A soft place to land

and being a season 1 girlie

I’ve arrived in Portugal! And it was no small feat getting my 70-pound dog on an international flight while having the flu and lugging around a 70-pound suitcase (my only belongings). But we both arrived in Madrid in one piece, though I was fighting cold sweats on the flight and bouts of nausea, wondering how bored and scared my dog was down there for nine hellacious hours.

Kevin picked us up in a rental car and we drove about six hours to Lisbon, both of us practically hallucinating from lack of sleep and stress and sickness. Shep is also terrible in the car. Panting, shedding, absolutely needing to be in the front like he’s steering the ship. So I curled up in the back seat next to my giant suitcase with barely a sliver of space, my knees tucked up to my chest and some awkward metal bar shoved into my back. I was so tired though that I didn’t even care and dozed off for a bit, after reminding Kevin to “drive safe” because if someone hit us from the back I’d be crunched in half. I fell asleep watching the clouds morph into weird shapes, probably fever-induced.

Kevin spent about a week with us in Sintra helping us get situated—a beautiful mountain village about 30 minutes outside Lisbon, surrounded by castles and gardens. It’s bathed in green life and constantly damp and humid like Georgia or Oregon or Washington. A rainforest of sorts, with its own microclimate. You could throw seeds in any direction and something would grow. I chose this area specifically for that reason, and for the dichotomy of the nearby capital city.

Everything in this part of Portugal is uphill. Up, down, up, down. We were out of breath the first few days, our calves and quads screaming, a faint sheen of sweat on our foreheads. Then we eventually built stamina and got used to it, our muscles properly stretched and our breath long and steady. I can only hope that by the end of this my ass is so fat.

We tried at least ten different Portuguese pastries and had about three espressos a day and checked out the surrounding castles and hikes with the pup. He’s a terrible city dog, reacting to every scooter that passes, doesn’t love shitting on the sidewalk (can you blame him??), but he’s highly adaptable and will hopefully chill the fuck out in a bit. His life has drastically changed too: Mexico to California to Oklahoma to Portugal. You could say he’s my emotional support dog, but he also causes me immense amounts of anxiety, so it’s a catch-22 I suppose. Still, I would not be here without him. He loves me deeper and more purely than any human ever has and it’s the most unconditional type of love I’ve ever known.

In the city, Kevin and I were pummeled by rain, the wind picking up the 32-euro umbrella I panic-bought from a tacky souvenir shop, drenching us completely. In a fit of rage I almost ripped the umbrella apart with my bare hands. Not to mention, when it rains in Lisbon it’s freezing and you’re slipping around on wet tiles. It wasn’t exactly the most charming introduction to the city. In fact, I think the word I used was “miserable.” But I was also being a bit dramatic, maybe. I don’t do well in these conditions!!

Once inside, we visited a few record shops and bars and made new Italian friends (it’s quite possible they were all swingers, but TBD), and then we had a delicious array of tapas and wine—cured meats and olives and sardines and jams and cheeses. Though as quickly as he arrived, he had to return to the States. The night before he left we waited out the rain in a little local Portuguese restaurant. I got this delicious dish of duck, sweet potato mash, and sautéed veggies, and I was literally making orgasmic noises the whole time I ate the meal, which I never ever do. Then we tried some port wine from Madeira and bought a bottle of wine to take back, which we opened there. The rain was still pissing down and I ended up tipping our nice waiter most of the euros in my wallet because his eyes reminded me of my sweet nephew back home and I was probably a bit drunk.

Since Kev left, it’s been mostly cold and rainy and grey, and I’m not having the bestest time. I knew this would be my fate for the winter though: holed up in a cozy house alone in a small Portuguese village without a TV, only books and a fireplace to keep me entertained. I wish I was here writing a book (maybe I should be?), doing something creative with this time, but instead I’m trying to race against the clock to get my assignments done and being bored out of my brain. But I’ve decided just to lean into it, telling myself that I’m here now, in this beautiful green vortex. So enjoy it. Because soon I’ll be onto the next town, city, country. This is just my Portugal chapter, and if I don’t savor it—even for all of its seasonal depression, loneliness, growth, uncomfortableness—I might miss it.

On my walk tonight, I noticed a few things I haven’t seen before. Maybe because I was being more aware. Maybe because I looked up and not down at my feet like I so often do. In the distance, castles were lit up and looked ominous in the foggy sky. I saw a sign that said “Capital do Romantismo” meaning, Sintra is the romance capital of Portugal, and though I’m not feeling rather romantic now (in fact quite the opposite, I feel very isolated and alone), I had to remind myself where I was. To look at things a bit more romantically. To appreciate all the work it took to get to Europe, even if this is not my place yet. For now, it’s a soft place to land, and soon spring will arrive and so too the sun, and I will dust myself off and go back out and explore corners that could potentially feel like home.

But for now, I will rest. I will grieve, and celebrate, and plan and dream.

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A lot of the time, I feel like a late bloomer. I’m turning 32 this year, but I read an article recently about how so many of our favorite heroines were just starting out in their thirties, fumbling their way into the lives we watched unfold on screen.

Carrie Bradshaw was 33 in the first season of Sex and the City, moving to the Big City alone with a dream of being a writer and making something of herself. Lorelai Gilmore was 32 when we met her in Gilmore Girls, a single mom running an inn, dreaming of owning her own. Meredith Grey started her surgical internship at 27 in Grey’s Anatomy, though in the pilot episode she was written as being 33. Leslie Knope was in her early thirties in Parks and Recreation, working her way up from the bottom, believing she could change the world one community project at a time. Olivia Pope in Scandal was in her thirties when we first saw her handling crises.

These women stumbled and made terrible relationship choices and career mistakes. They cried in bathrooms and ate takeout alone and wondered if they were doing it all wrong. But they also showed up and kept going. They built lives that felt true to them, even when those lives looked nothing like what they’d imagined.

So here I am. In season one. Only just getting started with my life abroad. My story begins now in a way. I’m sure in this first season I will fumble and learn as I go, sift through new connections and friends and some will stick, others will fade away, same as the cities I visit or the clothes I buy or my hairstyle choices. But I’m also positive there will be poignant moments that steer the plot along and fated meet-cutes and loads of character development. Some sad scenes and dramatic plot lines, balanced out by lightness and laughter and an overall blooming into self.

And maybe, by the time I get to season two, I’ll look back at this cold, rainy Portuguese winter and realize it was exactly where I needed to be.

Obrigada por estar aqui <3