Field Notes - Solstice Roads
Summer arrived at dawn just a few hours before I left Porto. Afterwards, I went on a coach on my way to Lisboa.
The day began with a small warning. My beloved brick colour woollen scarf, companion of many years, somehow managed to drag one end through dirt on the boulevard before departure. It felt almost mischievous, as if she already knew something I did not.
As bus monitors, we travel in the front seat, beside the driver. It is the best seat in the vehicle. The road unfolds ahead, the landscape changes gradually, and for a few hours the only responsibility is to keep watch and help people reach their destination.
The destination that morning was Rock In Rio. Or so it seemed.
The festival itself turned out to be little more than a landmark on my map. After arriving in Sacavém, the real journey began.
From the excursion coaches' parking area came a long walk beneath the Solstice sun, across the passadiços and pedestrian bridges that connect the area to Sacavém train station. Then trains, metros, station corridors, more stairs than seemed entirely necessary, and eventually a train heading west along the river and coast.
The city was buzzing. Festival-goers, beach-goers, families, tourists, workers and travellers all flowed through the same stations. Eighty thousand people were making their way towards concerts, while countless others were following their lives.
By the time I reached Parede and the sea, I had already been travelling for many hours.
For someone from Porto, the Atlantic in Parede is very different. Softer. Warmer. Less thoug.
At home, the sea deepens quickly. A few steps can place you in water well above your head. In Parede, the shoreline stretches outward. You can walk and walk and walk into the Atlantic and still find yourself standing comfortably with the water around your waist.
The sea was filled with children. One of them happened to belong to be the son of a friend. A shy seven-year-old on land, careful with words and observations. But, once he entered the water, an entirely different personality appeared.
Some children, like when I was one, seem to belong to the sea.
He jumped through waves, disappeared beneath them, climbed onto his father's back, launched himself into the water again and again, and negotiated every new swell with complete confidence. The Atlantic had found another of its own Watching him was a joy.
Somewhere during the day, my scarf disappeared. I do not know exactly where. Perhaps near the wall above the wrong beach where I briefly lost my bearings. Perhaps along the Marginal de Cascais while walking towards Praia da Parede. Perhaps somewhere in between.
I only know that she was with me before, and then she was not.
It feels strange to write about a scarf as though it were a person, but some objects travel with us long enough to become companions. This one had belonged to my grandmother. It had crossed years, seasons, journeys and everyday routines.
When I realised it was gone, I was already too tired to retrace every step. Part of me remains convinced that, given five or ten minutes more presence, I might have found her.
Perhaps that is true. Or perhaps every journey asks for a small offering.
As evening arrived, the return began. Train to Cais do Sodré. Two metro lines to Oriente.
Hours spent above the Tejo, watching the city settle into night from the terrace at Vasco da Gama.
Then back through the stations, the passadiços, the parking area, and eventually onto the coach for the long journey back North.
We left after two in the morning. Porto arrived at dawn. I arrive home twenty-four hours after I had left.
The Solstice had come and gone somewhere in between, and summer had arrived. Through roads, trains, salt water, conversations, a child laughing in the Atlantic, and a scarf that chose its own place to remain.
A few days later, São João would light its bonfires, fill the streets with music, sardines and paper lanterns. But summer, at least for me, had already begun.
[artwork: Summer Solstice collage]
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