When I used to see Portugal on maps, I thought that it was a shame I would never find the time to go to that faraway place, at the end of the civilized European continent. So much to do, so many places to go, and what would I find there anyway? Salt cod and churches and shadows cast by the dictator Salazar on praças where the Inquisition established to appease the wicked Spanish crown had so merrily sent the incense of burning heretic flesh heavenward for the glory of some gilt god. A worthless agricultural country, as one German savant described it, producing nothing of value, unlike his land, where the machines needed to run the world are made in virtuous small villages.
But life in the Teutonic Paradise of autobahns and Arbeit macht frei had gone on nearly fourteen years without much of a holiday, and as 2012 came to a close, a colleague suggested that I wind down for a week in Alentejo, because with a third of the Portugal's area and about ten percent of its population, a rich historical landscape strewn with Roman ruins and hilltop fortresses, megaliths and monasteries, art and aqueducts across a wide countryside of fields and forests, it would suit my temperament rather well she thought. Évora was her suggestion for a start, so I booked it.
My first impression of the country on arrival in Lisbon on January 9, 2013 was good. A different energy and a good mix of new and old. Early the next day I was off to Évora in the rented car, driving across roads through scenery that brought back memories of the better parts of Southern California, where I grew up.
For most of the week I drove the roads around the city, seeking and never finding those megaliths, but seeing some kind of a home in the oak groves and open fields. In the city I was fascinated by the maze of narrow streets, the diversity of locks and doorknobs, the different food, but most of all by the people, who were simply normal.
Early in the week I knew I would return. After a few days I thought I should start learning the language, maybe come back a few times a year or even split my time between Portugal and Germany. And then a long phone call with a German friend reminded me why I needed that holiday in the first place, and the die was cast: I had found my home.
Two more visits in two months, and then I struck off most of my material shackles in Germany, packed the car with dictionaries, two dogs, some clothes and computers and drove 2800 km from Berlin to Évora in two days.
It's been quite an adventure, with many surprises. A few times a year I hear from certain friends or clients in the Vaterland who ask me So, have you found that Portugal isn't quite what you expected?
Indeed. It isn't. I could not have imagined the full-bodied spirit of the place and people, nor my special inspiration and companion, the doutora, who has made it her mission to show me the country's unappreciated best aspects and the Portuguese genius for bringing home the finest of the wide world and blending it to create something better.
So here is the chronicle of my new life in large and small. A bit different from the blogs of breathless Brits who can't get over how much cheaper everything is than in London and all the sun and sand and alcohol, of course. My private Portugal is a different place, in a space real and virtual and perceivable perhaps only in my own head, with my own senses. There are, as one can easily discover, many problems in the country, some recent, some ancient. The place and the people are not perfect. Simply perfect for me.
