And not because we aren’t vacationing, per se, but because this, and I mean this moment, right here, right now, sitting in the Aeroporto de Lisboa, swilling the best beer in the world (if you had to wonder if the answer is Super Bock I think it’s time you poured yourself a draught) and eating more deep fried bread and cheese something something’s…yes this moment right here right now reminds me and maybe us both of REAL LIFE.
The past 10 days have been nothing and everything. Just like your life, just Iike mine. We’ve learned so much and yet nothing has changed. The Portuguese adore Freddy Mercury, right? – it’s real life, AND fantasy. But why so black and white Freddy? The Nick and Jenny club is read all over.
Since you last heard from us, Lisbon greeted us with a burst of energy, followed by deep and sincere exhaustion. Yeah, jet lag is a bitch, but I ain’t even goin’ there. You don’t need to hear more about how tiring our lives have been over the past several months because you already know, and why complain? Poor us! We had to uproot our lives to take a year long vacation??? Send out the town crier.
But that’s just the thing, my friends and loyal loves – where does the line between “vacation” and “life” begin and end, when your life is a vacation and vacation is your life? And a vacation from what? Work, sure, but not from feelings, and relationships, and the darkness and demons and of course basic human limitations that remind us that we’re not invincible after all…we’re just….caught in a landslide…no escape from reality…
The point is: we went to Portugal, saw some cool shit, and guess what? Carry on, carry on! As if nothing really matters, when of course, everything and everything and everything always always does.
And now we’re coming home.
Gotcha!
Home to OURSELVES people and EACH OTHER yes. What…is…home…? When E.T. needed the h-o-m-e on speed dial, what did that creature actually mean?
What’s the point – Lisbon is a badass metropolis, filled with sights, colors, and actually a welcomed lack of sounds. Not like Brazil, always teeming with noise. No. Portugal is CIVILIZED goddamnit. Hell, they’ve been at it for hundreds of years, they better be.
You must indulge yourself in our photos of Sintra to understand. What a sumptuous and ornate fairytale ending to a happy castle perched upon a cloud!!! Built by King Fernando, the second no less! – to prove his manliness nonetheless, despite his obvious adolescent lack of facial hair…
Also – may each and every one of you happen across a Fado joint. Fado is a traditional form of music originally used to protest the Portuguese dictatorship, which lasted until 1974. Que beleza! Que paixao! Que tristeza! That music moved us both to a point of deep emotion, that I’m not so sure can be captured in most other settings – especially when you don’t quite understand for what the singer cries.
Back to the story, because this is a goddamned timelined narration goddamnit. Once we overcame out initial jet lag/exhaustion with life/stress involved with liminality, things began to click. All it took was a) a day at the beach and b) some good ole’ fashion communication. Who knew? “It pays to be married to a therapist.” – Jenny and Nick
I (Nick) like(?) – more like involuntarily insist upon – jumping of the cliff of extremity. “We can’t do it!” “I’m too broken!” “This is a crazy idea!” Jenny – the patient wise calm one – makes like a rock and bunkers down into the safety of humanity. Because as tumultuous as being human may seem, the minute we own our own, everything calms.
(By the way – Porto is an old and tired city. The tourists love it, because it’s old and tired. Sure the port is good and the buildings are old. But you will get funneled from boulevard to boulevard following the same old dreary path of delicious seafood this and deep fried delicious that, until you come across an old church again, and then wine! More wine, the game show of Portuguese tourism – unless we missed the point here??? Someone, please, tell me what the point is!!!).
The point is this:
Lunching on our final dinner in Lisbon tonight, a man approached us to tell his story. A man, like any other man, but probably not like many we or you know. Not haggard, not drunk, but worn for the wear. A man from Senegal, ritualistically booted from the park by the city policia, trying to make his way in a different country, a different world, speaking a confluence of Spanish, French, Portuguese, and English…and maybe most importantly, carrying out the wishes of his dead mother, doing all he could to survive in this cold cruel loving world.
You might think it was the mom thing that got me, but I had my hand on my wallet and my tobacco long before he told his story. You see, Adam spoke to us, spoke straight to us, and it was clear – we needed to know each other. With tears, thank you’s, blessings, and love, Adam left with 10 euros and we with two sick Rastafarian bracelets. And “Adam” – “man” in Turkish, “THE” man in Hebrew – walked off into the night.
And that’s what it’s all about. Portugal is so like home. Real life/fantasy/landslide/escape from reality, all bunched into one. Like each and every moment each of us live each and every day. Right? Because home is all the hopes and fears and dreams and anxieties and fantasies and joys that reside within. Yep, it’s still true. So will Turkey be different???
Ask Istanbul, tomorrow at dawn.
