Therapy starts with "P"

Last weekend I strapped on my back brace and we headed off for the weekend to Lisbon, Portugal. The extent of my Portuguese knowledge had been in thanks to the cookies my guardienne swapped me for Betty Crocker cupakes (blue frosting and all) post building “block” party. We had been in Normandie but I wanted to make our American presence known throughout the building by leaving a sampling of American delicacy, whereas I think she was just being nice. Regardless, I went into the weekend feeling good about this country (and it’s baked goods). Side note: Many guardiennes in Paris are Portugese. If I could actually communicate with my guardienne I would ask her why she would ever leave Lisbon to come here!

So perhaps you have already picked up on where this ditty is going. We left an angry, gray Paris (literally --- union protesters blowing whistles at us and chanting as we were trying to enjoy our Starbuck’s Café Americano in Terminal 2), which left me with a bad taste in my mouth (mind you not from the Starbuck’s, from the protesters who seem to follow us where ever we go) and landed in a sunny, welcoming, palm-covered, pastel-painted (English speaking) Portugal. If I had a Lilly Pulitzer in Paris, I would have worn it. I felt at home and alive.

The weekend was just what I needed to lift my spirits (defiant back still present). We climbed hills to take in magnificent views of the colors, the tile facades, and in the distance, a hint of the Atlantic Ocean. Cable cars, markets of plenty, authentic attire, all meshing with a new hip movement in pockets such as Bairro Alto --- think a love affair between Anthropologie and Merci. What a chic baby they have made. This is not to discount its equally trendy sister, Chiada. From wine bars in ancient aqueducts, to hair pieces only SJP could love, the city is understated cool, but still has the basics (like Hermes and Louie V.).

As another week has gone by, and we are back to our life here in the City of (No Sun) Light, I have to keep in mind that while it would be a lot easier to buy a sun lamp and a wheelchair to fix my current despair, our life here allows for experiences that some could never even dream of. So, I believe it is time to self-prescribe to conquer these issues once and for all. Prescription: One week in Paris, one weekend away (pastel provinces preferred). And so it goes, doctor’s orders.

PS--Next weekend is Krakow, Poland. I don't believe there will be palm trees or warmth, but at least it starts with a "P"!