channeling vasco da gama
The setting for much writing and body bending… and a little COVID for fun.
No, we didn’t sail around the southern tip of Africa and find India. But we did pack a lot of exploration into an 11-day trip, including a few hours on a boat. If a kayak counts as a boat. It floated. We traveled on it in the ocean. Water spilled into it, but we didn’t spill out of it. So, in my book, it was a boat.
That was day 10 of our 11-day journey of discovery in the oldest country in Europe, at least that’s what Google told me when I asked “How old is Portugal?”. Day 11 was probably the most adventurous and definitely the most hellish. So much so, it gets its own post. But beware... it’s a longer piece. And if you or any of your close relatives works for United Airlines, you might not care for it. Disclaimer over.
Let’s rewind to the beginning, to the idea of a week-long writing and yoga retreat on a farm outside Lisbon. Writing? That seems right up my alley. Sure, it’s a different kind of writing. Time-boxed. Introspective. With reading out loud to add just a pinch of terror. But okay.
Yoga. Enter a healthy dose of apprehension. I am not as young as I used to be. And apparently, I’ve never been as flexible as I thought I was. But this wasn’t culty yoga where you have to interpret yogese and then contort your body into positions you might only see on season four of Stranger Things.
Look at me. I used a pop culture reference that isn’t from the 80s. Although the show is set in the 80s. Too bad. I’m counting it as a sign of personal growth, nonetheless.
Portugal. Now there’s the real story. What a truly breathtaking country, filled with history, culture, and its own special mystique. We had heard before our trip that the people were a bit cranky toward Americans because apparently, it’s one of the hottest places in the world to move to and we’re flooding the country with our stink. And let’s face it, we’ve earned our “ugly American” moniker, especially with the example of the gigantic oompa loompa who lived in the White House from 2016 to 2020 looming over our heads like a bloated gargoyle. But we didn’t experience any of that. In fact, our hosts were friendly and gracious everywhere we went. It’s funny how learning one word—thank you—in Portuguese (obrigado, or obrigada) changes an interaction. I guess good manners work everywhere.
We arrived on a Wednesday and hung out in Lisbon for the first few days. It was stupidly hot and humid, which added to the aura of the extreme elevation changes and impossibly narrow cobblestone streets (with even more impossibly narrow sidewalks... there would be no strolling side-by-side here). Trust me. When I say “hilly” I’m not talking about the gentle slopes we find in Nashville. I’m talking death-defying roller coaster hills with speedy little cars flying in both directions like in a James Bond movie, but without bullets flying at us. For all its hustle and bustle, the city seemed very safe, so much so that even some of the hotel reviews boasted about its friendly drug dealers. We only encountered one such entrepreneur, and we passed on his kind offer to sell us some hash.
It turns out gin is also very popular in Portugal, which made Portugal all that much more popular with us. Between rounds of gin and local beer, we managed to walk several miles without getting run over. We visited the castle of Saint George, went on what turned out to be a quest for an oddly odd art museum, toured Lisbon’s super-cool oceanarium, and took a couple nice longish walks along the Tagus River.
The highlight of the first few days was a tour of Sintra, home of Portugal’s ancient royalty and the birthplace of the Free Masons. At least that’s what I remember hearing from our tour guide, Alex. Pro tip. If you ever go to Lisbon in the summer and your tour guide tells you to bring a jacket to Sintra, listen. I don’t care if the city of Lisbon is a big cobblestone oven (like it was for us). Bring the jacket. You’ll thank me just like I thanked Alex.
I could write a ton here about that trip, but I’ll just send you to the pictures instead. Here’s one to get you started:
Cascais, Portugal .
The trip out to the venue for our retreat led us to a little restaurant on a quiet stretch of beach where they were taking fish directly from the Atlantic to the grill. We could’ve stayed there all afternoon, but we had to meet the rest of the group and get to yoga business.
So much to say about the farm, but again I’m going to abbreviate and say it was an unspectacular place where we did some spectacular things and met some even more spectacular people. The yoga experience waned on me as COVID took over midway through the week, and while the writing was mostly different, I did sneak in a few pieces with my more familiar smartassery—like our unsuspecting journey to the well to Hell. But that’s another story...
The retreat was much less structured than I anticipated, which—if you know me—is a very good thing. We made good use of the rental car to explore the area, including the amazing views along a few miles of the Fisherman’s Trail that featured a close(ish) encounter of the stork kind, and that ocean kayaking adventure in Lagos. Despite the risk of capsizing and the fact that I sink like a stone, kayaking was clearly my favorite part. At least once Kim and I got synchronized with the paddling.
And then there was the flight home. This is that part where you should take a break and grab a drink because that shit show is its own story. Literally. It’s on a different page. This one. And while it is on the long side, it’s also entertaining if you’re the type of person who’s entertained by the misfortune of others and the colossal ineptness of a major airline.
So, what did I learn?
Never, ever fly United Airlines again.
Yoga and COVID combine into YOVID, but the marriage of those two things is not harmonious.
Peacocks are just pretty roosters.
Apparently, you can make almost anything out of cork.
Vasco da Gama was such an asshole he wasn’t allowed back in Portugal and ended up dying in India. I may have embellished there. I’m not sure he was banished from Portugal, but I did read about his infamous dickery.
I’m sure there’s more, but why not go look at pretty pictures?
Cheers!
