Green Wine

Hardly a moment goes by that I do not think of Lisbon. I want to return there so badly; nothing distracts me from these thoughts.

I had no expectations, no image in my mind ahead of time about how it would look, smell, feel, sound. Nor did I think of you. You were nothing to me.

It seemed to me as if it took a night and a day to get there. Dark, gray, rain, nightfall, a bumpy, miserable ride, lashed to a narrow seat, straining to find a place to lay my head against the wall of the plane that did not press against bone or cartilage.

Then harsh, blinding sunlight awakened me, then running and dragging through horrible, labyrinthine Charles de Gaulle.

A hastily guzzled soda. A crush of chattering, sweaty passengers to board the last leg of the flight. My eyes strained to stay open and I let them, finally, close, my face pressed against another plane wall. Teenage boys singing soccer chants. I slept through them.

Then, suddenly, the plane swooped on an arc and I saw it – a stunning coastline, the Atlantic stretching beyond in an endless stretch of blue-green, a brilliant sun over us. The teenage boys scream for home.

I manage to stand upright and get off the plane and onto Portugal. Another airport. Another taxi. But this time, something was different.

The streets looked familiar, yet I had not seen them with my eyes before.
Pastel buildings, a little shabby in places, yet with a relaxed glamour, no self-consciousness.

Traffic whizzing purposefully; nothing seemed frantic.

Circles, steep hills, craggy cliffs. Palm trees and billboards. A balcony with a garden poking over its rails.

And that sun. I will never forget it. Bright, lowering in the sky as it was late afternoon. But not beating down on my face, illuminating my face instead.

I felt that sun, felt it like a warm kiss on my face that would comfort and restore, not extract and drain.

I could not see the ocean, but I felt its presence nearby. Not in a scent – but in the wind. A passionate wind that changed the temperature in a matter of minutes as the day waned, changed it from a soft, warm afternoon to a chilled, bracing night, a drastic change.

And then, I saw you.

We spoke, businesslike, a bit formal. We sat down to dinner. Jokes, charming banter, but still that space between us. I was a bit nervous, trying not to say the wrong thing, trying to say the right things - to anticipate.

For days, we worked, long, dull days. A white room lit by fluorescent lights. But beyond the windows, Lisbon. The sky pure blue, unmarred by clouds or haze. Warmth and brightness. But work took precedence. At night, we dined together, the conversation becoming more relaxed. Sharing stories about home, music, sport, food, anything. But still – a gulf.

And then, a taxi ride.

Through the city, to the old city, to old Lisboa.

Past the cliff where the castle perched high above, bathed in a golden blaze that glowed in the velvety dark night.

Through teeming, cobblestone streets where locals walked, laughed, drank.
Bands were playing, inside the cafes and in the alleys and in the streets, which grew narrower.

We found the restaurant and the proprietor came out to meet us in the street. Have a glass of wine, vinho verde, or green wine they call it, here in the street. Listen to the music of the band in the street.

The wine was so sweet and cool, not sickeningly sweet, but like honey, and I could not help but drink it all, too quickly perhaps.

We laughed and drank, and listened to the music, and told stories about music. Such a soft night, a breeze cutting through the air but not harshly pressing against us.
The gulf seemed to narrow, like these alleys and streets in this old, medieval part of the city.

For a moment, there seemed to be a shift in the direction, a dangerous shift in some ways, a temptation that was all the more intriguing because of its inappropriateness.

But this may have been all in my mind, all because of the white port wine and the music and the woman who suddenly began singing in the blue-and-white tiled restaurant while everyone hushed to listen.

That night, and another and another, that castle on the cliff, the square where the annoying street vendors interrupt every conversation to peddle cheap toys and raggedy flowers, those tables in the middle of the street where we sat beneath umbrellas and drank vinho verde and ate fish with bones, the gushing fountain where we threw in coins to make secret wishes that would never come true anyway.

Another airport. A cold, dark morning and the thought of dragging my bag yet another time through Charles de Gaulle. More pushing, sweaty people rushing to get on a plane.

But before I get in the line, I held my bag in my hand and you looked at me, one last time. It would be the last time. And you held me, just for a moment.

Does it matter?

But I still think of Lisbon.

Even though you will not be there, and I will never find the blue-and-white tiled restaurant again in those winding streets, and I will never remember the name of the white port wine, and it won’t taste the same, and the woman will not be there to hush the restaurant with her song, I will go back.

I will go back to feel the sun on my face again, and to walk through those streets, to eat the fish with bones, and drink the cool, sweet wine, and feel my heartbeat slacken, and feel my heartbeat quicken again when I think of you.

I know I will never see you again.

I know I will not find rest until I return.