Traveling Diary: February 2011 Archives
I went to Portugal for my last week in Europe because we'd already bought the tickets, and it's possible (though not plausible) that I may never return to this continent: The Old Country. I wanted to take advantage of the present, but I didn't expect it would be so hard. I guess I just need to understand that the true healing won't begin until I leave this place. Until I know I will never see him again and there is nothing I can do about it. Until I accept that giving unconditional love does not mean receiving it in return.
Mamma (Sebastian's mum, whom I will from here on call Tina) gave me some wise advice prior to leaving. She told me to "Look Around Me". See the scenery, keep my head up, so to speak. It wasn't hard to do, in a place this beautiful.
On my first night, as I took the subway into the city, I thought, Well then, Portuguese people are not very attractive. But holy are they nice. The entire time I sat on the plane and subway, I cursed myself for having decided to come. I just wanted to go home to Cananda, to begin to forget about the pain. But the second I stepped out of the subway system and into Oporto's old town (relieved) I realized it had been the right choice.
Oporto, or, Porto is, yes, home of Port wine. It is also where I began and ended my adventure, and continued my emotional rollercoaster. On my first day I had three goals: 1. Walk to the top of the main church turret and see the city from above, 2. Go to the art district and check out the local art scene, 3. Cross the river and explore the Port cellars, tasting free port along the way. None of these things got done. Day One looked more like: try-to-eat-and-fail-try-to-sleep-and-fail-try-to-drink-your-sorrows-away-and-fail-at-that-too. It doesn't help the church and art district were both closed, and I just couldn't bring myself to go learn about and try port, alone. Afternoons have been almost as tough as mornings.
Instead, very uncharacteristically, I spent most of the day inside, watching movies and writing. I met some nice people in my hostel and learned a few fun Portuguese sayings. The language sounds like Russian and Spanish put together, but you can almost always get the gist of something when you see it written, for instance:
another glass of wine please = um copo de vinho por favor.
Basically looks like Spanish, right? But add in a bunch of "sh", "csh" and "s" sounds, and you've got Portuguese from Portugal. It turns out there are Arabic influences, which probably explain why I hear Russian. I must look Portuguese (NOT a compliment!) because daily three or four people would stop me to ask me a question in Portuguese. Every time I would be like, "Me no speako Portuguese." No, actually I had learned how to say "I can't speak Portuguese" (Eu não falo Português) and aside from "Abrigada" (thanks), it was my most oft used phrase there.
I woke up very early the next morning and went for a walk, watching the city wake up as the sun rose. Some cafes were open, and as the traffic became more dense and louder, I slipped into one of them for a cappuccino. The cafes are set up just like in Italy; like a bar to us. Portuguese coffee, let me say, is some of the best I have had in my life. It is not bitter, not strong, not burnt. Instead, it is this smooth, almost sweet delicious goodness. I had not drunk a coffee since Finland (it makes me nervous) but I accepted nervousness for my 5 days in Portugal.
From Porto I took a train almost 300kms South to Lisbon. It was 16C and sunny when I arrived at 4pm. I walked around for a bit, both exploring and trying to find my hostel, and immediately noticed more of a "city" factor. There is a lot more visual immigration, people are in a rush, and the architecture and energy are just a bit less charming. But it is still quite a cool city. Portugal is officially number 2 on my list of European countries now. Number 1 is the Czech Republic.
What is it about Portugal, the Czech Republic, and Italy (I had to bump Finland out of there on principle. Don't get me wrong, I love it, but I had thought I would live there one day. Now I don't have to like it.) that makes these countries so appealing to me? There is something raw about them.
Something untouched or just plain hard.
Something about the people, who have accepted that life is suffering, and who have come to realize that good food and wine, heartfelt music, and love are all that matter in life.
I appreciate the trueness of the way the architecture is built into the land and the land hasn't been changed by the people.
I feel it has something also to do with the people just being who they are. Not trying to be or have something that isn't from them.
And the languages... Italian, of course, is gorgeous to listen to. But Czech and Portuguese are so soft and strange to me. Some of the sounds are ones I have never heard made before. I want to watch their mouths and find out how they are doing it all. Like making sense of a puzzle.
In Lisbon I walked around, exploring, of course. (zen party bus, remember?) but I spent most of my time either writing or running. I would write things to people about how I felt and no matter how many times I wrote about how sad I was, the feeling would not subside. No matter how often I told myself to "Just let go" I couldn't. I worked on some articles. I wrote a few poems. I wrote things to Sebastian he neither understands nor wants to. Things about love, acceptance, and new beginnings. When I got tired of listening to how pathetic I was being, I would run. Run out the anger. Run out the sorrow. Run until I could feel nothing but pain and tiredness.
My body matched my heart. My body is currently pure lactic acid.
A quote from my travel journal, January 29th, 4pm:
"I just bought a 20-something-girl a sandwich at this café I am sitting at, in the centre of Lisbon. She would not have begged me if she didn't need it. As I bought her sandwich she started begging for a water or juice, and I got annoyed. "What, a sandwich isn't enough?" I wanted to say. But now as I sit out on the patio, sipping my much-un-needed-hot-chocolate, I can see her scarfing down the sandwich out on a bench on the side of the road, as if it is the first thing she's eaten all week. Maybe it is the first thing she's eaten all week. In which case, she probably did need a juice. I feel like a jerk. God, and I thought I had problems."
After Lisbon, where I spent a full day in a tshirt, lying in the sun on the grass by the water, I returned to Oporto. It was Sunday and the train was quite busy but everything else was closed. I spent the 3 hour ride alternating between writing an article for a magazine on learning Mandarin, and feeling pathetic, depressed, and wondering what the heck I was going to do with my life. Writing about China makes me miss it. But do I want to go back there to live? What do I want to do with my life? Why can't I just get something right? The weather in Porto (13C and sunny with a slight breeze off the water) was my perfect weather for an afternoon run. I ran, and ran, and ran, until I couldn't feel any longer, had an espresso and a pastry, had a shower, and returned to the downtown core for some last-day pics.
Unfortunately, due to my mental and emotional state, as well as timing, I never did get to go on a Port tasting tour, nor see a Fado show. However, this is all the more reason to return. Anyone up for a cycle trip through Portugal and Spain next year?
Other last thoughts about Portugal:
I saw a Starbucks in Lisbon (yes, I did enter and I did have an Americano, who am I?!) and 2 McDonalds', however there were little to no other international brands/shops (except the usual Euro trash stuff like Armani and LV and Paul Whateverhisnameis).
Nothing is in English in Portugal but that was OK. Somehow you just understand, like when I was in Italy. The secret is in not trying too hard to understand every single word. And most of the people working in customer service speak English, Spanish, and Portuguese pretty well.
The cars drive ridiculously fast - reminding me, again, of Rome. Why do they drive so fast? I found out while in a taxi to the train station in Lisbon, that it might have to do with the crazy flamenco/Latin music the drivers listen to while driving.
I saw about thirty drug deals, most of which were just out in the open. Each time I would look around and be like, is no one else seeing this? And sure enough, no one else appeared to have noticed.
I saw the biggest Jesus in my life in Lisbon. I was like,
"Jesus!" It had to have been 50 meters tall.
Portuguese is the fifth most commonly spoken language in the world, and the most widely spoken language in the Southern hemisphere. Portuguese is also the fourth most learned language in the world. At the moment, 30 million students study this language.
Portugal has colonized every continent as we know of them
today (not including Australia as it is an island). The Portuguese Colonial
Empire was the first global empire in history. In addition, it was the longest-lived of the modern European colonial empires, spanning
almost six centuries, from the capture of Ceuta in 1415 to the
handover of Macau in 1999. The empire spread throughout territories that are now part of 49 different sovereign states.
Dreams:
Over the last year, probably every three or four nights, I have dreamed that I am late to catch a flight or a train. It is never in the same country or city, and it is never for the same reason or with the same people, but I am always late to board a mode of transport, and the repercussions of me missing it are catastrophic. Moreover, getting to the airport or station on time is out of my control. Annoying, right? I had yet another one of these dreams last week (this one was coupled with the Italian mafia - go figure) where I was trying to get to the airport and board a flight, but was late because I had to rely on someone else to get me there, and he was busy doing some gangster stuff in the basement of an old chateaux (yes, I am creative). As the clock ticked nearer to the departure of my flight, I began to panic, and I couldn't find my driver, whom I relied on to get me there. In these weekly dreams, I always wake up right before I find out whether or not I make the flight. The dreams have been happening, basically, ever since Sebastian came into my life. So after this dream this week, I finally did a bit of research online as to what it all could mean.
"Missing things or being late for some things usually means that you feel like you have missed an opportunity to do something in your life. When you dream of missing a flight you feel you've missed some opportunity in your waking life; you're too late; you can't make a connection, that you need to pull yourself together to make the connections you desire."
"To dream of missing flight means you are overwhelmed with work or other activities and you sense you lost control of time (missing flight is a sense not being able to be on time somewhere) no matter what you do. It all is too much, and too fast."
I don't know about you, but bells are ringing in my head, and they all scream, "China! China! China!" I definitely don't have the courage or energy to return to China right now, but I had felt yanked from the place and people I had come to love so dearly a wee bit prematurely.
When I left China, I wrote a blog in (June 2010) which ended with:
What did I come here
searching for?
Will I leave having found it?
Will I remember all that this place has taught me?
Will I be able to move on?
No, I don't feel I was done with China. I don't feel I had had my fill of it. But I was pursuing something that I felt was greater. A higher calling. Something that I thought was more important. I guess my subconscious disagreed. Something for me to ponder over the next little while.
Symbolism:
For the last 3 months or so, almost since arriving in
France, I have been seeing owls. Not real owls but owls on mugs, owls in
paintings, owls as symbols, owls on clothing, owls just generally all around
me. It had especially started to become over the top when I was in Finland over
Christmas. I've not seen one since Sebastian came home telling me he
longer loved me, January 14th 2011. What did these owls mean?!
Owl: symbol of Magic, Wisdom
"The owl as a prediction usually means that you are about to be taught something of huge significance. When the student is ready the teacher appears. It certainly ties in with wisdom and can also tie in with death/new beginnings depending on what the actual owl was."
"The owl has exceptional vision and sense of hearing. It symbolizes wisdom and ability to see and hear clearly despite the darkness. The owl is the symbol of magic, good omens, prophecy, astral travel, power to see the un-seen, all seeing knowledge, great wisdom, good luck, power of the moon and night, insight, giving and receiving messages, clairvoyance, religious beliefs, communication with the spirit world, and insight into others true motives"
"The owl is the symbol of the feminine, the moon and the night. The owl is the bird of magic and darkness, of prophecy and wisdom. You will hear not what is being said by others, but what is hidden. You can detect subtleties of voice that others cannot."
SO,
then... is it good or bad news I haven't seen one since that fateful day, when my
life turned upside down, and I've felt ever since that I can't go on? I'm
thinking bad news. So what does one do when they need an owl? Buy some. I
bought 4, while in Portugal. My only souvenirs.
Portugal
reminded me of something too, which may or may not have anything to do with my
dreams or symbols:
When
you think you have it all figured out, life has a way of reminding you that
getting it right is essentially impossible. Don't even bother. Just let it go.
It's all out of your control anyways.
And I don't mean this in a negative or cynical way. In fact,
since having started this blog five days ago, I've seen a dramatic change come
over me. I've accepted his choice, which has everything to do with him and his
stuff, and I've even been able to see this as a gift. Afterall, who wants to be
with someone who just bails over a bit of stress in their lives? If it wasn't
now, it would have been later. At least we didn't go buy a house or have children together. He won't
even see me one last time to say goodbye. Not even for a minute. Wow. As I said
to my friend in China the other day when he asked me the story:
It's not a good story,
nothing I'll bother writing about. I fell in love with someone. He fell in love
with me. We moved to France. He fell out of love with me. I've psychoanalyzed
the heck out of it. There's not much to say but that he comes from a very
broken home, something like 75% of people he is directly related to have been through a divorce (my family? 0%!). And I was his first love. He doesn't know how good he had it. Nothing much I can do at this point. I
can't teach someone how to love or how to be in a supportive relationship. I
fell in love with the wrong guy. Now I head back to Canada to get my life
sorted again. That's all there is to it.
