Lisbon
Upon entering the streets of Lisbon, the first sensation to engulf me is its warmth. It immediately pushes me back to a time in my youth when walking on the pavement in such heat was the norm back in Port-of-Spain. I will later learn that it is unseasonably warm for this time of the year and I find myself engaged in the sacrilegeous and tabu act of secretly thanking Global Warming. Lisbon is like a sleeping giant who is gnarled yet beautiful and gentle. Walking its steep cobble-stoned inclines I am again transported to childhood hikes up Covigne Road in Trinidad to visit a friend who we'd gently tease should buy a helicopter, so high up in the hill she lived. The faces of all were familiar--old wrinkled brown-faced peasants summoned my grandfather, Ewart G. Balbirsingh, while the broad-buttocked yellow woman, my aunt. Old ladies with strong legs dressed in flowered smocks recalled my grandmother, Mummy Hildred and Yoruba black women my Aunty Audrey. Seeing the tips of castles atop ...