20 …… TWENTY


Ferdinand Magellan’s body was never found.  He was born near Porto and completed several naval missions for the Portuguese monarchy.  After falling out of favor with his home country he was hired by the Spanish crown to find a western sea route to the Spice Islands.  By the time his expedition was crossing the Strait of Magellan, as it would later be named in his honor,  they had already endured a sailor’s life for several months.  It is not difficult to imagine, therefore, the impact several tropical islands emerging on the horizon had on their spirits.  Arriving in the Philippines, the crew exchanged gifts with the native leaders and generally enjoying their stay on dry land.  Through an unfortunate series of power plays between the leaders Magellan became embroiled in a battle that cost him his life.  Terribly outnumbered and leading a pointless attack, he was killed in the shallow waters off the shore of an island controlled by chieftain Lapu-Lapu.  So angry were the warriors that they slashed his body to bits and it was never recovered from the surf.  Only one of the original ships from the expedition ever made it back to Spain and in doing so had completed the first recorded circumnavigation of the globe.

I did not envy my brother as he waved to us from the airport terminal – he was returning home, his girlfriend and I were about to travel north.  From Lisbon we took a train to Porto, where we spent the rest of the day negotiating bus fare with several tired station employees.  Peneda Geres, the only national park in Portugal, was a few hours drive along a pine studded two-lane highway.  That evening we checked into a rustic hotel on the edge of a dark, green abyss and we fell asleep that night to the sound of the forest.  In the morning, after consulting our maps, we set out for a trail that led up to a small peak which we imagined to have a beautiful view.  At first the path lead us through a lush landscape – dense emerald roof above us and a wild carpet of Calla Lilies below, we were lost for an hour exploring the undergrowth before continuing onto the main road.  Another hour of hiking and we realized the peak was much further than we had imagined originally.  A BMW with a young couple came gliding up the road behind us and we stuck out our thumbs.  A few minutes later we were enjoying the fresh breeze rolling into the back of the car where we sat lounging on the black leather seats and enjoying the song of the couple as they chatted to each other in Spanish.  The peak came and went , without a word from the young couple.  In fact it seemed as if they had forgotten us completely, we politely confirmed that we were headed to “the peak”.  The couple assured us not to worry and that they would be sure to drop us off at “the peak”.  When we arrived at the Portuguese/Spanish border our slight anxiety turned to panic, we whispered back and forth desperately trying to think of any Spanish word that could clarify the situation.  Finally we decided that it was completely out of control and with some urgency I demanded they stop the car and let us out.  Which they did, leaving us on the side of the highway very far from our hotel and all our resources.  Twenty minutes later we turned to see a flat-bed truck full of laborers coming up the highway behind us and after exchanging an apprehensive glance we stuck our thumbs out for the second time that day.

Not yet fully recovered even by breakfast the next day, we packed up our room and boarded the bus headed back to Porto.  A day or so after my bag was stolen in Seville, I got in touch with my mother and asked her to cancel my debit card and cell phone service.  As she looked into it we quickly discovered that in less than 72 hours $500 worth of long distance telephone calls had been made which now, according to my contract, had to pay.  A new debt card would have to be shipped to me in Portugal – after investigations and some estimates we agreed on sending the package to the Porto.  Which was where I stood as my companion gave me a hug and all the Euros she had left in her pocket before boarding her flight back to the US.

The DHL Office was in a warehouse on a lot nearby the airport and using a few of the 20 Euro I had left I took a shuttle from the terminal.  The office was surprisingly quiet for its enormous size, the man staffing the reception desk was on the phone.  I made eye contact and then sat politely in the waiting area, alone.  After 15 minutes he was still on the phone.  After 30 minutes he was still on the phone and I was starting to get nervous.  The initial waves of dread were beginning to wash over me and I frantically looked around the warehouse for someone who could help me.  There was no one else in the building as far as I could tell.  45 minutes and he was still talking, 55 minutes…  Now I was standing in front of the window, polite was so 55 minutes ago.  After a few minutes of the uncomfortable showdown he hung up the phone and asked me what I needed.  I explained the situation as quickly as I could and gave him my tracking number.  He dialed a few numbers and exchanged a few exasperated words in Portuguese before informing me that the office was now closed and he would be unable to locate my package that day.  Terror, pure terror now rippled through my bloodstream, overtaking the annoyance and anger that I hurtled telepathically towards this man, staring at him blankly.  It was Friday and the DHL office would not be open again until Monday, that meant I had nearly three days and two nights in Porto, alone, with 18 Euros…and I still needed to pay for the shuttle and then the train back into the city.

My plan was to find a hotel where I could pay for my stay when I checked out instead of up front, if I could manage this then I could get through the weekend with enough money to eat.  The first problem I encountered was that in order to check into the nicer hotels, where payment upon departure was quite common, I needed to put a credit card on file.  The second problem was checking into a hostel, wary of hit and run travelers, were dubious of my offer to pay “in a few days”.  As I made my way further and further away from the downtown area I came across a small sign in front of an unpainted door and decided to knock. The receptionist who was also the maid, and the cook, and the concierge, listened carefully as I tried to explain my situation and then studied my drawings and pictograms in all earnest before agreeing to my terms.  The room she arranged for me was towards the back of the building opening onto a service courtyard and the toilet was a proud statue standing alone in one corner of the room, no door or even walls around it.  The room was dirty and the windows did not lock, that night I slept with a chair hooked under the doorknob and a canister of mace gripped tightly under my pillow.  Awake all night, prepared for a siege that never came.  My housing now secured I went to the supermarket.  With my last 12 Euro, apart from the 3 Euro fare I needed to get back out to the DHL office, I bought food.  I had no utensils or ways to cook for the next two days and so I was limited to yogurt, bread, cheese and apples.  Both Saturday and Sunday were spent in the park sitting on a bench, comforted by the sun and writing in my sketch book.

I packed the last of my yogurt and my last apple into a bag and caught the train, it was Monday morning at last.  As I sat on the loading dock, relieved and waiting for DHL to locate my package I noticed a cluster of wild flowers growing against a chain link fence next to the building.  The wind was disturbing them slightly and they twitched back and forth as a result.  They struck me as amazing; these little flowers uncared for, unnoticed, struggling on even in the most dire of conditions without any encouragement or direction.  How easy it would have been for them to fail, as they were growing to make one small movement differently and be destroyed by much stronger forces because of it.  Of course there is no way of knowing if these small flowers understood the great success of their choices.   In this moment it occurred to me that not until you are waist deep with the water rising do you ever really know what your choices will cost you.


Portugal, SPAIN

Romance is immortal.  Industry in the machine age can only become a machine without it… Without Romance the essential joy of living as distinguished from pleasure is not alive… – Frank Lloyd Wright’s words in regards to being a romantic architect.  “The Creative Professions” as they are sometimes called (a title I will use only temporarily as to not deny the creativity inherent to all professions) are very fond of using the term Romantic.  Much the same way popular culture uses the term to signify a magnetism which leads to some sort of seductive process, Romantic for The Creatives are acutely aware of the natural world – the world outside of our control – seducing us to duplicate its engineering, describe its colors, represent its systems and pay homage to its power.

We passed the morning drinking arabic-style tea from delicately painted glass cups, at home on the table of any little girls tea party, and enjoying the slow pace of the small plaza.  Nestled into a corner of metal folding tables, the dozen or so patrons of the cafe were all afforded a wonderful perch from which to observe the activity on the plaza pass by undisturbed.  After we had finished our tea and paid the bill we started out for the bus station, looking for a bus that would take us to Seville. My brother had the Puente del Alamillo in his sights.  Designed in 1992 by Spanish structural engineer/architect Santiago Calatrava the bridge, like many of  his larger projects, clearly echoes the Modernist themes present in contemporaries such as Gaudi or Candela.  He managed to do so while simultaneously presenting  the viewer with his unique personal affinity for combining elements of  human anatomy and those of the natural world.

The several hours it took to reach Seville were spent comfortably enjoying the endless fields of vibrant yellow flowers and a shared picnic lunch as we sped along the open highway.  Seville is a relatively small city embraced by the Guadalquivir River and after a short walk we were at its banks.  To view the bridge with my brother recalled countless family dinners eating out.  Even now, our father is an interior designer for restaurants and it is not unusual for him to turn a chair over in the middle of dinner, to see who the manufacturer is.  I may have seen it as a rather nice chair or maybe not even noticed it at all until he was already startling the other diners.  But he was seduced by a future with the chair; he could imagine a potential relationship, the perfect solution to the patio space he was currently designing or one to buy as a sample to show clients, whatever the vision- everything else stopped for a second.  It was like this with my brother and the Puente del Alamillo.  The bridge had engaged him in a secret dialogue that none of us could hear, it was whispering things to him that made him smile, without even knowing it.   And this, in turn, made me smile and appreciate the bridge through him.

After a very brief stay in Seville we took the train to Lisbon, crossing the Spanish/Portuguese border in the south of the country.  Portugal was not at all as I expected.  Somehow I had a sense it would be more latin, more vibrant and “in your face”.   I have no idea where I picked up this conception, but as a result I needed to do some adjusting as we walked around the city.  The people were stoic, quiet, and they looked at us as if there was some kind of code we had failed to interpret.  The next morning we decided to take a day trip out of the city and headed west on a quaint rural train to a small area called Sintra.  We had read that Sintra had a very unusual castle well worth the excursion.

Pena National Palace is surprising example of Romantic architecture, said to be one of the best from the 19th century in the world.  Segments of the building complex are painted bright yellow, some a contrasting pale red and some the deep bluish grey of the original stone.  Fantastical creatures carved from the walls, whimsical tiled-mosaics, gargoyles and towers that begged for locked-away princesses, it was clear to see we were walking inside of a vision come to life.   The palace was surrounded by a forest of equally surprising components.  Apparently the same seduction that had directed the architecture also made its way into the landscaping, there were trees and ferns from all over the world; China, The Americas, many of the distant corners of Europe… The thick imaginative nature of the entire experience left us all floating slightly as we boarded the train back to Lisbon that evening.

We spent several days in Lisbon, disquieted by the ghost of our expectations.  What we discovered is that Lisbon is filled with stairways and has one really great vegetarian restaurant.  My self-imposed dietary restrictions were especially difficult to meet in Lisbon and it was beginning to wear on my fellow travelers.  As a vegetarian you not only need to find a “non dead animal” option on the menu, but one you have not already eaten that day, one that looks appetizing in that moment, one that gives as close to a balanced meal as possible and one you can afford.  In a word…quasi-impossible.  Fortunately on one of our treks up one the numerous staircases in the city we discovered an excellent vegetarian restaurant which quickly became my solution for at least one meal a day.

When I was 10 years old I developed my own secret dialogue, with food.  I formed a romantic view of myself as a vegetarian and for the substantial majority of the next 11 years of my life the discussion dominated the way I thought about eating.  I had grown accustomed to explaining why I chose to eat differently than almost everyone around me  and as I grew older my explanations became more sophisticated, but never ceased in creating serious logistical problems.  Regardless of the relative suffering of my comrades, I refused to make exceptions to my vegetarian life-style… the whispering seduction of my own essential vision was holding fast.