3 months to go

The last time I was in Portugal was April of 1984. It was a trip that I knew I would never forget. I was a shy 13 year old girl with a huge imagination and spent most of my time in a day dream. I traveled with my Mother to Setubal, Portugal where we met up with my Grandparents who had arrived earlier to visit with countless relatives. Together, we visited many historical landmarks in Lisbon, visited castles and explored the cobblestone streets. 

I visited the tiny home of a Great Aunt living outside the city with curtains for doors and earth for floors. She had a yard full of orange trees and it was there, under a tin roof, that we dined like Kings and Queens. The way of life there, so simple and so pure was like nothing I had ever experienced. Perhaps it was my limited ability to communicate in Portuguese but I felt very much in my own little happy world yet so deeply connected at the same time. 

There are so many little random things I remember from that trip. The ladies hanging their laundry to dry outside their 3rd story windows while the men smoked and drank in the bars below with a soccer game always on. The restaurants with their unmarked doors that hid in the small lanes as if to keep it secret. They were bustling however with locals enjoying the food and the wine. The smell of grilled fish and olive oil and the sounds of boisterous voices and laughter all escaping into the narrow streets. A secret that could not be kept.

I remember walking on a beach called Troia and meeting the Swedish soccer team. It was a beautiful sunny day, imagine 20 or so blonde, blue eyed, athletic types, all in a row, leaning up against the sea wall.... smiling. A vision of loveliness. Of course I was in total teenage dork mode wearing a long white skirt and sporting my short, layered, boy haircut. My Mom however was looking super fine walking behind me in full blown flirt mode, flashing her pearly whites at the Swedes.

I remember my favourite blue suede bomber jacket I wore every day and my lilac gypsy jeans. I even remember the perfume I wore back then ... Anais Anais, it was soft and floral and the smell of it now I'm sure would take me back. I remember my Mom buying me at least 12 pairs of leather shoes... and just recently she confessed to smuggling 13 bottles of wine home. I remember standing in my great Aunt's kitchen and hearing the shocking news (in Portuguese) of Marvin Gaye's death.

My great Aunt and Uncle that we stayed with lived in a small U shaped apartment. I remember escaping their loud dinner voices by standing on the wrought iron mini balcony in the evening and gazing across the courtyard. On the other side, a suave young man stood on his own balcony, running his hands through his glorious, thick, black hair, looking out onto the streets below with a dark, brooding smolder. He never noticed me but in my mind he must have swept me off my feet a hundred times or more.
I romanticized everything back then. It has taken a lifetime to become the realist that I am today. Learning to see things as they are and not as I wish them to be. Learning to appreciate and be grateful for life as it is instead of how I thought it would be. Living in the moment. I still plan. It's how I reach my goals. It's how I stay hopeful. It's how I keep my dreams within reach.

I just celebrated my 49th birthday and I've been both reflecting on the past as well as looking forward with great anticipation. In exactly 90 days I will be returning to Portugal. I will be arriving in Lisbon with my son Dominick and making our way to Porto Covo, just south of Setubal. Here we will start our walk south along the coast on the Fisherman's Trail. Nothing but the sea, the sand and if we are lucky, a big blue sky. After about 5 days of walking the barren, rugged coastline, we will turn inland and begin our walk across the countryside heading north past Lisbon to eventually reach historical Tomar. We will continue on to Coimbra and eventually the beautiful sea town of Porto. From Porto we will take the Coastal Way on the Portuguese Camino, eventually into Northern Spain to Santiago de Compostela and back to the sea, to the end of the earth, Fisterra and Muxia. In total, 4 weeks of walking, 623kms.

My hope is that this journey will be as meaningful and memorable to my son as it was for me to visit with my own Mother many years ago. I also hope that this Camino, his first and my second, will give us both clarity, peace and enlightenment as we move forward in our lives.