Time to Share

Dec. 5^th:

              In less than three days the language around me has morphed from the bizarrely familiar (relatively speaking), to familiar yet incomprehensible, to absolutely unknown.  On to Italy when I was just reformatting back to the few French phrases I had etched into my mind (somewhere).  I think the French dislike replies in Spanish even less than English.  The transitions are tricky and I am continually fascinated at how quickly an imaginary line on the map triggers them.  Or the train you jump on.  I just completed a forty-minute walking tour of Nice and watched designer jackets, boots, and luggage invade the train at a quick stop in Monaco Monte-Carlo.  The Italian train will carry me to Genoa, a spontaneous plan drawn from the events of the morning and the joyous autonomy of unchained expectations.  I truly love flowing in undetermined circumstances with no attachment to outcomes.  Those that relate to the freedom I feel right now, be vicarious.  My sustainability rests gently above me crammed and cinched into my pack, my Skullcandy ear buds mimic the ambient rhythm of the rails, a dinner of fruit and French pastries rests heavily in digestion, and I will soon transfer another unknown into experience. 

            I have attempted to assemble some form of these European adventures into words.  I find though, words are like pictures.  In words you capture a snapshot of time.  A tale told in words visualized with the mechanisms of a camera do no justice to the true essence of the moment.  Of course, the natural reality is that it is impossible to relay such a thing.  It is a solitary experience truly told in the wiser countenance upon return.  Travels logged in details are mere memories that fade into the wind of time.  In fact, the efforts of defining risks the memory’s own ability to account for what was meaningful.  Do you remember the moment, or the picture taken in the moment?              

            When I left Granada and rolled into Almería I experienced emotions, thoughts, and feelings that would much more easily be lost in the eternities of time.  My attempts to capture them represent a mere fraction.  There’s a good chance my mind will recall the beautiful landscape on my train ride, the bustling swamp market surrounding the bullfighting ring, my wonderful discoveries on the wrong side of the tracks, and the glorious sunset from the heights of the Alcazaba.  In Alícante I will remember looking into beautiful eyes.  Engaging with real people and sharing stories and seeing possibilities.  I will carry the reminder that music is a worldwide language.  My ability to make music with a hollowed out piece of wood with Australian origins landed me in a late night circle of South Americans making music and sharing food.  I bide my time for a rich experience, they bide theirs for a chance at citizenship and a better future.  My fears surround catching my train on time, theirs on catching an unwanted flight.  My hard work has allowed me the opportunity to unshackle the burdens of a job and fly into another world, just for the hell of it.  Their hard work is underpaid and unappreciated (teachers bite our tongues) because they have no say.  Mums the word when deportation’s involved...  There is an essence that rises up out of the details of these words…

            Barcelona was a brief opportunity to soak up the last of Spain.  In a glorious afternoon, following a brittle night, I joined sun-worshippers from Port Olympic to Port Vell.  I said “good-bye” where I first said “hello.”  My stop in Toulon, France was just as brief and a potentially even more significant good-bye.  I wrote a content ending to a relatively untold story with my beautiful friend Florence.  An at times stormy connection, swirled in the mix of warm and cold waters, chilled out for a placid last evening together.  Her friend Anne-Francoise, a non-metallic conductor of good energy, shared her time and space as a catalyst of positivity.  Florence and I parted ways the next morning at the train station, both off in opposite directions.  In our eyes we shared the affirmative “so that’s that.”  The future turned present turned past.  Again, we shared the before mentioned essence that I have shared with so many strangers on this trip, the essence of sharing.  There are moments when I feel a rich buzz from this.  As I sat down for dinner that first night back in Toulon with my friend Marco at his mother’s house it was there.  There I was, part way around the world absorbed in the foreignness of it all in the home of people that hardly know who I am.  Their trust not garnered from references or a long-standing relationship.  It’s energy. It’s a desire to comfort, to learn, to say, “Look how different we are.  Feel how we are the same.” 

            We have all developed our own levels of security with our ability to share.  At our core we all know it is one of the greatest joys of living.  Sometimes we may attach agendas, expectations, or desires.  It may be second nature or it might require great efforts.  On this trip I have landed in the presence of many people I before had no idea existed.  That is what the true definition of travel is to me.  Yes, I have seen the sights, tasted the food, and waded in the waters, but they seem mere excuses.  I can now say, “I’ve been to Europe, how culured I am.”    But, they are words I will be lucky to hold onto over a decade of time.  The true satisfaction is knowing I have lived beyond fear and looked eye to eye.  Here’s what I see, here’s where I am from, here’s who I AM.  In the eye’s reflection I see the one world we live in.  Here’s who WE ARE, a sentiment that will expand over lifetimes.    

Wandering into Winter

Dec 3^rd, 08:

            As my train earlier passed frost covered ground and forested depths my thoughts briefly turned to the oncoming winter of the Rocky Mountains.  The annual visits throughout my childhood in mountainous Montana and now in the rocky high desert of Colorado.  I’ve grown to dread the marrow chill I often get long before I realize it, but find satisfaction in sharp and brisk inhales that crystallize on whiskers when released.  In recent, and maybe not so recent years I have claimed a willingness to trade skis for sand.  But, even at this moment, as I stare out at French snow powdered heights glazed in drab condensation, I sense within myself both dread and absolution.  The burdensome belonging that singes the soul when stole.  The changing mercury represents the wholeness that is heart and home.  The rivers of the Colorado and Bitterroot are ever shifting and evolving, but their seasonal renewal from fresh snow remains forever constant.  As the planet revolves in its yearly balancing of yin and yang it reveals the moral and prays that we embrace its story.

            These images, and the faint spectrum stripe in the gray clouds of France, paint my mood as I disavow my affair with Spain.  I have not been lead to this point by rational thought, rather a burning from greater depths.  As I laid down to nap two days ago in the flat of a new Argentinean friend restlessness stirred in my gut.  I had an hour before changed my departure from Alícante for an undetermined stay to pursue the possibilities of fulfilling promises to self.  In my new connection with Rosa Maria I had establish a long time friend and within my two day of visiting I had established a tribe of transplants.  The bulletin board at the local language school and murmurs of a yoga studio seeking help whispered in both of my ears.  Por qué no?  I guess I have found answers to that question.  The threat of inner energetic rumblings as I lay there in crawling skin said it all.  In what I hope was not an awkward liberation I continued on.  It was a shift to return to the doubtless momentum I have already generated in a grand valley.  I have paused to pursue planetary perspective and I will return in brighter light.              

            In Sevilla my room assignment at the Hostal Nuevo Suizo determined the fate of the rest of my time in Spain.  Meeting my new Irish friend Gary was beyond coincidence.  The simple bond of travelers was multiplied excrementally by our colon-less connection.  There is an unexplainable bond between survivors of the same circumstances.  A quote from The Poisonwood Bible (which has lent more worldly perspective to my travels) seems appropriate here.  “Hunger of the body is altogether different from the shallow, daily hunger of the belly.  Those who have known this kind of hunger cannot entirely love, ever again, those who have not.”  There is at least a different level of love for those that have.  His brief connection with Rosa in Australia years back brought the three of us together.  And we soared, explored, laughed, and mapped a new reality.  In addition I learned that when you mix mala leche and Guinness blood you get a Siamese twin, attached at the attitude, speaking in ridiculous accents.  Luckily though, when it comes to America bashing, me la suda. 

            The streets of the Barrio de Santa Cruz in Sevilla are some of the most complex and mysterious I have ever experienced.  If tiny cars dared to pass through them, you, as a pedestrian, had to evaluate the quickest route to the widest part of the passage to hug a wall.  An offset building or a mere shift of 3 degrees in the street would be cause enough to change the name.  The absolute lack of geometrical sense took different forms by day and night as if cast in a Scooby-Doo special.  I shifted habitations to the center of it all to experience the quirky (and quiet) Pensión Vergara.  The next morning, as if to reinforce our cosmic connection, I “bumped” into these friends two minutes after hitting the twisted and tiny streets.  No need to call and set a rendezvous.  Cadíz, departure point for Columbus’ 2^nd and 4^th voyages, brought us a daylong adventure highlighted by each other’s company amidst the memorable views from and of the Cathedral de Cadíz.  I finally experience tapas worth writing home about (they tend to be hit and miss) and learned that the Africans selling pirated music on the streets apparently don’t know the difference between the Orishas and Abba. 

            Granada, as I’ve already alluded to, is where my growing love for Spain anchored.  The Missoula-esque and culturally infused atmosphere pulled me in.  The three of us voyaged via car to imbibe in the Alhambra, as intricate Islamic art and architecture by day, and a fine local cerveza by night.  We chanced on the Davis Cup final, Spain vs. Argentina.  It was a blast to watch Spain win the exciting match while in an Argentinean pub.  Outside, even the street performers trying to nickel and dime the tourists would’ve been appalled by our favorite.  While we overlooked the magical moment of marriage just above the Plaza Nueva a stumbling “musician,” with half a beer can wired to the end of his recorder, shrilled three notes he felt worthy of a tip.  The humor in it (naturally, you had to be there) was worth a tip in itself.  I’m afraid however if I did manage to plunk a Euro into his vessel it would’ve been imbalancing enough to put his wasted ass on his face, literally.  After Rosa’s departure to her “real life” responsibilities Gary and I splurged in the Hammams de Al Andalus Bathhouse.  The soak and massage later lured me in for a second round of rejuvenation before I hesitantly headed on to continue my adventure…

(the shit's gettin' deeper)

December 1, 2008

            The sun is setting on another day in Spain.  The parcel of my being has been posted for delivery, first class, to pass through the narrow streets of a final Spanish town.  Barcelona will deliver the first bit of familiarity I’ve experienced since stepping on this untried European soil. That is, aside from the familiarity I’ve learned in walking through the unfamiliar and facing my reflection in streams of resurfacing emotions.  One day’s elation is the bane of the next’s heaviness.  Possibilities and promises wrestle and settle on the compromise of a singular existence.  The world provides endless perspective that seems to diffuse form rather than shape it.  The difference between fiction and non becomes irrelevant and the awe in it all disallows monotony, yet withdrawing to the rusty cage seems the only salvation.  I will be a single drop of rain, until it’s time to be a travelin’ man again. 

In the cigarette smoke of Alicante I shared sanctity.  On the street I stumbled into the circle, a momentary family united by music.  I carry now the story of “illegals” living continents away from home; there is a bridge from Argentina and Chile to the coast of Spain.  And there is a bridge extending from the heart of a strange unkept man from Colorado.  Love lives like dreams in the slipstream.  I am weary and unrested, and I am born again. 

Bittersweet is the taste of travel the way I’m accustomed to experience it.  I realize the sap oozes from my skin and I am infatuated with relevance.  I carry a disenfranchised passion and yet my heart is true.  I laugh, I cry, I philosophize and expand.  I experience, I sojourn, I fly and I land. Potentiality flares like fuego and cinders out under the extinguisher of my short attention span.  I hide from the march and emerge for the dance.  I write creative garble just to play with words and wonder what the hell I was thinking the next day.  The thought of the moment… Tenacious D is brilliant.  And I’m looking forward for the mountain my thoughts have been rolling down for days and days to bottom out next to the meditation of a campfire and lullaby stream.      

On Purpose...

Nov. 26^th:

            I pass hillsides of olive groves interrupted intermittently by crops of solar panels, neatly planted in rows.  As the train departed Granada minutes ago I experienced a twinge in my heart.  Something about the tightly tucked neighborhoods on hills, the Moroccan influence of kebabs and street vendors, the University vibrancy, gypsies living in the hills and entertaining in the plazas, the presence of the snow clad Sierra Nevada Mountains, and of course the distinct emblematic presence of the Alhambra overlooking it all.  That and the mix of languages coming from all corners as you pass.  The culture blended in language, history, and customs- something to embrace, as I will never find its equivalent in Colorado as long as I live.  Despite these feelings it was no doubt time to move on.  To sit in once place for too long without a sense of purpose (beyond seeing the sights) becomes uncomfortable.  It’s like a root determined to set itself in foreign and concrete soil with no concept of what it may fruit.  There is temptation in experiencing the growth process and blooming out from the unknown.  Especially in a place where gravity seems to have a stronger pull.  However, there is ease in movement because movement will eventually return to the comforts of where it started.  Yes, the comforts of home and the love of friends, but as much the sense of purpose that seems so relevant and waiting.   

Elevation has stunted the growth of the olives, farmers giving way to the barren.  Further along I witness a landscape unique to any I have ever seen.  Resemblance to the carved unassuming desert soils of Colorado and Utah with rolling snow painted mountains resting in the beyond, but with the presence of low valleys of seemingly planted tall and wispy poplar-esque trees.  The white-washed residences and brief encounters with unvisited villas sparks the imagination as to what life is truly like in that little speck of the Earth.  So many specks, so many people, so many ways of life.  As the distance to Almería shortens I see the landscape noted in my Lonely Planet, one straight out of America’s Wild West.  In the 60’s and 70’s dozens of Hollywood Westerns were shot, at least in part, here.  Some movie night in the future may have to include The Magnificent Seven and Fistful of Dollars.  The valley I currently gaze at has now given way to rows of giant wind turbines; alternative energy has its presence on much of this journey I’ve taken.  Visions of moving into the future.

And how to move into the future is still a translucent image in my eyes.  This time of travel is clearly a time of transition in my life, the break from the form my “calling” has taken over the past five years and into a lifestyle more purposeful.  How to move vocationally to encounter a greater sense of purpose than teaching?  The answer found in how one defines purpose.  (And important to note as I watched the antics of school groups touring the Alhambra today, I was happy NOT to be the one in charge of disciplining and ordering the rambunctious ones.  Exhausting just to watch.  I chuckled to myself with the clarity.)  Purpose has a synonym that I’ve always knows, and that has become apparent again with the examination of those I have encountered, even just in Granada.  The old couple running the pension I stayed at.  Each morning a warm smile as ginger teas was delivered with kind Spanish comments regardless of one’s ability to understand.  A day of cleaning, making beds, checking in and checking out.  Day after day…  I wandered tiny streets which led to pathways up the hill opposite the Alhambra.  What appeared to be open land I quickly realized was inhabited.  Caves etched out of the Earth and marked by recycled fence pieces, hubcaps, and other useful rubbish.  The call of a drumbeat pulled me higher to witness a shirtless dready, hands making music.  Accompanied by a guitar and two dancers.  Dancing to the day, dancing to the One, dancing ‘cause they’re people living underneath the sun…  I struck up a conversation with a street artist, the first I’d ever seen with his craft of cutting the coins of the countries into creative charms.  Truly detailed work of which one I now wear.  He had spent years working the mechanic’s trade in Germany where he bore two children but was eventually politically pushed out.  His origins in Costa Rica intrigued me, but he laughed at my inquiry of living there.  “I can’t afford to because of you!”  I understood the generality of “you” and gathered more awareness in the inevitable laws of cause and affect.  He now lives hand to mouth following his creative passion as content as could be.  “Life is good in Spain.” 

Purpose is living in happiness, being content with who you are, what you’ve got, and what you do, each as individual entities.  The world is overwhelming with possibilities for the fortunate ones.  We, the fortunate ones in the Industrialized First World, so bent on being industrious.  How many sacrifice who they are by defining what they do by what it allows them to get?  And what do they really have?  Analyze this via possessions and money, the crazy concept of retirement, self-image, what you will.  I’m sure the problem lies in never really being allowed to know one’s self.  Others start defining you long before you’ve got the faculties to do it yourself.  Unlearning is much more difficult that learning. It’s much more daunting to realize your capabilities than your limitations. 

This may read as vague gibberish, it may strike with personal relevance.  I’ve uncovered my own insight.  I started this trip as a cautious shadow dweller and storyteller.  I’ve bent my stature into a stiff neck and tight shoulders.  Fear and paranoia have manifested into gastronomical mourning.  I’ve caught anxiety in the form of clenched fists and jaw.  Honestly, I believe the origin of these side effects have been my self-concept while traveling overseas as an American.  At times I’ve wanted to run home and hide, I’ve played with becoming a Spaniard and falling into the lifestyle of siesta (still not a bad option), and I’ve wondered what it means to be an American.  I have had countless interactions with a variety of foreigners and each one has shaped my understanding.  The generalities that we all hold towards each other are amazing.  I could see the change in foreign attitudes as our election results opened the shades to large windows in a dark room.  I had something I could speak proudly about other than the vistas and open space of the west.  My newfound pride to be an American is not based on power, it’s based on possibility.  The world is overwhelming with possibilities for the fortunate ones.  The fortunate ones have responsibility for the possibilities of the world.  It is not necessary to pick a purpose out of possibilities, but to live one based on them.

Loving Spain!

  I am having a killer time in Spain. Much of the adventure in traveling alone is finding others to share the experience with.  From Sevilla to Cadiz to Granada I've had the joy of sharing the experience with Gary Ireland and Rosa Lopez.  Gary, from Ireland (you should've guessed), and Rosa, from Alicante, Spain.  Two quality cats with whom I have laughed my ass off with.  Nothing like some good America bashing with those thick foreign accents.  I take it in stride...

pic 1- The Grand Cathedral in Sevilla.

pic 2- A night out taking in the Flamenco culture in Sevilla.

pic 3- Views of the Alhambra with Granada in the background.  

pic 4- Inside the Alhambra grounds.  Reflections on the past...

pic 5- Cheers amigos!  Drinking Alhambra after a day at the Alhambra.

Sevilla Sevilla

Ahhh, life is good in Sevilla. I am in the travel groove and loving Spain. I met a fine Irish lad named Gary, who it turns out has had the same surgeries as me. He´s got a j-pouch and travels the world. Having a great time with him, his Spanish friend Rosa, and her friend Sandra. Here´s the past few days in pictures:



Tapas, the look says it all.





La Plaza de Toros de la Real Maestranza. Many bulls have soiled the ground with their blood here. I was disappointed to find that the bull that kills a matador does not win its freedom.


La Plaza de España in Sevilla.


View from the Torre Tavirs in Cadíz.

We took a drive to Cadíz, what a lovely town jutting out into the Atlantic. On the left is the town´s yellow-domed 18th century cathedral.

On to Granada and the Alhambra tomorrow!

A Portuguese Nutshell

Nov 18^th:

            I’m on a five-hour bus ride from Lagos to Sevilla.  In my ear are some freshly acquired tunes from DJ Susie Sanchez.  Portugal’s been an up and down, but I’m sure as I get further and further away the best of it will remain in my mind.  I’m just over the halfway point of my Mediterranean voyage, the days are getting shorter, but the glimmer off of the whitewash residences seems to be getting brighter.  I continue to adapt to the mystery of time and place.  So much to see, only so much time to spend, and there’s making sure you find a certain grace in how you do it all.  For my own sake I want to review the 17 days and four phases of Portugal.

            Lisbon: My first impression is one that will stick for decades to come.  After a superb connection on the overnight rail with Luis (a local Lisbonian with so much interest and enthusiasm to share with the foreign travelers) and Grant (super cool MD originally from Prince Edward Island who I have so much respect for, and who I related with for hours, and who granted me honorary membership in the Canadian StFWC!) I landed in the early hours of a Sunday morning.  After the hustle and bustle of two major cities the desolation of the A.M. air was haunting.  No striking architecture, just intricately cobbled streets and tile faced storefronts.  Not but one single soul, an old Gandolf styled figure looking lost or bored and simply standing in the middle of the street.  As Grant and I passed, wearing the hunter’s orange of tourists, he stopped us with a subtle shift of wrist and opening of palm.  “50 Euros” as the sight and smell of 3 stogie shaped hashish sticks hit.  I casually assessed the barren environment in an attempt to shake the surrealism, shared a silent laugh with Grant, and moved along with a smile.  Not a day of rest for those working the underground.

            The accommodations at the Easy Hostel were just that.  I was delighted with another well run, cheap, clean, convenient, and easy to rest in hostel.  I played tag-along with Grant and his married friends John (a surgeon in New Brunswick) and Brenda.  It’s always interesting to inject yourself into the lives of others and stay an impartial, non-parasitic, and an entertaining investment.  I had a great time with the trio though I’ll admit I spent some time analyzing the psyche of John as, of course, one who has spent plenty of time analyzing the removal of really important organs, lymph nodes, and other ooey and gooey things.  It was quite refreshing to not make decisions, just flow along through the sights in Belém, the Museu Calouste Gulbenkien, and especially the Castelo de São Jorge.  The views from the castle were phenomenal on the warmest day I’d experienced in about a week.  The highlight was appetizers and my first Super Bock from a large sun swept patio with comparable views.  Sometimes the mark of a great beer is not simply the taste, but where and who you were with when you enjoyed it.  Do you remember where you were when Obama got elected?  Why, yes.  Do you know where you were when you had your first Super Bock?  Mmmm Hmmmm…

            I have to admit, short term the satisfaction of the Super Bock was better.  I woke the morning of the 5^th at the Alto Golf and Country Club in the company of my mom’s brother Greg and his wife Carol.  My aunt and uncle were capping off a 4-month European adventure and I was grateful to rendezvous with them on the southern coast.  However, I could not share my joyful emotions of the election results that morning.  We quickly established, and I explained to many Brits who enthusiastically brought it up to us over the next few days (to my gleeful satisfaction), that we don’t discuss politics or religion.  We simply enjoy the sights, the sounds, the food, the beverages, and the company.  And we did, remarkably so.  We frequented Peppers, undoubtedly the best restaurant I’ve experienced the entire trip, walked the beach, and took a tour from Cabo de São Vicente (the end of the world) to Monchique and Silves.  Carol and I shared war stories from the classroom and we vowed to carry the mentality of travels into our daily home lives.  Colorado and New Mexico aren’t that far away from each other, but it took Portugal to bring us together for the closest connection we’ve ever really shared.

            While in the good graces of my aunt and uncle a song began to form in my mind.  It may never be complete, but have a sample of the ode from a bleeding heart Earth lover to relatives of the right wing.  In the tune of Ebony and Ivory ala Stevie Wonder or Eddie Murphy (your pick), (which I heard more times in France than in 10 years in the states):

You are red and I am blue, what you think’s wrong, I think’s true,

We’re from the same fam, but the buck stops there, no sense fillin’ a circle with a peg that’s square,

When we get together, one thing’s perfectly clear, no politics or religion, we just drink beer,

We’ll never all be happy, with who’s in the White House, I suffered 8 years of Bush, now ya got “mickey mouse,”

you like to watch Fox news, I prefer PBS, at least we agree our education system’s really messed,

you’re inspired by Rush Limbaugh, I think Michael Franti’s the man, will we ever see eye to eye and walk hand in hand?...

(I don't know why this is blue)

            Phase three was promising to be an exciting experience, a work exchange on a solar-powered home front with a holistic healer and D.J.  Lies, lies, sweet little lies; on day two, the flu.  From snotty child, to Susie Sanchez, to your truly.  Much of this story has been told.  The mind trip of the sick and intestinally psychologically sensitive in an alien land with an unfamiliar friend…Susie the sweet, dietarily balancing bi-polarity, special dyslexia, 18 years of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and overwhelmed by the tasks of a simple existence.  No diet, no balance, no fun for either of us.  The energetics of the scenario are fascinating to those interested in such things as emotional and karmic layers.  And, as if universally prearranged, a random cranny stash of Mother’s medicine was provided by a previous volunteer in the cabin I cleaned out and stayed in.  Positive perspective as I regained my health in Susie’s own little private paradise.  Sunshine in the morning, wood fire by night, and the moon waxed, filled, and moved into waning.  One night as I stood in appreciation as funky blues riff came floating up the valley, live and rockin’.  I longed to join that gathering.  Up the road and down: views, beach, wildlife, and open land. In addition to multiple sea birds, prized views were a Bonelli’s eagle and a few flocks of migrating vultures (more majestic and full feathered than you’d expect from the sort).  And on my last night, as the setting rays of sun pinkened the ocean’s horizon, dolphins danced in the sea to bless me on the rest of my journey.  A treat Susie’s said she hadn’t experienced since 2005.  Truly, a blessing.

            “Knock, knock.”  “Who’s there?”  “Interrupting cow.”  “Interrupting co…”  “MOOOO!”  I’m getting tired of those kind of people.  Usually they’re old and alone.  Today in my fourth or fifth such conversation with the same guy at my pensão I interrupted him with, “I really really have to pee.”  I could have held it, but I didn’t want to, and I didn’t come back.  I’m trying to decide what’s a better thing to do, make an excuse or politely explain how miserable it is having a “conversation” with them.  That, by the way, was not the highlight of Lagos.  Mostly it was just more beautiful beaches and sunshine.  One story for the books starts with the examination of a fascinating English word and a word of advice.  The advice: don’t ever “grab a beer” with an Aussie and expect to just grab A beer.  You may end up like me, “pissed off” after getting “pissed on” while “on the piss”, so “piss off” (none of that actually involved urine, though I did have to piss often).  The pub is the place to truly meet travelers.  Interesting perspective on American doled out to me by an intoxicated Australian sheila.  Only 5% of Americans hold passports and 4% are obnoxious.  I had to work hard just to have that conversation.  I must be the 1% to have the kind patience to deal with her obnoxiousness. 

Cobbled streets, shope merchants, Brits with yachts, fishermen, sandy stretches of beach, sardines for dinner, and sunshine…so long Portugal.