Oh Hey, Homem de Viagem
DAY ONE
Oh hey,
Another March, another motorcycle journey. This time on a brand new BMW R1250GS. It's got all kinds of electronic suspension, ABS, and transmission aids to keep you from killing yourself (I won't!). Absolutely a big boy motorcycle. Remember the BMW rider course I did? Same bike. I'm very glad I took that class. It felt natural to get back in the saddle. No problems navigating Lisbon (so far).
It's great to be on a bike and get some significant seat time. I feel like my physical stamina is at an all-time high, from walking steep-ass streets and doing bodyweight workouts, but my riding stamina just isn't there. Each day has felt like a big push, with the added challenges of international highways (not that big a deal, love the higher speed limits). Oh and the European gas stations. They're wild. My first one was a Shell, and it set my expectations a little high. In Europe, as you might remember (I know I do), you fuel first, then pay. I filled up, and then went inside to pay, and the Shell was like a fucking Ikea Cafe inside. You could get a freshly made espresso from a real machine behind the counter. As I was coming in, an employee was pulling some pastries out of the oven. Even the uniforms looked nice; sort of like they were junior employees in the Ferrari F1 pit. SADLY, from there on it was only Repsols, which I'd put more at the level of Love's Truck Stop in the US.
Miss you terribly,
Me
DAY TWO
Oh hey,
Today was Peniche, a beachside town. I rode through extremely windy highway hills, then farmland, then boom, I'm at the beach. It felt kinda like going to Bethany beach, out in Delaware. There were surf shops, beach bars, all that shit.
I stayed at a hostel-ish type place where I had the top floor with my own bathroom. You would have loved it. The house caretaker, Alessa, was a chatty Belgian. I got there, found a bite to eat, and was in the water taking a surfing lesson two hours later.
Pedro was my beefcake surf instructor. 27 with giant hands, kind eyes (that wandered over any remotely female looking thing on the beach), and an endlessly positive personality.
"WE ARE SOLDJURS! YOU ARE FAMILEE!" he shouted in his Portuguese-inflected English.
It was high tide and the waves were insanely rough.
I stood up 3 times. It felt good to push myself and to be in the ocean. Don't worry, we had on wet suits so it wasn't particularly cold. We hit the showers at 5. He sang in the stall next door and I tipped him 5 euro (I was the only student that day). It's not like he gets paid on volume, but the guy made me feel welcome and I wanted to show my appreciation in a way language could not. Cold hard cash baby. Besides, he showed true hospitality! He picked me up from the hostel in the surf truck, and on the way back he took an extra 10 minutes to show me the best bars and restaurants in town that were near my place.
Counting the days 'till we are reunited,
Me
DAY THREE
Oh Hey,
"Horse. House. Sea. Sky. Mother. Wind. Water." On it went. A sound bowl rang. I was really focused in, it felt like maybe 1/20th of a trippy drug experience, and it was beautiful.
Seriously perfect ending of the night yoga class in Bealil. Originally, the yoga teacher was going to come to the house, but not enough people were interested, so I took an uber to Bealil. It would have been an hour walk from Peniche! Like Georgetown to Bethesda!
I felt like I had been repeatedly punched after surfing, and yoga is always a good step towards recovery. The class was small; 3 men and 3 women. We did some challenging poses, for me on a good day, and ended in an extended meditation. At the end of the class I went up to ask the teacher if I could use her foam roller, but she thought I was doing a classic Portuguese greeting of a kiss on each cheek. I ended up giving her sort of a tender smooch on one cheek. Totally didn't apologize. She giggled.
Afterwards, I talked to my mom on Facetime while drunk teenagers filled the nearby streets and screamed. There was a cyberattack at her office and their data was being held for 2/3 of a Bitcoin. She thought they would be able to avoid paying a ransom. Fingers crossed! By the time we finished it was late and there were no more Ubers. I should have guessed.
Fuck it, I walked the five kilometers back to Peniche. I felt very spiritually fulfilled if calorie starved, and then I remembered Pedro's brief food tour. I walked a total of 90 minutes to some of the worst Mexican food I've ever had in my life and it was fucking manna from heaven. It was also 11 pm, so I was lucky anything was still open in this sleepy surf town. I saw the other youngish guy from my yoga class sitting outside listening to bad Bob Marley covers played by a drunk German girl. I paid the check and nursed half a beer outside listening to the music. Yoga guy gave me a nod. I thought about going over and speaking to him, but then what. Hey man, how about that inner peace! If he even spoke English. I was exhausted and had another big push tomorrow. Tonight, I found peace in being the background actor of his movie.
Write me back,
Me
DAY FOUR
Oh Hey,
Calorie intake is not something I see covered in motorcycle literature, but it's deeply important. Today, on the way to Porto, I was rapidly losing focus and had to stop. I pulled into a Repsol, and almost dumped the bike while trying to put it on the center stand. I watched a YouTube video later and realized the error; I'm not trying to deadlift a 500 lb bike, I'm trying to pull it backwards. Derp. Also, having cargo on the back makes it hard, so by the end of the trip I disconnected the rear case and took the bags off. After that, it was easy.
I digress... the Repsol fill screen was completely different from Shell, and I ended up under-fueling the bike.
Whoops.
Love you,
Me
ALSO DAY FOUR
TEXT MESSAGE :
Veiculo Loungo, or a long vehicle, or an eighteen wheeler… the natural enemy of motorcycle riders on the highway. Not truckers themselves, but merely the giant wind envelope they cut through the air that can blast your balance. I sped past everyone I saw at 150 km/h.
DAY FIVE
Oh Hey,
Like I said, my motorcycle stamina is not really where it should have been for this trip. My general approach to life seems to be jumping into the boiling pot of water with my whole body. There's no point just dipping a toe in, you have to have the full intensity of an experience and then yoga breathe through it if it's challenging. So ya boy was yoga breathing and my throttle hand had turned into a throttle claw. At that moment Ricardo, my rental agent's voice rang in my head.... Cruise Control. I switched it on with a satisfying click that only the makers of German vehicles seem to understand and locked myself into 140 mph, whatever the kilometers version of that is. This cruise control didn't have radar or anything, but I could at least stretch my hand. One Trillion Kilometers to go.
Dreaming of your touch,
Me
DAY SIX
Oh Hey,
Porto is like this: "Oh hey, you thought Lisbon was insanely steep? Fuck you."
Traffic approached Charlotte, North Carolina, levels as I was getting off of the highway, and my fuel level was so low that the larger screen had changed from my speed to yelling at me about the lack of fuel.
I pulled into a lovely Repsol by the water.
I watched the YouTube video about the center stand finally, disconnected my luggage, and it was easy.
An attractive young couple yelled at each other outside of their #VanLife van.
Other people waited in line for a car wash.
I took out my ear plugs and filled up properly, texting my AirBNB host.
I got close to the place with my terrible GPS, being lost sucks BUT I got this cool photo while I waited.
The host walked while I kicked the bike into low gear, working the friction zone. JUST LIKE THE BMW CLASS... money well spent. I took what was clearly a car's parking spot.
I didn't care.
I unloaded my stuff and took a nap on top of the sheets (because I stank to a very rare degree). Later, I took a shower and spread my stinky gear out on the ample balcony to dry out.
The sun was shining, and a rooster COCKADOODLE-DOO'D about every 20 minutes (4 in the afternoon!!). I loaded up my smaller backpack, checked google maps, and headed out.
It's Porto Fashion Week...end. Whaaa!? I texted Matthew (call him!), saying I was surprised given the number of fashion DON'Ts I was seeing.
I hope that joke still hits, it was funny.
I passed, frankly, a lot of insanely touristy shit and high end stores. Feeling more than a little disappointed perhaps with my choice of city for the weekend. It seems like a lot of the stuff was geared toward Spanish tourists. I stopped hiking the streets at 6, and found a bar outside where I got beer, fries, and crispy pork.
When exploring the streets, I often think of bars as a fee for taking a piss, and as soon as I sat down I went and peed. It was like the opening of Austin Powers. I read The Gone World, draining two beers and eating everything. Now I’m back at my place and am absolutely going to bed early.
Slightly drunk and most fashionably yours... now and forever...
Me
DAY SEVEN
Oh Hey,
I had two planned meetups that didn't happen. One was with Ana, my skype-based Portuguese teacher. She is 24 and a student. I let her know I was going to be in Porto a week in advance, and on Saturday after some back and forth she pitched getting together on Sunday at 4 pm.
Ummm, naw dog, I have to be in Nazare then, which I told you.
I didn't get particularly upset. I remember myself at 24, where every plan was fluid and making any kind of commitment more than a day in advance just wasn't going to happen, and I canceled shit with far more responsible people often.
The other was Elle, an Instagram friend and fellow outsider artist. Her mom was in a pretty advanced stage of chemo, and basically she couldn't leave her house. She did, however, give me some great recommendations of stuff to do. These missed connections reminded me about reading about space travel; it's not just drawing a straight line to the moon or Mars, it's moving in 3D at the right velocity to get there or you completely miss it. There we all were, in the same city but still completely missing each other by the mysteries of scheduling.
See you soon,
Me
ok, hold up, today got cool...
I took an adderall and hiked up to the Serralves Museum, one of Elle's recommendations. Like most modern art museums, it looked like a 60s-era Bond villain compound. All white concrete and post modern brutalist.
Adderall was the right choice.
I was blown away by the collection there, mostly the huge Mark Bradford exhibit. Also some crazy sound-based installations. My mind was ticking. I furiously texted Matthew again (call him!) and pitched him an idea we didn’t end up using.
I love it anyway ::::::: having people call in and scream their guts out to a Google Voice number.
Not that people want to hear a song that’s just three minutes of screaming. But I had to get it out.
After the museum, I went to the Art Deco house. Everyone said it was closed but it was still glorious. I'm currently painting it. Here's the shot I'm working from:
I was determined to go out that night even though I was alone. I looked on r/Porto and the commenters seemed nicer than r/Lisbon. They shared that there was a free concert being put on by the Portuguese beer; Super Bock.
Super Bock Super Nova.
I hadn't heard of any of the bands, but much like a movie, the darkness of a concert is a fine place to be by yourself, especially if you're rocking a buzz. I had a late dinner and joined the show midway through the 2nd band's set. They were called Clementine, it seemed like a good sign. They were sort of a Riot Grrrrl band rip off (in the same way Cold War Kids are a Bruce Springsteen ripoff).
It was fine, and the energy was high. I stood back by the booth, my usual concert location these days, double fisting 2 beers as the next band setup.
Unsafe Space Garden, a psychedelic band from Portugal. They sang in english and the set blew me away.
There was screaming, there was riffing, there was a meditation.
A lot of the crowd fucking hated it and walked out.
Their loss.
It was 1 am by the time they finished and I had a big goofy smile on my face.
I walked through the crowded, rowdy, beer-soaked streets back to my place.
I don't know if I'm going to sleep tonight, I'm gonna try and call and see what's up what time is it there anyway? Always yours...
Me
DAY EIGHT
Oh Hey,
Nazare has loomed large in my mind since watching The 100 Foot Wave on HBO Max (with Clementine).
Having said that, Nazare itself was initially disappointing. I had an overly expensive lunch like you wouldn't believe.
The waiter kept trying to do this upselling bullshit of bringing items to the table I hadn't asked for. It's apparently a common tactic outside of Lisbon.
It rained all day and the shops looked cheap and shitty.
Frankly, I wanted to be back in Lisbon.
My friends from the residency program were all doing cool stuff and hanging out.
Plus some drugs I ordered, from a website that rhymes with schmeel schmems schmot schmom, were waiting for me in a discreet storage locker.
But I'm in Nazare, not Lisbon, so I showered and dressed, taking the funicular to the Big Wave side of Lisbon. I walked down to the lighthouse as seen in the show, and saw the awning advertising the WSL Big Wave Surfing Championship from January 1 to March 31. So at least I was in the correct location. I watched some waves break, and they were fucking massive. I was about a quarter way up the hill when I finally saw a jet ski.
Two figures on it! Oh shit. HE'S GOING FOR IT!
I frantically texted Clementine and Matthew (call him!) shitty photos on my iPhone. I captured this one of the surfer being towed into a wave:
It must have just been practice, they were the only ones out there. Chance and luck strikes again to deliver exactly what I was hoping to see.
It was amazing.
Part of aging is accepting your limits and frankly the average-ness of yourself. You could look at this pessimistically, pining for the things you'll never do. Based on my Friday experience in Peniche, it's unlikely I'll surf much, let alone ever be a big wave surfer. Or, you could think of it like a sculptor, trying to whittle away what won't serve the final form. Will those kids ever ride a motorcycle like a fucking maniac while screaming? Will they make beautiful things people occasionally pay them to then hang in their homes? More and more I'm believing that you just have to find the thing you're willing to be extremely stubborn about pursuing, and just do that.
Just a couple more nights and I'm back!
Miss you,
Me
DAY NINE
Oh Hey,
Monday morning pretty much all the way back to Lisbon it rained. Funny the synchronicity of this trip vs my ride last year ending in an extreme washout back to DC. This time, I was prepared. Also the BMW has a computer-driven RAIN mode, which I flipped on. I arrived back at the rental place and I was under our agreed upon fuel limit, whatever, run the fucking card, I returned as safely as I was able and didn't want to fuck with one final fuel stop. I shook hands with Ricardo, repacked my belongings, and prepared to re-integrate into studio life.
Anyway, how are you?
Love,
Me
-Charlie Visconage
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