There is so much that crosses my mind while on the solo sojourn; humorous, contemplative, memories, and daydreams of the future. I guess that’s part of the point for such a sabbatical, the processing and realizations, ghosts, gremlins, and greatness. Wrapped up in it all is the awareness of lack of awareness, the comprehension that I am too often slipping in the meditative challenge of being in the moment. Here I am experiencing what once I dreamed yet here I experience dreaming. I guess it’s obvious what I am. There are songs written about me. So, in a valiant attempt, here’s an ode to this very moment:
I sit the far starboard side of outside dining. The tables are three rows deep, yet the middle row, basking in piloted heat lamps, is the only non-vacant. My ass has begun to tingle on the synthetic wicker patio chair, and awareness! There’s a nice fuzzy fleece throw slung over a chair at each table and…ahhh, my ass is cush. I have been eyeing the ambiance here at the Caravela everyday as I pass on the ever-amazing cobbled rua, directly across from my digs, the Pensão Mar Azul. The direct heat and blend of casual lighting has my head glowing, my eyes almost radiate a hum. A semi-erratic music mix is hit and miss, but my ears approve of the mellow Indian-influenced grooves. The voices of young Portuguese squeals, adult bantering, and foreign critiques with British and German accents merge softly, and ebb, and flow.
My Golden Bream banquet, grilled full body from snout to tail, was undoubtedly retrieved from the sea this very day. I study through trial and error the best way to eat it without ingesting the delicate yet impending bones. By the second half my knife and fork commingle with grace and flakey flesh floats from plate to face. I personify the mini-toothed creature’s jaw lip-syncing the words to Abba’s Dancing Queen (bad DJ). Luckily the turn in tunes comes after a truly a satisfying meal, one that should have stopped before dessert. How rare for a plate containing a chocolate concoction to remain unfinished. It’s a much better sensation for sight than salivation. And now that my belly if full, the fleece is failing my ass, and Abba just won’t go away, I think it’s time for me to. It’s only about 68 strides to a dark chocolate square, a splash of tawny port, and a diagonal night of sleep. Tomorrow Portugal becomes the past.