'The week we spent in Portugal...' - Lisbon

Last week I skyped Alex, a heady 2 hour call that had not a second of silence. After that call, my mind reminded me again how I hadn't ever written about the time we spent in Portugal, a trip born of a combination of essay fever and holiday fervour, flights booked late at night while sitting propped up on my bed, neither of us really believing that we were flying to Lisbon if not for convenient ryanair emails.

We stayed at Grandma's place for a couple of days, listening to Nina Simone while we ate our porridge and cooking an altered version of Biryani on the stove, and on the day of the flight we left before dawn, and listened to the dawn chorus as we drove to the train station.

We flew on a hot, dusty plane to a hot, dusty country, which grew cooler when we stepped out into the city. I floated on a feeling of anticipation that reminded me of Barcelona: the same sepia-tone, and also a slight and unexplained lonesomeness despite the lovely presence of Alex with me.

As usual, my worries (worry, loneliness, anxiety, disappointment, sometimes hard to distinguish) dissipated when we stepped out of the train station, walked past a juice store and the smell of croissants and got to our hostel. It was called the 'Poet's Hostel' and everything about it was perfect. The rooms were named after poets, Portuguese or otherwise, guest-made art hung on the walls, and there was a spacious lounge with bean bags, and very friendly desk staff. We put our things down and contemplated a nap, before deciding to venture out and enjoy the 17 degree weather (I wore a sleeveless dress for the first time in months).

Lisbon is certainly one of the most beautiful cities I've ever seen, blue and white tiled buildings, trams dinging by and cobbled streets that glint as if wet in evening light. We walked first to find food - very salty sandwiches - and then tried to find a fashion gallery (closed) and at last sat by the sea, and talked (as we always do) about everything and everything. Two lovers of The Waves, sitting by the waves, and Alex read out the first chapter of The Waves just as she had in Medwards' garden. (We are both suckers for perfect moments, even if self-created.) Then we walked along the beach - now a Prufrock moment! and had dinner at a place called AO26 that I still think about going back to every time I think of Lisbon.

The next day we took a train to Sintra. Sintra reminded me of Pan's labyrinth - 'A long time ago, in the underground realm, where there are no lies or pain, there lived a Princess who dreamt of the human world. She dreamt of blue skies, soft breeze and sunshine. One day, eluding her keepers, the Princess escaped. Once outside, the brightness blinded her and erased every trace of the past from her memory. She forgot who she was, and where she came from. Her body suffered cold, sickness and pain. Eventually she died. However, her father, the King, always knew that the Princess' soul would return, perhaps in another body, in another place, at another time. And he would wait for her, until he drew his last breath, until the world stopped turning ...' The whole place seemed like the castle ruins were not quite laid to rest, but were alive and waiting for something.

There was a large well where water trickled and dripped down the walls as we went down a descending spiral of steps to its depths. When you looked up the circle of sky looked like the moon, apart from a tree branch slashing its silhouette against the milky blue. Then we headed into a dripping tunnel, which led us to a nearby pool. At one point we walked behind the castle walls, climbing over or alongside boulders.

You'd have thought that by the end of that day of clambering and climbing and exploring that we'd finish there - but we went to Belem, because there was an art gallery there that looked interesting. We stopped to get Alex a flaky custard pastry from the shop opposite the monastery where they were originally made by monks.

The Art Gallery itself was immense, and we were sorry not to have more time in it (although no regrets about the pastry or the lovely golden walk we had getting there) In one gallery, there were a collection of photographs of space. Not being very 'good' at 'understanding' art (questionable terms there) I stood in front of the photographs and wondered if photography was a lesser skill compared to painting, or sculpture, or drawing, because it was a machine working for you (although you of course in many aspects work the machine too). And just as I was about to turn away - suddenly - serendipitously - music. Music from the spheres, I like to think. And instantly my experience of the photograph was changed. No longer was it just an 'is' of space and stars. It was overwhelmed with possibility and energy. It made me think about heaven, and oblivion or fulfillment, of peace and uncertainty, and the process of getting over grief.

It rained just as we got to the train station, and was still drizzling when we went back to A026 to get dessert - chocolate mousse for Alex and an exquisite strawberry cheesecake for me (again - still dreaming).