writing for self-discovery

The grating, raucous mewling of cats sounds overhead. A siege of cranes casts brief shadows. I’ve never known a bird to have so many voices. One moment, I’d swear they were crows, the next, tormented felines in heat. But the strangest of all is a clacking racket, like drumsticks on the rim of the drum, warning me as they stand guard in their massive nests.

Their presence is a constant in this seaside town, and I love to watch their effortless drift overhead as I lay, winter skin starved for warmth, drained of color, open and naked to the sky like a fileted fish.

I’m on the upper terrace of the two-story, whitewashed house that is home for another two weeks. Clouds, accompanied by a chilly breeze, roll across a merciless sun. I’ve been baked to done-ness. Any longer and the sizzle of my burning flesh would have driven me inside. The clouds have saved me. I smell rain.

Yesterday, I walked four miles. My destination: an art shop across the river in Portimao. From Ferragudo, that city is a luminous, shimmering confection, a distant Shangri-la.

The two miles to get there took me past hundreds of boats, a grazing horse, across a neverending bridge, and through impossibly narrow streets.

I finally arrived at Artisticline-Comercialização Mater.Desenho and stepped through the doorway into an alternate universe. Mouth agape, breathing halted, I stood transfixed by the explosion of creative energies surrounding me. This was far more than an art supply store. Better even than an art gallery, this was an artist’s dream. Canvases were on display everywhere done in acrylics, watercolors, oils, and charcoal. Others on easles were works in progress.

A polite Bom dia brought me, blinking, back to earth.  Over the course of the next half hour, I made the acquaintance of Ana Cardoso, artist, art teacher, and proprietor of this corner of heaven.

If my right shoe hadn’t been too tight, I would have floated home in a bubble of wonder. Instead, I hobbled and limped the two miles back, ran a blistering hot bath, soaked my aching foot, massaged it tenderly, and promised myself a pair of bonafide walking shoes.

Tonight, I’ll be attending a fundraising dinner for the local charity thrift store. Everything in this secondhand shop is 1€ – approximately one US dollar. If I have an Achilles heel, one weakness that exceeds all other weaknesses, it is thrift shopping. This den of temptation is one block from where I’m staying. I have singlehandedly enriched the business, stopping by on a daily basis, and I never leave empty-handed.

Today I bought the outfit I’ll wear to the dinner tonight. 2€.

Ah! Portugal! I’m so in love!