Pirata

There’s a dark fish tank in the corner of the small living room, this is the living room I am told by my host Pasquale, his Italian accent adding charm to every word. I walk thorough the entryway and notice my room through a door on the left. Through the door I can observe my empire; an antique armoire, small bed with a red and white linen sheet set and a good size desk made of what looks to have once been a workbench. Two saw horses covered by a large piece of wood painted white. Stepping in I see the curtains are tied with thin twine, I smile to myself thinking of when I used thick rough twine to tie the hideous velvet curtains I bought at a second hand store in an attempt to warm the one hundred and eleven year old apartment I lived in with a person I thought I would love forever. There are white flowers on the workbench-desk. Bulbs crowding a terracotta pot, the smell is wonderful and seems to be the scent of the bright light coming through the window. Out the window there is a narrow street, ancient house after ancient house crammed elbow to elbow. Each house has it’s own lively paint; many are adorned with beautiful decorative tiles. I didn’t research Lisbon before deciding it was where I would go. It also wasn’t a whim; I really am not a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants type person although I wish I were. If you asked my why Lisbon, I would probably have answered Why not? I couldn’t put into words the feelings that led me there, but now that I am here I understand exactly why I came. The fish tank in the corner of the little living room housed a very sad, bulbous goldfish named Pirata. His name was on account of one of his eyes being completely black, like a pirate. Pirata is pirate in Italian. I twisted on the red futon to examine Pirata, his eye was the least of his problems. Peering through the algae covered glass I was surprised to discover the fish struggling about his dirty tank upside down. The fish! He’s swimming upside down?! I couldn’t help but laugh watching him wiggle down to the bottom of the tank where for just a moment he would right himself before seeming to give up the fight and float toward the surface on his back, fins billowing down from his body. Ah yes, that is Pirata. He is a strange fish, very old. I had him five years? He had a friend but he died. I give him sweet pea for the belly. Pasquale and I discuss the fish and his condition for a few minutes before he suggests I come with him out of the house. He is studying yoga at an ashram near by and can give me a ride to a cool part of the neighborhood, good for wandering. I gladly agree. Outside twilight leaves everything with an almost blue hue. Pasquale hands me the extra helmet, holding it between my knees I undo my hair’s tightly wound bun. Look at me being such a risk taker, getting on the back of someone’s scooter, who I just met in a strange city! I feel proud of my faux carefree behavior imagining the moment to be a part of a movie. Yes, this is who I am. It isn’t the first time I have been on the back of a two-wheeled death machine. I fell head over heels in love with a self-absorbed musician when I was 23. On our first date I nervously agreed to climb aback his motorcycle. I screamed the whole way, clinging hard to his leather exterior until we arrived at the venue. He didn’t kill me. The band we saw, Sugar Sugar Sugar, was great. We stayed talking, drinking and enjoying the music until closing. On the way home I was so inebriated I fell asleep leaning up against him as he drove. The experience lead me to climb on that bike countless times, feeling something I rarely can- trust. Pasquale turned his head to shout to me where we were, or what we were passing. I tried to listen, to pay attention, but I was lost in reverie. You okay? He asked after we disembarked. Yeah, sure, just walk that way then walk back. What time do you want me back? Oh 9:30? Okay He gave me a high five before heading into his Ashram. In front of me is a sort of five way stop, though traffic doesn’t make nearly so much sense as that. There are multiple triangular islands of cement in between intersecting streets, for pedestrians to stand on while waiting their turn. Straight ahead, after two lanes of traffic, is a pretty staircase leading to what is a no longer functioning small fountain. On the right is a large beautiful church, which I was informed boasts a beautiful view from its steeples. I stood timid at the crosswalk debating. Do I just go for it? These cars seem pretty determined. Another crosser joined me in waiting, here in Lisbon crossing the street is a more polite affair than in Paris where I had just come from. In Paris the little red or green man means nothing, it’s a game of chicken. Often people end up embarrassedly jogging out of the way when they’ve misjudged the speed of an oncoming vehicle. After crossing I discovered a beautiful miniature park, a few benches and large trees in front of yet another church. There were stone steps leading to the church, a cascading scallop shape. Walking up to a bench I admired the beautiful tiled ground, black and white square stones making patters under my feet. I debating taking a picture with my phone then decided against it. This moment is mine. On the stone steps I noticed a man, disheveled and balding he appeared to be talking to himself. Though I looked directly at him while sitting on a bench, he seemed to have idea I existed. This seemed nice to me, just to people assumedly enjoying a pretty park at dusk. Being terrible at following directions, contrary to the core, I decided not to walk directly down the street I was told to walk down. After admiring the trees and stones one more time I began walking. At the cross walk I took a last minute left. A smile spreads across my face as though I’d just gotten off with a cookie before dinner. It’s all the same to me whichever street I wander down, it’s all brand new. The only difference is doing what someone told (kindly suggested) me to do, or doing whatever the hell I feel like. And that’s where I get my thrill. I found a little tourist shop with rotating stands of post cards. I picked out six or so artsy vintage “Hey I’m in Portugal” ones and went inside. I said Olá but the man knew, by my small pile of postcards, to speak English. I thanked him, expending another of the only four Portuguese words I had taught myself, and headed back down the mystery street. At the end of the street there was a bar, which looked high class with a large modern style chandelier over the circular bar, the bottles illuminated in an arch behind the handsome bartender. The bar was empty, the barstools neatly aligned. I thought of going in, ordering an old fashioned and flirting until my eyelashes grew tired, but decided against it. I headed back down the other side of the street, I stopped in store full of retro home décor. The sign said “Abrir” which I knew to mean open from the three years of Spanish class I slept through. I walked in and a loud dinging came from over head, the same noise you hear when entering a 7-11 or a Texaco. A man scurried from the back. I could smell food and hear voices from whence he came. Taking one look at me his face dropped into disappointment, I interrupted his dinner and clearly wouldn’t buy anything. I awkwardly told him the stuff in his shop was cool then left, feeling rude and inconsiderate. Appearing back on the street originally recommended to me I felt better, there were people about and places actually open. All the retail shops were closed, I stopped and admired pretty this and cute that through the windows. In the window of a closed café hung a flier for dancing to soul music at a local bar, a favorite past time back in my hometown of Seattle. This place has everything I need! Coffee, music and beauty! I fall in love fast and hard, by the time I made it to the park with its big beautiful trees and arbors, I was done for. This city had surpassed my expectations (easily done since I had arrived with none.) Though I only arrived a few hours before I already regretted that I’d ever have to leave. On the corner of the park there was what looked like the newspaper stands in Paris, a round booth with a window where someone scowled down at you while you fumbled the magazines. Only this little stand had food and drinks, all around it were umbrella-covered tables with people happily chatting. I walked up to the window and the man inside greeted me, I smiled and pointed at the beer tap. Who cares what the beer tasted like, it was only a euro fifty. Nothing, absolutely nothing is that cheap in Paris or Seattle! I sat down at a table by myself with my little glass of beer and pulled out my post cards. As I sat with my pen poised, the reason I came to a city I’d knew nothing about, all alone, reviled itself to me. I’m free.