Porto, Portugal, is a beautiful city nestled along the Douro River. I’m pretty sure lying by the water at dusk healed some part of me. As my depression was skyrocketing, I had low expectations for my trip. My sister wanted to go, and I agreed as it would be a change of scenery from rotting in my bed. I was in full pity party mode, and the last thing I wanted was to feel anything, especially something positive. Well, Portugal had other plans.
My flight over was rough with two layovers, one in Denver and the other in Munich. I was stuck sitting with a very obnoxious American family who seemed to be appropriating every culture but their own. They took my seat and refused to move. The German flight staff waved me aside and offered apologies. Fortunately, I was already disassociating from melancholia so that made the 10+ hours fly by.
I was not prepared for Germany, spiritually or psychologically. I have always heard the stereotypes, but never expected to witness them. The number of long lines, intense security checkpoints, and screaming airport staff still haunts me. I quickly ran past the tacky American family trying to start an argument with a customs officer. The look on his face told me everything. Boy, were they in for a well-deserved surprise!
An airport employee screamed at the top of her lungs for us to board the terminal train in a polite line and not to ask questions. At my gate, they delayed the flight because we ‘weren’t in a rush’. “Let’s wait for everyone, yes? You’ll get to your destination eventually.” Delayed 2 hours. Now, normally, this would rattle me, but the chaos backfired because I now have an unhealthy obsession with Germans. I am mesmerized by their strict composure. You’re on THEIR schedule. They tell YOU when you get to fly. Need their help? No. I need to explore this further.
Immediately upon landing in Porto, I noticed an energy shift. Security was just an officer in the middle of a conversation. Everyone was calm and going about their business. This was not what I was expecting. As this is one of the most popular destinations for tourists, I anticipated intensity and commotion. It was like everything came to a standstill. I had to dial my emotions back and adapt. My sister was in the same boat. She had a set schedule of things to see and do, with no room for dilly-dallying. I think she would flourish in Germany.
I had a hard time adjusting to the culture shock. What do you mean I’m supposed to leisurely go about life? Go to a restaurant, sit outside, and enjoy the ambiance for hours?! This is why I go to Europe to enjoy my mental breakdowns. Technically, I am American, but internally I am European. Here, if you show any sign of weakness, they call you crazy and tell you to get a job. Overseas, I can go get a loaf of bread, sit next to the river in the middle of the city, cry, and no one bats an eye. Case in point, why I love New York City, but that’s another story for another day.
Everything changed when I sat by the Douro River in the Ribeira district of Porto. No matter what bustling European city I am in, you’ll always find me near a river. My mom says I’m like a rat in that way. “Wherever you go, you’re either on a park bench or down by a river.” Sounds like a grim Dr. Seuss book. I don’t know what it is about European rivers that heal me. The murky brown water is like an elixir. London, Paris, Stockholm, Rome, and now Porto. I get a new lease on life that only lasts during my time in that country. Depression? Never heard of her. Mental breakdowns? In this economy?
Rejuvenating by the Douro river in Porto; photo by author
For that brief week in Portugal, life was good. Mornings were spent in the bustling Mercado de Bolhao. This open-air market has everything. Vendors offer a variety of baked goods, seafood, produce, and flowers. I indulged in fresh juices, vibrant fruit bowls, and delicious treats like passionfruit tarts and coconut pastries. The lively marketplace was like a Portuguese crash course, as each exchange doubled as a cultural and linguistic workout.
Portuguese cuisine is simple and hearty, which is the perfect fuel to conquer the number of hills you will trek up. We decided to try the legendary sandwich, the Francesinha at Conga. Normally, the contents of this dish would scare me away, but while high on life, I felt adventurous. I was not expecting a religious experience. The sandwich was a delicious symphony, with layers of savory cured meats and gooey cheese, topped off by a rich sauce. We devoured our meal at an alarmingly fast rate, which I hope didn’t scare the employees. We went back the next day to try bifanas, and unfortunately, the staff DID remember me. I like to leave a lasting impression wherever I go.
The infamous Francesinha at Conga; photo by author
Wanting to further immerse myself in the culture (and forget my troubles) I enrolled my sister and me in a pastry workshop at Domus Arte. We learned how to make pastel de nata, the iconic mini custard pie. We tried to recreate the delicious delicacies, but our efforts fell short. However, all was not lost. I developed a greater appreciation for the Portuguese way of life. We were able to sit and connect with the teacher and fellow students in the class. Even though we walked home in the pouring rain, I had a pep in my step.
So, what did I learn? Well, I have just had an epiphany on why I keep going back to Europe. I thought it was just a coincidence that I felt a mental breakdown coming and suddenly found myself boarding a plane to an international destination. Hey, it’s cheaper than rehab, right? Months later, the dopamine hit of Portugal is wearing off. I am back to my regularly scheduled programming of trying to outrun and outsmart my fluctuating mental health. I need to be grateful for the privilege of being able to briefly escape my battles. Portugal has won my heart and reminded me that life can be beautiful. In the ideal list of places to have a menty b, it’s at the top. 10/10, no notes.
*Originally posted on Medium