A Walker in the Suburbs

Not “gracias” or “grazie” or “merci.” In Portugal, it’s “obrigada” — or at least it is if you’re a woman. Men say “obrigado.”  

It’s a lovely, musical word, this “obrigada.” It has more heft than “thanks,” as if the additional syllables hold additional appreciation.

I’m saying it to myself now: Obrigada for the safe flight here. Obrigada for this lovely city with its red tile roofs and its glimpses of blue water.  Obrigada for the hotel with its warm shower and tiny balcony.

Obrigada for the chance to explore this lovely country …. starting tomorrow. For now (11 p.m. in Portugal), it’s time to sleep. 

We leave for the airport in two hours. The list of to-dos has been whittled down to the final item: “taxi to Dulles.” Traveling to Lisbon will be a three-stage process, involving an overnight flight to London, a layover, and an afternoon flight to Portugal. 

Whenever I embark upon a holiday like this, I think back to my first European trip. I had saved and planned for months, had dreamed of it all my life. In the back of my mind was the possibility that maybe Europe, which I first learned about in fairy tales, was a fairy tale itself. Maybe it didn’t exist!

I can still remember standing with my friends in Luxembourg, mind addled by sleeplessness, ogling the castle and marveling that what I had hoped I would find was actually there. It was the beginning of two enchanted months in France, Belgium, England, Austria, Germany, Switzerland and Italy. 

But not Portugal or Spain. I’ll be seeing those countries … soon.  

Good friends flew out last night for a month in South Africa. It isn’t solely a pleasure trip — though there will be plenty of pleasure associated with it. They’ve gone to meet and hold their twin granddaughters, born late last year. 

Thinking of them winging their way to another continent has revved up the armchair traveler in me. Seven years ago, I was in Africa, too, though a completely different part of it, west rather than north, near the equator rather than the Tropic of Capricorn. 

I was zipping around on the back of a zemidjan, learning about Voodoo, spotting baboons, hippos and elephants from the top of a minivan,  I was touring Benin from south to north, meeting my son-in-law-to-be and so many other good people, all of whom who welcomed me like I was their own. 

I was living fully in the way that travel allows, in the way I’ve been privileged to these last many years, in a way I hope to again.