That familiar, tangible feeling ...

“Headed down south to the land of the pine,

Thumbin’ my way into North Caroline,

Starin’ down the road and I pray to God I see headlights.”

Travelling starts the second you leave your home. Granted, I exit Larch building in University Village several times every day; but, when you take those first steps out of the door, and can feel the weight of your backpack on your shoulders, it’s different. It is different because, you know that you are not merely headed onto campus to go to class or to the pub, or to take the bus into town spend another unfulfilling night at Mercy; but rather, you are leaving your shitty flat, unmade bed and squalid room with clothes lying all over the place for an extended period of time. And you will not be returning back to it that night.

Each time I have taken these initial steps away from my door towards the bus stop, whether it be for 3 days in Edinburgh, week in Northern England, 7 days in Prague, I have felt the difference of these steps of travel from those other times I have left my building. But with that said, this one in particular was special. Special because, unlike Edinburgh or Prague, I knew I would be gone much longer, but still, I had not the slightest idea of how long it would be.

At 14:00, I left Larch building, backpack straps heavy on my shoulders, “Wagon Wheel” playing in my ears, ready to embark on my tour of Western Europe. I was headed back to the continent, again. And as I walked out of my building, door shutting behind me, I hoped it would be weeks before I would take out my key, unlock it and walk back in.

From there, you can guess the rest, and it was as uneventful as it was impatient. I was buzzing to get to Lisbon. Bus to the train. Train to Heathrow. Along the way, I wrote an entry in my journal and started reading For Whom the Bell Tolls (an ace decision on my part, if I must say ... I had been saving it since January for this trip). And then I got to Heathrow, got on my plane, read some more and landed at about half ten.

I was in Lisbon. Why Lisbon? Well I’ve never been there, or Portugal, before; and what was more, I didn’t know too much about it. This aspect appealed to me the most. I knew I wanted to do Western Europe, and I had pretty solid notions of Spain, France etc., but where did Portugal fit into that? How was it different/the same? And lastly, it made geographical sense.

After exiting my bus that took me into the city centre, I was on the lookout for a hostel of some sort. I stopped in at one hotel, too expensive, then another, it was full, but then I was given directions to a hostel (by a guy who later turned out to be a drug dealer, I declined his offers, but he was helpful anyway) which was perfect. I get in to the hostel and check in with the very lovely Tatiana, who gave me a beer on the house. I liked the Portuguese already.

At the hostel, I sat in the lounge, sipping my beer, writing a bit and chatting with some American students studying abroad in Spain, who were in the midst of a pre-drink session before heading out for the night. A couple minutes later, we were all taking shots, I had changed my shirt and we were headed out.

We strolled through Lisbon’s quintessential-Iberian streets, kicking down its black and white tiled sidewalks, meandering with a purpose of reaching a specific street some time and with beers in hand. We were not headed out to a club or bar, but when we reached it (Sorry, don’t know the name) we found the street littered with people milling about, sipping their beverages, drifting through the crowds down the street.

It is amazing how an image can have such an impression of being distinctly European. Bars lined each ground floor of the balcony-covered buildings, but few people were inside of them. Rather, you would go inside, order your drink, served handily in a plastic cup, and then get back to drifting through the crowds down the street. When you were done with that one, stop in at another bar, get a gigantic mojito, and get back out into the warm, sweet Portugal night, sipping that fine blend of limes and mint leaves that quenched so generously.

It was an interesting exercise to stand still in one spot and watch all the people pass. As I stood mingling with my fellow stud’s-abroad, I saw three twenty something year old guys, dressed in almost identical short-sleeve button ups with matching hats, stride purposefully down the block. (Ok, we’ve got those guys in America; the going-out-to-get-laid guys). Then there was a couple. A woman in a very Portuguese-looking dress (that’s as best as I can describe it) and a man in a tuxedo. Then there was a street vendor selling flowers. And followed by that, a homeless man that was seriously hammered.

And so the night gradually drifting into morning, meandering on like our group of students through the streets. I checked my phone. It was 02:11. Twelve hours ago, I was still in my flat, lying on my bed, trying to think of what I had forgotten to pack. (It took me awhile to think of it, but I knew there was something. There is always something I forget when I travel). It turned out to be my phone charger.

It shocked me the ease in which I had relocated myself on the continent. As I told my mates, I had gotten into Lisbon an hour before we headed out. In America, travelling anywhere takes up the day, if not more, due to jetlag. But I had a two-hour flight, a bus into the city, a short conversation with a drug-dealer and there I was.

I woke up the next morning in my hostel. I heard churchbells strike nine times. I got out of bed and took a sublime shower. After, as I stood in front of the mirror, brushing my teeth, I noticed a cheeky grin start to form, and then grow into a full-out smile. That familiar, tangible feeling was back again. Yes, I was back in the continent, the best continent, again ... LW