Voices from the journey - transformative experiences from slow travelers
I found it on my fifth morning, tucked between a bakery and a guitar repair shop in Alfama. The sign was barely visible, hand-painted in fading letters. Inside, an elderly woman sat reading among towers of books in Portuguese, French, and English. She didn't look up when I entered, and I loved her for it. This wasn't a place for tourists. This was a place for readers.
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The pottery workshop was in El Raval, down an alley I'd walked past three times before noticing the ceramic sign. Josep taught me that rushing clay only ruins it. "The wheel moves fast," he said in careful English, "but the making is slow." I spent three afternoons there, failing to center clay, my hands covered in slip, laughing at my crooked bowls. I've never felt so present.
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On my second visit to Torvehallerne, the cheese vendor asked if I wanted "the usual." I'd bought cheese once, three days prior. The fact that she remembered felt like a small miracle. By week's end, I had "usuals" at four different stalls. I wasn't anonymous anymore. I was becoming, however briefly, part of the fabric of the place.
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Every evening at seven, my neighbor Dolores watered her balcony plants and we'd talk across the courtyard. My Spanish was terrible, her English non-existent, but somehow we discussed everything—politics, grandchildren, the best time to buy tomatoes. Those fractured conversations became the most meaningful part of my day. Language, I learned, is just one way to understand.
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I left my camera at the accommodation on day three and brought only a sketchbook. I'm not an artist—my drawings are crude, almost childlike—but something shifted. To draw a building, you must truly see it. Count the windows. Notice the wear on the steps. Observe how light moves across stone. Photography can be passive. Drawing demands attention. I saw more in one week of drawing than in years of photographing.
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