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.

Paris has magical powers

Firstly, I must admit to myself that I've let myself down by not updating my blog while knocking around Europe for the summer. This is partly to do with limited internet access and European computers, which, while usable, make extended typing quite the chore considering their tendency to szitch W zith Z qnd A zith Q.

It is also partly to do with the fact that I was frankly too depressed to write...even when I did have the time, ability and material for a solid post. There were the few nights in Venice when I went out with a group of absolutely insane and hilarious Indian-English girls. The day in Cinque Terre that I spent sunbathing and swimming in the Ligurian sea, feeling as though the Greco-Roman myths might come to life at any moment.There was the night I stayed out until 7 AM in Prague with a group of 6 Swiss boys I met at an underground bar. We climbed up onto a roof and watched the sunrise.

There was the night a friend and I crashed the Prague Quadrennial after-party at the National Theater, and I fell down a flight of 15 marble stairs after dancing and singing along to Czech covers of songs like "Say a Little Prayer for You" and "YMCA". It was both fun and horrifying. There were the evenings I spent with my hostess (a friend from college, who's lived in Prague for a few years) and her friends, which include Bosnian, Ukrainian, Iranian, and Spaniard expats, drinking and discussing international politics.

All this, and still I didn't write. The night before I left for my trip, a sneaking suspicion began to creep into my heart...what if, after months of planning and anticipation, my summer wouldn't be what I thought it'd be?
I wanted to go traveling again for a thousand reasons and for one reason: a night I spent in Florence, alone, 5 years ago, in front of an open-shuttered window of my room in the convent we were staying in. That night, my life felt so full of promise, of possibility. The night whispered to me that my whole life could be as equally magical, magnificent as that moment, if I just let it. God was with me, and I was the happiest I've ever been.
And my life went on and there were marvelous moments, and horrible moments, but always, I wanted to go traveling again. I thought that it had been the challenge of travel that had made me see life for all its potential adventure that night. Instead, I went adventuring again to find that the world is just the world. That the feeling of profundity, of meaning, has nothing to do with where I am or what I am doing, but with my outlook.
I wasn't that surprised. As I've grown up, I had started to suspect such, but I had hoped against hope that I could just go to a new place and it would shake me and...make me feel things, new things, wonderful things!
Instead, I had small flares of enjoyment, and overall, I was quite low. On my plane ride from Prague to London, I cried my eyes out, so bleak did the world seem. So empty and dull, so lifeless if no matter where I went, I would never feel wonder the way I did at 17.

So I didn't write, because I couldn't bear the idea of pretending I was having the time of my life, when in reality, I was miserable. I didn't want to tell the truth, for the simple reason that I didn't want to be a downer.

Everything changed when I got to Paris. The beginning was really in London, in a conversation with a friend and some reading she gave me to do. But it was in Paris, that some frozen thing inside me melted. I arrived on Bastille Day, to a city-wide party. A Parisian family is hosting me in their nearby studio, and from the first day, they adopted me as their own daughter. It was nice to be with a family again. Erich, Nathalie and their two sons, Ethan (7) and Samuel (13) had me over for dinner that first night, and then we went to see the fireworks at the Eiffel tower with what felt like all of Paris. In France, they play music to their fireworks, and the theme this year was From Broadway to Paris. My Fair Lady, Singin' in the Rain, and Sound of Music were just a few samples of the various selections. We chose a random spot on the coveted grass to sit, waiting and hoping the fireworks would not be behind the trees just ahead. They were, of course, and so as Audrey Hepburn's voice floated over us as the first bursts of light and sound went off, we rose with all of Paris from our vied-for place to run towards the bright colors, and I almost cried from wonder,from being alive in this joyful city, and I knew, that I would always, my whole life, be able to go to a new place, and it would make me feel things, new things, beautiful things.



If I knew how to edit videos on this french computer, I would. As of yet, this will have to do as is.

In the course of the last week, the grandparents of the family had me over for Sabbath dinner (obvi they're Jewish), and the Aunt and Uncle for a birthday party for "Le Grand Papa". To my surprise, they had a cake and presents for me as well. I was astounded at their warmth, their love for both each other and for me, though they barely knew me. Erich and Nathalie's niece, Judith and her boyfriend invited me to come with them the next night to see the Strokes at Le Zenith, one of Paris's largest venues. The other niece, Myriam and her boyfriend, took me to the Pompidou center for Modern Art for a day. As both an artist and violinist, Myriam provided an amazing insight to the Fauvist and Cubist works we saw...of Matisse, Kardinsky, Kupka, Brague, Miro, Dàli, Modigliani. Nathalie and Samuel took me to see Midnight in Paris, which, considering the amount of Lost Generation reading I'd been doing lately (all I read in Prague and London was Hemingway and Fitzgerald), resonated with me soundly.

I may not have traveled back in time in the last week like Woody Allen's nostalgic protagonist, but with experiences like these, I don't need to. From my cozy studio, late in the day, I watch the sun set behind Sacre Couer, and stand on my windowsill and let my thoughts traverse the rooftops of Paris and bounce back to me from the bruised sky, and I realize again and again that mystery is present, and I am young, and that my life is full of possibilities.

Living Large in London

London is expensive, to put it mildly.

As refreshing as it was to fly over from Prague and leave the world of dark fairytales, sullen faces and an impossible to learn slavic language behind, I find myself waxing nostalgic for a country in which the exchange rate worked in my favor.

What's that you say? The exchange rate? Isn't that some funny little term that economists bandy around that doesn't actually mean anything real to real people? Like 0% APR and the rate of inflation?
Oh no, for you see, all those superfluous little concerns that people warned me about before I left for Europe, such as the value of the American dollar, that used to make absolutely no sense to me back home, have now become tangible to my young, inexperienced mind. Because £6 for a day pass on the Underground sounds reasonable until you realize that translates to $9 American.

Our weak dollar has made staying in the city of my dreams just a little bit stressful: Because in London, in 5 days, I've spent what I did in 2 weeks in Prague.

Perhaps I could learn to love dark fairytales, sullen faces and an impossible-to-learn slavic language...

Roaming, and Everything that Comes with It

I quite literally spent the morning sitting on a windowsill.

Fortunately, it's a European windowsill, and therefore broad, and comfortable. I feel almost incapable of ceasing to hang out the window here in Prague. It's so incredibly beautiful that just being here is deeply romantic.

This is not an emotion I felt in the other European cities I've been to so far. Venice was a disappointment, to say the least. I felt as if I was visiting a theme park, or the Las Vegas strip, only on water. Staying in a hostel had its benefits and its downfalls: I met other people to wander with, but the general atmosphere was rather juvenile. There were so many people just drinking and sleeping their way through Europe that it was rather depressing. I was happiest when wandering the museums alone. There was one particular day, that I spent at the Palazzo Ducale, and the Ca'Rezzinico (an 18th Century palazzo full of art), that was quite beautiful, but that still felt a little empty.

I thought that traveling alone would be something I'd enjoy...after all, my nostalgia for last summer living alone in Seattle and traveling to North Carolina for work was vast: I remembered fondly the pleasure of being entirely comfortable with my own company. I remembered how my pursuit of beauty gave my loneliness meaning, and I craved that loneliness after spending a year again at home with my family.

But I underestimated the impact my family, my friends have had on my view of travel. I had thought that what made travel fun, was the travel part. I've been forced to admit these last two weeks that it was always my family, or my companions making every moment a constant enjoyment. Adventure does not feel like adventure alone. This is a lesson I learned last summer! A lesson I wrote about on this very blog. But I forgot! I looked back to my solitude with longing, and so pursued 3 months in Europe mostly alone, and now have to face the consequences.

Milan was better. I spent one day with my friend Monica, conveniently nannying a few towns away. We met an English girl named Helen, and had a marvelous time running around the city seeing random sites and talking each other's ears off.

I stayed with my friend Tatiana and her family, and her parents really treated me as their own daughter...Italian hospitality is not overrated.

I spent one glorious day on the beach in Cinque Terre before I made the long, beautiful trip up to Vienna, the city being vastly outdone by the Austrian countryside.

One of the great tragedies of this journey so far is that no matter how beautiful everything is, something in me is failing to respond. There's some dull, flatness stuck in my chest that resists movement. The absolute admiration I felt looking up at the full moon last summer on my balcony eludes me, no matter how beautiful the scenery. The picturesque Austrian villages, the Bavarian forests, the small castles around every corner, the splendor of sunlit valleys between ancient mountains...they're all wonderful, but I feel incapable of appreciating their reality. I would attribute this to my solitude, had I not evidence to the contrary.

And now I'm in Prague, at an old friend's apartment. Next door to the American Embassy, down the street from Prague Castle, and up the street from the St. Charles Bridge, her place is a haven. Small, but comfortable, on a quiet street in one of the most beautiful parts of the city. I'm relieved to have 3 weeks in one place: to really explore the city and make parts of it my own. I refuse to let this dull observation be my status quo for the next two months. Prague has been the first city to stir anything in me, and I intend to pursue the city's secrets, at all costs.