Morning came timely today and dawn gloriously welcomed me. I wanted to find wonder the world. To discover every lost fascination.
The best seat in the house.
I am breaking fast in a very fancy-shmancy restaurant here at the Torel Avantgarde. IT IS a pretentious name for a hotel. But earned. This place is really impressive. Situated on the ancient wall looking down on the Douro river in Porto. This place is an extravagance and our gateway to our 3 months in Europe.
Morning dew glistens on the ancient tile roofs below me. Amidst the old homes is a striking derelict. Roof collapsed, stucco walls are bald and crumbling. The iron terraces, once striking in their ornateness, are now just rusted calligraphy. A record of once better times.
It’s hard to see but there the grand old dame sits.
Isn’t that true of all of us though? The older we get, the more the flesh slides into disrepair. We call it character because time does make us more interesting. But given the choice, I know we’re rather stay ravishing and boring-looking.
White Christmas drifts out of a speaker nearby. These are pre-holiday days.
A church up the hill rang me awake some hours ago and now sits a silent sentinel over its subjects.
An orange tree pregnant with winter fruit is my breakfast companion this luscious morning. It is not much for conversation, but I find it enthralling nonetheless.
Between my fruited neighbor and me, a flowing hedge row of sage contributes visually and aromatically to our scene.
And in front and below, stone houses cascade down ancient cobblestone where the streets splash into a finger of the Atlantic that snaked its way inland where is blends with the fresh water pouring high out of the Sierra de Urbión mountains.
Jealous more of my eggs and ham than my reverie. A massive gull has landed on a nearby handrail and does a circus balancing act in hopes that my appreciation will deliver it a boon.
I am sorry, bird-friend, there’ll be no scraps left for thee. You’ll have take your show on the road.
Winter in Porto is a very pleasant affair, especially the days. The sun warms as the breeze crisps cold and a little biting. Pedestrians everywhere celebrate their holiday. Everyone is happy and festive. The faces and countenance seems altogether different from home. Even frustration here seems less like loss of control or being overridden with emotion and more like a natural expression of circumstance.
The Douro below
A sailboat is pushing up the river in the dancing sunlight. I wonder how the captain feels this Sunday morning.
He is living his dream. Is he content? Is he striving for more? Is he single and hoping for a wife? Or married and praying for children or grandchildren. Or that the ones he has be successful and happy. Perhaps he just longs for a bigger sailboat.
Everyone wants something they don’t have.
Aspiration.
But what is happiness? Not having what you want, but wanting what you have!
And so, the artist works. What else is he to do? What appears luxurious and opulent to a mortal Is tortuous existence for the creative mind.
This moment, like ever, is passing too quickly. I wish only I had a companion with which to share it. Mine is still socked in sleep, stuck on that old clock. I am determined to shift to this new zone.
But, it ain’t easy!
At some later time she will stir and then we will laugh together, eyes dancing in the sunlight as I tell her about boats and oranges and birds.
And one day, long from now, I’ll say ‘remember when?’ And she’ll nod, just like I do when I oversleep and she gets the eggs, the oranges and the river.
Originally published 2025-12-15 04:32:47