The taxi driver made us doubt the continuation of our existence, swerving and racing and yelling obscenities out her open windows. It’s a new country–the rundown airport and apartment buildings painted with graffitied dragons. Lisbon, faded grandeur. Lisbon, cobblestones dipping, old patterns woven into the street. Curtains draped in open windows. We lunch near the statue of Fernando Pessoa, fight to stay awake in the afternoon. Our host, Pedro, takes us to where a new exhibit hangs copies of great art in the street. We touch our fingers to a Dutch master. Who would have guessed?
October 2, 2015


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