#we went from vacation and sitting by the sea and drinking bear and fishing with kyrylo to ... nothing and lets see and who knows

[the-jam-to-the-unicorn]

Excerpts from Ze's NY Times interview

[bravehardts]

Day 6 - Edinburgh: History and Haggis

Lo and behold, we were awarded with another beautiful day here on what we worried would be a rainy and cold vacation. I hope this doesn't jinx our luck but today was the warmest and clearest day yet. Traveling up The Royal Mile from our hotel, we met our close friends Brendan and Esther Cooney at a breakfast place called Hula Juice Bar for avocado toast (so California) and porridge (so Scottish). It was great to catch up and see some familiar faces this faraway from home. After cajoling a couple of passerbys to take our picture together outside, we parted ways and wandered further up towards the most popular attraction here, Edinburgh Castle. As we approached the castle, the crowds kept getting more and more dense. Fortunately we had purchased our tickets beforehand so we could skip the queue and print them right away. We passed through a large stadium that is hosting the "Military Tattoo" during festival season--on display was a giant military jet suspended above the entrance and a navy helicopter. As we would soon learn in the castle, Scotland is VERY proud of their military, both past and present. Walking up towards the castle, we were transported back to medieval times (not the restaurant, but similar). This would be the third castle we visited, and by far the best! The layout was winding and asymmetrical--probably an advantage for any invading hordes, trying to conquer the castle. Perched high on a hill, it also has a huge tactical advantage. It could likely only be attacked from one side, since the other sides are steep cliffs overlooking the city. As our friends advised us, we headed straight to the top of the castle (which is a series of independent buildings, all part of the greater structure). We entered an area to view the Scottish Crown Jewels, after seeing a series of historical mannequined recreations. No pictures were allowed in the room with the Crown Jewels--but there was a sword, a scepter, and a red velvet crown, just as you would imagine from British royalty. There were some other types of jewels but Alex was already antsy so we didn't get to spend too much time in the final room. We visited various other areas of the castle, though it was already starting to get packed with throngs of international visitors and tour groups. Of note, we visited the "Great Hall", decorated with swords, muskets, and armor (YES!), the War Memorial (no pictures allowed), a quite stunning indoor memorial to Scottish soldiers, navy men, nurses, etc. It felt like a small cathedral, and was very moving to see all the different divisions of the Scottish military's honored deceased. Other attractions were Mons Meg--the largest cannon of that era, that could fire a 300 lbs. cannonball 2 miles; the Prisons of War Exhibition--recreations of prison cells from various eras of the castle (definitely in Allison's wheelhouse)--St. Margaret's Chapel, the Dog Cemetery, and at least three military museums (including the National War Museum). If we had spent the time to really read every sign, look at every artifact (swords, medals, rifles, kilts, helmets, gas masks, machine guns, flags, etc) we would have been there for HOURS. But of course we didn't, because first of all Alex can't read, and second of all after you've seen 50 swords they all start to look the same. But I was pleasantly surprised by the bagpipe soundtrack blaring the "Last of the Mohican's" theme song, which I didn't realize was either 1) an original Scottish bagpipe song ripped off for the movie, or 2) a really great song from the movie that is cool to play on the bagpipe (will look up an answer shortly--and more on that song soon). A quick side note--we grabbed lunch within the castle at a delightful cafe. As it had one of the only bathrooms in the area, I wandered down the stairs to take Alex, and noticed the longest, most miserable line of women I have even seen, waiting for the Lou. I've seen happier people in line at the DMV. Heading out of the Castle, we passed by absolutely massive lines of people waiting to buy tickets. We were lucky to have entered the castle first thing in the morning, and clearly it would only get more and more crowded during the day. Walking back down The Royal Mile, the crowds did not get thinner by any means. And top of that were throngs of street performers with terrible costumes and loads and loads of youngsters handing out flyers for various "free shows" during festival week. We powered through these masses of people--a nightmarish sea of activity for folks like us who don't love big crowds too much. Eventually we got back to the hotel, for a little rest and Lego Star Wars. For the afternoon, we planned to grab another Hop On Hop Off bus pass, and move around the city. Sitting on the open top of the bus, the sun was fully out and actually getting uncomfortably hot. This bus tour did not cover as much area as the one in Dublin, but the traffic was so thick that it took forever to get anywhere. But the sights of hilly Edinburgh are so stunning from almost any spot in the city, I would call it a good choice for us to get our bearings and see more of the city. We decided to get off the bus at Grassmarket, an active area of pubs and restaurants not too far from our hotel. The first pub we went to told us that we could only have a kid inside if he ate a "full meal" (liquor regulations I guess). The second we tried was more lenient--as long as he had a snack, that was fine. And have a snack we did! The pub was called "The Last Drop" (love it!) and we had a cozy little area in the back. Alex had mac and cheese which he annihilated. Allison had a vegetable broth soup. I went all in and tried the Haggis with Neeps and Tatties--because how could I leave Scotland without trying it? For those who only know Haggis as a joke in "So I Married an Ax Murderer", it is apparently banned in the US because it contains an ingredient not allowed to be put into our food: Sheep lungs. Oh, it also has sheep heart, liver, and is cooked in the stomach. That being said--it was pretty good! Not good enough for me to eat the whole thing, but the Neeps (mashed turnips) and Tatties (mashed potatoes) were just great when drizzled with whiskey cream sauce. The haggis itself was like a hearty thick paste with some spice to it. I could see getting used to it, but of all the exotic things I've tried, lungs is a new one on my list, and a little hard mentally to get past. I also tried a local beer--Innis and Gunn Lager. Tastes like a lager, and not much more to say about it. We hiked back to the hotel, staying on Cowgate (far enough away from the busier streets to be sane) and crossing under bridges, before ascending the hill to our hotel. There are loads of bridges around here, but no river. They just cross between hills and over streets far below. Before dinner, I took Alex to the little pool in the basement of our hotel. The small pool was a big hit, as would be expected. And finally, we took a nice long hike to our dinner restaurant, The Fisher House--the best meal we have had so far. The fresh seafood was fantastic--Alex devoured his sole (I helped him polish off the squid ink gnocchi), Allison fell in love with her lobster and scallops, and I went batty for my Panang curry with shrimp and fish. Also, a fried octopus appetizer started things off with a bang. Alex finished the meal by using Allison's lobster claw to crush any remaining food items in sight.. As we walked back to the hotel, there were still loads of people out--the setting sun was beautiful on the stone monuments and statues around the city. The festival attractions (pop up restaurants and bars, bands playing all around the city) were making us regret not having a babysitter so we could go out on the town. Oh, and we walked by a street band again playing the "Last of the Mohicans" theme song on Bagpipe, but this time with a full drum set and electric guitar. I loved the jam, and so did Alex! While I write this in our dark, quiet room in the back of the hotel (with Alex trying to fall asleep), we are so close yet so far away from the bustling city life that will surely be drinking, dancing, and doing whatever else there is to be done here, all night. No regrets though! This was a hugely busy day for us, and tomorrow we get to fill in the gaps of our Edinburgh experience. There are so many historical buildings, winding streets, mysterious closes (the walking alleyways leading from the streets), that even a week wouldn't be enough to see all that this amazing city has to offer.

[ecotone99]

[SP] The Carousel Troupe

Under the corrugated iron roof there are twenty men in vests, wearing soot and sweat and suit jackets and glasses. There they build things, tear them down sometimes even, the ground has grates for their spit and piss and, when there is an accident, blood. Together, begrudgingly, they work on a joined project, they have families to feed, a vacation coming up, they need this more than they can express. The project is a carousel. A big one. It has horses, lions leaping to catch the eagles who fly before them, bears bowing down for fish, roaring up at the clouds, a winding Chinese dragon with a seat at each one of the waves in its long python frame. There are gods on chariots, penguins, deer that have fur that changes colours with the season, unicorns with horns of ivory. Ivory is illegal in most parts of the world. Not here.

The workmen sit and spit and drink on the job. Great lengths of fired iron, writhing orange in the centre and white-hot on the outside, sharp with heat, pulled out of metal beasts with metal tools, flying above the floor and curving towards a conveyor belt that they would loop, semi-predictably, onto. Not before, of course, the person working the flaming snake jumps over it. It was a gross, ugly, dangerous, beer-drinking, piss-going, blood-pumping, fire wielding lottery. The winners got the pleasure of living, albeit with a scar, at the very least, to remind them of their time in the warehouse. These conditions were inhumane. Not here.

Up on the steel walkways the foreman would waltz around carefree, the odd spark flew his way, but he was mostly out of the danger. His position as foreman did not, however, grant him privileges to his own bathroom, so his pants would drop like flies, sometimes his fly would drop too, he was a big man. He would aim for the gutters, the grates, ‘guttersnipes’, he called his little game. That is what he would do, scream, “Guttersnipes!” and watch as the workers below scatter as if someone had announced a bombing or the death of a relative and they are compelled to run to the scene (or run away from it) without permission from the foreman. Plenty got hit with the foreman’s piss, plenty more than plenty, he would often only shout once his stream was in the air, and the sooty air meant the workers had a hard time seeing him, and he they. This, in most places, might make the news, maybe even at a reasonable hour depending on the day. Not here.

Then one day they all left, gone, poof. Moving on with their lives, new places, new people, a thousand stories of deaths and the defying of it collecting in a warehouse in the arse-end of nowhere. Leaks sprung in the ceiling, little holes in the paper-thin shield, and it filled up the grates of piss and blood and spit until they overflowed, it smelled for a while before the Winter rain diluted it, dissolved the smells or pulled them further away toward the rivers or sea.

In this time, many-a-teenager climbed in through broken roof or by cutting holes in the weak walls. Here they congregated to smoke and to drink themselves into stupor and silliness, presumably far away from society. A few more came in pairs, dipping behind stacks of wooden boxes and under the metal railings and the foreman’s platform and into debauchery. They would scream and moan and be unsure, the sound would stop at a footstep, sometime people would interrupt, they could hide for hours behind those wooden boxes, nobody ever checked.

It was behind those wooden boxes, stacked high up against a wall, that there appeared a winding trail of blood and the body of a girl, pale and cut up. Dead. She was screaming when she died, a tall man ran off into the darkness streaming red of his own as he did, he collapsed not far away in a field, a stab wound in his side. To this day that don’t know who killed who. One police officer joked to another, as they do joke in these awful situations, “Do we question the carousel?” Ah, but if they had. But if they had.

People came and went, fewer than before, and many were older people checking for younger people or crazy, twitching, poor men and women armed to the teeth with tiredness and sorrow. And those ‘crazy people’ did come, oh how they came! But never maliciously, just with desire for a bed of dirt, perhaps a carousel horse or Chinese dragon to listen to their deepest secrets, their many regrets, how they just wanted, just wanted, just wanted to stop. For that was how they said it, many of them, angrily, in a pique. “To sleep and wake up ten years ago, what a pleasure,” they would say behind their words, with the fear in their eyebrows, a scarcity or abundance of full-stops.

The police would come and ask them to leave, back to the streets, back to the alleyways, back to the wandering about at early morn till dusk, strategising their sleeping place, scurrying like rats through a sitting room, hopeful, terrified. Private property. Unused private property.

One day, a man came in, escorted by people in black shirts and pants, guns at their sides, eagle eyes sweeping over the area. They never spotted the scared old woman behind the boxes, lying on blood of a little girl and her killer.

“She’s beautiful!” said the man, he smiled wide, his teeth and craters where teeth once were on display like piano keys, “They’re beautiful.”

“Really?” said one of the armed escorts, “But it’s all banged up, I mean, look at the fuckin spider!” and laughed. The spider was missing six of its legs and half its eyes.

“This isn’t “banged-up”, this is time-worn. I’ll see that it gets all fixed.” Said the man with the big smile, doting, “Did they say it was a mover?”

The other armed escort piped up, “It’s just a showpiece sir, never made to spin.”

“It’ll spin.” He said, and continued in his beatific trance, “Oh, the canopy! It’s perfect! A Chameleon, elephants! Dolphins! Real ivory! Not illegal here! No, No, No!”

Then sun was bright in the eyes of the carousel animals as they were carried somewhere far away by a new metal beast, one they hadn’t seen before. The top blades spun like the fiery pillars that those men, the workers, would throw about the warehouse, and it flew, flew above fields and water, above houses and cliffs that drove themselves like a wedge deep into the water. Above mountains and little meadows, between caverns and glens, setting down where they would be set down, for they had no control, no freedom. The whole sky and no freedom.

The grass was pushed down as if by a heavy boot when they were brought to land again. It was a great carousel. The water rushed to all sides of the many-ton circle and escaped in one, long, diminishing tidal wave. “Where do you think we are?” said Chameleon

“Somewhere better, I hope. The other place was homey but dreadfully boring.” Said the unicorn, ivory horn casting a sword-blade shadow in the sun.

“Shit to shit, I say. Just being realistic.” Said the bear whose head was bent down to the ground, scanning the metal ground for fish

The animals debated that night, Unicorn and Bear being the two loudest voices. The men in black shirts and pants, no guns now, came to the carousel came after the sun had fell beneath the waves, they brought and screwdriver, a chisel, and a hammer. They moved to Unicorn and did a slow job on his horn, working for one whole torturous hour to rip it out of his head. Illegal here. How he screamed for that hour - and cried after. They couldn’t hear him. It rained that night, they were given no roof or embraces like they might have gotten from the odd person who slept on the dirt or metal, or one of the godly chariots that never had spun around, not even once. It was then that they had agreed, “Shit to shit.”

They were moved to a warehouse at dawn, a large crane-on-wheels rattled and grumbled and smoked a black smoke into the air as it carried them part of the way, calling three more for backup for the rest. The warehouse was clean, there was white clinical walls, yes, but it was warm, there was a roof, there was no blood on the wooden boxes near the corners, there was light from the windows undarkened by dust. There were toilet facilities, no fire-snakes, no foreman screaming “Guttersnipe,” like a mad-king from the speech-giving balcony of his great palace, from which he could watch and see, really see his power, and then, obligation to the body being primary, use his power. There was paperwork done here, signatures, not that the carousel troupe knew what that was. It looked organised, like those teenagers who would roll their sheets up, which were covered in numbers and letters and strange symbols, they called it maths, to smoke them. There was an artistry to it, it felt timeless, every generation had to do it. Or at the very least they should.

The days were long, they talked forever, when they ran out of things to talk about, which had happened a long, long time ago, they played little games. They would play something like chess, same idea anyway, one of the gods had come up with it, or was it the donkey? Spider was the best at it, he never lost. They would call out where they wished to move their pieces on the board, the board was in their heads, and they’d have two adjudicators that would remember the board as well in case either of the players forgot. They often joked that Spider had given up six of her legs and half her eyes for how good she was at the game, and she’d always say that she still had more eyes than anybody else, and still the same number of legs as the gods. As this was going on, the mystery men, the workers new, would tinker away and stare and plan and take their break sitting in the chariots or on the dragon, on the back of a galloping horse, a wolf, a great manticore.

The lights went off, everybody went home to their families and fireplaces and warm beds for the night. The side door of the warehouse opened again; light poured in from the next room over. A man came out, short, thin, with a big piano-key smile. He went over to Horse, whose plastic had been washed of its original chestnut colour and was now a pale as pinewood, his golden reins and wild reddish eyes had never lost their colour though, and so the contrast between he and his clothes grew, and he became more beautiful with time. “We shall run away together, my friend. Escape.” Said the man. Many a murmur of death was past about the carousel that night, Horse heard it all. His soul told him to run, his hooves, welded to the metal floor, his body, pierced with a great metal spear, told him otherwise.

Mr. Aubrey, with his piano-key teeth and midnight visits, was the foreman in this warehouse, factory, building. They couldn’t place what the building really was, not completely, it was too clinical to be a warehouse, not enough heavy machinery to be a factory. The words, as they so often are, were used interchangeably. The late-night visits persisted, the door would crack open, sending a line of yellow light across the clean ground from the room in which Mr. Aubrey liked to stay, and liked to, at night, amble happily out of. He would make his own little changes to Horse, he sparked little fires, shot blue licks of heat into his parts. Horse would scream, blood, if there were any, would curdle, the other plastic-metal animals, poked with spears as he was, would attempt to console him, he would try to listen. He would fail. The man opened up the side hatch of Horse, taking parts out putting new ones in, soldering glowing green and blue orbs that hung from springs and coils and plastic like bells on the leash of a cat. “There, there.” Said Mr. Aubrey, thinking him just plastic and reins, “I do my best not to leave a mark.”

Dragon saw the whole thing, he had two heads, each chasing each other’s tails like a winding ouroboros, yet he was one and could see out of both. “You are Horse no longer, I think.” He said, he had a wise voice, people listened, even if his tenor and his sentence did not match, “We’ll call you Lightning, or Sparks. For all the changes, you understand.”

During the day the workers worked, the foreman watched, at night the foreman snuck around, spoke to Lightning, or Sparks, or Horse, dragged ultraviolet fireworks from his insides, set him alight, and sealed him back up for the workers to come in the next day. This persisted, the need to run persisted, the night time visits, the working men lunching on the chariots and Manticore, on majestic beasts of old and myth, dropping crumbs and water bottles and little leaves of lettuce that flew wildly in the air as if in a hurricane. Until something changed. The other door opened, the one at the front of the warehouse, and in stumbled a man with white hair that sank down below his shoulders. He had on a spiral-patterned beanie that covered his eyebrows and coiled its way around his head. In his left hand there was the top of a bottle jutting out of the top of a brown paper bag. He sang, the words like they were water in his mouth, like waves, ethereal, unintelligible, somehow still soothing.

The new man was someone the carousel troupe had seen a million times before, a man who needed a place to sleep, away from the cold rain which now slapped with the force of hail on the roof. The man put his right hand out and felt the ground, looked absently for cover so that if someone was to enter, he might leave before them seeing, although it would be at least ten hours before a plan like that was possible on account of his loud steps and pronounced wobble. Mr. Aubrey’s door opened a crack, the light shone towards the drunk man’s foot, he didn’t notice, the door was pulled shut. They all silently hoped the police wouldn’t come, wouldn’t force this man out to freeze as they had seen them do before, if they had an inkling of what might happen next they might have prayed for the police, prayed for the man to freeze. Mr. Aubrey shot out of his door like a madman, wielding two large kitchen knives as deftly as any surgeon with scalpels. There was a coldness that ran through the plastic bodies of the troupe under the canopy of the carousel, the same feeling one might get when the see a waterfall at the end of the river they are sailing down. A coldness in the air that Aubrey breathed, a cold off-kilter manner to his half-sprint, half relaxed amble. Mr. Aubrey smiled his piano key smile and cut the man up slowly, letting him scream, but not too loud, letting him bleed, but not too much. He did have to clean it, after all. When the job was done, he put the body somewhere inside the door he always left and came back out to speak to and to change that beast he called Horse. “Mine, you’re my horse. Good horse. Tomorrow, tomorrow.”

Tomorrow came, the men seemed lighter, they had not brought lunchboxes in plastic and paper bags with them. “Ready to be done with this piece of shit?” one of the workers said to another

“Feel bad for those guys on the painting team, that’s gonna be one helluva job. And with Toothy lookin’ over your shoulder.” Said another

“We get to run?” asked Manticore

“Sounds like it.” Said Dragon

“Run where?” asked Chameleon

“Nowhere.” Said Horse, “Fucking nowhere.” He felt sick, his plastic frame and the metal spear growled and shook, he thought it angry with him for hating Mr. Aubrey. He longed for the smell of piss, and blood, and spit, or the fresh open air of the ride on that flying metal beast or the night outdoors in the rain. Anything. Not this factory with no stench, the warmth of new blood on the clinical white. “White, white, white, why is the whole thing white? Where’s the red, from last night, where the yellow and red? Where’s the feeling, the debauchery, the dipping behind the brown boxes, risk, pleasure, death? We’ve been around for too long, my friends. We’ve not changed. Surely, we must have seen small children turn to parents, turn to the police officers, the same ones we would swear at on entry to our domain, time and time again. How long has it been? Too long, I say. They bring us to life now, I say no, I say run, against the metal, against the spears. Fly, Eagle, phoenix, dragon, to the sun and moon our gods, fail and fly and run and die. Manticore, feed, kill, sprint, sweat. Chameleon, disappear, blend, terrify, confuse. My reins are plastic not leather, fake not real, I shall do no such thing as move for these puppet masters.”

The thousand bulbs stuck the canopy lit up, a jaunty circus tune came in and out of earshot menacingly, only one of the rotating speakers on the top was working. The rotation began slowly, the animals and mythical creatures began to dip, rise, dip, rise, dip, rise. Mr. Aubrey jumped on while it was moving, grasped the spear which was stuck through Horse’s chest. He bent his back so that his mouth was beside Horse’s ear, placed his hand on the side of the spear and twisted it. The spear began to dissolve into something other, it was mercurial, it slid down Aubrey’s suit jacket as he rode, it dripped off of Horse’s mane and his plastic skin and down onto the floor of the carousel. Lights flashed on and off, away and back, there was something in them, fire, new flame. The smoke came on first, then the canopy was ablaze, a thousand bulbs exploded, the glass shards spilled out around the troupe.

There was screaming from the other plastic creatures still skewered. Some breathed heavily, although they had no need to breath, other looked about regretting the fact that they had to die in such a place as this, one where you’re more likely to see a dead body that a friend. The sea-creatures screamed the loudest, for they saw it in the most colour, through the most vibrant lens. Where Horse saw an orange flame, the crustaceans and fish and sea-dwelling lizards saw ropes of colours none of the others could comprehend, terrifying colours, colours they had never seen before except at the front of the cigarettes and rolled up sheets those teenagers would roll and smoke. Horse could twist his neck as if it wasn’t plastic, as if had joints, tendons, muscles. Dragon saw Horse looking around, as Dragon sees everything.

His eyes opened as wide as is possible for a plastic dragon, “Go it, Lightning!” he screamed, “Go it, Sparks!”

Aubrey kicked Horse’s sides, his hooves tore away from the metal that was holding him down, bolts and nuts and sense going with him.

How fast he sprinted! How his legs kicked the air to dust behind him! Aubrey hung on barely, the golden reins were studded with rubies, emeralds, sapphires, false all but beautiful the same. Horse was unaware of how he got out of the factory, couldn’t even guess at where he was going, he just knew that his hooves were scraping grass and that he was running faster than any carousel ride would allow. What they had flown over, the cliffs, the glens, the voluptuous fields of golden wheat and grass greener now in the sunset. “Forward!” cried Mr. Aubrey, “Yes!”

Horse did go forward, straight forward to a cliff edge, slowing before he got there, tipping Aubrey over the edge when they arrived.

Horse ran for a bit more, sparks running off his hooves as they scraped away from rocky ground, his mane blowing in the evening wind, running unprotected by bolt or by spear, running with all the risk in the world. Right now, he could die, he could fall and break everything, he could lose himself and topple over cliff edge, die in any number of ways, and it was liberating. Now he need only pick one. His skin was hardening his fur beginning to stick together, to grey. There was a little dirt path nearby, he thought, he shall fly, like Dragon, “Go it, Lightning!” he has said. He ran to cliff above the path, neighed at the strange and tiny birds that littered the grass fields where he trotted. He reared up in the air, forelegs up high above where the cliff stopped, his head held nobly forward like a fighting ox. He froze, plastic, stone, he didn’t care. It wasn’t just his body freezing now but his mind. He smelled the fresh air one last time, the tinge of burn that followed on his run, and he knew his friends were there with him, just as free as him, all on the next leg of their adventure, as he was on his. If a horse could smile, then he was, if not, well, he tried, by God he tried.

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[yourdeadbeatdad-blog]

Blogging sort of

Hello Little Blogosphere!

This morning I’m writing from my home base, Elsewhere Espresso in East Village. I feel jet lagged and different and somewhat refreshed. I got back a little over a day ago from an 8-day vacation to Portugal and Italy. I hadn’t been on vacation since Christmas, so the break was much appreciated.

Going away has given me a lot of perspective about my life.

In Italy, I saw my family. They live a very different life than I do, away from the ring of gray and pollution that sits heavy on the shoulders of New York City. My relatives made things like landlords and overnight shifts seem distant and trivial. They’ve given me more to live for.

It feels like now, instead of spiraling further into the hole of pessimism, maybe I can start over. I’ll start with little things, like drinking more water, cooking for myself, exercising more, returning all of my texts, calls, and emails.

This trip also gave me a lot to write about, and since I can’t tell you everything in one go, I hope you’ll bear with me as I write it in parts. In total, I’ll try to write this in only three parts: Lisbon, Contursi, and Three Italian Cities.

Views over Lisboa

Part 1: The Lisbon Layover

My friend Clair and I spent 19 hours in Lisbon. It was an overnight layover on the trip from New York JFK that terminated at Rome Fiumicino.

Lisbon is almost nocturnal, pleasantly quiet with bleaching sunlight during the day and crowded with smashing glasses and singing youth at night. Clair and I attempted to walk from our Airbnb to Alfama, the hill with the best view of the city and the ocean. But, we somehow ended up wavering inland more than we wanted.

Lisbon is know for it’s tile in excess.

The streets are tile, the houses are adorned with tile in blues and yellows, greens and pinks. It looks calm and easy to clean. It made me want to Windex the walls and wie them clean with a fresh cloth. Most everyone in Lisbon speaks English in addition to Portuguese, and so the only thing we learned there was ‘Obrigado,’ meaning thank you.

Before dropping our stuff off at the Airbnb, we ate breakfast and wandered into a restaurant called Cafe Tati. From the outside, it looks dark and seedy, but on the inside, the sun white-washed wooden chairs and fresh cut flowers in dressing bottles are welcoming without pretense. Clair and I poured over what it felt like to be across an ocean. Galão is Portuguese white coffee that was served in a glass. I didn’t like it very much, but Clair deemed it amazing and so I pretended to concur.

The sun light hung differently over Lisbon. It looked more white than yellow. It was intense and beautiful. The light was the only thing that signaled to me that I was someplace foreign.

Before I left New York, I went to my cousin Rosario’s office at NYU. He’s a visiting scholar from Italy for Economics and usually makes the rounds between Princeton, Columbia, and NYU. Rosario is a roman

tic type. He tends to exaggerate about things he likes with long pauses. He pretends to find better English adjectives and runs his hand along his stubbled cheek. Rosario said that Lisbon is probably his favorite city in Europe. He sat back and stretch his long legs, smiling and looking into distance. I was staring to understand his admiration for the city as Clair and I let ourselves get lost in it.

We walked through an open market and I bought souvenirs and gifts for my friends and family. Herbed salt for my roommate, Samantha. A tile for my parents. Postcards for Shiv and Moni. Clair found herself enthralled with a pair of hoop earrings that featured little human figures perched on the edge of the silver as if they were sitting on a swing.

For dinner, we decided to eat at a ceviche restaurant where we indulged in the tasting menu. We downed about 4 courses of raw fish– white fish, salmon, yellow tail,octopus, urchin and it started to make us feel like we swallowed the sea. Square chunks of fish in cold gazpacho wasn’t necessarily as appetizing as we had thought, but the chef and waiters were charming.

Most everyone is beautiful in Portugal. Clair and I decided it must be a health cocktail of vitamin D, omega 3’s, and a low cost of living. People seemed happy and showed no tension in their shoulders. It was a perfect transition from New York neuroses to a Roman holiday.

The bottle of wine from dinner went to my head and the winding journey home proved more magical than it should have. Leaning buildings dwarfed the streets. Feet felt heavier on steep declines. The street lights turned on and reflected a warm glow from the tiled sidewalks.

It was a memorable 19 hours before we ubered to the airport at four in the morning, making our way between still-drunk twenty-somethings on the skinny tile sidewalk.

Lisbon was 10/10 and I hope that someday I can go back and stay for longer.

xx Grace

  Traveling to Italy | Part 1: The Lisbon Layover Hello Little Blogosphere! This morning I'm writing from my home base, Elsewhere Espresso in East Village. I feel jet lagged and different and somewhat refreshed.