continued streams from lisboa:

…one of the few spots i have found solace in this bustling city of lisboa is on the rocks that encircle the bay, yet also seats the odd couple lost in their lip-locked love. i ignore them. a boy skips stones. a tattered book is being mulled over by a homeless man who downs a bottle of spirits with his other hand. the sun flits and floats, travelling from one mass of clouds to the next, playing hide-and-go-seek with the sea-gulls, taunting me as i struggle to retain a constant and comfortable temperature, laughing as i alternate taking off my sweater with putting it back on again. on. off. on. off. i have no idea what time it is, but it is warm… it is unnerving when the boy in mid-make-out opens an eye and locks it with mine. i laugh when a surging wave sends them soaking on their way. thank you, ocean.

…when surrounded by incomprehensible portuguese, except for the odd ‘obrigada,’ i end up mostly talking to myself, conversations confined within the soundproof skeleton of my head. sometimes it is soothing to be silent, though, to melt unnoticeably into the general throng of comers and goers, free to explore at will, up or left without consultation, getting lost and unlost on a whim…

…the poet’s hostel is perfect, tucked away in the heart of the city, offering a temporary home for nomads drifting through. the fellow travellers i’ve met whose journeys have synched up with my own are all incredibly and beautifully unique people, easy-going adventurers: a couple canadians, leanda who cooked me a delicious supper, people from italy, germany, austria, australia. and a couple of the french who drink their coffee out of a bowl… the breakfasts are delightful, however, after being warmly awakened by the sunshine and singing filtering in from the streets, being able to enjoy my tea and toast for as long as i like, unhindered by classes and train schedules, surrounded by paintings and mosaics; i am content…

…the days sort of organized themselves nicely for me, into continuously unfolding adventures involving a castle, manwell the italian photographer, a haircut, free hugs, the ancient city sintra, the coast of caiscais with the americans kim, becky and devon, going to see an Italian storyteller and going out to dinner with people of every nationality and becoming caught in the friendly cross-fire of cultures, seeing jesus christ superstar performed in portuguese and becoming the honourary granddaughter of a kind old man named mario who bought me coffee and linked my arm as he walked me home, riding in the number twenty-eight tram, reading in the sun till i was burnt bright red, nearly as red as the massive cloud of communists that swarmed the square…

though i truly loved my time in lisbon, charlbury became the proverbial carrot before my weary face, so cruelly close and yet so far as i made my way back through london and onwards; it beckoned me ‘home,’ and i have never been so glad to get off that train and plod up the hill to finally collapse into my bed.