3 Things

8 a.m. rain with the sun out: The act of being outside in your sweats with a hot cup of coffee on the kind of morning that will disappear forever—as all mornings do—should always be occasioned by an ominous purple cloud, a freak shaft of sun, and a resplendent shimmering rainbow off in the nearby distance. Right???

Cooking along with old-timey music on the radio: Soundtrack-wise, I'm gonna argue here that the sound of sizzling onions and a half-glass-of-wine buzz click in naturally with something warm and crackly, say Django Reinhardt or, like, Sam Cooke?

Charley Countryman: Currently streaming on Netflix. A fairytale, if such a thing can exist amidst the hardcore Romanian mafia. Which, hey why not?

Portugal Mega-Post

Hi to you. I've just returned from Portugal. I've been dreaming about that place for years, ever since I saw a picture of Lisbon—a whitewashed and red-roofed city tumbling down to the sea.

The place/experience/trip was epic as hoped. Sure, I submitted some formal complaints to the ether about airports, customs, and all the rude dickheads throughout. The shitty plane food. The hours of standing in line, as we all must, to fly somewhere. But physical acts of traveling aside, Portugal was, as they say, dreamy. Magnificent empty beaches. Tidy blue-and-white buildings. Olives. Bread. Wine. Sunshine everyday, everywhere, all the time.

A note about "tourism": Personally, I travel somewhere for the there-ness. With the exception of Lisbon, Portugal was delightfully un-touristy, and, for that matter, un-crowded. We had room to breathe—really see/feel/taste what was going on in the place. This led to 2 realizations: 1) the U.S. is very crowded, and 2), the tourism industry kind of benefits the economy at the expense of the culture. Like, AirBnB brings in money, but it displaces people. I mean, the fairytale jalopy buildings of old-town Lisbon were filled, not with Portuguese people, but rather with foreigners who, like us, were Air-BnBing their way through the country. Truth be told, I peeped anti-AirBnB graffiti all around the city. I'm not sure exactly what I think. Big ups to considering yourself (like I try to!) a Traveler vs. a Tourist—but I came home with a gloomy feeling that the cultural spirit of a community is a lot more fragile than we think.

Medieval fortifications overlooking the sea. All the Portuguese castles had that sickest ocean views. "Easier to defend," the ancients claimed, but we all know the real truth ...

The pretty beaches in Peniche with the nicest little waves. Here is were I went surfing, bravely but poorly.

We took a wee day trip to Porto, a city in the North (where, obvi, port wine was born). I loved this place. It's fairly untouched by time. Basically, you're on the set of a Shakespeare at all times.

Medieval stairmaster! See ya, vacation calories.

Porto azulejos. Painted tile game on point.

Sundown on my birthday in Ereicera. Gold star emoji on this scene right here!

Palace hunting in Sintra. Yep, another castle with an epic view.

As a settlement, Lisbon has been around for 3,000-odd years. I'm a student of history, and I was super in awe of the cultural and archaeological mishmash. Phoenicians. Romans. Visigoths. Moors. Celts. Christians. See the pic below—it's all layered in there like a cake!

Cotton candy sunsets in Lisbon, as seen from our attic apartment.

Stone-cold sightseers. Behind us, a statue of a prince, Lisbon city center, and the Tejo river. Got it? Got it. Now let's all go drink a beer.

After a laborious week of avoiding octopus tentacles out in the fishing villages, we came into city and our veggie-minded stomachs were rewarded.

No-fucks-given parking situations everywhere you turned your head.

Ciao Portugal! Obrigado.

Birth-Day In The Life

When you're not really in a celebratory mood, I find the best place to celebrate your birthday is far away. That way, the simple act of living is a kind of observance, both unique and memorable. As it happens, we'd planned a trip to Portugal a few months ago, and that's where I was on Friday—the anniversary of my birth.

Upon arrival, we were in another world, a sunny, serene place where the people are forever in sandals, forever tan, forever gesticulating happily during conversation and forever ready to laugh with you, at you.

All I did on my birthday was slow down. The things I enjoyed most were as follows: The fairytale peach nectar we spread on our fresh-baked rolls as we drank coffee with the sun streaming down. The empty beach with the perfect aquamarine barrels. Mesmerizing. I could watch them forever and ever—the deepest, truest meditation. A respectable glass of cool, bubbly wine on an a modest wooden deck. The prettiest pink sunset—a little show just for me, as far as I'm concerned.

Then, Now, Forever

Two days after Lefty died, I went bravely on my first hike without him. A small road sign for the Pacific Crest Trail passed by the car window, and we pulled off to follow the path. We walked through blackened forests while big dark clouds rolled in and out, now drenching us, now not, and the mixture of rain and sun, of death and life everywhere, well it felt exactly right. All I could do was nod along. Yes, that happened. Yes, more stuff will happen.

When the vet came over last Friday, Lefty wagged up to her like he would any other visitor. Three days earlier, I'd stabbed the shovel into the hard dirt of late summer while he rested on the lawn watching me, looking straight into my eyes, and I swore he knew that I was digging the hole for him. He wasn't afraid. On the threshold of the kitchen floor, where he always would lay to feel the cool tile and also to keep a close watch on me, he now slouched there sick and struggling to breathe. His head was in my lap, the wild river of my undignified tears raining all over it. I told him he was the best boy. There was the last big breath, and then the final quiet.

It's hard. But I'm so glad I was there. Being in the presence of death is powerful--it's the ultimate mystery. My intuition was high, and I felt the energy exchange. First it was in there, then it was out here. We wrapped that soft fluffy body in a soft, fluffy blanket and carried it out into the yard, knowing all the while that it was no longer him.

Anyway, my guy is gone.

He's with Benny now. With Jake. With Poa. With Otis. With Orchid. With all our old buddies, then, now and forever.

Lefty's Prayer

The dog named Lefty came into my world on the heels of opening an indoor skatepark, a tough era that wouldn’t have been navigable without the company of a life-affirming fluffball. And at this, he excelled. For the past 5 years, Lefty went where I went. Working. Skateboarding. Camping. It was all better with him there.

Two weeks ago, I found out Lefty had cancer. Now he’s on the other side. He departed us on an auspicious Friday—a lunar full-moon eclipse. We buried him at sunset under a sapling maple as dark-winged birds flapped south in formation and the sky turned peach overhead.

In 5 years, we had enough adventuring to last 5 lifetimes. Still, I thought I’d have more time. But you get what you get. We aren’t guaranteed shit. I do know that there’s no easy way to decide when it’s the right time to end another life.

Despite the profound silence in the house now, I feel lucky. How lucky am I for knowing this giant-pawed squealin’ bear? Friendship with animals is, maybe, one of the purist, most joy-giving things in existence. Dog tails wag with happiness and hope; their soft coats offer warmth and comfort. We feed them, we exercise them, we command them to sit and stay—and then we tell them they’re good. In return, they LOVE us. Pow!