Pretty pictures, ugly views
Before I get into this post, I’d like to take a moment to exercise my first amendment rights—which I think I still have—and say that Donald Trump is a repugnant, sociopathic, pathologically stupid, fascist shitweasel with a face like a rotting pumpkin and I hope he dies a slow (but not too slow) and miserable death very, very soon.
Ah. That feels good.
So. I recently had the great good fortune to be able to escape the flaming-dumpster-sliding-into-authoritarianism country that is America for ten days. The Mister and I hit the transatlantic skies barely twenty-four hours after we dropped Twin #2 off at college, and found ourself in a place—namely São Miguel, the biggest island in the Azores—where there were views that looked like this:
And places like this: A cove where hot springs empty into the ocean, so you can swim in a delightful mix of hot and cold currents.
And food like this:
The Azores were never on my bucket list, but we were offered the use of a friend’s house there, and man oh man, I’m so glad we took her up on it. What a gift. (Thank you, friend!)
Then, after a few days in São Miguel, we headed to Lisbon, which we also loved. It had all your European city greatest hits—cobblestones, cafes, old churches, pigeon-y plazas, balconied old apartment buildings, dozens of shops of identical souvenirs made in China and much, much more—all humming with a warm, vibrant vibe. And sunshine. So much lovely, lovely sunshine.
What I especially loved about both the Azores and Lisbon—and I suppose this speaks to Portuguese culture more broadly—was the emphasis on views. There were multiple well-marked “miradouros” (scenic overlooks) along the roads in São Miguel and a number of them sprinkled throughout Lisbon—including one just around the corner from our Airbnb, Miradouro de São Pedro de Alcântara:
I am—as my passion for hiking up mountains might suggest—a big fan of big views. I guess most people are but, I mean, I really really am. Like, a lot.
I like seeing the bigger picture—the vastness and complexity and fullness of it all, whether it’s a mountain range or a cityscape. When I have a perch overlooking the world, and when I feel small in relation to everything else, I feel more solid and centered. My mind is clearer and quieter. (For this reason, I don’t love writing when I’m on the ground floor of buildings, unless said building is on a hill.)
I also love that views invite imagination: Who is that teeny person way down there? Who lives in that house? Where’s that music coming from? What kinds of beasts might be prowling those woods? What the hell is that shiny thing? From afar, the possibilities are endless.
Traveling is a sort of view, too. As an outsider, you see the places you’re visiting from a distance. You can see your own life from a distance, too, and I find this often makes me feel extra fond of it. You’re also reminded that the world is vast and varied and you are not, in fact, the center of the universe. It’s a sort of freedom. A liminal-in-a-good way state of being.
At least, that’s often how I feel when I travel abroad—including over the past few years. But this time I didn’t feel that same release.
You know shit is bad when even while you’re on an incredible trip in a gorgeous place, eating all manner of delicious fish and cheese, you can’t quite shake the low level sense of dread about the state of your country. (Note that this was the case even before Charlie Kirk was killed, which happened halfway through our trip.)
My damned hyperactive inbox is partly to blame—Heather Cox Richardson and The New York Times and Paul Krugman and Jeff Tiedrich and many, many others very rudely followed me on my vacation. I made the grave error of looking at Facebook from time to time, too.
Then there’s the fact that the Azores and Lisbon were crawling with American tourists and expats. Not only that, many of the locals we talked with were extremely tuned in to American politics. (“It’s like a soap opera” one guy told us. “You can’t stop watching.”) Even our taxi driver to the airport mentioned the midterms.
But what it really, truly comes down to is the fact that what’s happening America right now is just so dire. The erosion of norms and laws and free speech is happening at a terrifying speed, and the anger and fear and division just keep getting worse.
Portugal was a fascist dictatorship for 42 years. It took a military coup to bring the government down—and it happened largely because the military was sick of hemorrhaging lives in the attempt to hold onto Portugal’s African colonies. It was not because of peaceful protests or court cases or elections. It never is. Not that we shouldn’t still do these things here in America; we should. But it increasingly feels like hope of a turnaround is fading.
There’s no escaping that knowledge for more than a few minutes or hours at a time, and there’s not a mirodouro in the world from which it looks pretty. (Speaking of ugly views—two words: Charlie Kirk.)
And I’m not even directly in the crosshairs of the current regime. My life hasn’t changed much in any immediate sense, and I am privileged as hell in countless ways (ten days in Portugal!) What is it like for people directly feeling the brunt of what’s happening, who fear for their lives and livelihoods—people who can’t ignore it even a little, let alone chill out in a shady praça drinking beer and playing cards, feeling mildly melancholy but also having a pretty damned good time?
I’m sorry. I know this is not the laugh-a-minute chucklefest of a missive you may have come to expect from me. I’m sorry. I will be funny next time, I promise. We need humor. We need joy. And, yes, we need beautiful views. So here’s one more for the road, from São Miguel:
Save the date, October 18, for the next big nationwide No Kings protests. At least we can say we tried.
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