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The small streets of Lisbon were unforgiving to my parked car. Only wide enough for one way traffic, I was given no option but to park on the sidewalk, millimeters away from the gritty pink and white stucco apartment wall. My heart would beat rapidly each time a car passed by, unsure if I left them any room to squeeze past without inflicting any dents both to my car and my rental deductible.
I watched Kaelin’s hand signals as she guided me closer to the wall and farther from oncoming traffic. Slowly I backed up, revving the engine just enough to get the wheel above the curb, but not strong enough to ram into the motorcycle behind me. On my 6th attempt, I felt confident that I would have no worries of a surprise scrape when I return the following morning.
“I think you are being a little too optimistic.”
The man walked by with a casual stroll. I seem to recall tailored pants and a collared shirt. A local, on his way to an appointment that was neither important nor useless. His one utterance not only explained my current predicament, but would later define my complete experience in taking the love of my life on a fortnight long honeymoon to a beautiful country in Western Europe.
The first example of a “too optimistic” descison comes from the airport.
Although tired and stiff necked from our 7.5 hour flight, the slow realization of arriving at our destination surged through like an adrenaline rush. We fast walked through the remaining blue tape lines and hightailed it to the car rental. Looking to save on costs in the trip, I decided to go for a manual transmission.
Understand, reader, that I have never driven a manual transmission.
“Don’t worry,” I told Kaelin, “I watched a couple of YouTube videos. We’ll be fine.”
Far from fine was our reality.
I immediately stalled when pulling the car out of the garage. The slow crawl and attempt not to stall again as I slowly drove down the narrow exit ramp while trying not to scrape the sides was an inkling of what I needed to expect for the next 48 hours.
Amid the constant lurching, lunging and stalling, we managed to make it to our first Airbnb to check in. I won’t go into detail on how we blocked a one-way street simply because neither of us knew how to shift in reverse.
When in Rome, eh?
The hotel was located in the Alfama district, an historic maze of winding cobblestone streets lined with stucco and tile-patterned buildings on either side. Before going to our room, I stood on the balcony that served as the breakfast area and gazed at the view. Below me, the orange tile roofs scattered in all directions, creating a mesmerizing pattern of chaos and complexity. Compared to the previous 48 hours of panic and confusion, the relaxed and slow-going atmosphere gave me peace.
Heck, even a seagull drifted across the sky with a laissez faire attitude.
Coming from below freezing temps in the Midwest, the balmy 70 F Mediterranean climate was a welcome relief as we carted our luggage into the apartment. No bigger than a rich-man’s foyer, it held only the necessities required for a three night stay; kitchen on one side, bedroom on the other. We quickly ditched the nonessentials and headed out on our first exploration walk of the city.
The cobblestone trails were like tributaries, flowing through narrow cracks between buildings or down twisting steps to a small street. With no destination in mind, we let the pathways lead us.
The city is similar in layout to any typical European sprawl. Compared to the grid of “avenues” and “ways” of the United States, the streets of Alfama follow no conventional structure other than the terrain of the earth below.
Not thinking about the eventual effects of jetlag, our path of exploration would lead farther and farther away from our apartment, and towards the eventual sleepy and sluggish walk back to home base.
“But I am only 22,” I told myself. “Plenty of time to learn new lessons.”
Our wanderings eventually led to Sé de Lisboa, the oldest surviving church in Lisbon (I say surviving because of the many earthquakes that have devastated Lisbon over the centuries). I am a big fan of cathedrals, adding them to the top of my list in any European city I visit. The beauty and grandeur of such obscenely massive interior spaces and vaulted ceilings, coupled with intricate detail across columns, walls and windows.
A cathedral is like a massive map; where one must peer close with a magnifying glass just to see the city names and roads. The age of centuries adds another layer of mystery to the imagination, making you wonder what visual messages were there for 12th century pilgrims to observe.
The church bells struck twelve times. The cloudless sky gave harsh shadows to the leaves as their silhouette danced across our faces. Much of our wandering was downhill, but after non-stop walking we wanted to rest and take in the church’s exterior.
“This will be the first time I’ve been in one.” said Kaelin. She visited Europe once in Ukraine. On a mission group through Kiev, she recalled how they walked past St. Sofias Cathedral, but were not able to go inside.
We paid the entrance fee and walked slowly across the nave, necks craned upwards to gaze at the vaulted ceilings. Taking our time, we explored every passageway allowed to tourists. We ran our hands across the bricks, peered through arrowslits pretending to be archers, read every informational sign like homeschool moms and gawked like tourists at the large stain glass windows (“It’s not very flattering with your jaw dropping.” Kaelin sharply whispered)
It was late afternoon when we walked out of the cathedral. The adrenaline of being thousands of miles away from home kept the jetlag at bay, but we were beginning to feel the effects. We walked slowly back to the apartment, picking out details that we remembered passing. A crooked stairway; a graffiti sign; clues to help us trace our way back.
Once we reached the apartment, I collapsed on the bed with the intention of setting up our Portuguese SIM cards, and promptly fell asleep.
Kaelin of course filmed me.
Something about me nodding off very comical.
Not thinking in advance, dinner time rolled around with not a crumb to show for it. Kaelin was content with her complimentary leftover bread roll from the flight. Too tired to go out to the market, I recalled a serving plate down in the lobby with leftover treats from breakfast. I walked down nonchalantly to avoid looking poor, and after a quick glance to see if the owner was around, snagged the last wheat bun and retreated to safety.
Not a day into our vacation and already I appeared to be over my head in mistakes and bad choices.
But that was not the case.
I wouldn’t consider these moments as complete failures, but resolvable mishaps.
When I look back on our honeymoon, I don’t recall memories of Portugal shrouded in embarrassment, embellished with chaos, or embroidered in stupidity. Rather, my memories are ones of pure joy; beyond any level I have experienced.
I knew there were going to be situations where I would feel scared and embarrassed.
But what if I avoided them altogether? No experience driving stick-shift, no outdoor bouldering above the ocean (story to come), no taste of fresh seafood, magical castle views, waterfalls, or volcanoes.
We all have a choice to step out and try something new, or retreat back and hide in our comfort bubble. Each day, life comes at us with a host of choices, some impacting our next hour, and others impacting the rest of our lives. Choosing the option of discomfort helps us grow in maturity and skill. Each decision helps us grow the size of our comfort zone, making the next steps easier and easier.
I hope my “adventures” are an inspiration to you to increase your comfort zone.
More to come.
Molon Labe
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