This romanticized life is actually reality, and we wound up in a place where the wine is cheaper than the salsa.

 

 

Over the past few weeks, a lot of people have asked me. How are things going in Portugal? Do you like Lisbon? How's your apartment? What's the food like? While these things are all great parts of my experience, thinking about them has also helped me uncover a basic truth about myself. Not really uncover it, I suppose, but rather finally admit it with 100 percent certainty.

 

I'm a city person.

 

I thrive in the urban energy. I crave the noises. I love how things stay open later. The different restaurant smells drive me nuts with hunger. I dig the diversity -- of people, of food, of things to do. I love the culture. I love the fact you can go from a world-class art museum in the morning to an Indonesian restaurant for lunch, followed by a Champions League soccer game at night where a team from Portugal plays a team from Austria, and if you choose another path, you can have a day that's completely different yet equally as interesting. I love the fact that, if you take advantage of it, you're never bored. It began in NYC, and now it's returned here in Lisbon.

 

Don't get me wrong. I love the quiet that nature can provide, too. I appreciate a peaceful stroll on the beach or time alone sitting on a rock in the creek. I'd just rather go to those places in smaller increments and return to a city. I'd rather vacation in those places than live there. I'd rather search for the quiet spots of reflection in a city than search for the sources of energy outside of it. The first task is much easier if you think about it. There's always a park or quiet bench in a city. Finding a restaurant open past 9 p.m. in some places? Good luck.

 

And I guess that leads me to another point. How can people go into nature to "unplug and recharge"? How can you recharge if you're not plugged in? For me, that usually means time in a city. As Sebastian and I were walking down the street the other day -- we were in the middle of a check-in, I think -- I told him a big part of my enjoyment so far is certainly the new culture and being in a new country, but I also told him a big part of my happiness is living in a city again. In this case, it just so happens to be one of the coolest fucking cities I've ever seen.

 

Yes, the dream of living in a great European city as an aspiring writer has always been a thing for me, to romanticize the Hemingways or Fitzgeralds of 1920s Paris, to live the type of life preserved in their pages, the days filled with cafés and long lunches and day trips to the ocean. But now I realize that's exactly what I'm doing. That's my reality. It's not romanticized. I can wake up and work on my book all morning, head to the beach with my family in the afternoon, and then head into the old town for dinner.

 

But the best part is the writing. It's just as enjoyable as the romanticized life-turned-reality that surrounds it. All the nights and weekends have finally paid off, yielding a manuscript that might be good and might not be anything, but it's a manuscript nonetheless. I've all but completed my novel, and now I want to start the next one. Set in Portugal. While living in Portugal. We're in the 20s again, but maybe this time, the center of the expat artists' universe will be Portugal. We need to get permission to stay, though. If we want to keep living this life, we must complete the residency process with SEF, which is essentially Portuguese immigration. There's a lot of pressure and paperwork involved, which can only mean one thing...

 

Road trip.

 

No matter where you are or what language the road signs are in, there's just something about getting behind the wheel and cruising. When the scenery outside the window contains old hilltop castles as you race through rows of vineyards and groves of cork trees, it's even better. Yes, we hit the open road to drive through the wine region of Alentejo on our way to our SEF immigration appointment, and trust me, it actually sounds better than the reality. While it would likely be amazing to come back in the summer season, to hike along castle-crested hilltops, fish in the streams, tour the wineries during harvest, or witness the bark being carved from a cork tree -- to enjoy nature -- the reality was a bit different. The city was a ghost town. It was hard to find anything going on outside the grocery store and the Burger King. But we managed to navigate our appointment with help from the amazing workers there. Then we headed back to Lisbon.

 

As Alli and Sebastian rested and slept and watched the iPad, I once again enjoyed the beauty of the landscape and the open road, a relatively empty highway with absolutely zero left-lane campers -- hello, Europe! -- and in some ways, I was sad to see the driving come to an end. In other ways, though, I was thrilled as the traffic picked up in intensity as we exited the highway and onto the big, broad avenue heading into the center of Lisbon. We rolled the windows down, and everything seemed abuzz. The beautiful façades lining Avenida da República displayed their intricate stonework and wrought iron railings in the spotlight of a soft orange sunset. People gathered in quiosques drinking coffee and beers. The lights alternated between pedestrians and vehicles. It was a far cry from the quiet hilltop views of Portalegre, and man, was I happy to be back. Sometimes, the feeling of coming home will reinforce the fact that it is home, and for me, home is in a city.

 

 

The wine is cheaper than the salsa. I’m not kidding. Mexican fare is not in abundance here and supermarket prices for ingredients reflect it. Now that I’ve been going to the food markets for over a month, I’m getting much quicker at grabbing the staple items we keep in the fridge without needing Google Translate. Now, my mission is finding deals. For example, I figured out that buying a box with 200 packets of sugar was quite a few euros cheaper than a small bag of sugar, which I think is harder to store once it’s opened anyway. I was very proud of myself until it backfired when making my mom’s kugel recipe, which called for a half cup of sugar. I had to open like 40 packets! But you get the point: cost savings. So, it makes sense that I now grab a few bottles of good local wine at the market instead of the overpriced salsa, right?

 

Finding a vet near our new place was a priority because I knew that Cody not only needed a pet passport (a booklet with all his vaccines and registered microchip number that we are meant to keep with us for vet visits and/or if we bring him on public transport) but also some kind of treatment for mosquitos that exist here and are quite dangerous for dogs. Cody is very, very afraid of the vet. Not just our vet from home but any vet. He smells it coming, tucks his nub, and runs the other way. He did all of that when we walked in, but these folks were amazing. The techs AND the vet were all patient and got down on the ground with him, showering him with treats and love just to earn his trust. It still took a small army to hold him and give him the shot he needed, but since then, I’ve stopped by there multiple times and the ladies just pet him and give him treats and he loves it. It’s amazing. Last time I went, he even hopped up on the scale and sat down, waiting for us to take his weight without being prompted!

 

I’ve had coffee throughout Europe in many different countries. I know that, for the most part, European coffee culture is almost nothing like American coffee culture. Meaning, a true coffee experience in most of Europe is a proper shot of espresso. A damn good one, most of the time. Sure, lattes and Americanos exist. And yes, Starbucks can be found if you look for it in the bigger cities. But in general, people don’t drink their coffee in large Contigo mugs from a French press or a Mr. Coffee drip in large volumes to enjoy over time (like a commute, for example, pretty much every day of my life since starting to drink coffee at age 13). I am a coffee lover. And I’m also an addict. If you know me at all, you know I will not be held responsible for anything I’ve done or said pre-coffee and I’m generally not sorry for it. I knew that this small-volume shot thing was not going to work for me because, frankly, I need more. Enter “Abatanando Cheia”. Thanks to a new friend, I now know how to order my coffee, black and filled to the top of a bigger cup with the same great flavor as the espresso shot! Phew, crisis averted. I can even make this at home now!

 

When I started to notice the absence of big coffee mugs on the street and in the metro, I also noticed that people were not carrying water bottles. This thing about carrying water may be specific to my Colorado ways (my fellow CO peeps will get this). That is, we carry water bottles everywhere in Colorado because it’s so damn dry. I mean, I never, ever left the house without some kind of water bottle. Here, no one is walking around with a water bottle except tourists. Don’t the locals get thirsty, I wonder? I mean, it’s super humid, but still! I have not totally conformed on this one and still bring water with me most of the time, but I do leave my ginormous, insulated CO bottle at home. So, it’s been an adjustment to my liquid consumption, to say the least. Who knew this would be a thing?

 

Sebastian and I have our commute down now. We know exactly what time we need to leave to get to school on time and have even shaved a few minutes off our walk on both sides of the metro with shortcuts. We listen to an audiobook on the way there, and on the way home, I get to hear all about his day. I absolutely love it. I feel that I’ve missed so much of that prior to now and am grateful to have it, especially before he wants nothing to do with me! It’s also really nice not having to be always in a rush during the week. Until I slowed down, I don’t think I realized just how much rushing around I did juggling life (pretty sure most can relate). One day, after I dropped Seb off and was heading back home, the metro stopped, and people started evacuating. Sadly, I couldn’t understand the overhead announcement but did appreciate that while it wasn’t emergency-related, the train was now out of service. Normally, this would’ve flustered and frustrated me as it would have made me late to something like work or pickup. But not this time. I got out in a neighborhood I had never been to before, put our address into Google Maps, found a bus heading the right way, and headed home without frustration. Having time is a gift.

 

Our first road trip was to a small town 2.5 hours outside of Lisbon called Portalegre. This was where our SEF appointments were scheduled for us so that we could apply for our residency visas (first round of visas are only good for 120 days). This was, I hoped, the final step and last major stressor in moving here. I booked the only Airbnb that would accept dogs of the three that existed in the small town (red flag number one). We rented a car and headed out of Lisbon for the first time since we arrived. I was SO glad Chad was driving (and he did a great job), but let me say that being the navigator wasn’t so easy either. But the scenery was beautiful, and the red rocks and mountain views of home we were all so used to seeing were replaced with castles, vineyards, and lush green olive and orange tree groves.

 

After passing the Airbnb a few times up and down a narrow, winding road, we noticed a man standing in the middle of the road, which we quickly determined was the host. So, we pulled into a narrow driveway and were promptly welcomed by a vicious German Shepard, barking his head off and drooling to eat Cody for dinner (reg flag number 2). Nuno, the host, assured us he couldn’t get over the fence, but I was not at all convinced. So, we quickly unloaded and entered the apartment, where I was immediately reminded of the cheap places Chad and I used to stay when backpacking through Europe. It was clean-ish, hot as hell with a non-working AC, had an interesting smell, and was overall just run down (red flag number 3). It did not look like the photos when I booked it but there was nothing we could do at this point except make the best of it. So, we dropped our stuff off (careful not to put stuff on the floor) and headed out in search of food (red flag number 4). There weren’t many viable options for food.

 

This small but beautiful hilltop town was kind of like a ghost town. So, supermarket salad for me and a first fast food run for the boys. Did I mention the cheap supermarket wine? I won’t get into the details of our night except to say that Cujo barked ferociously at us and Cody every time we walked in or out, effectively scaring the shit out of us each and every time, and actual sleep in that place was scarce. Given enough time, it will be a funny memory…I think.

 

The appointment was very stressful as they asked for way more documentation than all websites (including their own) and guidance on expat sites led us to prepare for, but we came as prepared as we could’ve been and just have to hope they will approve us with what we gave them. Also, Chad and I had appointments on this date but for some reason, Sebastian’s wasn’t set until five days later. We assumed he could be processed with us as he’s a minor but they told us they couldn’t promise they would have time for him and that after we turned in our paperwork, we’d have to wait outside until everyone else was processed. If they had time, they would do us a favor in processing Sebastian on this date versus making us come back in five days. So, we waited outside. And waited. And waited some more. There was no bathroom and no food anywhere in sight. We walked up and down the street but couldn’t go far in case they called us. My coffee headache was growing into a small monster and eventually, both Sebastian and I went around the corner and peed like we were camping. Cody was a champ and actually turned out to be a conversation piece amongst the ladies working at the site. They all came outside to pet him at some point during the 4-5 hours we were waiting. I’m convinced they processed Sebastian not only thanks to his own cuteness and charm but also with Cody’s help (thank goodness he didn’t bark at them)! Phew. Now we wait and hope to be approved.

 

I have given some thought to how it might feel on days when things observed and/or celebrated back home might not be observed and/or celebrated here in Portugal. For example, I am anticipating that Thanksgiving will be one of those days that I will miss being home as it’s obviously not a thing here. 9/11 was one of those days. While this was a tragedy the whole world was tuned into 22 years ago, it’s not that way anymore. Suffice it say, Chad and I honored it together as we always do, and on a similar blue-sky beautiful day, we sat at a quiosque with Cody at our feet and toasted to how incredibly lucky we were on that day 22 years ago and again for how lucky we are today.

 

The Jewish High Holidays marked a first notable moment of homesickness for both me and Sebastian. The holidays, for me, are about family. Not being with mine this year, of my own volition, was hard. Alas, I improvised and found a way to atone and celebrate in my own way, and with some extra love and support from both my boys, it turned out quite nice.

 

I will close with a Portuguese language lesson that may or may not have happened to me. I have now learned that there is a major difference between the Portuguese words for “bread (pao)” and “dick (pau)” and that is the pronunciation. So, if find yourself in a Portuguese restaurant asking for what you think is bread, word to the wise, PRONOUNCE IT RIGHT!