Lost in Lisbon

Europe must work for my affection. Whether it is some unconscious bias for its colonial past or more likely, a conscious one for its numerous sleights, I am not a fan of the “the civilized world.” few countries within its context have made my list of “must see” and even those that have (Italy and Greece) the visit is predicated less on what the country might offer (Vatican or Acropolis) and almost exclusively for the food I imagine they harbor.

After decades of dreaming of Egypt, when I finally visited I lingered over every

grain of sand and unfurling piece of history. Meanwhile, two hours at the Acropolis and I had spent my reserve of “awe” for the crumbling structure and was ready to move on.

Still, I planned for at least part of my yearlong sabbatical to include Europe. After the whirlwind that was me darting from city to city throughout southeast Asia, thirsty for everything she had to show me, I figured Europe, equipped with all of the history I am least interested in, would be a place I could sit quietly and write. 

So, I entered European borders with a bit of attitude and the expectation that if I were to fall in love here, if this were to be more than a glorified writer's camp, Europe was going to have to seduce me as no other place has been forced to seduce me.

Lisbon courted my affections with public transportation. Anyplace that links the city to the airport wins at least a begrudging nod from me. All the more so in Lisbon, the $2 ride diluting the damage a week of less frugal spending in Croatia inspired.

The sun bright, the language scrutable (with my elementary understanding of Spanish), I could feel myself relenting- succumbing slowly to Portugal’s charms.

Novelty (escalators on the streets connecting one block to another far above it) and historical predictability (statues of people on horses showcasing ancient ideals) weave the city into an interesting tapestry.

But the food?

In theory the food should be the thing that certifies Portugal in my heart. Portugal’s marauding citizens pillaged countries my heart gleefully embraces without wooing, for spices and culinary secrets. Portugal has Angola, Mozambique, Cape Verde, and Macau in its colonial arsenal and their foods integrated into the tapestry of the place as it if has always been here.

Hangry, my search for food was fraught, as it usually is in my first days of a city. Still settling into a place, still getting my bearings, I knew what I didn’t want but less what I did. The tail-end of the holiday season means many Europeans are off on vacation, one place I'd read about was closed until September, another remained hidden somewhere between the certainty of my GPS and the winding multilayered streets of the city.

Exhausted, with less than an hour of sleep in the last 30 hours, I finally stumbled into a nondescript restaurant tucked in-between houses on a street that I thought led to my hostel (it did not). Desperate, I asked if I could have lunch and they nodded and settled me at a table with a couple finishing up their meal.

Scanning the menu, I was unimpressed but desperation forced my hand.

Cod. 

This is a coastal place, everyone says seafood is a winner here and cod is a local dish. Although this is sardine season, my hunger wouldn’t allow me to gamble on the tasted of grilled sardines just yet.

Bread arrived, a fanta, I breathed deeply and relaxed into my seat.

The food arrived after the delay that food cooked fresh requires. A huge piece of cod, charred perfectly and adorned with sliced garlic and a bath of olive oil. The sides included potatoes, sweet and savory, and a greens, broccoli, and carrots (Vegetables! In Croatia vegetables were not as common as I would have liked).

I dove in greedily. Learned that the bones were still inside the cod, realized despite the copious amounts of olive oil the dish wasn’t greasy.

And they had WiFi. The WiFi that let me know I'd been headed in the wrong direction...only, I suspect it was the direction needed to feed both my body and my expectations.