Portugal.... People...

I see the fishermen bringing the ships to shore and spreading their nets, overflowing with slithering sardines. The words “Bom dia� cross my lips as I greet the little old ladies walking to the open market, dressed in black from head to toe, with the obligatory kerchief holding back snow white hair. I feel the burning tingle of the sun on my skin and hear the roaring cerulean waves as I stand at the promontory point in Nazare.

Suddenly I am standing on the banks of the Douro River, surrounded by a patchwork quilt of grapevines, olive and nut trees. Quintas are terraced upon the steep verdant slopes and the winding roads that snake their way up the valley which make the strongest stomachs flip-flop as you look out the car window down towards an unfathomable downward plunge.

The characters that inhabit this imagined stage flesh themselves out as everything crystallizes. The weary farmer sells ripe melons at a roadside stand overlooking the tumultuous river, while his children play soccer with their friends, miraculously avoiding the cliff's edge. His wife is nearby chatting with some friends about the latest village gossip. The jaded city folk pull over to peruse the local produce and pick up a few things for their long trip into the urban prison and their everyday life. Their month-long August vacations are over and they need to get back to reality. Jobs await them where paperwork accumulates on their desks and patrons anticipate their return. Friends sit at the corner café discussing the latest economic policies and the results of the Benfica and Porto game, wondering when they’ll be back. And just as these people return to their reality, the elevator door in front of me opens and back to work I go, these thoughts dissipating. If only I could write them down fast enough.