Oito Dias de Português

Portugal is hard to describe in words. Or, rather, it would be unfair to explain it in words exclusively. When I returned from Paris last year--feels like last week--I was so heartbroken I could literally cry on cue. Luckily, my feelings this time are of immense fulfillment and hope for future visits. I am, without a doubt, returning to Portugal before I go anywhere else in Europe. (I say that now, of course.) It is a perfect place. A place of both serenity and energy, of love and sadness and longing. The Portuguese have a name for this infectious emotional ebb: saudade. It is why they sing Fado, why they can sit and watch a sunset every night of their lives, and why they never leave.

The Alfama district, dating back to the fifteenth century.

At Cascais, outside Lisbon. There were dancers in the square, and of course we joined in at one point.
Sunset for the eurovacationers in Cascais.

Even the dogs feel saudade. (Alfama)

This picture is relevant for some reason. I promise.

In Portugal, this is called, "a wedgie." Except, their wedgies can occur in crystalline Atlantic waters in the rocky coast of the Algarve.

Maria's boyfriend and I having an intense staring match.Plaia Dona Ana at low tide.

My favorite girl, Carolina, at Costa de Caparica.

In Lagos. Local red wine, three courses and a thick tuna steak in a tomato broth. One of the best meals I've ever eaten.
Sunset in the Algarve.
The Pradas and Bo's leg at sunset at Cos(h)ta de Caparica.
All night long (all night)!

"Bo, hurry the hell up" face. (Lisbon)

In the female tween Myspace vernacular, this is "< 3"

The view at Sintra's nothing to write home about, really.
Posing at the Torré de Belém.
"Quick, let's sit on these tables!" Sin, sin. (That's Portuguese, not holy-speak.)

To conclude. Lisbon by night, the fire that burns inside of me and will never extinguish.