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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

Apartment Video Tour

Check out this video tour of the apartment!