The Return of the Portugal Traveler

Meditating on the Difference Between Imagination and Reality

View from the Alfama

It’s been too long since I sent out a missive from my life to you lovely readers. I’m finally returning from foreign climes, and the land of Covid. In late May, I set off for Portugal in a “solo tour”—which meant I had my own room, and joined 27 other women on a bus from Porto to Coimbra, down to Portimao, then on to Lisbon. Food, history, cathedrals, art—a rich all too brief sampling of Portugal was put before us by our tour director Antonio. And lucky we were—sunny weather every day, ending in a stifling 90 degrees in Lisbon.

Our bus of 27 women became a mini-family—the older generation, the wine girls, the ones interested in history, the others focused on shopping and fashion and more shopping. And there was me: writing on my laptop! My body learned how to tuck and focus as I climbed cobblestone steps in the university town of Coimbra. Perched as towns needed to be in medieval times high on the hills, we mingled with graduating seniors who wore black gowns like in Harry Potter, typical for graduates in Europe.

Writing in Portimao

In the various cities in Portugal, we’re presented with history—hundreds, even thousands of years of history, which included the Inquisition. “Over there is where the court was located that tried the Jews, and over there, where they were executed.” My breath stopped, but the lovely whitewashed buildings with their copper tinted roofs gave no response. Roman ruins throughout Portugal are woven between modern buildings. Signs of history are everywhere but other than an oooh or aaaah, the history didn’t seem to matter to most in my group. I was the resident historian who had just spent several years digging into WWII history so I could write my first novel The Forger of Marseille. I wanted to take this trip to immerse myself as best I could in another era, and learn about Lisbon in 1940 where refugees were stuck while they awaited their visas to escape Hitler and find freedom.

Rossio Square

 But I instead found myself enjoying a modern Lisbon with its tiled buildings and romantic vistas. I had first seen Rossio Square in books and had read about the refugees who were stuck in Lisbon fleeing for their lives. I’d researched the obstacles and politics and struggles. But when I finally arrived in Rossio Square I stood in a lovely open space adorned with beautiful tiles in the center of Lisbon as I mingled with the other tourists. The cafés surrounding the square serve the happy tourists, not terrified refugees. Tuk-tuks roared by, on their way to the hills and view of the Alfama or to the coast to admire the discovery sculpture that celebrates where Vasco de Gama set off in search of new worlds.

The refugee struggles I’d read about—the characters in my novel would have ended up in Lisbon—were absorbed by the sunshine and glitter of now, and history slipped away into angles of sun and the yellow trams. I’d thought that being in a place where the intense history I’d read about had happened would sharpen story ideas and set me toward the new novel.

But perhaps my sensibilities were affected by the fact that it was my first trip to Europe since Covid closed the world in 2019. Perhaps I needed to be a tourist more than a historian—was that possible? I found myself saying, “Imagination is greater than reality,” as my images of historical Lisbon were replaced by the simple pleasure of being a tourist myself, eyes wide open to the graceful purple jacaranda trees lining the beautiful Avenida de Liberdade. Modernity overwrote history, though everywhere you can’t miss the signs of history—ruins, churches, rocks, walls, sculptures. We’re immersed in centuries of history while we’re looking at trinkets and cork purses and a brilliant blue river, the Atlantic just beyond.  Perhaps it was the lighthearted way that the Portuguese people greeted us in English, or the way that everyone smiled so warmly that caused such a relaxation from my mind that is normally focused on history. Perhaps I found myself marinating in beauty and had no desire to leave it.

Avenida de Liberdade

I did take the WWII tour I’d signed up for with my friend who’s an expert WWII writer, and it offered interesting new information, but I was distracted by terrible body aches. Later I realized I must already have gotten Covid, and luckily my friend did not get it. Perhaps then I was tethered to current reality by pain, unaware I was sick with no other symptoms. Two days later at home, I tested just in case, and oh…no wonder.

As with any journey, you come home and reflect on your trip—what did you learn, how did it change you? Days went by without reflection, just fever management. What am I left with?

The joy of being out in the world again, exploring. A boat ride on the Douro River that flows into the Atlantic, tasting port wine in Porto, climbing Coimbra’s high hills, Lisbon and its layers of time and history and extraordinary views. Lagos and its lazy boats and shops. Cape Vincent, the end of the world, the blue blue ocean looking toward Africa, just beyond.

Cape Vincent

My view of the world expanded again, and for every writer that’s a good thing. What we don’t know until we are home for a while is where that will lead us. How the outer journey leads to the inner one.

Lagos

Stay tuned for more explorations, perhaps of the inner worlds of a memoirist! The historian may have been on vacation, but she is still here, noticing patterns. Wondering about the cycles that repeat in the world. Wondering how we can break free. Til next time…