T
ime flies faster when you’re somewhere new. My trip to Portugal lasted five days, but it felt like much less. First time out of the continental U.S. and I was struck, not only by the difference in landscape-- Lisbon’s March is very different than a Midwestern March-- but also by the difference in culture and lifestyle. Portugal felt leisurely coming from college, and from a country that treasures productivity to the extent that it is ingrained in our identity. The morning after we arrived in Porto, my parents and I decided to go for a walk. Now that I had shaken off my jetlagged stupor, I felt dwarfed by the enormous task of exploring a new country. The sensation of finding myself in a new place was a lot like how I imagined a puppy must feel arriving at its new home for the first time. I felt the need to absorb every sight, smell and sound, because I feared the novelty of everything wouldn’t imprint itself in my memories unless I gave my attention to even the smallest detail. Before I knew it, the sun was setting. Our walk around the city felt like a dream, the kind where a thousand things happen in the span of a minute, and upon waking you can’t remember what was real. Except this time, everything was. I think the most striking thing I noticed on our walk that first day was people enjoying their time. A man with a guitar sat serenading passersby beneath trees blooming with red flowers. Workers chatted outside quaint coffee shops, not a to-go cup in sight. An old woman hung her sheets out the window to dry. All around us people lingered, their composure an invitation to slow down and stay awhile. Yet, despite being surrounded by such tranquility, I felt pushed to be more productive than ever: I wanted to experience everything, make every second of those five days count. Too quickly I was compelled to abandon Porto and board the train to Sintra, our next destination. Known as a scenic hideaway with access to many of the region’s mountain-top castles, I looked forward to our stay here the most. Even though it had started raining during the journey, immediately after disembarking we were greeted by views of a sunken garden, shrouded in fog. Leafy silhouettes covered the side of the mountain, mist dulling the bright greens and tropical colors that
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typically shone in the sunlight. I remember rushing up the mountain road, my carry-on bumping against the back of my legs as I took it all in. My eagerness to see everything prevented me from taking the time to truly appreciate it all. I carried this attitude with me to the castles, too. As we hiked up stone walls and towers built thousands of years ago, I couldn’t help but notice how the tourists around us seemed to be in just as much of a rush as I was. A cluster of British women clambered to take a selfie with the picturesque views, and an old woman practically tripped me with her hiking stick as she overtook us on the stairs. (In hindsight, ankle booties are not the best footwear choice for exploring a five thousand year old castle.) Despite the grandeur surrounding me, I couldn’t ignore the little voice whispering, “Go, move on, check the box, see the next site. This is all the time you have, so use it.” There we were among the ruins of a Moorish settlement, its presence alone a testament to humanity’s ability to conquer the passage of time, and we couldn’t help but fall victim to our own tranistory agendas. It wasn’t until I stepped off the plane that I was able to process the events of the past week. It’s funny how you don’t really appreciate the places you’ve been until you’re back. I often think about how much I missed in Portugal; how I didn’t fully realize the extent of its impression on me until I was walking the familiar roads of my neighborhood, didn’t appreciate many of its differences until I returned home with memories of a new place fresh in my mind. Years later, it feels like I was in Portugal for much longer than those five days. This is probably due to how frequently I reminisce. I remember munching on a Clif bar in overgrown palace gardens. I remember colorful facades of tiled buildings and uneven cobblestoned streets. And I remember the awe with which I observed the Portuguese approach to life. The memories of my trip are comforting to me - an invitation to extend the time I spent abroad. Portugal isn’t just a place I’ve been, or a box I’ve checked. It is my refuge: somewhere I can retreat in times of stress, or visit when I have a spare minute. A place where I can enjoy the serenity of life, untouched by the passage of time.
