Despite all the changes spinning rapidly around me in my life in the US, or perhaps because of, I have decided to, as a good friend recently put it, “disappear to Narnia” once more. It’s been four years since I was in Europe last, my 2020 plans foiled for obvious reasons, and it’s finally time to return.
Portugal, here I come!
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| Plaza in Lisbon |
I lie in bed, listening to Ixchel spout off all her big ideas for me and my time abroad. Ways to make money, ways to stay overseas longer.
“You know, it’s kind of sounding like you don’t want me to come back from Europe.”
“No, of course I d- well… No, I guess I don’t. I love you, and I’ll miss you, but this place is toxic for you. You were so much happier traveling. You were working on your book and working on yourself and sending me cute postcards. Don’t forget the postcards, that’s a big part of it.”
And simple as that, I’m reminded the difference between selfish love and selfless love.
She loves me.
And she wants me gone.
And I’m grateful for it.
I’m frequently told how easy I seem to make it when it comes to gaining friends or community. How I walk through rooms as though I know everyone, because chances are I will within the first hour. How my ability to connect with strangers is the envy of some of my friends.
And yet, I don’t feel this way.
I quite often feel lonely, or like an outsider. I feel I struggle to establish myself within friend groups or in a new town, uncertain of my place within it, and I’ve wondered frequently at this disconnect between how others view my interactions and how I view them. And then last night, sitting in a bar downtown, my last night in Austin, talking to another wondering soul, he said it perfectly.
He said, “I’ve never had any problem making new friends and connecting to people quickly. I just struggle to communicate openly with the friends I already have. Maintaining existing relationships is much harder than creating new ones.”
And ain’t that the damn truth.
You say you’re more honest when you write on planes. I wonder why that is. I wonder if that’s true for me.
But I do know, I definitely agree, that I write more honestly when I leave home. Something about the physical distance allowing me to dismember the walls which protect the things that were never physical in the first place. I cringe at the idea of spewing my truthful feelings in the faces of loved ones. Positive or negative, it makes no difference.
When negative, I hold back for fear of hurting those I care for.
When positive, I hold back, because the truth of my love feels cheesy and cheap when said aloud.
Most of my thoughts seem better left unsaid. But not unwritten. And not while abroad.
As the miles whip past beneath me, distance to home growing, it’s as though my words are allowed to wriggle free. My emotions become more honest. My writing grows edges. What a blessing. What a trick.
I am curled into a ball in the hard airplane seat, my head falling at a painfully awkward angle, eyes shielded with a scratchy sleep mask provided by the airline, muscles tensed uncomfortably against the cold that’s seeped in as I try my damndest to sleep.
An overnight flight to Lisbon seemed like a fine idea when I purchased it, but I’ve yet to see how much this will actually bite me later.
Something moves in the peripherals of my consciousness, but it doesn’t register until my muscles begin to relax into a new warmth.
I peak out from the bottom of the sleep mask. The girl next to me, whose name I never did ask, despite our few brief conversations, has stretched her fuzzy blanket out to cover the both of us. I smile at this kind action and mumble a sleepy thank you, grateful as the warmth seeps in, melting my shoulders away from my ears.
“Do you want to use my neck pillow?” She offers, upon realizing I’m awake.
I accept it and drift back off, spirits lifted at the fact that the world still holds kind strangers.
This is going to be a good trip.
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| Back to the hostel life |
Joy.
Overarching joy at the realization that I am, dare I say it, finally back.
Though the decision to buy the ticket to Lisbon was lightening fast, departing merely 8 days after purchase, I feel I’ve been trying to get back to Europe for years now. I purchased a ticket to Prague at the end of 2019, covid canceled it early 2020, and ever since, it's been a struggle to return.
To find my way home.
As I've finally realized that that’s how these winding, cobblestone streets make me feel.
At home, within myself.
Ixchel told me I’m a chameleon. I blend into any situation I’m placed. Shapeshift and twist my form, my words, my personality to fit the mold of what’s needed. She’s not wrong. It is a survival skill I picked up and honed, somewhere along the journey. But it’s never what’s needed for me to be happy, it’s always what’s needed to stay safe, to get ahead, to please others.
But the shapeshifters' skin is shed in these streets.
Here I live for me.
Here I am my own shape.
At home in myself.
I can’t believe I hesitated to come back.
Struggled so with the decision of staying in the states or leaving.
Proof that we let our fears and insecurities talk us out of doing the things we know we love. Things we know we need, and know are good for us.
Oh, but the journey gets hard sometimes, huh?
That's right. Best to not do it at all.
***
“Can I ask you a question? I know that you say either obrigado or obrigada for thank you. Does the ending depend on the person speaking or the person you’re speaking to?”
“I think you say ‘obrigada’.”
I’m confused by her answer.
“You think?”
“Yeah, well, we’re all gay these days! It doesn’t matter which ending you use, just live your life!”
What a lovely attitude.
Happy Pride.
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| First hostel in Lisbon |
I exit the hostel after a short nap and reset. My body is still struggling to figure out what’s happening with the time difference, but I know I need to eat something. There’s a live band playing in the plaza directly across the street.
I buy a cup of Sangria and lean against a railing, my back to a beautiful view of the city. A tourist attraction, I relaize by the sheer number of people approaching and snapping images on either side of me. The perfect spot to people-watch.
A woman approaches, and takes the spot on the railing to my right, sipping a tiny cup of beer.
I wonder if she’d like to be spoken to, but I’m so tired, the world seems unreal. We stand, side-by-side, watching the throngs of humans, for the next ten minutes before she turns to me, pantamiming something and mumbling a half-sentence, clearly uncertain what launguage I’ll understand.
“Take a picture for you?” I guess. “Yeah, no problem.”
“Ah, great, thank you!” She responds. American.
“Are you traveling alone?” She asks, after I snap a couple images.
“Yeah, for now. You?”
“Yeah, for tonight. My friend is asleep. I was thinking of getting a drink. Would you like to join?”
We venture towards the sun set, chatting easily. She’s a music lawyer from New York City, here for a friends wedding. She enjoys traveling for the food.
We duck into a hole-in-the-wall restraunte, packed with people. The waiter teases us in a friendly manner and brings my beer in a wine glass and we spend the next few hours eating and drinking.
These interactions are my favorite part of traveling. Meeting people from all walks of life that I’m unlikely to meet or spend time with otherwise. To be reminded just how human and how similar we all are. To share my expereinces and expierience vicariously the things others share with me. To share a laugh and a drink and a meal with a person I’m unlikely to ever see again, but who, for one evening, is a cherished friend.
My first morning in Portugal. I have breakfast in the hostel common area. The hostess is a sassy Portuguese woman who seems to be friends with everyone who walks through the door, tourist or local.
On the porch, as I sip my second cup of overly-sweetened coffee, a young Isreali man pulls a leaf from my hair, and a conversation begins.
I switch to wine at noon. He smokes cigarette after cigarette and asks me questions I don’t like, but somehow have to appreciate, as they aren’t the typical “get to know a person on the surface” type questions.
“What’s your favorite thing about yourself?”
“Oof, I’m not a fan of that.”
“Just one thing.”
“I could tell you a million things I don’t like and need to work on.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
I deflect a while, but he doesn’t let it go.
“I do the things I say I will, even if they scare me. And sometimes, I make myself do things only because they scare me and I don’t want to. I think it’s important to push ourselves in this life. The comfort zone is a dangerous place for the soul.”
He accepts this answer. We get Indian food for lunch. He flies back home to Israel. The afternoon passes quickly into evening.
Two of my friends from Austin, Texas - Ian and Samson - happen to be in Portugal at the same time as me, so I stay in Lisbon an extra night to see them, unable to pass up an opportunity to see friends abroad.
Things get silly quickly.
Ian likes to try Mexican food around the world, just to see how it compares to what we’re raised on in Texas, so we find a nearby Mexican restaurant.
As soon as we sit, I notice a countdown timer on the wall.
17:53
17:52
17:51
“What do you think happens at zero?” I ask Ian, nodding to the wall as the seconds slip past. “Think the restaurant implodes?”
We put it out of our minds, ordering margaritas and nachos, an action which feels incredibly silly on my second night in Portugal, but here we go.
Suddenly the music is cranked up loud. We look around confused, caught mid-story, and notice all the waiters have put on large, colorful sombreros.
“What the hell is happening?” We laugh.
They begin to circle the restaurant, bottles in hand, pouring shots into the tiny cups on the tables before each customer, clapping and calling out excitedly.
They finish.
The music quiets.
No explanation comes.
Confused patrons at each table cheers and take their shots.
We laugh.
The timer restarts.
33:30
33:29
33:28
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| Our tiny shot glasses |
While looking online for dance clubs in Lisbon, we accidentally discover a spot right down the street with a nightly drag show. Reservations are highly encouraged, if not required, so we wander down the street in search of the place.
The night continues in a similarly silly fashion. Including a drag show where Ian makes the bartender blush so hard he can’t make our reservation, all due to a simple language miscommunication. He asks if we can make reservations with the bartender for the club, but the bartender seems to think we want to reserve him for 10pm instead.
We’re placed at a less-than-ideal table at first, but soon all the staff surrounds us, hands us free shots, which they take with us, and we’re moved to a table pressed right against the stage, front and center.
At intermission, I glance behind us, and a couple waves we over. One is American, one is English. They’ve been together 18 years. The four of us form a group. They bring along two more couples. Next thing I know, the group consists of Ian, myself, and 6 middle-aged gay men from various English-speaking countries.
We head out in search of a place to dance.
Ian leads the way down dark, but lively streets.
The drunk Irishman in our group shouts about how much he hates Americans.
I laugh.
His partner apologizes profusely for his behavior.
What a group.
“Fuck it dude, I liked those bartenders and I’m leaving Lisbon tomorrow before that places opens. I’m gonna run back and try to connect with them. Bet they can tell us where the good dancing is.”
“But it’s 1:55 and they close at 2. We found the good dance place already, we’re gonna go now,” Ian motions broadly to the rest of the group.
“I’ll meet you there. I have a good feeling about these people.”
I fast walk up the steep, winding streets, watching my clock tick the minutes down. I head back to Cinco, a self-proclaimed “hip” cocktail bar we stopped at earlier in the night, where we gave and received shit from the staff and owner in the friendliest of ways.
I’ll never make it by two, but I’m hoping they’re lax on timing like all the other bars seem to be.
I round the corner, people are standing outside, annnnnd… the doors are shut. Damn.
I sit on the stairs outside, deciding my next move, and realizing I have no idea where Trumps is, the club the rest of our thrown together, ragtag group is planning to go to.
I stand to leave, as wandering the streets of Lisbon hasn’t failed me yet, but I feel the need to give the door one little tug, just in case.
It pulls open easily.
I smile at the bartenders and they greet me with both joy and confusion.
“Hey, you’re back!” Pause. “How’d you get in here?”
“Your door is unlocked. Are you closed? I can go.”
“No, no, sit, sit!”
We laugh and joke at the bar as the tables behind me slowly clear out.
“Ugh, there’s always the few stragglers. I hate stragglers,” the Portuguese woman, Renata, exclaims to us in a low voice.
“Would you like me to go? I don’t want to keep you guys stuck here.”
“What? No, not you, you stay.”
The last of their actual customers leave and the vibe of the three shifts, relaxing. Finally, they’re done.
“So where’s your friend?” One of them asks me, referring to Ian.
“He went to Trumps with a whole group of people we picked up at the drag show.”
“Ah, Trumps.”
“Yeah, to dance. Do you guys want to dance?”
The two boys decline, claiming work the next day.
“You were smarter than your friend,” Renata tells me.
“Oh? Because I didn’t go there? Is it bad?”
“No, because you came here first. He’s probably been standing in line for an hour. The bouncer is my friend, I’ll take you there on my way home and get you in.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, it’s no problem, we’ll have a drink.”
“Do you want a beer for the walk?” Gabriel asks me, popping one open.
I accept gratefully.
“We’ll come out next time, okay? Let us know when you’re back.”
“What, just come by and hope you’re working?”
“Of course not! Here’s my number.”
Renata walks me to Trumps, where she’s greeted by seemingly everyone that works there and kissed on the cheek by many of the girls leaving the club. The bouncer gives us the head nod and I follow Renata past the typical checkpoints and security, right into the hot, steamy club.
The place is massive. I’ll never find Ian or the gang.
Renata and I take shots together and dance a while before I’m spent.
Her flat is in the same direction of the airbnb I’m in, and we exit the madness together.
“Let us know when you come back, you can come have dinner, we’ll cook at my place,” she offers before our paths diverge. “I’ll invite David and Gabriel too. And if you need a place to stay when you come back, let me know.”
We kiss cheeks and part ways, and I’m so grateful for this extension of hospitality and friendship. One I would never extend to my new customers in the US. But things are different here and that’s what I love.
I head back to the airbnb, hoping Ian has made it back before me, and feeling glad I followed my gut and returned to make friends with the bartenders.
Two nights in, and the trip is off to a great start.
Here’s to the adventures to come.
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