Exploring Lisbon, Sintra and Cascais....

It's true what I read: People in Lisbon absolutely adore children. I've gotten used to being stared at in Luxembourg (and in many of the countries we visit) with four little people trailing behind us.....we're a pretty big family in the land of 1.59 average kids. Once, I overheard an employee at an indoor playground say to another in French (not knowing I could understand), "Is she with a crèche" (school/daycare)? "Non," the other guy answered. "She said the kids are all hers!" But in Lisbon people  delighted in seeing a large family. Shopkeepers came out of their stores to give each of my kids individual attention, airport employees tickled Bitsy's nose, and no one could seem to resist teasing John. People are warm and take so much pride in their country; everyone knows its history. The city itself is beautiful with unexpected sea views hiding around corners, tiled walls and red roofs; it's old, gritty and colorful; thriving and convivial; rough-and-tumble. We loved it.

We arrived at our 150-year-old Airbnb apartment in the Alfami neighborhood, Lisbon's oldest, on Saturday afternoon. There's always incredible excitement as the kids run around to check out all the beds and open every door. We couldn't believe our luck as we looked out our balcony doors at the Lisbon Cathedral facing us and saw orange trees. Of course the first order of business was to go straight outside and pick some fruit. We rounded the corner and snacked on duck and mushroom empanadas, custard tarts, and tiny coconut pies wrapped in beautiful paper from a charming outdoor kiosk. Then we jumped in one of the many tuktuks -- kind of like high-speed, souped-up golf carts -- that were lined up in front of the cathedral, and we flew through the steep narrow cobblestone streets. It was ridiculously dangerous and impossibly fun. On the level below our apartment was a hole-in-the-wall restaurant called Cruze's Credo Café with insane smells coming out of the kitchen, so we stopped for dinner. (We later learned it was ranked #59 out of 3,064 restaurants in Lisbon!). The staff played with Bitsy and brought us traditional Portuguese entrées … pork with polenta, salted cod fish and three bowls of clams for John and Madeline. That night everyone slept like a baby (except for, ahem, the baby....Bitsy was sick). So, we mostly slept like babies....up until the garbage truck came through our street at midnight and all the locals who lived in our building came home at 2am. Okay, so the first night, we didn't sleep like babies at all. But we loved being in the heart of the city, and we were ready for a huge adventure the next morning...

Picking oranges! (Not quite sweet yet)...

 

You can see the sea everywhere....

A tuktuk in front of the Cathedral

 

We stopped for fresh pastries and coffee and met our tour guide, Nuno, who owns Lisbon Riders. We zipped off to Sintra, a seaside town only 30 minutes away -- its cooler climate attracted Portuguese nobility through the ages, so it's dotted with treasures. We started with the exquisite mountaintop Peno Palace. Because of its proximity to the sea, it often sits under permanent fog with the cloud line actually below the castle. But that day, there was brilliant sunshine and flowering plants, which made the castle's bright colors and Moorish influence stand out even more. 

Nuno (pronounced Noonoo) and Charlie!

The charming streets of Sintra

Next up was Quinta da Regaleira, our favorite stop of the entire vacation. It was like an enchanted garden filled with caves, waterfalls, lush green tropical plants and mazes… Every corner felt like it held a secret. After winding through the gardens, pausing for the kids to climb into turrets, play in fountains and pet friendly cats, we came to a opening, which led us through darkened tunnels to a dramatic four-story inverted spiral staircase. Technically called an initiatic well, the subterranean tower sinks 27 meters into the earth. It rained earlier that morning, so we listened to the echoes of dripping water as we carefully walked down the stone steps. At the bottom, we followed more tunnels, and eventually emerged in a clearing that looked like a scene from Lord of the Rings. There were stepping stones through a pond with a narrow rope bridge overhead and delicate waterfalls. It felt mysterious and magical. It made you want to whisper.

 

We got back in the van and had a two-hour authentic lunch at a family-owned Portuguese restaurant. I think Nuno, our guide, was genuinely surprised watching young American kids begging for more fresh fish as Rob flayed it from the bones at our table. No doubt it was pulled out of the sea that morning; I pantomimed and smiled with the old Portuguese couple working the grill outside. No chicken tenders or grilled cheese at this joint (thank goodness). We enjoyed a glass of Green Wine, or Vinho Verde -- made in the North, effervescent and bubbly. 

Next up, we stopped at Cabo da Roca, the westernmost point of continental Europe, and watched the Atlantic crash against 150 meter cliffs… Sort of a Portuguese Cliffs of Moher. Of course within seconds Madeline and John were both scuttling under the fence protecting them from imminent death...

 

Next we stopped in Boca do Inferno (Portuguese for Mouth of Hell), a natural cavern carved into the seaside cliffs - you could feel the spray as the angry waves pounded and slashed the rock. 

We finished the day in Cascais, a fishing village-turned resort town (which gained popularity after Portuguese royalty lived there briefly) -- the kids played in the sand for a hour. They were so tired when we got home from a full day that they ate leftover breakfast pastries in our apartment kitchen for dinner and fell asleep. And Bitsy was such a good sport that no one even noticed she was fighting a virus and was on an antibiotic for a double ear infection. That sweet baby girl. Gosh, how I love her.

After such a long day steering the kids away from so many precarious ledges, we wanted them to be able to run and relax the next day. We took a cab to Lisbon's oceanarium, the second largest aquarium in Europe…it was fabulous! And then we took a fun 20-minute ride in a telecabine dangling over the harber, and let the kids play and climb around the boardwalk (we only lost John once).  I popped into a Portuguese children's boutique and bought Bitsy the most beautiful embroidered and ruffled outfits I've ever seen, complete with knee socks and velvet shoes, all for prices I'd spend at Target. On our way home we stopped in a local grocery store and picked up dinner -- fresh mussels and easy pizzas. Bam.

Fun Telecabine ride.

The way these two love mussels boggles my mind.

Our third and final day was perfect. We hopped on Tram 28 for a quintessentially Lisbon experience. These vintage trolleys from the 1930s would be in a museum most anywhere else, but they're still used in Lisbon to climb the steep cobblestone hills (my calves and quads are sore after walking for 3 1/2 days!). The tram was packed like sardines, but while guidebooks said it would be filled with tourists, we found ours slammed with local commuters. An elderly woman climbed on and chastised a younger person for not offering me a seat with the baby. We had a friendly exchange where I insisted she take the newly-open seat (she had to be at least 80!) but she wouldn't hear of it. We got off at the flea market where I bought traditional Portuguese pottery -- a giant tomato soup tureen on a leaf platter -- from a lovely man named Amerigo (which we loved). 

 

It was packed! The kids loved it! Sort of.....

Then it cleared out. This is the elderly women (beside the kids) who ushered me into the first available seat!

Amerigo's shop.

We walked to lunch, and after a beautiful meal outside on a terrace, we explored the Castelo de S. Jorge around the corner -- an 11th century castle with a gorgeous view of the city below and some noisy peacocks. That afternoon, Rob walked to a barber for a much-needed haircut. He waited with the Portuguese locals until it was his turn. We laughed until I had tears in my eyes when he got home -- his hair was shaved to nothing at the sides, long on top and slicked straight back with incredible amounts of thick gel. It will forever be known as Rob's Portuguese Haircut.

When in Portugal, do as the Portugese do!

Lisbon treated us well. I recently asked the kids if they liked Barcelona or Lisbon better. Madeline immediately answered, "That's an impossible question." (How cute is she?). On our last night, after the kids went to bed, Rob and I brainstormed our next vacation -- Ireland, Scotland and Amsterdam. 

This whole seeing-the-world thing is pretty great.

The Fabulous Oddities of Expat Life

The other night on the couch, Rob said, "I find myself thinking in British English sometimes." And it's true; I do too. One of the odd things about not just just expat life, but about moving in general as often as we do, is the way you can feel like an imposter as you integrate into your new life. After four years in Nashville, I was throwing out hearty "y'alls" like I was born and raised in the deep South. A neighbor even praised me for it, saying he was glad I didn't say "you guys" like the other Northerners he knew. It left me confused. When I would talk to family or my Midwestern friends on the phone, I was aware of the "Bless your hearts" and the "y'alls" that peppered my speech. I felt like a fake. So I self-edited and carefully enunciated, "How are you all" or yep, said the dreaded "you guys." But if you're correcting away from what feels natural, isn't that being a faker too? 

And now, here we are....Americans living in Luxembourg, learning French and hearing British English. Plasters for Band-aids, Maths for math, crisps for chips, torch for flashlight, brilliant for awesome. Communications from the school ask the kids to choose their "favourite colour" and to wear a Christmas jumper. In order to live in a foreign country and thrive, you force yourself to embrace the strangeness and daily discomfort of a completely new way of life. After 18 months, we're forever changed; the brain does funny things to help you adapt and assimilate.  I no longer break into a sweat speaking French on the phone, not because my language skills have necessarily improved, but because I'm totally comfortable -- even conditioned -- to sounding ridiculous. Like mixing up the word for monkey and blood when I'm speaking to the kids' pediatrician. Even at home, I offer the kids biscuits instead of cookies, and I take them to the piscine instead of the pool. The first time my British girlfriend told me she was shattered, I texted a mutual (American) friend and we planned a quasi-intervention. Then I found out she was just telling me she was particularly tired with a newborn at home. As a mother of four living in a foreign country, I too am shattered. Absolutely shattered.

Being an expat abroad means we've all unilaterally left our families behind. While we have emotional support from back home (wherever that may be) and the gift of technology to connect "face-to-face," tactical, on-the-ground support comes from friends, and that means our friends become like family. We lean harder, ask more of each other and change some of the rules. Girlfriends I had only known for eight weeks sat with me in my hospital room after I had our fourth baby; they brought my family meals, picked my kids up from school and stopped by the pharmacy to buy my nursing supplies. Nothing like having a brand new friend pick up your nipple cream. But some relationships have a temporary undercurrent -- expats are an itinerant population. Everyone's always coming and going, and traveling every weekend to get the most out of our collective European Experience. We all leave for the summer and come back right before school starts. It's kind of like we're on an extended college spring break. 

As a former expat kid now raising expat kids, my story may have seemed a little interesting when we were living in middle America. But over here, where Italians marry French, raise their kids in Belgium, summer in Majorca, and everyone speaks four languages by the time they reach high school...well, my story is not at all unique or even remotely interesting. I've moved 14 times since I was born, including 5 different countries and 6 states in the U.S. (that's not including a cute college study abroad or local moves from house to house). I hesitate internally when people ask me where I'm from while I make a snap decision between the quick answer or the real answer. I usually say, "Oh, I went to high school in Peoria, IL," which is where Caterpillar's world headquarters are (most of my family and my husband work for the company). Fast forward to the present, and by my youngest son's fourth birthday, he had already lived through four transfers. I was taken aback when my six year old's first grade teacher told me matter of factly that Charlie didn't know where he was from, and I felt sad last year when my daughter walked out of 2nd grade and expressed the same confusion while writing a school essay. When you picture giving your children roots "so they have wings to fly"....this wasn't quite what I imagined. So I googled "Raising expat kids" and gave them my best shot: Home is always going to be wherever our family is together. 

Nope. 

They wanted to know where we're really from. So I gave it another try. I told them that since we lived in Nashville the longest, that we're most likely moving back to Nashville one day (it's where Caterpillar's financial headquarters are located) and that two of four children in our family were born there, that's where we call home. The fact is they probably have a lifetime ahead of choosing between the quick answer or the real answer.

We're all a hodgepodge of our life experiences. Real roots come from my children's sense of security and trust in the world, which is established through our daily interactions from the moment they're born. It comes from their absolute confidence that they are loved and safe, and that our family is a ironclad unit. The experiences we're gaining from moving and traveling are teaching them to march into new classrooms, try something completely new, and appreciate new cultures and religions. I love watching them make friends in an airport or a playground -- when they can't understand each other, they just run around in circles and laugh. What a beautiful language. Last night, Madeline's entire horseback riding lesson was in Luxembourgish, of which we do not speak a single word. She observed the girls around her and followed suit. And if you can believe it, in her first-ever group lesson, she actually fell off her horse, brushed the dirt off her face, wiped her tears and was back on her horse by the time I made it to the ring. However cliché, there couldn't be a more apt or timely life metaphor. We're bumbling through our days, doing the best we can, laughing at our mistakes, ordering pommes de terres (potatoes) instead of jus de pommes (apple juice) when the waiter asks what we'd like to drink. And sometimes we throw out a "y'all" and a "voila" all in the same sentence.