounds that echo within me of home. I discovered Oreos in a grocery store the other day and was amazed as to how comforted I felt by this fact. But why not? Lord knows I have quite a long history with them and, honestly, who wouldn’t smile about chocolate? On the train another day, I was suddenly surrounded by American tourists. I closed my eyes and let the familiar cadences and gravelly tones wash over me, happy just to hear the sound. Until they started discussing Burger King. And of course, there’s no way to escape American pop music, but even hearing Britney Spears has its own edge of hilarity in such a different context then I am used to.
Most importantly, though, I’ve learned that this place, too, will eventually become a type of home. I will smile to see the beautiful landscapes. I will say, “Remember when...” and thousands of sun-drenched memories will appear. Eventually.
P.S. If anyone is still reading this blog, I'd love to hear your comments on what home means to you!
2009-09-03
The Star Basilica
Today we hiked (uphill both ways) to the Basilica de Estrela, which is actually a newer cathedral by Lisbon standards, having been built in 1789. There was also a gorgeous park across the street, which was also the first time I had seen a tree since arriving in Lisbon.
2009-09-02
2009-08-31
If You Can't Take the Heat...
The weather in Lisbon was oppressively hot this weekend, and lacking A/C or fans, we decided to leave town for some cooler environs. We took the train about 30 miles up the coast to a little seaside town called Estoril, a popular draw for Lisboners (Lisboans? How can we not know this...) on weekend vacation and, in its earlier days, deposed royalty. As you can see from the pictures, the main draws of Estoril are the beach, the park in the center of town, and the casino.
2009-08-28
Windows to the Soul
Today we visited a select few of the cathedrals that are seemingly littered across Lisbon. The pictures here are from the Sé Cathedral in the Alfama neighborhood of Lisbon. My favorite thing about them, hands down, is always the stained glass windows. Cathedrals, in addition to being architectural wonders, are also marvels of psychology; every single object is created to make you feel the presence of God on Earth, from the soaring columns to the ethereal organ and the dim candlelight. But these windows, even though I know they are simply a trick of light and glass, always make me feel a faith I didn’t even know I had. 
2009-08-25
Cathedral of the Sky
These are the pictures from our trip to Museu Arqueológico do Carmo. The name is a bit of a misnomer – while there are some interesting archaeological artifacts, the real reason for the importance of the ‘museum’ is that it remains one of the few standing buildings from the 1755 earthquake that destroyed most of Lisbon. As you can see in the photos, the roof fell in the earthquake and was never repaired, making it the only building in Lisbon that suffered significant damage but was neither knocked down nor f
ully restored.
ully restored.
Noise in the City
Upon finding out that we would be spending two months in Portugal, and possessing an unholy fascination with the written word, Matt and I immediately read through every travel book published on Lisbon. Many of them disagreed: some said the shopping was divine, others said save the euros for Paris. Some claimed that food was exquisite and adventurous, while others could only summon up a lukewarm “unique” to describe the culinary attempts. There is one thing, though, that every book agreed upon: Lisbon was noisy. And it really, really is.
At first I just thought the cacophony pouring through the windows was there from the two bars within a 30 second walk from our apartment (honest, I didn’t know that beforehand). But then, it was there when I woke up in the morning, and when I returned in the afternoon, and when I fell asleep at night. Eventually I began to open my ears and listen, really hear what all this “noise” was.
It starts in the morning with the construction workers that arrive and begin to toss commands and tools up and down three flights of stairs. Then the windows on the street open, seemingly choreographed, as little old ladies assume their perch on the sill and begin chirping back and forth across the street. The dogs eventually join in, barking at cobblestones or pigeons, I’m not sure which. The funicular, or street tram, trundles it’s way up and down the street, it’s ringing bell subject to no schedule but the whim of the conductor. In the afternoon, the sunlight draws out the children whose yells echo up and down the long hill, as their soccer ball bounces against every wall on the street. At night, their parents come out and begin to circle the bars and restaurants alternating between shouted endearments and drunken singing. See, it’s not really noise, it’s everyday occurrences and greetings without the separation of public and private space, all bundled onto one tiny hill. In short, it’s life. Not noise, but life. Not insignificant sounds, but an entire existence of a people.
And so when we open the windows, life pours in from the streets and people below. Perhaps I should write to the travel books and tell them they got it wrong, but I would hate to make any noise.
At first I just thought the cacophony pouring through the windows was there from the two bars within a 30 second walk from our apartment (honest, I didn’t know that beforehand). But then, it was there when I woke up in the morning, and when I returned in the afternoon, and when I fell asleep at night. Eventually I began to open my ears and listen, really hear what all this “noise” was.
It starts in the morning with the construction workers that arrive and begin to toss commands and tools up and down three flights of stairs. Then the windows on the street open, seemingly choreographed, as little old ladies assume their perch on the sill and begin chirping back and forth across the street. The dogs eventually join in, barking at cobblestones or pigeons, I’m not sure which. The funicular, or street tram, trundles it’s way up and down the street, it’s ringing bell subject to no schedule but the whim of the conductor. In the afternoon, the sunlight draws out the children whose yells echo up and down the long hill, as their soccer ball bounces against every wall on the street. At night, their parents come out and begin to circle the bars and restaurants alternating between shouted endearments and drunken singing. See, it’s not really noise, it’s everyday occurrences and greetings without the separation of public and private space, all bundled onto one tiny hill. In short, it’s life. Not noise, but life. Not insignificant sounds, but an entire existence of a people.
And so when we open the windows, life pours in from the streets and people below. Perhaps I should write to the travel books and tell them they got it wrong, but I would hate to make any noise.
2009-08-23
Have Fun Storming the Castle!
Today we visited the Castelo de São Jorge in the Alfama neighborhood of Lisbon. It’s been around since the 11th century, through Moorish, Castellano, and Portuguese rule. The views were truly amazing, but the best thing was to lay your hand on the stone walls and envision the centuries that have passed, the people that have brushed this very same object in the past, and the generations that will enjoy this same thing in the future. It was timeless.
(Ten points if you ge
t the title.)
t the title.)
2009-08-21
Ola Lisboa
We finally arrived in Lisbon, Portugal today at 8:30am local time. We're already enchanted with the city and can't wait to explore; check out the views from our apartment in the Bairro Alto neighborhood of Lisbon. Wish us luck! (Boa sorte!)
Goodbye Chicago
Port Charlotte, FL, 8/13/2009, 11:12pm
“One always begins to forgive a place as soon as it’s left behind.” --Charles Dickens
As soon as I saw this quote, I couldn’t help but laugh to myself. I first noticed it one week before leaving Chicago for good, and the truth of this simple statement echoed in me immediately. I had begun to feel the irony of missing a place that had seemed to cause nothing but frustration, and wonder if I was really that fickle of a person or simply being overly sentimental. After all, Chicago certainly does have a lot to forgive: traffic, relentless blizzards, traffic, a staggering homicide rate, and let’s not forget traffic. And that’s not even mentioning two incredibly grueling years working 24/7 while pursuing a graduate degree that has thus far yielded little to no realistic results. However, thoughts of forgiveness were short-lived. I realized that this was just a gut reaction, remembering all the bad things that this place had thrown at me, letting them cloud over all the amazing things that I had experienced. In retrospect, my reaction to leaving Chicago was just the opposite: As soon as I left I could begin to extend my thanks to this complicated, chaotic mass of humanity....
Thank you for making me stronger. Literally in the sense that I have no fear of carrying 50 lbs. of winter weight clothing over a 1 mile hike to public transportation. Figuratively in the sense that failure and success are not extraordinary occurrences anymore, but daily constitutions that I take in with my coffee in the morning and leave when I put away my last glass of wine at night. Thank you for making me realize that I am not safe anywhere, and nor should I be. Personal responsibility and awareness are not luxuries but necessities during every step I take. Thank you for making me realize that culinary exploration can be an art form, but that it’s still okay to gorge oneself on unseemly concoctions of grease. Thank you for teaching me that humanity gathered at a single point and purpose, no matter whether it’s the Gay Pride Parade or a historic inauguration, is a truly beautiful thing. Thank you for the worst traffic in the world because it gave me more time to appreciate a beautiful skyline that otherwise sped by too quickly. Thank you for terrifying me with loneliness so that I could finally overcome a lifelong fear of commitment with the most amazing human being I have ever meet. But most of all, thank you for challenging me at every turn, in every situation, and, eventually, dissolving fear of everything into pure, distilled wonder.
Of course, Chicago has given me some new fears that will persist far too long. I am now terrified of the suburbs. Life without a Whole Foods seems too horrifying to contemplate. I’m convinced that I would actually be stupid enough to trek 500 miles out of my way for a slice of deep dish pizza. And I honestly cannot envision life without at least two local baseball teams. But, I’m sure some other place, some other time will cure me of these fears as well.
So I forgive you Chicago, for everything, but I thank you for more.
“One always begins to forgive a place as soon as it’s left behind.” --Charles Dickens
As soon as I saw this quote, I couldn’t help but laugh to myself. I first noticed it one week before leaving Chicago for good, and the truth of this simple statement echoed in me immediately. I had begun to feel the irony of missing a place that had seemed to cause nothing but frustration, and wonder if I was really that fickle of a person or simply being overly sentimental. After all, Chicago certainly does have a lot to forgive: traffic, relentless blizzards, traffic, a staggering homicide rate, and let’s not forget traffic. And that’s not even mentioning two incredibly grueling years working 24/7 while pursuing a graduate degree that has thus far yielded little to no realistic results. However, thoughts of forgiveness were short-lived. I realized that this was just a gut reaction, remembering all the bad things that this place had thrown at me, letting them cloud over all the amazing things that I had experienced. In retrospect, my reaction to leaving Chicago was just the opposite: As soon as I left I could begin to extend my thanks to this complicated, chaotic mass of humanity....
Thank you for making me stronger. Literally in the sense that I have no fear of carrying 50 lbs. of winter weight clothing over a 1 mile hike to public transportation. Figuratively in the sense that failure and success are not extraordinary occurrences anymore, but daily constitutions that I take in with my coffee in the morning and leave when I put away my last glass of wine at night. Thank you for making me realize that I am not safe anywhere, and nor should I be. Personal responsibility and awareness are not luxuries but necessities during every step I take. Thank you for making me realize that culinary exploration can be an art form, but that it’s still okay to gorge oneself on unseemly concoctions of grease. Thank you for teaching me that humanity gathered at a single point and purpose, no matter whether it’s the Gay Pride Parade or a historic inauguration, is a truly beautiful thing. Thank you for the worst traffic in the world because it gave me more time to appreciate a beautiful skyline that otherwise sped by too quickly. Thank you for terrifying me with loneliness so that I could finally overcome a lifelong fear of commitment with the most amazing human being I have ever meet. But most of all, thank you for challenging me at every turn, in every situation, and, eventually, dissolving fear of everything into pure, distilled wonder.
Of course, Chicago has given me some new fears that will persist far too long. I am now terrified of the suburbs. Life without a Whole Foods seems too horrifying to contemplate. I’m convinced that I would actually be stupid enough to trek 500 miles out of my way for a slice of deep dish pizza. And I honestly cannot envision life without at least two local baseball teams. But, I’m sure some other place, some other time will cure me of these fears as well.
So I forgive you Chicago, for everything, but I thank you for more.
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