Coffee at Midnight and in the Afternoon

We spent ten days wandering around Lisbon (myself and one of my best friends in the world, Rachel). In small talk and conversations with friends, I notice myself excusing our decision to stay in one place when we return.

So much to see, as if our days need to be filled to the brim. It has been too long since either of us have taken a proper vacation and I don’t realize until I’ve returned just how exhausted I have been.

Work is busy and even the mundanity of life feels overwhelming. I've started to leave simple tasks undone and cancel dentist appointments at the last minute. For the most part, I've kept moving. I receive good marks in my job review, maintain complex social relationships, attend to the needs of my animal. I keep moving, as I have always done- until in Lisbon, I pause.

I must remind myself that society’s definition of success does not determine my own. That I am allowed to spend my vacation however I please. We didn’t waste every day lolling about in bed, and of course I am minimizing our experience, to some extent, here. It was not the forced recuperation of a beach vacation (the complete and total submission to rest alone that I find so mundane as to become anxiety inducing) nor did it have the action-packed itinerary of my brief stint into geological road trips. We explored the city on foot each day, but gave ourselves permission to sleep in; sit in a café and read all day if that was what we wanted to do. We went to museums on days we felt like it, drank dark wine when we desired, and followed the sleep schedule of our internal clocks.

Our home for those weeks was in Belem. A historical neighborhood of Lisbon (as nearly all the city is) east of the bridge and shadowed by a palace on a hill. The charm of the architecture in the area is not lost to new construction, though periodically a modern design will compliment the lines of colorful originals. The homes here are more mellow than in other neighborhoods; lived in. Pastel tiles, deep green doors, laundry lines, and hill after hill. Further west- towards the bridge- a corner lot holds a glorious yellow house with a wraparound balcony and porch. Greenery and magenta flowers pour from stark white boxes framing the ledge of the balcony. We skip down the uneven sidewalk up to the gate; standing on the uppermost edges of our tippiest tippy-toes to see the mammoth cactus taking over the yard.

The buzz of residential life here is soft. It seems every corner has its own coffee shop and bar vestibule, accompanied by 3-10 Portuguese men: tanned, thick fingered, grey-thinning-hair, complete with Sagres and espresso- no matter the time of day. The streets loop all over, and the tight stone sidewalks are slippery in the misty rain- my favorite weather. I hear my German brothers’ voices in my head; telling me that Regensburg reminds them of Italy. I echo the sentiment though I’ve never been to Italy and Rachel's never heard of Regensburg.

I’m sorry to everyone I told before leaving for Portugal, that we were going to get on a train and ride around Europe. I hope when I find more balance between work and the rest of my life, I will have the energy to enjoy more intensive pastimes, but depression can make even relaxation a chore. We spent one evening looking up flights; budgeting the cost of a few days in Madrid or Porto. One day, I will buy that overnight to Paris or follow those jugglers with the collie pup back to the UK, but this was not that trip and it was wondrous all the same.

I loved walking the hills and the arcing cobbled streets. We picked out probably thirty homes each that we wanted to live in, plenty more that we would happily have accepted. We went to museums and I took photos of the strange shapes and faces that caught my eye; found a photographer whose techniques I wanted to emulate and forgot their name. I met an aging economist with the same sense of humor as me- who I still think about writing- and a tall Brazilian boy that walked in the street as others passed, just to keep his arm around my waist.

Lisbon felt like home. It looked like San Francisco and felt safe like Iowa City. In Lisbon, I could walk wherever I wanted for forever, no matter the time of day. But my favorite things were simple: ordering a second cappuccino just to finish a chapter, that shops locked to give their workers a full hour for lunch, the way the tiles glistened even on nights with no moon and too much rain, following dogs instead of directions, and a ham and cheese sandwich that left butter on my fingertips