Roam: Portugal is Paradise.

I´ve heard many Europeans say that when it comes to their idea of paradise, California comes to mind.
Whether due to my role as a native, or just simple preference, I disagree. I know now that for me, Portugal will always occupy that role. Sunny like California, with palm trees and sea breezes off the Atlantic, the country combines all the things I love about home, with everything I love about Europe: beautiful architecture, abundant culture, a beautiful language and history.

Portugal wasn´t on my original itinerary. Somehow it seems to be one of those countries that we Americans tend to forget about...even though the Portuguese run just as strongly through our history books as the French, Romans and English. When I consider that the Spanish and the Portuguese once divided up the ENTIRE world between just the two of them, it seems ridiculous that it never crossed my mind to visit the land of discoverers, explorers and conquistadors...in other words, my kindred spirits.

It took an actual invitation from my Portuguese friend Diana and my Italian friend Simo (her boyfriend) to add it into my summer. "Ah, somewhere free to stay..." I mused to myself agreeably, and penciled the place into my calendar. But of course, it was the attraction of spending a week with both Diana and Simo, very good friends of mine, made the extra cost of adding another country worth it.

There was a catch however. Visiting Portugal, I was piggybacking onto Simo´s own trip to visit his girlfriend, whom he hadn´t seen in 3 months, along with 10 of his Italian friends who´d decided Portugal was the perfect location for their summer holidays. No surprise that I learned more Italian than Portuguese over the course of the week.

I met up with Diana in Porto, the large harbor city of the North.

We stayed with her aunt and cousins, who delighted in teaching me Portuguese grammar over the dinner table. Diana and I went roaming all over the bright, ancient city. She explained the various stories of each building, street and cobblestone while I took picture after picture of azulejos: the painted tiles found everywhere in Portugal: whether covering the facades of buildings, or depicting historical moments in the metro and train stations.

The next morning, Simo and one of the other boys arrived, and we repeated the exploration with them, this time visiting one of the most beautiful bookstores in the world: Liveria Lello. Liveria Lello would strike any young American girl of as miniature Beast´s library, with an expansive collection and winding staircases that beg for a romantic pause (made impossible by the swarms of people moving up and down). Like a fateful invasion, that evening the rest of the Italians arrived with their chatter and laughter and light spirits. At dinner, they plied me, the token American, with questions. "Colleen, where are you from?" (My reply made the usual stir it does in Europe) "Colleen, how long are you with us?" "Colleen, why are you in Portugal?"

I immediately loved all of them. The 4 girls were sweet and sensible, and easy to communicate with, despite our language barrier. Even when we spoke in separate languages, somehow we understood each other. The boys made a pet of me, asking me to repeat the lyrics to American songs and teach them American slang and the words for arbitrary objects, like "rolling pin" as we made pizza.

The next day we left Porto for Viseau, to stay at Diana´s friend Rita´s big, old vacation house on the river, which seemed the only place in the entire country that could accommodate all 11 of us. Her big dog and even bigger kitchen made for an ideal two days...waking up late to spend hours over breakfast, playing with said dog in the yard, then making our way slowly down to the river, to swim in the thick water and make jokes about the crocodiles that had escaped from a waterside restaurant 20 years ago and bred in their unnatural habitat. We ate lunch at 5 and dinner at midnight, and it seemed half our day revolved around meals; whether we were making them, eating them or cleaning up after them in the cavelike, stone kitchen, while I led them in rousing choruses of Madonna and Smashmouth songs.

Finally, we left for Lisbon, stopping briefly in Fatima on the way. Fatima was just as holy as you´d expect it to be; the sun shining brightly on the Basilica, the statues of Our Lady casting sweet shadows, high skies with gentle clouds moving along quickly by the breeze, the echo over the square of children leading the quiet crowd in the Chapel in the Rosary.

And Lisbon was perhaps my favorite city I´ve been to in Europe so far. Gleaming white on the coast of the Atlantic, I was overwhelmed at the general good cheer of the place. Around every corner, there was some new symbol of the famed Age of Exploration, whether a statue of a conquistador or a map displaying all the old colonies of the faded monarchy.

I was struck at how the history of Portugal (the 1775 Lisbon earthquake, the war won by Our Lady of Fatima, for which she still wears the King´s crown, and the exploratory era) still predominates the modern conversations of the Portuguese people. It seems only yesterday half the world belonged to them, only yesterday the capital city was rebuilt. We went to the old neighborhoods still standing after the earthquake, the new city center, the grand castle atop the highest hill...and in the evening, went to hear Fado, traditional Portuguese music, (and possibly the most beautiful thing I´ve ever heard) sung by Diana´s friend at one of the nicest bars in Lisbon. With a vibrating quality that communicates all the saddest and most beautiful things about life, even to those who don´t understand the words, Fado dominates the radios and stereos of Portugal for good reason.

I was sad to leave...made worse by the giant group hug from the Italians, whose profuse invitations to visit Italy and stay in their homes I returned with sincerity. I left for Barcelona, and the humidity and the heat, and wished I could stay in Portugal forever.