Today, we bring you a special guest bog post from Nojo206 friend and Lisbon visitor, Mike.

"A city, like everything else, can best be described in its own prose. Just as Manhattan, Brooklyn and the Bronx ebb and flow with the hustle but maintain a distinct flavor, so too does any other city feel familiar and strange all at once. In my admittedly limited experience, Lisbon is stranger and more interesting than most. For such a proud and longstanding member of the European fraternity, I have an extraordinarily limited knowledge of the history of the country. I know of Vasco de Gama’s trip to India, I know that Brazil was a tributary, I know that its language is different from Spanish despite its close proximity, and I know that it is a member of the PIGS. Beyond that, I have known very little. Of course, I have been missing out. I’ll write more in the future about my plane ride, as usual an uncomfortable medley of ups and downs, joys and miseries, smells both bad and good. But for now, I can’t miss the opportunity to write. Norm has just left to attend language class, at which he seems to excel. In a few short months, he has become at least conversational with the Lisbonese we met today. I was struck most clearly by this at lunch, which for me consisted of a delightful melange of pork, rice, and french fries -- America is not so very far, after all – and which for Norm contained all of one delicious-looking sandwich and, again, the ubiquitous fry. Our waitress, a very attractive woman who, while perhaps not gushingly friendly, was certainly pleasant and attentive, and who after asking for my order correctly took my look of total incomprehension to mean that she should connect with my host, who had obviously frequented the place before. Norm was obliging, as usual, and she came away satisfied. Meanwhile, the proprietor of the place stopped by to wish Norm a pleasantry and with the slight but noticable gusto of a man taking gentle pleasure in the awkwardness of unavoidable cultural dissonance, patted my friend on the shoulder in the type of solidarity that can only be granted by the intangible bonds of linguistic familiarity. In short, Norm gets along just fine. We spent the day pursuing two goals. The first was a pursuit of my declared intention to keep awake. I was at pains not to disappoint my friend by staggering zombie-like around such a beautiful European vista, so we searched quickly for coffee. Some was found immediately in the airport lounge, and while resembling nothing so much as a small espresso at home, was at least complimentary of my efforts to stay alert. Bean of far superior quality was to be found much later while sitting in a public square, surrounded by the buzz of early-morning conversationalists and about a dozen flies drifting lazily from leg to leg. The second goal was, of course, simple illumination. Upon leaving the airport, Norm and I purchased the service of a taxi that smelt somewhat of underarm sweat and a long day of work. It was here that I first noticed Norm’s easy familiarity with the language, as he and the driver conversed promptly about the appropriate location to which we requested transport. How to describe a new country? So many things are the same – blue skies, slight breezes, green grass and tall trees to name a few. But the differences, although clear at the time, elude description afterwards. I can only say that, even in that short trip, it was the little things that jumped to, and past, my attention. I want to pause for a minute to mention that, as I write this, the sound of a siren is screeching and scrawing down one of the long cluttered streets that run parallel to the apartment. It has taken me at least two minutes to understand that the siren exists at all, sounding precisely as would any police siren in New Jersey or New York. Until just now, I didn’t realize that in my own casual familiarity, I have ceased to acknowledge it as more than background noise, a trifle to be ignored. Another joy of travel – I realize that many of the differences and oddities I notice are actually no different or odd than anything at home. It’s my own sensitivity that has increased. And suddenly, I wonder – not for the first time – what beautiful things I have missed at home. But jumping back for the moment. Some changes are substantial. Lisbon is an old city by American standards, having been rebuilt after a major earthquake in 1755, but relatively young by European ones, and in general feeling. It is, for instance, the capital of Portugal unofficially. Whereas Washington, D.C. was declared directly as our home’s capital, Lisbon simply came to the position by default, and has been so for many hundreds of years. It emanates that curious blend in all the areas I have seen, although I have by no means seen anything like even a small minority of the place. The streets, immediately to be noticed, are small and not built for cars. The cars themselves, in fact, feel somewhat smaller than the gargantuan mounts we suffer to be called American automobiles. I can’t say that authoritatively with any foot or meter by measure, though. Perhaps they simply reflect the feeling of the city itself. As the taxi dropped us off as Norm requested – a cross-hatch of streets ending in various “sh” and “yuu” sounds, I was struck by the brilliance and gentleness of colors. My first impression was to compare the paint and shingles to southern Miami. Light blues the color of birds’ eggs flowed upward and outward in several directions while rusted terra cotta tiles graced the rooves of nearly every building. The most fascinating houses, and there are many, were lined with tiles of varying design and size, and outward-facing sheath of beauty that must have taken years beyond count to complete. The door themselves were smaller, hatched up step by step to match the grade of the rapid increase and decline of the cobble stone streets. And what streets! I’ve only seen work of the like in older areas of New York and Boston, though while our stones are larger and wider, the ones here are perhaps set better and more customly fitted. I mentioned this to Norm several times throughout the day as I walked, marveling at the amount of time and detail it must have taken to make so many roads like this. I wonder, isn’t Portugal suffering? Wouldn’t such efforts as much surely be expended to make such a beautiful patchwork go better into bringing industry, jobs and productivity to the region? It is beautiful, I thought, but why bother? Norm responded with what I believe was an excellent insight, and something that has stayed with me all day. “I think they do it because it’s beautiful,” he said. Or something to that effect. Clearly, it hasn’t stayed with me very exactly. But exiting the taxi, I paused for a broad and absolutely pleasureful smile. For this week, at least, I am not worried about my job or its highly-pressing deadlines and details. I don’t worry about bills or traffic. I am here simply to be here. And for today, that is enough."