June 2020
At long last, the time had come. The months of researching Covid-related border closures, trying to understand ever-changing travel restrictions, and booking flights only to cancel them were far from over, but we were finally escaping the U.S. Case counts in Europe were down and domestic travel in the bloc was opening up—though we would find ourselves extremely reluctant to present as American to locals and other travelers during the course of that summer. American travelers were still banned from entering the EU, but Pawel’s dual Polish citizenship could get us into the recently-opened Portugal and, from there, the rest of Europe would be ours. No longer American residents, but bonafide nomads. The Start of Our World Tour: Take 2.
Our first June night in Lisbon feels like freedom, like that first night of summer after a long school year when you were a kid. The air is fresh after a light rain shower and surprisingly cool, occasionally gusting off the North Atlantic into the hilly city streets, those famous Portuguese tiles covering buildings and sidewalks in all directions.
Huh, even the sidewalks are pretty in Europe, I think, as I breathe in the crisp evening air and suppress a shiver.
I’d read Alain de Botton’s The Art of Travel in a writing course in college, in which he discusses how something as simple as an airport sign in a new country can seem exciting—“a symbol of being abroad”—different from, better than, what is known to you at home. These little mundane exoticisms are part of the enigmatic pleasures of travel.
What de Botton’s airport signs were to him, Lisbon’s sidewalks are to me. With their intricate ivory-and-charcoal-tiled patterns, they strike me as a sure sign that I’m far from home. Unable to fathom any American city expending the resources to lay millions and millions of tiles just to make sidewalks look prettier, I gush about the extravagance of Europe to Pawel. In spite of their charm, we scoff over their impracticality. How much had it cost, we wonder, to make sidewalks like this? And how silly to lay tiles, smoothed and polished by thousands of footsteps a day, on the steep inclines of a city full of hills, where it often rains. We see more than one person slip on the rain-slick pavement, and are close to doing so ourselves several times.
(I’d later learn that this tiled sidewalk, called Portuguese pavement, is primarily a matter of function: the grooves between the tiles allow rainwater to drain through, which in turn prevents flooding. But in those early days, I still had the knee jerk reaction to point out differences between what I saw abroad and what I knew from home, and to do so in an offhand way based on a subliminal assumption that what was familiar must also be superior.)
Despite it being a Friday, not many restaurants are open for dinner. The Portuguese government has been trying to encourage tourism now that the country has opened back up, albeit limitedly, but it’s clear that many restaurant owners aren’t yet expecting, maybe even wanting, tourists. Or perhaps it’s that their restaurants weren’t able to survive the lockdown. It’s a sobering reminder that this isn’t a typically-carefree European holiday. There are hardly any tourists in the streets. Indeed, there’s barely anyone at all. We wander around, looking for an open restaurant and trying not to stand out in the way that Americans always seem to when in a foreign country.
Huh, I muse, as I stare down at those dizzying street tiles, maybe we shouldn’t have come yet.
Finally, we stumble upon a cafe with a few al fresco diners, and the waiter waves us over. He’s welcoming and patient with the language barrier and seems relieved that we’re there. Maybe, he explains in a combination of English and Portuguese and hand gestures, it’s a sign that the summer tourist season won’t be a complete wash this year. He eagerly recommends a few traditional dishes from the menu.
“The moelas and the caracóis, very good,” he says, pointing to the menu. “Typical food in Lisboa. You will like.”
“Okay,” we agree, in the way one does when they have no idea what they’re agreeing to. “Whatever you recommend. When in Portugal!”
When he leaves with our order, I hastily pull up Google Translate to scan the menu.
“Well, I hope you like chicken gizzards and snails,” I laugh to Pawel. When in Portugal, indeed.
After the food comes, we cautiously poke around the gizzards but devour the caracóis. They’re smaller than their French escargot cousins, and soaked in an herby broth. Picking them out of their little shells with a toothpick is cathartic, the taste addicting. We learn from the waiter that these are a summer phenomenon in southern Portugal, only available between May and August, and wildly popular with the locals. We’ll ask for them at every restaurant for the rest of the trip.
Huh, I think, even snails taste good in Europe.
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