Why Do I Feel Better There?

I don’t think it’s just Portugal.

Every year, we spend a couple of weeks in Portugal.

Besides 23andMe indicating, then later retracting, that I’m 0.3% Iberian, we have no ties. Yet, we visit more than a favourite grandchild would their Portuguese granny.

For optics, we usually tack on another European destination. But our hearts belong to Porto.

Heading to the airport for this recent trip, a friend texted that Portugal was “our cottage”. In other words, that we go to Porto like an Ontarian might Muskoka, or a Missourian, The Ozarks.

Without fail, our days in Portugal are always among the most relaxed, joyful, and connected I feel all year. During this stretch, my husband and I walk more, talk more, and plot more.

Despite our bodies drowning in levels of bread, wine, and cheese that would incapacitate a lesser man, our synapses are firing.

We take photos of design ideas for house projects.

We discuss how to recreate no-fuss wine bars in Toronto.

We *mentally* found and take public several tech companies.

Over the years, we’ve ventured further and further from the touristic core of river boat cruises, roasting chestnuts, and caricature portraits. Instead, we settle into the ‘real’ neighbourhoods, opting for the cash-only holes that test our language skills and digestive tracts.

In these neighbourhoods, where we don’t know a soul, I feel alive. And looking around, so does everybody else.

Patio seats are shared among friends with lit cigarettes, laughter carries, and, almost cartoonishly, people break into song.

What I’m documenting is a romanticized vacation bubble. In Portugal, we’ve never done real tasks, filed a government document, or broken any limbs. Rosé coloured glasses are a factor.

Regardless, there is an aliveness and a livedinness that I rarely experience elsewhere.

I wonder if we, specifically those of us who inhabit places with six months of winter, live too inwardly.

Because of weather, culture, and six-lane highways, we don’t spill out into the streets.

We grab pint-sized coffees to go.

We sit in traffic.

We loaf inside our oversized homes.

In tight cities like Porto, life happens in public.

Espresso is drunk leaning against cafe counters.

Roads are built for walking, and stoops for sitting.

Houses are too small to hold it all in.

As a visitor, we huff on the fumes of these rich internal lives lived out loud.

We absorb their energy in a way that feels familiar, and possibly even North American: passively.

Without any pressure to contribute, perform, or produce, we are granted entry into people and place with total abundance.

And we get fed.

This relaxed anonymity is not unique to Portugal. Like any place we visit for a few nights, we occupy a small bubble inside a suspended reality.

We don’t have to worry about finding parking, texting (or not texting) friends, or feeling like we’re missing out.

Everything unfolds effortlessly. There’s wonder in the ordinary. There’s freedom in having only ourselves and 10kg of curated clothing.

Somewhere between the baggage we leave behind and the small bag we bring, we are freer.

And this begs the question: why can’t we replicate this feeling at home?

By most measures, I am free.

Sure, I have two mortgages, including one gut-renovation on a house we overpaid for. I have dogs to care for, opaqueness around the future, and the occasional mystery rash. But I don’t have kids. I have no boss to report to. I am happy, healthy, and afloat.

On the scale of free, I’d score in the green.

And yet, between figuring out a business, growing my writing, and choosing goddamn countertop edges, I find myself stuck. Or worse: uncreative with my time.

I stay inside my oversized house.

I go to yoga but don’t talk to the other women.

I live two hours away from most of my family and friends.

Sometimes, I feel like I’m pissing it all away. But other times, I feel so grateful for this time and space, my stomach aches.

On the flight home, my body alerted to the “back to work” feeling. The Zoom calls, Coles Notes talk tracks, and feigning care whilst jetlagged and totally over it. My chest tightened. Then, I remembered that I don’t have a 9-5 to return to.

Freedom.

Right now, my job is to capture inspiration and turn it into something tangible. Preferably, something that pays the hydro bill.

This requires dismantling old patterns and rebuilding what I trust is possible.

But with this carte blanche, I worry that I won’t find “my thing” again. That I won’t make money again. That I won’t fit in without having to pretend again.

And this is the part that doesn’t quite line up.

Because in Portugal, I feel untethered in a way that feels expansive.

But at home, I feel untethered in a way that feels like a responsibility.

I’ve been granted precious space, and instead of filling it with Porto colour, I’m standing in it, waiting for something to happen. Or more accurately, waiting for me to make something happen.

Away, I get to borrow on the aliveness of others.

Here, I have to create it for myself.

No one is spilling it into the street for me.

I think I’m still carrying more than I need.