We just arrived at Chiado Martinhal Family Apartments where a man named David checked us in and felt sorry for us that we arrived at 3 am Florida time, so he let us eat breakfast. We feasted on thin salty ham, buttery eggs, chocolate croissants, freshly squeezed juice and homemade bread with homemade jam. Our apartment is immaculate and made for traveling families. It has a play room downstairs, a washer and dryer, huge living room, and a fully stocked kitchen.

Our room overlooks the streets, which are dotted with flower pots, and are oddly quiet on this holiday, the day after the feast of St Anthony. And now we are going to rest before setting out.

Lisbon’s pretty streets

It has a climbing wall!

Magical playroom for kids.

Driving the car in the breakfast room.

Homemade jams

Homemade juices

Pain au chocolate

Muesli

Martinhal’s breakfast game was on point. Jackson took the photos here!

Iberico ham melts in your mouth.

Our first day in Portugal involved a short nap, a good strong cup of Nespresso, and a cab out to the Lisbon Oceanarium. It was just what we needed to get our feet moving to beat the jet lag and stay up til bedtime. We saw zebra sharks, puffins, penguins, and sunfish. The day was cool with a light breeze and it was just right for sightseeing.

We are surprised at how affordable everything in Lisbon is. Meals are all small, and the prices are, as well. We got custard and coffee in the Oceanarium cafe for around €3 a piece. Take that, Paris. I asked a local to teach me “thank you” in Portuguese and he taught me Obragada, noting that the word ends in “a” if you are female and o if male, regardless of the intended recipient. I immediately botched this by switching the genders when thanking a group of locals for translating a sign for me, which sent them into polite giggles. I have forgotten how humbling it is to be a stranger in a strange land.

Bertrand Chiado Bookstore

From the Oceanarium, we walked to the oldest operating bookstore in the world, where Jackson was disappointed to learn that all the books he’d hoped to buy were in Portuguese.

After the Oceanarium, we wandered into a place for dinner called Restaurantes Leao d’Ouro at Rua 1 de Dezembro 105. They have hangers of meat dangling over the cheese and seafood bar, where most of the ingredients remain swimming until beckoned to the plate. The meat looks dry and salty and lusciously fat. It reminds me of smoked turkey legs in carnivals, grown cocky.

Jackson does well with the pace here, despite that we’ve been up for two days straight. He likes taking hours to eat but does not understand why we have to summon the waiter to beg for our checks. He is learning so much on this trip. Andrew and I have spent some time teaching him about the subway, particularly how to read maps and what to do if we are ever separated. He is very good at the subway maps and counts the stops in Spanish, as we do not know Portuguese.

We have also taught him to lower his voice around Europeans and be on the lookout for pickpockets and to appreciate the melange of languages in the streets we wander together. But his favorite part tonight was getting to sleep in a bunkbed. He says it is like sleeping in a bed that is flying, which, he notes, he has technically already done. “But this is way more comfortable,” he added.

The Iberico ham that comes from these fat legs are sliced slowly and thinly. They come out on the plate paper-thin and melt all the way down your throat. This and the fact that the menu wasn’t being hawked in English on the street outside, coupled with the fact that the owner could barely speak English, told us we’d found a good place. When we asked the butcher-owner-waiter what was on the menu to drink for kids, he said “Chicken maybe.” \240

We all were.

We ended the afternoon at Pao Pao Queijo Queijo (bread bread cheese cheese), where we noshed on vegetarian falafel, beef gyro, and the world’s longest hot dog. We also got to catch a glimpse of Russia playing in the World Cup.

We even got to play with some dimensions, ourselves, outside the monument honoring the conquistadores, the Monument to Discoveries.

The inside of the stone church was cool and sweet. We were surprised to come upon the tomb of Vasco de Gama, whom we did not know was buried there. Here and there, there were alcoves that glittered gold, reflecting the light that haloed the saints. Many of them depicted the passion of Christ—one of which encased Jesus in a glass box. We though that was a bit odd.

From there we went to Pasteis de Belem, which is the birthplace of these little custard tarts famous all over Portugal but made best right here. They are called Pastel de nata, the recipe from the monetary monks down the street. The custard is flanked by a thin crispy pastry that tastes like phyllo. The middle tastes like warm brown sugar and rich eggs, and the top is browned crisp like a creme brûlée. The line was so long here that it almost connected the restaurant with the monks’ former dwelling.

We started our day at the Jeronimos Monastery, which we reached after a long and hot but amiable trolley ride. The lines at the Monastery were long but it was soon clear why: the ceilings of the church inside soared, the long stone arches bending toward heaven impossibly high.

It was hard to get a video because we were filming through another table and it was pitch black.

Our Fado restaurant was the best on the planet. It served a four course meal with the music. I had grilled fish with potatoes that melted as soon as you put them in your mouth and for dessert I had some kind of cheese with compote and toasted nuts. Andrew said he was leaving me for his dinner, which was pork medallions in some kind of drinkable bourbon sauce and roasted potatoes. His dessert was a tiny sliver of custard made, somehow, with smoky chorizo. I would have understood his lapse in fidelity. \240Jackson had veal and ice cream.

Jackson says he wants to live here because no one rushes him and “everyone seems to be good citizens.” I’m not sure what that means, but he seems to take to being European just fine. He stays up til midnight talking with the waiters; ours tonight plays video games and they chatted a while about Minecraft and Fortnight. He anticipated all of Jackson’s needs and even gave him extra pirouette cookies, which made them fast friends. Jackson is working on his Portuguese so that he can move here one day and is keeping a journal of all his new words. I used to do that when watching Bollywood movies, which my friends no doubt found obnoxious, but it makes my heart hurt to know my kid is the same as I.

Luso in the Baixo-Chiado — so lovely.

Crowd goes wild

We found a crowd of thousands gathered to watch Lisbon play soccer at the Praca de Comercio. Fans were hanging off this statue at the center and were surrounded by thousands of viewers, locals and tourists, alike. A giant outdoor screen had been erected for the event. It was incredible. Each time Ronaldo the famous player would come onscreen, all of Lisbon would shout and stamp their feet. When they scored, they went beserk.

Couldn’t fit all the crowd in one shot.

We stayed until the game tied \240and the crowd dispersed quickly, filling the bars and restaurants to capacity to relive the best plays with friends and loved ones.

The Gulbenkian is an art museum known for its collection of ancient art and paintings by the Dutch Masters. But my favorite was the modern art collection, especially pop and post-pop. There was a wall of stereos saying yes in multiple languages but spelling out NO.

Jackson liked pop art more than the Egyptian collection though he did admire the coins.

When he got tired, I thought he might give up on the whole thing, until we got to a large colorful painting of people’s butts. He’s 7, so we decided to count the number of butts we saw to make it more fun. We found 11.

Andrew found a dick in a box.

We are very mature people is what I’m saying.

The grounds outside the museum were surrounded by gardens and a beautiful stream.

The Castelo de S Jorge is this huge castle at the very top of Lisbon. It affords huge sweeping (and freezing) views of the city, and, thank goodness, because the steep slippery climb up the slope needs that kind of incredible reward. The way up can be superseded by an elevator, but then you’d miss the street art, which is breathtaking.

Jackson liked it but gave us a heart attack at every railing.

When we got down to the bottom of the castle, a group of young people dressed in yellow costumes were acting out some kind of art installation or play. A woman would say I love you I don’t love you in Portuguese, which another would translate into English over a bullhorn. A young man picked up each girl one after the other and did all kinds of gymnastic tricks and dances with her before she “died.” The dead girl would then go up to the top of the castle and hang precariously over the edge upside down. When all the girls had died, the crowd followed them up the stone staircase to see them laid out one by one like dead sardines in a can. Then they all stood up and bowed and everyone cheered.

Once we got to the top, we tried a number of different views, some of the city and some the sea. Andrew is afraid of heights but he persevered.

In all the pictures, he’s slightly turned away because, while he really wanted to see out, it was like his body wouldn’t let him get too close to the edge.

We decided to go back down the hill to see what the fuss was about.

From this show, we began to leave the castle but were distracted by cheering, which broke out all over the city. In each street, we heard shouting, stomping, whistling, and cheering. It was the Portuguese v Spain World Cup Soccer Match and the entire city was watching together. We soon saw thousands of them gathered in a square near the sea. We could hear them scream from miles and miles away.

Our hotel is the Petit Palace Savoy XII and it is lovely and odd. It looks like the inside of a Star Trek Spaceship.

We like it quite a bit. It’s close to the Grand Via but not on it, so I think we will be able to sleep.

We walked the Grand Via tonight to find dinner and ended up at Ex Libres. It was early by Madrid’s standards — 8:30pm — but we were hungry. Our new strategy is to find the main thoroughfare and go two blocks away, and that’s how Andrew found a Michelin rated rertaurant that spoke only Spanish. We had a four course meal paired with wine that was devine. Octopus, enrusted tuna, gazpacho, thin slivers of orange and a tiny bowl of mint chocolate chip gelato at the end. Jackson had an entire plate of tomatoes mixed with anchovies and toast which he ate. Which I found amazing.

The waitress spoke Castilian to me and I only have high school Spanish but I tried to use it and she was kind to me. I understood her and she, me, and we were able to get a good meal from it, which made me very proud.

We went up the Gran Via, which reminds me of Times Square but tamer, to see the statue of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. Jackson has been reading the story and enjoyed seeing these two.

We then walked up to see the Crystal Palace and this Egyptian Pyramid that’s weirdly in the middle of the city. On our way back, far from the hotel, Jackson had to go to the bathroom. We stopped at a pub that was closing and asked if he could use he facilities; the owner said yes but then forced the woman cleaning the room to leave the door open so I couldn’t go as well. He screamed at me while Jackson was in there that he hated people in his bar all day using his restroom. The woman was so ashamed that she refused to hold the door open and walked away to let him fume. It was such a stark change from Portugal \240that I have not decided if I will like Madrid. I hope he does not represent this city’s overall arttitude. The Portuguese made us feel like family. So far Madrid feels busy and hard but also breathtaking. Looking forward to whatever tomorrow brings.

Silly at midnight walking the Gran Via.

Las Minas

Bosch

After dinner, we took a stroll in the Parque de Madrid, which is the size of a small city full of hidden gems inside. Jackson’s favorite part thus far has been the slides.

Guernica taken on the sly

We were grateful that the museums were light and the crowds weren’t crushing like the Louvre.

After a brief break, where we got to talk to our dads on FaceTime, we went by one of the only restaurants still open on Sunday—an Italian place around the corner from our hotel. The pasta was homemade and Andrew got to have carrot cake and a gin and tonic the size of a swimming pool.

At the Prado

On our way to siesta, we came across what seemed to be an impromptu swing dance session in the middle of the street. We danced, too.

Crystal palace

Crystal palace

Crystal palace

In front of the royal fountain

I wish I could have a stroll through a sweet garden after every meal that I never gave to clean up. I know this will end eventually but for now — these memories are invaluable.

Crystal palace

Crystal palace

The crystal palace

Looking out from the crystal palace

Impromptu swing dance in the street.

It took a while for the barista to discern what Father’s Day was, but she was so sweet when she figured it out.

Pain au chocolate and tuna pie? For breakfast?

Homemade juices and chocolate chai tea

Tiny gazpacho and cheese and jambon.

Chia pudding / oatmeal topping bar

All the fruits!!!

Healthy breakfast salads. Homemade carrot hummus.

Homemade smoothies and juices

Tomatoes and frutas.

Tonight we went to see Flamenco dancing at Cardamomo and it distinctly appeared to be sex on stage. What’s weird about that — I’d heard that before — was that everyone was dressed head to toe and even to the wrist, but they danced as if they were completely naked. The Flamenco is danced primarily in the heels and the wrists, not actually in the hips, though they did turn their hips, but only sparingly. Andrew and I noticed that the sexier the dancer, the harder they stomped to emphasize each step. We have seen this dance style in Tampa but without the live singers or Spanish guitar players, and they are an integral part of the show.

When we were done with dinner, we took a last walk in the Parque de Madrid at sunset — 10 pm here — and knew we’d miss it. We saw a huge throng of people waking exotic dogs off leashes, riding bikes, training for races, and doing Crossfit in the free outdoor gym at the center of the park.

Everyone seemed so happy enjoying themselves free of cell phones, unhurried — I just wanted to stay here forever, enjoying the company of my family and free from worry. Tomorrow, Barcelona!

Sometimes the dancer stopped and allowed the guitarist to play a solo or allowed the singer to be briefly featured. The music sounds like Bollywood to me, just like Hindi, which I guess is the Moroccan influence so near by. I like to picture, hundreds of years ago, the notes and warbles being exchanged along with spices and silks, the two cultures intermingling until the songs acted like the roads between the people, meaning traveling along each as their goods had done.

Andrew also likes the potatas. Me gusto!

Lisbon and Madrid both like these fish cakes.

Jackson was sad that the dance did not bear any resemblance to “flamingos” (much as he was disappointed that a drag show did not involve dragons) but he was mollified by the Spanish omelette with “potatas” and a cup of deconstructed cheesecake. We have all taken to the eggs here, which are bouncy and spongy and dark yellow. The omelettes are usually a round disk that acts like a sandwich (boletta), the middle slightly runny with egg and melted cheese and usually jamon, Iberico ham. The other form is a torta, also called an omelette which is more like a crust less quiche stacked with layers and layers of thin potatoes.

Roman columns still standing at the Temple d’August

Columbus wuz her

A lot of the architecture was damaged in the Spanish Civil War in the 1930s when Franco tore the country apart. One particularly moving plaza shows a church that has been bombed that was housing children. In a Guernica style massacre (made in the same era for the same reason) all of the kids suffered horrible deaths. It was hard to hear this while a hoard of kids were playing soccer outside.

Church of St Eulalia

My group ended the evening with dinner by the sea. We had octopus and prawns and shrimp and potatoes and good Spanish wine. I have befriended Panteia the Iranian exile, Amerus the Fencer, Mel the Coloradan, Shawn the marathoner, Christina the vegetarian (whom we convinced to try jamon, though she feared it’d be a gateway pork, and Kathy and Sarah the conference organizers. There is also a former Baylor grad, a fellow Tampanian and two other folks I’ve yet to get to talk to. We are looking forward to leaning a lot about the City-as-Text.

Barcelona is in the middle of a revolt against Spain. They voted for independence, which Spain refused to acknowledge, and when they registered their defense at the ballot box, the Spanish government murdered people and exiled their leaders. People register their protest by draping Spanish flags across their bannisters proudly displaying the flag and star, the Estrella, or a yellow ribbon.

One thing I noticed that tied all of the Gracias neighborhood together was the concept of revolution, particularly if you think of the word revolution as meaning to turn over, to change. Revolucion square is a site dedicated to those who died in the May Events of 1937, their presence marked by a series of tiles or squares on the ground with the year of their death. But honestly I was more taken by the newer signs of revolution in this neighborhood — the flags.

People all over this district had the independence flag draped over their balconies, as well as the flags that say democracia! And Si! Some even had the feminist fist flag with signs that said they were anti-fascist and pro-feminist.

We noticed that the shops seemed to align with the politics in the area. Several of the shops in this part of the city were vegan, what we might call hipster, yoga-friendly, all natural deoderant places. Although I assumed that meant this was a yuppie part of town, the clientele that were walking around this part seemed relatively middle class. It is hard to decode class in a new city, though; the waiter we ended up talking to at a cafe said that this part of town was very expensive to live in and that he often commuted from Eixample. \240He said he can only work, not stay, in and around this plaza. What this suggests to me is that perhaps there is a not only a correlation between class and politics — as there always is — in this area but also that displaying these kinds of politics on your walls and on your balcony and via your shop is a kind of privilege in and of itself.

Like the revolucion plaza, Placa del Sol, flanked by suns, also seemed to be surrounded by art and artists, though we counted several indie theatres here, so film, moreso than the art shops and studios we saw elsewhere. When we arrived in the Placa del Sol, these people were naked but covered in black tar and they were doing some kind of weird dance in the middle of the plaza, where people were having lunch. A guy was filming them dance.

The people in the square seemed to think this was fine and not very unusual, though one woman did stop to take a picture of them. The park floor was covered in suns and shapes we did not recognize — we thought perhaps some of them looked like games, like hopscotch — but the words explaining them were so well worn that we could not make them out. When I tried to talk to a guy about both the naked people and the suns, he said Si. \240No. C’est va. \240And went on his way. Someone had painted Tourists Go Home in red spray paint.

I didn’t at first see why we were visiting this plaza along with the rest, both of which commemorated various revolutions or events. But we stopped an electrician on our way out and asked him what kinds of folks lived here and if he liked it, and he told us that it was being gentrified or turned over (to stick to my theme) and he implied that he and his dad may one day be priced out.

This area differed from the others in the shops it offered — we smelled less incense and there were fewer raw juice bars with signs in English — but there was a guy with a jackhammer and a bunch of people working on renovating buildings that suggests people are interested in investing in it. \240

The placa de Vila apparently has had 4 different names. Placa de Orient, de la constitucio, de Rius i Taulet and then de la Vila de Gracia. Now the square seems to be a monument to the Conscripts Revolt of 1870 when local people rebelled and refused to enroll their children in the army. \240

After the other plaza dedicated to war, I started to think about the ways in which cities think about violence and remember it, and ask tourists and residents to remember it as well. The bell tower apparently rings for the dead, or did once, which suggests both an audible and a visual site of resistance to willful forgetting. Graffiti spray painted around the square depicted current revolts and resistance to war and violence, including a lovely bit of street art with someone breaking out of handcuffs and chains and being made free.

This makes me think of the US and its issue with public monuments. I wonder how the residents feel about the ways in which their cities remember these things of the past. They do not seem to be whitewashed or even made saccharine — in fact you can miss a lot of the markers, which are small on the wall or only visible if you are looking down at the ground. But they placed them in common areas where children play and people have lunch on a pretty day outside, walking over and over the memorials until the words are worn thin. I was struck I guess by the every-day-ness of the ways in which they mark violence and register their commitment to revolution. The Estrella flags hang next to potted plants and laundry. The revolution tiles mark the way from one vegan bakery to another.

I suppose if you weave resistance into your sidewalks and the corners of your apartment buildings, it becomes part of the fabric of the city as well.

My friends and I liked pinxtos better. It’s like toast tapas. You pick different exotic toasts topped with everything from crab to cheesecake to Brie smothered in spicy jelly and pine nuts.

The light was so beautiful streaming into the windows. There really are no words for my time inside.

My NCHC friends and my family and I also went to the Magic Fountain on Mountjuic at sunset. The water looked like pink clouds.

A friend I’ve made here introduced me to the Ramblas market and a place called Quim. We had roasted eggplant and squid salad but it wasn’t as good as the other places and was overpriced for the tourists.

I finally got to see Las Ramblas. It’s a busy throng with buskers and trash souvenirs but I liked the living statues which were intense. Pay and they’ll move a different way than they stand and use a prop.

Rocio and I on Montjuic.

Rocio and Panteia

Rocio and Nate

My favorite tapa is pulpo or octopus and potatas bravas.

We all celebrated the festival of Sant Joan, which involves bonfires on the beach, fireworks, people wearing paper maiche heads, and a torch being passed from the center of the town to all the neighborhoods. We made lanterns to help light the way and watched the human tower building for which Barcelona is famous.

Christina and Amerus

To get to Monserrat, you have to take a train and then a gondola straight up the rock. It is terrifying.

Today we went to Montserrat to see the monastery and look at the miraculous black Virgin Mary who was found in a cave there. It took hours to get there. We we get back, we will be glad that our friend Pants from Nance France will have fixed our air conditioning. (He says he has made it “Fresh” which we find adorable.)

But beautiful.

Isn’t he cute? This picture is taken from a cave we hiked 2 hours to see because the fununcular was broken. The cave had a tiny soot-covered Jesus suspended in an archway and the rest was, well, soot covered rock cave walls. There were about 3 benches and colored glass candles lit by people who were strong enough to make the ascent and descent.

There is a cafeteria at the top of the mountain where we had navy beans swimming in garlic and strong olive oil and fat greasy sausage and roasted vegetables and more gelato because Jackson and also because why not. I almost had to punch not one but two different Russians in the mouth for pushing me and jumping a line a mile long because they just felt like it. When the third tried to do it, I had to thump a woman on the arm and in the universal language we all speak said NO which she seemed to admire in a weird way.

I liked Montserrat very much save for the Russians but am pretty worn out from work and am starting to miss home a bit. I miss knowing where all the public bathrooms are, reliable technology, and people who understand me when I ask questions. But we aren’t done yet! Next stop: France.

We arrived yesterday at the Beauveau Marseilles which is on the port. Our friends have told us Marseilles is a dirty port city but thus far we have not seen it as such. Perhaps we are accustomed to the ways in which port cities rust balconies and rot buildings, which is why we are accustomed to some of the wear.

Marseilles’ speciality is soap and perfume so we slept late and had pastries and then wandered.

We looked for gifts for friends and found this odd gelato that the maker rolled into ice cream cigars, all of which was on a side street.

That night we went to cafe d’Espices and had a mediocre meal but it was notable because we sat next to two Englishman and a Frenchman talking about president Trump. “What shall we do about him?” the Frenchman asked. “Carry on I suppose,” said the Englishman. “We should oust him,” we said, adding “Sorry to interrupt.” “American?” they asked. “Oui!” we said. “And we think Trump is evil.” So the Frenchman swirled his Bordeaux and raised his glass and said, “Well we could have a toast. There are worse things we could do than toast each other.” Worse things, indeed.

We wandered Marseilles for a while but there isn’t a ton to do here, which is why we picked it. We wanted rest. The town is a bit dirty and grungy, a lot of the food overpriced, and the stores are filled with touristy stuff. Our best experience came with a side alley up a steep hill that had beautiful soaps and lotions and a shop owner that befriended Jackson. They love to say his name and teach him to say Bonjour. Merci. Au Revoir. When he does it, they give him trinkets and free gifts. They love children here.

Jackson’s favorite part of the day was finding a magical Glacé shop run by a man who rolls creme fresh with fruit on a freezing slab and makes ice cream rolls that look like frozen dessert tacos.

Jackson wants nothing more than to go on one of the big ships in the harbor. I’d like to as well.

We have just come from dinner at a place called Miramar where we did as instructed and ordered the bouillabaisse. It tasted like garlic flavored fish scales but at least my date wore his new jacket and looked so very handsome. All of the French men look so small in their skinny jeans. I’m glad that Andrew is so cute.

We go home soon, back to real life. Bonne nuit!

I had to convince Andrew to buy this jacket but he’s so good looking \240in it that I’m showing you nearly two identical pictures of him in it.

Anyways today was the first day we had no set itinerary and we just slept super late and woke up to the tourists lining up outside our hotel, the Beauveau Vieux Port, waiting for their yacht trips to the Calinxes.

We had free room service with baskets of French pastries and coffee. Pain au chocolate, croissants made out of heaven, and French butter. I want to die while eating butter made in France.

We are all taken by Vieux Port. Although it’s filled with buskers like the other cities and you have to be a bit cautious there at night, the blue lights that twinkle at the edges of the docks are magical.

Jackson is particularly sad to leave our hotel room because it had stairs and because we watched the World Cup from it while eating French chocolates and pizza made out of croissant dough, cream, gruyere, ham, and oil cured olives that I think were grown one town over and taste like the sweet salt of the sea outside our room.

We have already begun planning our next trip, though we know that it, like this one was, will likely be waylaid by broken cars, busted water pipes, and other surprises. Still, it was nice for a time time to get to be with everyone almost completely disconnected from our worries and troubles back home. Real life is waiting for us back in Florida. But at least we all get to face it together.

We spent our last day on a boat out to see the Calinques National Park. The cliffs are breathtaking and the water is an aquamarine and deep dark blue, the Mediterranean a completely different hue from our own ocean. Jackson got locked in the ship bathroom when the door became stuck. Though the captain quickly jimmied the door open, he was visibly shaken. The crew made it up to him by allowing him to steer the boat. They didn’t just let him sit in the captain’s chair; he actually turned the boat itself. He spent 20 minutes asking the captains questions about the knobs, buttons, and radars that guide the boat. He has decided to abandon his dream of being an astronaut and will now drive a boat in the Mediterranean. He said this will allow him to also take 2 hours at every meal, which he believes is how all meals should be eaten, and will have unfettered access to gelato that way.

Today was our last full day in France and our last day of vacation. I will not miss Marseilles and do not have to return here, but I will miss the time I have had with my family. The city is huge but fairly dangerous. Most of it should not be traversed by foreigners. The food was fairly terrible, save for a meal we had out of a convenience store and another from a burger place, of all things. (I had a goat cheese and honey hamburger that was nearly obscene. When you add the herbs de Provence French fries, it was almost downright pornographic.) A \240homeless man followed us for some time screaming Tourists! Tourists! I hate you! which he punctuated by spitting in the ground. Well, we weren’t too fond of him either.

What has been most special is that I have been unable to find a clock or calendar my whole time here. At home, my day is divided by little slices of time. My son plays video games with a timer, reads with a timer. My workday is divided by apps that slice up the day into hours and minutes. My meals are rushed as the clock ticks on to the next obligation. For a short while, I have experienced time very differently and fully and I wish I could learn something from the French and Spanish and Portuguese about the pace of life.