I went to Lisbon a few Aprils ago. I spent my days there simply and quietly; it rained a lot of the time. Every night I ate a communal dinner with the other people in the hostel, traditional Portuguese arroz de marisco and jugs of red wine, all you could eat and drink. After eating we sang songs by Leonard Cohen and Nick Drake, then stumbled on to sidestreet bars to hear local singers fill the night air with melancholy and music. In the day I would buy sweet pasteis de nata and coffee, sit in cafés in Rossio Square and just watch the people go by, writing whatever I could of it all in my journal. Thinking of my time in Portugal, I can’t help but ache to see it again. I can’t help but ache to walk the cobblestoned streets of Baixa, to sip strong espresso in Bairro Alto, to rummage for antique treasures in Alfama, to smell the sea, to purchase kumquats and salted fish in the market, to stand in some tiny crowded bar listening to Fado singers, people and port wine alike sloshing out into the streets. I can’t help but ache to see it again.