100 days in Portugal (life update).
It is hard to believe we have been here in Portugal for one hundred days. Days past once felt like arbitary x’s on a calendar, now feel like robust chapters in a book. This is what I wanted: time to slow down its maddening dash, and preserve moments to someday be written in memoirs.
There have been visits to Sintra, Cascais, Praia da Ursa, Lagos, and Nazaré. In just a couple of weeks we are headed to France for a week long birthday trip Kyle has planned. This summer, England, maybe Malta, and possibly Greece. It feels surreal, and often I pinch myself; a reminder I’m not dreaming.
Of course it hasn’t been without it’s challenges. No good story lacks its potholes and plot twists. For one, arriving in Lisbon to discover our entire apartment held the offensive smell of sewage. It took a month and a half of battling with our property manager to fix the source of the stench. Every time we came home from being out, we’d open our front door and be assaulted with the rancid odor, which would often make me gag uncontrollably. It smelt like we resided in a truck stop public restroom. (This of course wasn’t Portugal specific, but our particular building.)
Then there was the issue of electricity. Our electricity would go out AT LEAST four times a day, and we would stumble around in the dark trying to find the breaker. Soon we learned the navigation of not using too many kitchen appliances at once. It became a choreographed dance; unplug the room heaters if you turn on the stove. Don’t run the dishwasher and washing machine at the same time. Kyle and I took turns cursing at the dark as we tripped over things in the hallway to flip the breaker.
Old buildings have character, and when I say character, I mean their character is one of mischief and temperamental moods. They groan and creak; telling stories of old, and are too elderly, and have lived too much life to care if they impress you.
Immersion into a different culture also had its challenges. Everything felt, sounded and tasted different. Not bad, not good, just different than what we were accustom to. Some days this was exciting. Others, we craved the comforting familiarity of the food from Nashville.
Kyle and I have long held to the belief of two opposite ideas can be true simultaneously. You can be happy and sad. You can be lonely and relish in your own company. You can be joyfully immersed in another culture and its customs, and still be overwhelmed and miss what feels familiar. One of the keys to life, I’m convinced, is accepting all of it with open hands, and allowing it all to belong.
Saying all of this, I have a point: travel and cultural immersion isn’t all breath taking cliff top vistas, beach fronts, and charming cobblestone streets. While those things are lovely, and much sought after, there are other important things, as well. Travel is also having conversations with locals; listening about how their neighborhoods are being gentrified and they are being priced out of their homes. It’s about how they are frustrated, yet reliant upon tourism, not unlike where we came from in Nashville. It is about encountering and confronting unconscious biases you hold. It’s about closing your mouth, and truly listening. Travel, ultimately, is an education for your head and your heart.
Being an introvert, I have a rather low threshold of how much social interaction I can take in a day. Interestingly enough, and maybe not surprisingly, the chasm has only deepened since becoming a parent, and magnified further during COVID sheltering in place. Kyle is the extrovert, and he’s always been a lively conversationalist. Since we have been married, I find myself more and more listening and observing; absorbing and watching. Maybe some people read this as aloof, but really it’s just a mixed bag of energy preservation and fascination of anthropology. Possibly also because I am assessing your character and quirks to fictionalize you into a story I’ll write one day, but I didn’t say this out loud.
Speaking of which, the underground Metros are one of my favorite places. In New York City, they overwhelmed me. But here, they are an endless source of inspiration of characters for future books I’m writing in my head. The Metro, to me, is like being whisked away to my own personal Narnia of magical characters and stories whispered in my ear as trains whoosh by. (Let’s forget I don’t particularly appreciate C.S. Lewis, and think he was problematic, but owe a tip of the hat to his imagination of wardrobe portals to magical lands.)
Anyway.
Often, I go out alone and walk around the city. Each neighborhood has a distinct personality, much like other large metropolitan cities. My sense of direction has never been my personal strength. This results in me getting lost in the city; alone with my thoughts, and surrounded by the sounds of Lisbon ticking, which I secretly love.
Who was it who said, the best way to encounter a city is on foot? They were right. Nothing is more enjoyable than walking through the neighborhoods of Lisboa, feeling its hum and pulse. If I didn’t wander, I wouldn’t have found the tiny loose leaf shop selling my new favorite chá called Amalfi Coast, which impossibly tastes like my memories of Positano last summer. The owners of the Chá Shop speak only Portuguese, so in my own broken Portuguese, I gesture, one large bag of Amalfi Tea, please. Then I over compensate with one too many Obrigados.
Then there are the profusion of bookshops; some with English books, some without. But they all are charming, romantic and warmly lit, spilling over with texts. Hours will be happily wasted away, browsing titles, and always coming home with one, if not two new novels. In fact, so many books have been bought, I had to purchase a bookshelf last weekend to properly house them.
Maybe the thing I love most about Lisbon is its dedication to art. Gallery pop-ups, street artists and musicians, and the city is embellished with graffiti from head to toe. Our Uber drivers will show us their Instagrams; showcasing their own portfolio of exceptional art. To be in Lisboa, is to be encapsulated in her artistry.
In the past two weeks, I’ve noticed a shift in us. We no longer feel like alien outsiders. This beautiful place feels like home, and we love Portugal dearly. Regardless of the minor challenges we face, the loud voices of discombobulated homesickness has reduced to a murmur. Our broken Portuguese is still fragmented, but our vocabulary grows daily. The things which once felt uncomfortable, now feel normalized.
At the heart of it, I don’t think we’ve ever been as happy as we are here. It took months to detox the addiction to stress and anxiety. Life previously felt like one eternal game of whack-a-mole. Now it feels less forced, more lived in. Going to bed, I don’t dread the next day. We all live in anticipation of the weekends, when we go explore Lisbon, or day trip to other Portuguese towns.
The art of slower living must be learned; a nauseous detox of the nervous system. It isn’t pretty. But it has its sweet payoffs: you can breathe again.
x. Mandy in Lisbon
A quick note: The photos displayed on this blog are from travels all over Portugal, not just Lisbon. If you would like to see location specific posts, click here to browse.
All photos are copyright of Mandy Hanson Reid. Do not use without permission. Several of the photos featured are limited or open edition prints available for purchase upon request. Inquire at mandy@mandyreid.com . Travel Manifesto x Mandy in Lisbon t-shirts will be returning to the shop soon. Thank you for your support.
