As was my practice back in The States, I still begin the day perusing the New York Times and Washington Post headlines, in the spirit of “what fresh hell hath happened overnight” which is not the suggested Zen way of greeting a day, but keeps me connected with the reality of the fascism and plumb crazy sh*t I left behind but can’t and won’t look away from.

A somewhat related story from the wayback machine via my mother (deceased). As a little girl, she was periodically asked in the classroom to duck and cover under her desk during nuclear attack drills. She said she knew that the adults were crazy and/or untrustworthy, because no way in heck was a school desk going to protect her from a nuclear blast. I’m going to make a value judgement and state that there is some crazy, untrustworthy crap spewing from my country tis of thee’s White House these days. Even though I’m approximately 3,600 miles away, I am not looking away. During the No Kings Rally in Lisbon, a Canadian couple we met stressed that they hate the U.S. Government but love and feel very bad for the U.S. People. That’s the only kind of Anti-Americanness I’ve heard about “on the street” so far.

What I hear on the streets, sidewalks, and in stores, is Portuguese. Which makes perfect sense because it’s PORTUGAL for gosh sakes. So that means most of the time I have no idea what anyone is saying, and that’s an odd feeling. I’m a word person. I pay attention to what people communicate, but in this context, three weeks in, I cannot understand a word. In the vet’s office, the grocery, bank, sitting on a bench in Parque Eduardo while Jeff does laps (I’m getting over a cold and not up for power walking) I am surrounded by sounds I cannot yet comprehend. Except for obrigado, thank you, which I learned today I should be saying obrigada because I am a female person.

This doesn’t mean I haven’t started the footwork. Before coming here I paid for access to one of those online language apps. Did I use it prior to arrival? No, I did not. However, I recently signed up for one of the many services that pledge to teach non-portuguese speakers the language in a useful accessible was. I’m getting the sense there’s a thriving cottage industry here in teaching what EVERYONE (the language teachers, the uber drivers, the expats/immigrants) attest is a very difficult tongue to tangle with if you weren’t born to it. It’s even rough for the Brazilians whose Portuguese is different from the European strain. The fact that I fell asleep during my first foray with a 15 minute training video says less about the content and more regarding how I sometimes deal with new/stressful realities. [Bonus points if you are familiar with the Ben Folds’ song Narcolepsy.]

There’s a yoga and pilates studio a short walk from our apartment. In the muted facility there are lit candles as well as battery operated ones flickering up and down hallways. There’s incense burning and always a pot of lemon ginger tea surrounded by cups that fit snugly in the palm of your hand, which you wash when you are done sipping. There are people from all over the globe who practice there, but the dominant language used to lead classes is English. It has become a place of reprieve for me, not only because of the meditative nature of the yoga classes, but the primacy of spoken English. For Jeff that escape comes with 14+ core members of the NO KINGS Team here in Lisbon — over half of whom are either California natives, or California transplants.

I’ve been thinking of stories I’ve heard about people who came to the U.S with their parents when they were little kids. How they picked up the new language much quicker than their parents, and sometimes ended up having to serve as translator for moms and dads. The children were indispensible, dealing with business and legal matters which skewed the child/parent power dynamic quite a bit. The kids became the experts and the bewildered adult immigrants were reliant on their offspring to help make sense of a new culture. I don’t have a young emissary, but I do have Google translate, thank goodness.

Despite my lack of native language prowess, I have little trouble navigating stores and am starting to use the public transit system, taking the metro/subway and the occasional trolley to get around downtown. Slowley, but surely, I’m physically and metaphorically finding my way here. And it’s only been three weeks.

[Cat Sofie watches from Jeff’s lap while I puzzle out another blog entry.]

[New (to me) grocery store; new cod pic.]

According to Wikipedia, which some information literacy librarians who care deeply about citing sources feel pretty positive toward, or at least don’t consider the tool the end of Western Civilization, Euros as a unit of money debuted in a virtual way January 1, 1999, and began showing up in physical form by 2002.

My Portuguese bank card was munched up by an ATM machine a while ago and the new one has yet to arrive (an example of how Things Just Take Longer in Portugal) but my helpful partner Jeff has a working cash-getting card and periodically hands me a wad of bills. After spending a good deal of time pondering Euro coinage, it was a delight to pay attention to the paper version.

I don’t believe it is inappropriate to call the Euro bills gorgeous, because they are. In terms of color, design, detail, there’s a lot of loveliness going on. It might not be fair to compare the luxuriousness of the 27 year old monetary units to the detailed but admittedly blah reality of USA bills. First of all, regardless of denomination, USA paper currency is all the same size and has been since 1929. The Euro bills, as is with the coinage, increase (or decrease) with the value of the unit, hence the 5 Euro bill is perceptively smaller than the 50. I learned recently that having the same size bills for all denomination does not support people with low or no vision. A $100 dollar bill feels the same as a $1 one. Thus currency with multiple sizes can support differently abled folks and hence might be considered more humane if not logical.

I don’t know if there’s officially a front and a back to a Euro bill, but I’ve come to view the side with the examples of arches as the front. In terms of design, there’s a unifying placement of numbers on each denomination as well as a differentiating color theme. And, of course, the examples of arched architecture.

When examining the bills this closely, the word sumptuous comes to mind.

And then, the back/verso! They ALL have a picture of a Roman VIADUCT, a unifying image harkening to what they may have all had in common during Roman rule.

Driving to and from Ikea the other day we had a good long view of a viaduct, that had been incorporated into the surrounding urban landscape. It was a similar “oh that’s so cool” feeling of seeing castles just hanging around being castles when I did a term abroad in England 40 years or so ago.

Today I had to bring our cat Sofie to the vet’s, in order to get her a Euro pet passport. I paid the bill with some of the colorful money Jeff has slipped me, which threw the front desk person off a bit, because most folks here these days use an app called MBWay which is similar to Apple Pay and tied directly to all the major Portuguese banks. I felt a twinge of regret for a culture with such beautiful money that may not be noticed, used, and appreciated anymore.

A few days ago I was in a pharmacy (with a big green plus sign outside above its door) and had an experience which made me feel like a little kid who’s learning what quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies are. The pharmacist, whose English was a whole heck of a lot better than my Portuguese, was trying to communicate what I owed her for the prescription I was buying. She said what I deduced was a number, but not one I was even remotely familiar with. Then she showed me a cash register receipt, which was more helpful. I pulled out a pleasantly colored paper bill; I think it was five Euros. Next opened a change purse and dumped a bunch of coins in my hand. I mumbled something about not being used to the Portuguese money yet as I searched for a combination of coins to settle the bill. The pharmacists took charge, poking through the metal pile in my palm, selecting several coins, while I felt rather inept.

Portugal is one of the 21 Eurozone member states that uses the common currency of Euros. Other countries include heavy hitters like Germany, France, Spain and Greece. Bulgaria is the most recent to join, as of January 1, 2026. There are 7 different coins I’ve been given as change when “breaking” a bill. Two are full-fledged Euros, the 1 Euro and 2 Euro coins. Cashiers seem to give out a lot of these. In descending order, there’s the 50 cent, 20 cent, 5 cent, 2 cent and the tiny 1 cent coin. The 1 cent is so diminutive it seems like something one would use when playing with dolls, a backpacking-through-Europe Barbie perhaps.

The 1 cent is downright cute.

Made me think about U.S. coins, and why the dime is smaller than the nickel, whereas the Euros cents proceed in a reasonable descending size equivalent to worth. Thanks to the magic of AI, I got an answer in about 3/10ths of a millisecond: “A US dime is smaller than a nickel because it was historically made of silver, a high-value precious metal, while the nickel (introduced in 1866) was made of cheaper base metals. To maintain an equal, lower value, the nickel needed to be much larger and heavier, whereas the dime’s size represented 1/10th the value of a silver dollar.“ GOVMINT [link broken]

And now, a segue between legal tender and tender people…

Jeff and I made a trip yesterday to the largest IKEA I’ve ever witnessed (IKEA Alfragide — just west of Parque Monsanto in Lisbon) to pick up a bookcase, a Poang chair, a dish drainer, and the like. As we are living car free (yay!) we took an Uber there and back. To get into the store by foot there is a steep set of stairs that looks like the side of a Mexican pyramid) as opposed to a smooth-sided egyptian one. We didn’t think too much about it as we clambered from the Uber drop off point and up the incline.

As well as there being just more stuff, what set this Ikea apart was the extensive mock ups of fantasy rooms. There wasn’t just one standalone kitchen scenario, it was also attached to a living room and a bedroom and an office. That’s one thing I’ve long enjoyed about IKEA; it’s a grown-up doll house of sorts.

Anyhoo, after who knows how long we spent looking at bookcases, bedside tables, cookware, bath towels and bookends in the shape of a cat silhouette (I got three), we walked out of there pushing a flatbed trolly with three heavy cardboard boxes and an upholstered part of a Poang chair and carrying two large blue bags full of things. I was on trolly duty at first. We initially tried to go down a short ramp onto the kind of cobblestone sidewalk I’ve written about previously. Fail! The vibrations from the uneven cobblestones sent the upholstered piece flying onto the ground. A small group of older-then-me women were sitting on a curb smoking and talking. The moment the Poang cushion hit the ground one of them sprang up to help, picked the item off the cobblestones and handed it to me. I repeated the one Portuguese word I really do know by heart, obrigado (thank you).

Backing out of that scenario, Jeff and I headed to the pyramid-esque steps, which incorporated a switchback ramp of sorts. I started down, fighting with the trolley to maintain control. I passed a group of 20-somethings, assiduously ignoring them as I struggled. As I shakily maneuvered a switch back, one of the young people, a woman with long dark hair and a black t-shirt, scrambled down. Once she ascertained that we didn’t speak Portuguese, she said “I will help you,” gesturing down the rest of the way. At that point I took over the two bags and Jeff commandeered the trolly, and I don’t know the rest of their conversation as I sprinted for the Uber which was arriving.

Our Uber driver needed to rearrange several of his belongings to incorporate our purchases, which I suppose is an expected inconvenience for folks doing that work. At the end of the ride the driver needed to park a bit of a ways down from our apartment to let us and our stuff out. He insisted on carrying the heaviest of items up the sidewalk to and inside our buildings, waving aside Jeff’s saying that he didn’t have to do that.

From the pharmacist patiently wading through my handful of change to the the old and the young women at Ikea, and the quiet but helpful Uber driver, I was struck by the basic helpfulness of many Portuguese people I’ve encountered. Granted, not every Portuguese person in ever instance is gracious in the concrete ways a migrant can appreciate. But I have noticed a pattern of kindness to strangers, and I appreciate that trait. And I also appreciate that teeny 1 cent coin, which for some reason delights me.

Now let’s continue…

We left off at Rossio Square (Praça Dom Pedro IV) which makes some people feel a little dizzy, as if the ground is physically undulating. Looking at the overall effect, I am amazed something so uniform was created by jagged mosaic pieces.

The next two images is from a promenade separating two directions of traffic on the Avenidad da Liberadade. These sections of walkways are shaded by large trees. Thus it is difficult to get an unshaded picture of this batch mosaics. However, the shade spots almost add to the seeming delicacy of this ornate series of images

[The previous two images have a distinctly medieval feel to me.]

As much as I enjoy these carefully planned images repeating for several blocks, I do find beauty in the less considered assemblage of cobblestones.

[Texrtures and colors make for a satisfying composition.]

[Someone decided on diagonals to offset the straight lines, another thoughtful design choice.]

[Cobblestones in their raw, cut form, ready to repair a sullied section.]

For concrete (no pun intended) information about the cobblestone work in Portugal, check out:

https://bucketlistportugal.com/calcada-portuguesa-the-art-of-portuguese-pavement/

and

https://bucketlistportugal.com/where-to-find-the-best-portuguese-pavement-in-lisbon/

[Me with statues of stone artisan workers.]

Fortunately for me there are many more examples of interesting cobblestone installations in Lisbon and beyond.

And stay tuned for future entries about tiles!

[From a walkway along Parque Eduardo VII.]

Cobblestones. On sidewalks, on streets. Making mosaics, artistic flourishes, and seemingly accidental textures. I don’t know yet if this is mainly a Lisbon phenomenon or Portugal-wide. Perhaps it’s simply a European city strategy.

[A side street in neighborhood (parish) of Avenidas Novas.]

Not all roads are cobblestoned; they tend to be side streets. Most of the sidewalks I traverse daily are cobblestoned. They don’t make for the smoothest of walking surfaces. By each cut stone’s unique nature, they create a surface that is predictably uneven. Furthermore, the materials buckle and undulate depending if there are tree roots nearby, or some other natural or perhaps human made impact to disturb the structure.

.[Also from Avenitos Novas parish.]

[Large mosaic tiles.]

[A restaurant’s name along Avenida da Liberdade.]

Some patterns and effects of the cobblestone mosaics seem random and unplanned.

[I am struck by the care taken to encircle and fill in this municipal water access point.]

[There is something modern art-esque about this composition.]

Other patterns and effects are clearly composed and specifically designed.

[I don’t recall where these stars are from. Tag if you know.]

[Along the interior walkway of Avenida da Liberdade.]

[Near the Elevadore de Santa Justa.]

[From Praça Dom Pedro IV, more commonly known as Rossio Square.]

TO BE CONTINUED…

In order to apply for a Portuguese visa, I had to open an account at Caixa (pronounced ky-sha) the state-owned bank. It’s more accurate to say our immigration lawyer opened the account, where a certain amount of euros were deposited to demonstrate my ability to support myself. The primary way of accessing funds is via a bank card, for ATM withdrawals, paying for trolly rides, groceries etc. Sometimes a PIN is asked for during a transaction, sometimes not. Pretty standard banking fare.

When we arrived in Portugal, my bank card did not work in ATMs. (Thank goodness Jeff’s did!) We went to a local office of Caixa and a tall, dapper fellow with limited English skills (as opposed to our minute Portuguese ones) sorted the problem out, which had to do with my PIN. The gentleman was patient, but the overall experience in the bank was intimidating and it was not entirely clear in terms of what we were supposed to be doing electronically to get in the queue in order to meet with a bank representative. However, issue solved, or so we thought, off we went. At first my bank card worked at ATMs, etc. for a bit, until it didn’t. Next the PIN failed at the grocery store. Then the card started getting rejected before the “asking for a PIN” stage. The final descent into nothingness was when an ATM right outside another Caixa branch devoured and destroyed my card, as such machine’s are wont to do if they think you’ve been misbehaving such as trying an erroneous PIN number too many times.

Inside that Caixa location help was to be had. We spent a delightful half hour or so with Eric, a young man in his 20s, himself an immigrant to Portugal. One of his parents was from Spain, the other from Brazil. His English was excellent, which has been my experience with multi-lingual folks with Brazilian connections. He’d come to Portugal for University (undergraduate) and was part way through a masters degree in Economics during which (we learned) he became familiar with writings by Jeff’s cousin Robert Z. Aliber, U of Chicago professor of economics who was a world renowned expert on foreign currencies. Unlike my previous banking experience during which I began to feel like a pesky expat, Eric steadily worked through our banking issues with equanimity and grace. (Jeff also had some banking things to sort out including setting up MBway - an app tied to all the Portuguese banks that works somewhat like Apple Pay) I did not feel like an imposition or a foreign non-portuguese speaking know-nothing. And the positive experience at the bank was further rewarded by a walk up Parque Eduardo VII on our way home.

While I wait for my replacement bank card to arrive, let us consider language regarding those of us in countries not of our birth and/or citizenship. Expatriate, or expat for short, formally refers to a person living outside of their native land. According to the wisdom of the Wiki, a migrant is someone who moves with frequency for work. And an immigrant is someone who moves to another country in order to take up permanent residence.

Jeff reports reading a conversation on the interwebs about negative connotations connected to the term “expat”. When asked to elaborate, he mentioned people coming to a new country making no attempt to connect with the new language and culture, sticking with other expats rather than trying to make friends with native people. In the thread he read, the term “immigrant” was prefered to “expat”. I am told our apartment sits between an enclave of U.S. expats and a group of French ones. I have not seen evidence of this yet. Apparently there are British expats skulking around, but I haven’t run into them either though I did meet a pleasant Irish woman the other day. We’ve had conversations with a number of Canadian couples here on holiday, all decrying the state of the U.S. and effusive in their love and sorrow for the American people along with their abhorrence of our government. That’s a bit of a digression, but worth sharing.

Looking at my own situation, I don’t fall into the migrant category, as I am formally retired and don’t plan on moving soon unless life and the universe have other ideas. At this time I am both an expatriate and immigrant. I feel I can stick with the subtitle of this series of writings, “Migration Edition” because I have indeed migrated across the pond and into a new culture. To quote the 1979 song Quitting Time by the Roches: You can go South in winter / Be what you are, a goose / Honk all the moon out the ocean / You can wear your clothes loose.

P.S. Look what I found…More cod!

It’s been one full week of residing in Lisbon, Portugal. I still don’t know how to use the washer/dryer unit, but can manage the dishwasher, microwave oven, and smooth-top induction stove just fine.

I’ve found that most grocery stores have a contraption that juices fresh oranges on demand. One just places a provided container under a spigot, presses a lever and voila! Liquid deliciousness!

Should I need any large slabs of salted cod, I am all set from multiple sources.

Yesterday afternoon, in a large full service grocery store hidden in an upscale mall, I discovered corn flakes coated with coffee in the gluten free aisle. Yes chef! I sampled them at breakfast this morning and they’re surprisingly good. Not too sweet. Turned the cereal milk into cafe au lait.

Unless I am missing something, bottled salad dressing doesn’t seem to be a thing here. You just have to gather your gumption and mix up some oil and vinegar with a spice or two.

Whether this is a European Union thing or just a Portuguese invention, bottle caps are designed to stay attached rather than sneaking off and getting lost. Water bottles, juice bottles, smoothie bottles, even on milk cartons, a membrane of plastic keeps the twist top connected. I think it’s brilliant!

Yes, in the future there will likely be pictures of castles and doorways, ocean coast vistas and architectural flourishes. But these little things, the snippets of everyday life, can be celebrated for their unique simplicity.

Besides, where else other than “A Way to Write: Migrant Edition” will you get access to three, count ‘em three pictures of salted cod slabs in one entry? You are welcome.

By now you have likely seen some coverage (in the New York Times, Washington Post, or your local source) of the March 28, 2026 No Kings events, marches, rallies, etc., in protest of the Trump Administration’s disregard for democratic norms, rule of law, and general bad behaviour. The woman MCing the Lisbon edition noted that the only continent NOT hosting a No Kings protest was Antarctica. Though the United States certainly had the lion’s share of marchers and gatherers, it truly was a global event.

[Bonus points if you can find me in this picture.]

Our event in Lisbon reportedly had 900 participants. The organizers came up with a simple, effective strategy of volunteers giving out stickers to as many people in the crowd as possible, then tallying the number they distributed. The hour-long program was facilitated by a personal trainer with powerful energy and a commanding voice, who led us in call and response chants between speakers. The speakers themselves were a varied bunch, from the mother of a trans teen, a self described crone, an exuberant local labor leader, and my partner Jeff, the cyber security expert. He spoke about the challenge and importance of finding reputable sources of information, and the pernicious impact of AI Deep fakes. Before hand he’d laminated a curated list of trusted sources, which were passed around in the crowd for people to take pictures of.

I just learned this morning that both CBS News (on their Instagram) and The Guardian had some coverage of the Lisbon No Kings event. So that’s cool!

I think I may’ve misspoke in some previous writing, remembering our visit to Portugal last year being in March. I sit corrected, as Jeff points out it was June 2025 when we were in Lisbon for the first No Kings day and attended the rally. So as of yesterday, 9 months later, we’ve been living in Portugal for 6 days, and there was Jeff speaking to the masses about the technological dangers to democracy and credible resources. It’s been quite a week.

Ola de Lisboa!

When we visited Portugal last June, to see if it might indeed be a place we’d like to move to, our trip coincided with the first ever No Kings Day. All across the United States and in cities around the world, people gathered to give a collective voice to their grave concern about the authoritarian tendencies and abject disregard of the constitution by Donald Trump. We participated in a small but plucky gathering of U.S. expats in Lisbon, right down the hill from where we live now. It was a heady experience, participating in a global action in a country we were considering for a major move to. Jeff kept in touch with some of the event’s organizers which is why and how he ended up being asked to serve as one of the speakers at this year’s gathering.

Here it is, a year later. We’ve officially lived in Lisbon for 5 days. Tomorrow the No King’s Day organizers expect over a thousand visitors. When packing for this move we thought about bringing the signs we’d created for No Kings rally’s in Northampton and Amherst, Massachusetts back in October 2025. Sadly, the signs, even with the picket-fence-like handles removed, were not going to fit in our luggage. For tomorrow’s gathering we purchased anti-fascist slogan t-shirts and have the opportunity to create signs with materials provided at the beginning of the event.

No Kings Rally in Lisbon: Part 2 will report on the day, which is projected to be lovely weatherwise!

[Northampton, MA, October 8th, 2025, Jeff & Alison with shadowy faces.]

Opening a carton of milk

Programing a machine that purportedly both washes and dries clothes in one fell swoop.

Simple sounding tasks can be a bewildering roadblock when one has migrated to a new-to-you country. There are so many little-seeming things I took for granted I knew how to do without much thought. Plunk me in a situation where the dominant language is not my own and a visit to a bank and use of an ATM machine require some fortitude and the help of Google Translate.

Fortunately for me, Jeff the technology guy is responsible for making sure the charging of electronic devices (phones, computers, toothbrushes, etc.) is able to be done safely (i.e., the voltage is compatible and we’ve got required adapters). So I don’t have to fret about getting that right.

It’s day 4 of out great migration and we finally have sheets for the bed, and Portuguese phone numbers for functioning in local society.

But…the light switches in our Lisbon apartment… We are not inept people. We have both managed complicated situations and projects in our personal and professional lives, yet we found the light system baffling. It’s not particularly clear what turns on/off what. I stumbled across one small lever that turns EVERYTHING off in the apartment, abruptly elicited a robust “Hey!” from down the hall. I also happened upon another switch which caused metal shutters to slide down the outside of the four floor to ceiling windows comprising one side of the apartment in a rather dramatic fashion.

Then there’s the washing/drying machine. I tried out this small but mighty front-loader night before last. Sadly, the instruction booklet that came with the apartment featured a different machine which doesn’t look like ours. The interwebs, usually useful for tracking down instructions, was at a loss. There were unfamiliar icons on the front of the unit that made no sense to me: squiggles, a picture of a small t-shirt with a half circle arrow curved around it, a small sun. I pushed what I correctly guessed was an on/off button, switched a dial, and hoped for the best. For the next 5 hours that machine rumbled and squealed and clanked and eventually produced a small load of clean, dry blue jeans, though I still don’t know quite how.

Of course there are fixes for these temporary challenges. Jeff and I can set aside time to systematically go through all the lighting panels to determine what is causing what. I plan to contact the building manager and ask her to walk me through processing a load of laundry while I take copious notes. I figured the milk carton out on my own.

Here’s one of the realities of migration in particular and travel in general. Things are different. They’re supposed to be different. If there’s a different home language in a new place, not knowing that language can be a challenging and isolating experience. I’m appreciative of the kindness and patience of the Portuguese people I’ve met thus far. Many of these folks spoke more than passible English while professing they can’t speak it well at all. They were in fact quite proficient and well beyond where I am with Portuguese. Though I’ve pretty much aced “Bom Dia” (good morning) I struggle to remember Boa Tarde (good afternoon) and Boa Noite (Good Evening.) When trying to say Thank You (obrigado) I sometimes accidentally say the Japanese word for it (arigato).

Struggles arising in any new environment is inevitable, be it a new job, new baby, domestic move, etc. Seemingly small things will slow us down. It’s tempting to give in to annoyance and frustration. However, it’s in our enlightened self-interest to take it for what it is, a part of life and something to be worked with. I’ve likely done thousands of washloads in my life using familiare machines yet this new-fangled one (with lack of instructions) threw me for a proverbial loop. To be clear, I’m not asking myself not to be annoyed, just not to let that emotion dominate my experience.

P.S. Turns out it’s a MYTH that “everyone” in portugal under that age of 50 speaks fluent English — especially outside the tourist areas. But most folks gamely try - and they are incredibly warm and helpful. That includes the Uber driver who waited two hours at the airport for us to arrive — and then helped unloaded our bags, as well as the woman who chatted with us for over an hour while we all awaited the (very late) opening of the drop-off point for our new computer printer, then gave us a ride home — and is poised to have coffee with us in the near future.

[At my new favorite 100% GF bakery and coffee place: Rice Me Deli.]

There are several reasons, starting with the desire to live in a country where health care is a right, not a privilege. I had surgery a year ago and ended up paying for it mostly out of pocket in order to have the doctor I trusted the most to excavate my lower spine. It was worth the cost as the procedure was successful and my recovery remarkable, but tens of thousands of dollars invested was a significant financial hit. Another reason has to do with taking a chance and having an adventure. My partner Jeff and I are both in our 60s, and now seems like a ripe time to explore the wider world in a new-to-us country. Undoubtedly, our multiple privileges are involved in our ability to make this migration choice: monetary; timewise; educational; mental, physical and emotional wellness; and political. Jeff and I have the fiscal resources to dig up substantial roots and hightail it out of town/state/country. We’ve both recently formally retired from full-time professional work, so we have the luxury of hours to spend on “want to do” rather than “must do.” I’m academic-ed up, with two count ‘em two masters degrees. My life-long-learning requirement and commitment to education quotient is pretty high. Perhaps most importantly, I have survived and thrived over 42 years in recovery from substance abuse and have learned to prioritize my well being over all else, knowing that I’m better able to help others when I’m attending to my own needs.

I first started getting Nazi vibes during Trump’s initial presidential rum. I remember opinion pieces in the New York Times*** with the message of “Yes, Trump’s bad news but he’s no Hitler.”Though I tended to trust the NYT writers, I wasn’t so sure about this denial of my own senses. That was 10 years ago, a decade of concerning clouds gathering. The brutal and lethal antics of the past few months have left nothing to the imagination, other than what fresh hell might I read about in the New York Times or Heather Cox Richardson’s Letters From an American at the start of every new day. The rise of authoritarianism, brutality toward underrepresented humans, and the trashing of the U.S. Constitution are real and concerning developments.

My partner Jeff is his family’s genealogist, and he’s identified over 350 people connected in some way in his tree who were murdered during the holocaust. The relatives who fled from Lithuania, Ukraine, Belarus and Poland in time, lived, had children and grandchildren. Those who didn’t flee soon enough paid the ultimate price due to the abomination of Nazi cruelty. Jeff has been chafing for a long while about the rising fascism in the United States. He was hyper aware of the dangers of staying too long. He’s had friends and family who suffered under fascism in countries such as Hungary, Romenia, Chile, Iraq, Iran, and South Africa.

We are honest with each other that we may not have had the chutzpah to make this leap of faith if not for the other. But honesty, chutzpah, and faith are linchpins of our relationship. So, less than two days ago we boarded the plane to Lisbon, a day before ICE started to terrorize American airports.

But back to the question of why. Why go, why now, why not stay and fight? I’ll pull out a familiar flight metafore. In case of emergency, when the oxygen masks fall from the ceiling, place the mask over your own mouth before assisting others. In my case, I have moved away from a highly dysfunctional political situation which mirrors a particularly dangerous and delusional family dynamic, replete with denial and outright lies, where the misanthropicly dangerous patriarch is enabled and coddled. I am in a much better place to be able to witness what is really happening, advocate for change, and support folks in the throes when I am safe and sound.

That’s not to say that a migration move isn’t fraught, because change is change and humans generally aren’t wild about it. More about that in a future post.

Fighting the good fight sometimes begins with good self care. A well crafted Cappuccino and a delicious gluten-free pastel de nata (Portugal’s national pastry of note) counts. On the sturdy shell of the mythical turtle my reasons for the Portugal move and the agreements with my partner make for steady ground.

***My hazily remembered synopsis of published work in the NYT in 2016 through 2017, articles such as Trump Isn’t Hitler, But The Lying…19/10/2017.

Did you know a senior cat might shut down, refusing to drink water or to use the special “portable” kitty litter box bought for the occasion, and only half-heartedly lick at the tube of pureed chicken her human mom provided?

The cat carrier DID NOT fit under the seat in front of me. As I straddled it for the 6 hour flight, I worried that Sofie had perished, so fed up with the noise and the movement and lack of hydration she would give up the ghost, so I periodically unzipped the carrier’s top to feel her warm fur, proof she was still alive. She was, and at this writing, still is. In fact, once we reached our lovely Lisbon apartment and she was released from her confinement, she resumed drinking water, eating cat kibble, exploring her surroundings, and purring on my hip as I lay napping in a post travel stupor.

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