At Home, Once and For All

I get so, so emotional in Portugal. In 1497, Vasco da Gama chose this same spot to say his final prayer before sailing into the vast unknown. For me, there’s no place that’s ever felt more like home, no place that’s ever emboldened me more.

There is no lack of tiny, ancient streets all over this country. Streets that are wide enough just for a horse or two, surrounded by simple stone houses that have stood for hundreds of years. But yesterday we went into the Serra da Estrela. The temperature dropped dramatically and the mist enveloped us entirely as we drove higher into the mountain range. We stayed in the medieval village of Sabugueiro, in a small stone room, with a fireplace for warmth. The town fountain had carved into it its year of inception: 1010. The streets felt older, tinier. Infinitely wiser.

I have the problem of falling deeply in love with each foreign place I travel to. I can quickly envision a life for myself in every corner of the earth. But here...here is a place I love to call home.