Longing for Lagos (or, somewhere)

How unpropitious to have the time to write about the travels that followed my first yoga retreat at the time when my second was cancelled due to the ever-changing global environment. Today’s news, quite disparate from that of the time I was in Portugal in August of 2019, is crowded with coronavirus updates, travel bans, and general lack of social contact due to the evolving pandemic situation.

Taking advantage of the newfound time at home, and in an effort to create structure and emerge from this isolation having produced something tangible, I am revisiting the travels I was “too busy” to write about when they took place. This includes Lagos and Lisbon in Portugal, and just two months prior to that trip, Lago D’Orta in Italy and Zurich, Switzerland. Not to mention San Juan del Sur which despite being one of my favorite places in Nicaragua remains unwritten about as it was the last stop on that trip and life got away from me…

Somehow I am still catching up from 2017 and the irony of it all is the lack of ability to travel today, next week, next month and for who knows how long. Because of this - or maybe in spite of it - I believe we could benefit from a transportive narrative and imagery from a beautiful, faraway place. I know I could, after spending a month (so far) sequestered in a small Manhattan apartment. My hope is that this reflective experience reminds us of all that is out there on the other side of this pandemic and, perhaps, how lucky we have been able to travel in the first place.

Let’s take it back to this past summer. A time when drama in the news involved the 2020 election ramping up and when we thought we had all the time in the world to see the world.

A trip that began with a week on a farm for a yoga retreat swiftly changed shape to resemble something even softer, something more open-ended and something entirely new. Our bus from Vila Nova de Milfontes in Alentejo wove through coastal towns and the vast expanse of farm landscape to unload us, Kimberly and I, at a petite bus station in Lagos.

The single negative element of Lagos was the fifteen minute period in which I lugged my (admittedly, overstuffed) suitcase from the little bus station across cobblestone sidewalks, up a steep cobblestone hill and around a curved cobblestone road in the hot, mid-day sun to reach the holy grail that is Casa Mãe. Once we reached the hotel, Lagos became pure serenity - the kind of place with massive outdoor space and proximity to the beach that my current isolated self longs for.

Thinking about the forceful flow of energy that incites someone to book a flight, pack a bag and go - after seeing Casa Mãe on a yogi’s social media I was hooked for months dreaming about the place. Washed in white and dripping in well-curated plant life, the lobby welcomes (mostly foreign) visitors with a cool drink and a seat outside on their quiet, sneakily large patio. The desk staff took a special liking to Kimberly as they see so few Portuguese at the hotel, they shared excitedly!

Usually this would bug me as I prefer not to stay in touristy places that locals would avoid - however, the chic family and calm, suntanned couple in the lobby appeased my fears that this would be a completely overrun place. As hindsight is 20/20, looking back today I think about how I would gladly wade through throngs of American tourists (post-virus) to be in Lagos once more.

We may have thought we had “nothing to do” in the best way possible at Cocoon while on yoga retreat but these three days in Lagos were the epitome of endless summer. We were welcomed with fresh, profoundly red mini tomatoes from the hotel’s garden, laid out on our lush white beds which shone in the afternoon light seeping in from the enormous open windows that led out to our balcony, complete with a hammock. Plush, embroidered robes hung from the foldable wood faux wall, behind which lived a perfectly zen bathtub.

Unbeknownst to us and hidden from the street view, Casa Mãe’s property spans quite wide behind the main building in which there is a full garden with employees milling around, cutting vegetables from their stalks and providing sustenance for the in-house cafe.

Just beyond this extended patch of fresh growth, a couple of honeymoon suites are situated, mini casitas with small private pools where couples lounged together. Looking towards a year in which I have a wedding and honeymoon planned amid all of this uncertainty, it provides comfort to think about the easy days in Lagos and these couples being together in simple bliss.

Across from these suites, partially obscured by latticed vine growth, there lies the most peaceful pool. Peaceful because even at full capacity there was plenty of room to breathe and because the cohort of pool-goers seemed to mutually respect the quiet time everyone was taking in this space.

Mostly we read books (Tiny Beautiful Things for me) in lounge chairs shaded by the sun and took lunch on those same chairs, bathed in calm.

Lagos is a small fortress of a town with its curvey, mosaic tiled streets and slow way of summer life. Just beyond the town proper is the expansive coastline of Portugal’s south. While we knew there were some beaches better (more clean, more quiet, more beautiful) than others, and that the best ones were a hike to get to, I was surprised by just how many beaches exist here. Some are so small and secluded that at high tide there isn’t much of a beach to speak of and the lounging public that has taken up residence there simply wades through the water to the next beach.

Daily, we followed the coast and climbed the hills of what turned out to be gargantuan limestone cliffs worn by lifetimes of erosion and volcanic activity. Seeing these rocks led my memory to those in Jordan, similar in their ancient nature and with the common experience of the persistent touching of human hands and steady promenade of human feet.

After so many consecutive days practicing yoga prior to arriving in Lagos, we were initially intent upon testing our skills by taking a SUP (stand up paddle boarding) Yoga class in which downward dog and, unbelievably, headstands would be practiced while attempting to stay upright on the wide board. We learned, though, that the SUP Yoga classes took place in a pool, not the enchanting Algarve sea, and promptly dismissed the idea of sacrificing our sweet time at any pool other than Casa Mãe’s.

We did, however, find a “regular” SUP class held out on the open ocean and signed right up. Around seven in the morning we were picked up by a couple of surfer-style guys in a white van and whisked away through the streets to the seaside. We underwent a quick lesson on land and were on our way, kneeling on the boards as we attempted to stabilize on a moving surface.

The ride out into the ocean turned out to be a breeze. We stood up on the paddle boards and ducked in between rock formations as the surfer-guy leaders took our photos on a GoPro. The paddle boards led us into caves etched into the landscape of Lagos, all of those years of erosion and volcanic ash above, next to and around us.

If we thought a week of yoga twice a day was a physical challenge, we were not nearly prepared for the turnaround back to the shore on our SUP boards. The wind, apparently, blew in the opposite direction and in no time the group was meters ahead of Kimberly and I. The surfer-guys called back to us to stay with the group which I assured them we would if we could! It took all of my arm strength, and sitting on the board on my bottom, to make it back exhausted to the sand.

Even before the pandemic, I dreamed of returning to Lagos. I imagined summers spent there with the family I knew would enjoy it, a lazy routine of fresh food from the garden and afternoons spent lounging with Europe’s beach-going crowd. I reminisced on the cataplana de marisco we ate and the outdoor restaurant where Kimberly and I drank Portuguese wine and laughed about how ridiculous we were back in our study abroad days.

Today, none of these things are possible. Not the luxuriously crowded beach nor the easy al fresco dining with friends nor the simple baseline of being abroad. By the time this August rolls around, my hope is that these things are real to us again. Until then, I’ll keep on dreaming.