A Letter From a Lover

My dear, sunny Portugal,

From my first glimpse of your wide-open spaces, dotted with gnarled olive trees and humble ruins of abandoned homesteads, I was smitten.

I’d seen other perfectly charming parts of the European continent.;Switzerland, with her pristine mountain villages filled with story book chalets and quaint mountain inns. I’d walked down the wide manicured streets of grand, haughty Vienna. I’d strolled the banks of the Seine in Paris, admiring the city’s fabled light and imposing architecture. But you, Portugal, you were different.

Like the Velveteen Rabbit who lived in my childhood bookshelves, you were real. Worn and a little shabby in places, you were approachable, genuine. I knew from the start that you and I were well-matched.

After months of reveling in the warmth of your ever-present sunshine, admiring the endless, cloudless canopy of brilliant skies, I was truly at home. I thought I knew you as well as any person could know a place they weren’t born in. Following your unpretentious example, I could be totally myself, allow any superfluous affects of my previous character to fall gently away. You and I together – simple, easy-going, and, hopefully kind.

Now as so often happens with newfound love, the passage of time reveals additional traits in the object of one’s affection, and so it is with us. In recent days, you have shown me your darker, moodier side. You are now Portugal who rains. Slow, steady, unrelenting grayness has enveloped you, and by extension, me. Your gentle hills and the silver sliver of sea you revealed through my kitchen window are draped in a misty veil. Dreary day melts unnoticed into sodden night, your sunsets hidden behind a curtain of fog and gloom.

Friends told me this would happen. I didn’t doubt them, but I was unable to envision that which I’d never seen. Now, it is hard to picture the halcyon months we shared. But, never failing to recall the ways those months felt, I hold fast to the belief that they will return. When you emerge from this depression, as warm and fun-filled as before, I will be here to welcome you.

But, my darling Portugal, I must say if this rain continues very much longer, I will surely need counseling.