Sintra, Portugal.

Meltdowns and Ginja.

I arrive at dawn at Lisbon Oriente, the architecture is incredible bathed in the early morning light and then I take the train back to Sintra. I'd texted the host a few times and heard nothing so was a bit concerned but hopeful. It was a long walk up the hill and when I got there, I rang the woman and she says she can't take my bags because she's doing breakfast and plus she didn't know what time I was coming. I told her I'd let her know in numerous texts and then I burst into tears. Where that came from I've no idea...menopause or the sleepless train ride? She came to the gate grudgingly, looked at me, took my bags and told me to come back at eleven instead of 3. I must have looked frazzled.

Coffee with a dash of spirits would have been in order. Most of the time I have settled in easily to this gypsy way of living but for some reason, today I was a bit fragile. It happens. I made it to a cafe, had sugar and a hit of caffeine and soldiered on until 11 and then collapsed.

The next morning, the hostess said she liked to seat people together so they could get to know each other. This could work if you had people who actually wanted to be apart of that sort of meet and greet. The lady and I who were placed face to face weren't that impressed. We tried to make general conversation which settled on climate change. She was from Germany and she said the melting glaziers in Scandinavia were changing the wind patterns which lead to the seas in her area no being cleaned so she had started to come to Portugal and Spain for the summer and then the conversation petered out. I am one of those humans that need to be alone at breakfast, quietly allowing caffeine to filter through my bloodstream before I can communicate with another human. I wasn't at my friendliest and I think she had a bit of me in her as well. I think we were both glad to eat and run.

Love the street names!

I had a few hours before the daughter arrived so I decided to go to the beach, Praia das Macas. The trip was short and windy and not greatly exciting so I returned to wait for the daughter and her friends. They took me back to their apartment and convinced me to stay with them. I didn't need much persuasion as I was already concerned that my morning ritual would be taken from me yet again. I returned to gather my belongings and explain my leave taking.

That night we celebrated the daughter's birthday at my favourite tapas bar, Tarascaniga. We ate, drank and were merry and then looked for another place to be even merrier and eventually we did find one. Brandy Alexander was on the list, an oldie but a goody and the birthday proceedings were done.

The next day, I directed the daughter and co. to go to the places I went last time and I went to Cascais, a lovely beachside town of arts and crafts and an old lighthouse.

I wandered along the harbour of this lovely old fishing town, passed stunning street art and the beautification by tiles.

Then went to Casa de Santa Maria with stunning 17th century tilework, walking past the symbol of Portugal, the magnificently plumed rooster.

We dined at Romania Baca restaurant on potato, seafood and garlic stew which was wonderful and ended the evening at the Ginga place, consuming the sweet cherry wine in little chocolate cups and then tomorrow we were off to Lisbon which is where I was going to get the plane to Morocco! So excited.

Stoicism and finding your lost emotional self.

Recently, someone close to me was diagnosed with an incurable condition. I listened and supported with ease. But something was wrong. I got off the phone and thought: Ok, I can deal with this. Everything's fine. I'll be fine, I can support this person. Been there before, can do it again. For a few days, I went about my business of listening, researching and saying all the right things.

And then suddenly I wasn't able to deal with it, everything wasn't fine, I didn't think I could support this person one hundred percent. I had done it before and I don't think I'm capable of doing it again. How selfish, how terrible but how true. My jug that I stored all things emotional, was filling up to capacity again and I could feel it about to overflow.

And yet, I was stoic. I kept up the pace. There were other needs within my family that also required my full attention. I began to prioritise and then I began to dissemble. When more negative knowledge was presented to me from now two people within my environs, my jug of emotional water began to overflow. So much so, that I felt myself distancing. A part of me, when another shockwave would hit, would simply move a couple of steps out of reach. I could almost visualise myself separating. Downstairs in the space I'm inhabiting I look calm, I have allowed my emotional self to leave the building so to speak. She is safe. I have protected her. But if I left her there, what would happen to her?

I booked myself into a psychologist who specialises in EMDR, or Eye Movement Desensitization Reprocessing therapy. Because that incurable sentence for someone close had triggered a trauma response that I realised I had never dealt with - the death of my husband and during the worsening of his cancer, the death of my best friend, my mother. I was brought to my knees. Stoicism was keeping me from remaining in my bed but the effort to get up, get out and get going, was huge.

How ridiculous, I thought; I have grieved, I'm sure I had. Or had I? I had convinced myself that I had anticipatory grief during the eleven years after my husband's diagnosis. I am good at convincing myself. I realise now that I had lied. I lied because after my husband's death, I didn't have time to grieve. There was a lot to be done, I had a homeschool teenage daughter and I was trying to work out how to get out of debt and keep everything afloat.

When my friend was diagnosed, I started to grieve my husband but because I had protected my emotional self and put her out of danger, I realised during a therapy session, that I didn't know how to get her back, nor did she want to come. But that is another story. Even now writing this, I feel uneasy but I am writing this for all the women I know that have been handed down stoicism from the mother and her mother and her mother before her. It's so ingrained in women's DNA that some of us lose the ability to access our emotional self any more. And when this part of us can't be accessed, we lose our joy, our ability to be happy, to function above or below a straight line of nothingness that we inhabit because it is safe and we can be there for people who need us without losing our minds. We lose our colour.

I will continue this post but I just wanted you to think about this and wonder if you too, at some point in your life, have done this. Have you?

PS. This isn't a poor little me post, it's about recognising trauma and how it can silence you. I'm getting help for it but I was told that writing about it is also therapeutic so even though this is hard to release into the world, maybe people will connect and recognise their own escapism. I'm going to hit publish and see where this leads. Feel free to comment.

Madrid, back to.

Passion, paella, flamenco and bars.

I've returned for a couple of days in Madrid, en route to meet up with the daughter in Portugal to celebrate her birthday. I've booked an upmarket hostel which is really cool. I'm the oldest one there of course! But the location is in the centre and I discover a Madrid I hadn't found before and I'm in love again! I'm such a flighty lover of cities! Yesterday it was Zaragoza, today Madrid centro!

I wander, admiring the beauty of the buildings, the incredible ceramic artwork on the walls, the art nouveau, art deco vibes everywhere. I come across Villa Rosa, a Flamenco restaurant and book for this evening. The guy at the desk tells me his ex-wife's name is Vanessa and that he was so broken hearted that he's been alone for two years. He's a young sexy Spaniard and I tell him to get back out there and try again, life's too short. I feel all maternal now that I seem to be the oldest inhabitant when I stay at the new age hostels, so I feel I can throw my advice around ( not great at giving myself any good advice but can hand it out!).

I discover La Fragua de Vulcano, The Vulcan's forge, named after a painting by the famous Spanish painter, Velazquez after he journeyed to Italy in the 1600's. It's only 30 years old but I feel like I'm sitting in a restaurant where Velazquez would have downed a Sangria or two. I had an amazing paella and a wine for Velazquez.

That night I entered Villa Rosa to another world, dinner was included with the ticket and then the lights dimmed and a small stage was highlighted with a guitarist and two singers seated and then the dancers arrived. The passion, the heat, the pain, the sweat, the sexuality of the Flamenco dancers! I'm transported again to another time, another place. I love the fact that history is always being relived in Europe. Australia is such a young place and for me, it feels hard to identify and find my place there but here I am a Flamenco dancer, I am hot and sweaty and twirling in my skirt, my huge earrings flashing in the lights, my shoes tapping out age old primitive rhythms. I walk away into the night, borne by the wild guitar music into another realm and envy the fact that this is their history and it's moving in their blood.

Next day I wandered past beautiful facades, more art on the outside, beautiful wrought iron balconies, incredible street art and then found the huge street market that went on forever. Mind blowing antiques, dresses, jewellery and cafes.

Exhausted, my mind exploding with beauty and ideas, I returned to the centre and discovered a street of old bars! Highly ornate and decorated. It's hard to choose one but Viva Madrid calls to me and I settle in with a mineral water and a Vermouth that comes with green olives and chips. I have a view via mirrors of the place and later I discover the upstairs section which is wonderfully cosy. As a woman on my own, I feel safe here, cared for by the waiters and able to be an observer of people who frequent here. If I lived in Madrid it would be my haunt. I walk the rest of the afternoon until late as I have the late night train to Lisbon.

Ps.The train is grotty and full of young tourists and I'm right next to a smelly toilet but I take a sleeping pill and awake in Lisbon, to take the train back to Sintra where the air is sweet as autumn begins in the mountains.