Hello from Lisbon! I’m sorry it’s been a little while (the time between posts always turns out to be a bit longer than I anticipate), I’ve been using my days in Portugal to recharge after the rather haphazard journey getting here. To recount;

1. Decided to leave Italy (yay! glorious sensation of liberation! the world was at my fingertips!)
2. Had the most horrendous morning of the entire trip when I tried to get to the Ciampino airport outside of Rome from within  Ciampino itself- I thought spending the night before my flight literally right next to the airport meant that walking there the next morning would be simple. Twas not the case. For anyone using RyanAir to travel to/from Rome, you should know the government imposed a fixed rate (30 euros) for taxis from the city center to the airport- DO NOT ATTEMPT to walk from anywhere in Ciampino. You will spend hours on a literal highway.
3. Regardless of finding myself lost in Ciampino (a decidedly sketchy city) at four in the morning, locked out of my hostel with a dead phone and hours away from the airport entrance, I miraculously made the flight to Marseille! And after arriving in France at 8:30 in the morning, the whole earlier ordeal felt like some distant, insubstantial echo of a nightmare.
4. When I attempted to check-in to my flight to Lisbon a few days later RyanAir cited technical errors before redirecting me multiple times…suspicious. The following day I would learn that due to the strikes in France the flight had been cancelled. Okay! I’d considered going to Barcelona anyways, so I changed up my plans. Cancelled my hostel in Lisbon, found one in Barcelona and arrived to my overnight bus very, very early because, as it turns out, I was still a bit jittery after the Ciampino disaster.
5.  Arrived in Barcelona, met a whole hoard of incredibly friendly travellers and embraced life in a ultra social hostel. Dancing, sightseeing, and savoring Spanish delicacies ensued! I made plans to stay at the apartment of a new friend in Madrid before I would continue on to cross the Portuguese border and explore Porto.
6. Bused to Madrid, and alas upon arrival could not locate said friend. Spent several hours considering the possibility of finding a hostel for the night and attempting to locate wifi (my constant struggle). Though neither frightened, nor anxious in any way, tears of pure exhaustion briefly occured. Ultimately connected with my friend, and spent a few lovely days staying and hanging out with her. Met many members of her Madridian social circle.
7. Packed up my backpack and set out to (finally!) get to Portugal! Arrived at bus station in Madrid only to learn that it was the wrong bus station. Oofla. Hustled to the correct bus station, but still missed the bus to Porto by five minutes. Sigh. Changed ticket to the next bus- the next day- and tried to set aside my mounting frustration with myself. Started figuring out where to stay for the night (as my friend had left Madrid to celebrate Easter in another part of Spain). Found a cheap hostel! Spent one more day in Madrid (full of traditional Easter processionals, sunshine, and street music) and one sleepless night in the rather cramped hostel.
8. Easter! Set out in the morning with HOURS to spare and happily ascended the stairs to the proper bus, in the proper bus station, at the proper time. Arrived in Porto, found the most delicious vegetarian buffet, relished in the fact that I was eating cooked vegetables (they’re kinda hard to find over here), and fell into a deep and sound sleep.

Which all leads to the here and now, me sitting and writing in Lisbon. After all the hectic, exhilerating, challenging steps that led here, Portugal, a country even more tranquil than Spain, claims the title of My Personal Calm Harbour. After rolling up to the country gritty from the eight hour bus ride, from the emergency hostel the night before, and from the emotional marathon of reaching that hostel, I realized the best gift I could allow myself would be the re-establishment of routine. So in both Porto and Lisbon I have happily indulged in my own introverted nature. I’ve returned to consuming books, to taking slow, regular jogs by the river, and to journaling over leisurely cups of coffee in cafes. It’s a time of cooking for myself, strolling down tiled sidewalks, searching out tea shops, and sampling Portuguese specialities like the pastel de nata- a sweet ‘n creamy custard cup of heaven, served best warm and gooey with a sprinkle of cinnamon over the gently charred top- and sweet, syrupy Port wine.

In order to properly explain the mindset I adopted towards the end of my time in Madrid as I neared Portugal, I need to backtrack a bit to Barcelona, when I took a day trip with a friend from the hostel out to the mountains in Catalonia and hiked up to the Montserrat monastery. To reach this little nest of spirituality in the mountains one can ride up in a cable car (the most popular route), take the tram up (a slightly more expensive route, and the second most popular one), or walk. We decided to hike up to the site rather on a whim, as it was a gorgeous day and the path promised beautiful views. My companion also happened to be a seasoned Swiss hiker who routinely travels around the world ascending serious peaks (he was very patient with me). After having a difficult time locating the head of the trail, we asked a local man for some help and learned that there were seven different entrances scattered around the area that funneled into the singular path to reach the monastery. So for the rest of the day we had a running joke that we could only make six wrong turns that would lead us astray before ultimately reaching salvation at the monastery. And each time we accidentally ended up tangled in the bush, or found ourselves scrambling up some slippery creek, we’d just turn around, laugh, and say that we were one step closer to enlightenment. This is ultimately the philosophy that molded my trek to Portugal as well! The path there was full of apparent missteps (cancellations, missed transportation and connections), but each one also led to something beautiful. Barcelona has been one of my favorite stops on the trip! My last night in Madrid I watched the sunset over a Spanish palace while a harp and violin duo plucked out a particularly poignant, weepy rendition of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”. And ultimately it only took one right move to reach Portugal.

Probably because it was Easter, I spent the majority of the eight hours between Madrid and Porto contemplating ressurrection, springtime, and the growing pains that accompany new beginnings. Also because here we are in early April!! And (though it seems like most of the U.S. remains blanketed in snow…) Portugal’s perpetual drizzle directly invokes the sentiments of T.S. Eliot in that, “April is the cruellest month, breeding / Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing / Memory and desire, stirring / Dull roots with spring rain.”

How I adore those opening lines to The Wasteland– Eliot so astutely articulates the pain of reawakening, the shock of blinking into the light after opening up your senses for the first time in months. Spring is the season of exposure, the time to shed your cozy winter coat of hibernation and hygge off in anticipation for the promise of renewed life. And as for me this trip has essentially centered around exposure, confidence, and adventure, it sometimes feels as if for the past twenty years I’ve been hibernating and preparing for the moment when I would find the freedom (both externally and internally) to forge my own steps forward.

So here’s to springtime, first steps, and the oftentimes painful (or at the very least prickly) growth that gets us here!!

As always, more to come!

**Also everyone should interpret the haphazard manner I made my way to Portugal as definitive proof that even the absolute most disorganized of travelers can backpack. Truly- if I can do it you can do it.