Letter from Lisbon

A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.

Lisbon—the equal of Paris or Rome—is a city for lovers. The cobbled streets have an urgent, sensual pulsing energy. The plazas are the comforting calm following frenzied sex. Fish dinners are devoured with passion. Like newlyweds in coitus, terra cotta rooftops, gleaming cathedral spires and clanging trolleys entwine.

Lisbon overflows with women of striking beauty and luscious shapes. Uncommonly handsome men are everywhere. The Portuguese command my attention in the way a fireworks display captivates me. Showy, ephemeral.

My wife and I are here to explore another country, another culture, to chase our common enjoyments. As travelers, we are twinned, paired in purpose and preference, joined in a kind of traveler’s intercourse. From years climbing around archeological sites, visiting cathedrals and castles, lingering over meals, we have a private vocabulary, a comedic black humor, a winking way of teasing—a secret passcode to our airport lounge for two.

While my wife sleeps at our hotel, I am having an espresso and pastel de nata at a café down the street. If I sent her a postcard, it would read, “Wish you were here, love, Noah.” I’m an expert at travel clichés.

The rest of my postcard would say, “Out on the Tagus river, a white-hulled motorboat is skipping across the surface. It seems cheery and light-hearted as if deliriously in love. It doesn’t need to churn the water or make waves to be happy. I thought of you.”

Alone at my table, a mournful fado song replays itself in my mind. I don’t know the words, but it could be about a lone husband who wishes his sleepyhead wife would wake herself and join him.

When my wife finally joins me, I’m going to tell her what she has missed. Outside my café window, I am witnessing why pigeons overpopulate Lisbon. On top of a roof ridge, in plain view, two pigeons are having sex. Along with 400 million cousins in cities and countries around the world, Portuguese pigeons mate and marry for life.

Over breakfast together, I’ll take a selfish pleasure in her company. To prolong the luxury of her, I’ll order a three-egg omelet, pancakes, bacon and sausage, extra toast, juice and enough coffee to replenish the Tagus River. And more custard tarts.

After breakfast, there will be plenty of chances to care for her. Carrying a package, opening a taxi door, figuring out the hotel WiFi, plotting the day’s itinerary, sharing a meal, slowing down to listen more carefully. I make a point to take care of my wife, not because she needs me, but because I need her.

The secret I keep tucked in the side pocket of my suitcase is that I travel for the embracing pleasure of having my wife near me. The monuments, museums, good food, beautiful vistas, paintings, sculptures, architecture are alibis and excuses.

She knows my secret because I have told her, invariably every time we travel. Over breakfast, I think I’ll tell her again.

Click here for more short stories set in Portugal.