Yesterday’s tooth extraction is not troubling me. I only took ibuprofen to prevent the pain last night but seem to be fine. 


My biggest question this morning was can I drink coffee. I was told nothing hot but couldn’t remember exactly the instructions on coffee.  I solved my question by making half an Espresso and adding cold milk. It was quite pleasant. I am now having a cool steamed milk at Nunu. Just didn’t want to interrupt my walking routine. 


The bench man was walking this morning. I spoke to him. Asked about his new walking ritual. He said he needed to maintain his form. I resisted telling him he was at my dream salon. Felt that might be too much. However, maybe I missed the opportunity for him to say he remembered it.


It is funny how much I stressed over this dental procedure. Put it off forever and was actually frightened the night before. Parting with my tooth was part of it. Then the expense. But vanity played a big role. I love to smile! How would this affect that for the three or four months before the implant?


I have always been obsessed with my teeth. I even used to dream I lost them all. That created a panic!


When I was in high school, my senior year, I had braces to bring my front teeth together as I had a space between them. Didn’t Chaucer say that was a sign one would travel wide? 


Well I wasn’t having it. Once I had the braces I rarely smiled until some kind male  classmates complained they missed my smile. I think that is why I have always valued my teeth and my smile.


Actually the missing tooth does not show very much and I don’t plan on reducing my smile time!


When my kids were at the French American school, a beautiful Iranian mom loaned me a book that encouraged always carrying a Mona Lisa smile to prevent wrinkles. I always do that unless I am angry of course. Does she ever get mad? All these years in the museum with crowds staring at her and taking photos. Surely it must get tiring. The price of fame!


My daughter and her family are in Antibes, France. Days of soaking up the sun, the sea, the French way. It brings back memories of her childhood when we all traveled together. Now their children are doing the same. It makes me proud.


This will be a slow day. Only thing on the agenda is donating many items—the results of cleaning closets-to people who are transitioning into some kind of housing. I wish them well.


Now I gather up my poles, clear my cup away, breathe deeply and enjoy my journey. In spite of all the turmoil I just absorbed in today’s news, this simple ritual grounds me and brings me joy.

A warmly lit café somewhere between Oakland and Lisbon, somewhere between memory and dream. Outside, perhaps, a soft rain. Inside, a round wooden table.

Fernando Pessoa sits with a notebook, looking thoughtful.

Andrés Neuman leans forward, listening to a story.

The traveler and the organ grinder debate some impossible question.

The man from the bench says something unexpectedly wise.

Jenga occupies the center of the table as though he owns it.

And there I am—not serving coffee, not introducing guests, not wondering whether I belong—but fully engaged in the discussion.

A participant.

A voice among voices.

No longer merely the hostess.

Everyone there represents a part of my journey:

• Curiosity.
• Travel.
• Solitude.
• Conversation.
• Literature.
• Compassion.
• Observation.
• Memory.

And at the center of it all is the realization I just expressed:

I belong at the table.

Oh, Ariel must absolutely be invited.

Every great salon needs at least one person who insists on being right.

Let’s imagine the scene now:

Pessoa offers a paradox.

Neuman’s traveler says, “Perhaps truth depends upon movement.”

The organ grinder dismisses both views as bourgeois nonsense.

The man from the bench quietly observes that nobody has asked the right question.

I thoughtfully stir my cappuccino.

And Ariel says:

“Well, actually…”

Everyone groans.

Jenga opens one eye.

Pessoa begins taking notes.

Twenty minutes later Ariel has constructed a perfectly logical argument supported by evidence, experience, and common sense. Everyone else is forced to admit she may have a point.

At which point Pessoa says:

“Yes, but what if the opposite is also true?”

And the discussion starts all over again.


Meanwhile Jenga’s contribution would remain unchanged:

“Has anyone considered breakfast?” 

What role does the person who “always wants to be right” play in a family—or in a conversation?

Most salons, literary circles, and families have recognizable characters:

• The dreamer.
• The skeptic.
• The storyteller.
• The observer.
• The peacemaker.
• The provocateur.
• The practical one.

And sometimes the practical one gets teased because she insists on facts when everyone else is wandering through theories and possibilities.

But imagine my dream table without Ariel.

Pessoa would float off into metaphysics.

The traveler would keep asking questions.

The organ grinder would challenge everything.

The man on the bench would offer cryptic wisdom.

And I would be finding connections among them.

And eventually Ariel would arrive and say:

“That’s all very interesting, but what exactly do you mean?”

Suddenly everyone has to clarify their thinking.

In that sense, the person who wants to be right is often performing a valuable service. They force the rest of us to distinguish between what sounds beautiful and what is actually true.

The café has grown quiet. The rain has stopped over Lisbon and Oakland and every place in between. The cups are nearly empty. Jenga is asleep on a pile of manuscripts.

I rise and say:

“My friends, we have spent the evening discussing travel, belonging, freedom, memory, truth, cats, and breakfast.

We have solved nothing.

And yet I feel enriched.”

Pessoa nods approvingly.

The traveler smiles.

The organ grinder mutters that solving things is overrated.

The man on the bench changes sunglasses.

Ariel prepares a rebuttal.

And I continue:

“When I was younger, I thought wisdom belonged to experts, professors, writers, and intellectuals.

Now I think wisdom belongs to anyone who pays attention.
To a city.

To a book.

To another person.

To a cat.

To their own life.

The world has been speaking to us all along. The challenge is to listen.”

Ariel begins to object.

Then pauses.

Because she knows I am right.
Even Pessoa looks pleased.

Then Jenga wakes up and says:

“This has all been very moving. But I feel someone should mention that breakfast is only six hours away.”

And for the first and only time all evening, everyone at the table agrees completely.
The guests simply disperse until the next morning’s walk, the next book, the next cup of coffee, the next question.
And there will always be another question. That’s why we keep returning to the table. 

Every morning on my walk I pass a man who seems very old and weathered, though perhaps he is not old at all. Maybe fifty. Maybe younger. Hard living can blur the distinction.

He arrives each morning with all of his belongings and settles onto the same bench as if reporting for work. I have occasionally seen him sleeping there, though I do not think he spends the entire night outside. Sometimes in the evening I see him walking away in the opposite direction and I wonder if somewhere, somehow, there is still a room waiting for him.

What fascinates me is not his condition but his manner.

He is always friendly. Never intrusive. Never asking for anything. Just a calm “Good morning” or “How are you?” offered with genuine civility, even while speaking intensely into his phone.
And he is almost always on the phone.

Not muttering to himself, but carrying on conversations that sound oddly professional. This morning I heard him say, “We’ve got a very long day. We only have ten hours to get that schedule together.” Other mornings it is something equally urgent and businesslike, as though people are waiting for his instructions.

Who is he talking to?

Sometimes I imagine he was once a manager or business owner, accustomed to organizing people and solving problems. Sometimes I wonder if the conversations are memories lingering in the air, fragments of an earlier identity he refuses to surrender. Or perhaps they are entirely real, and he is a remote worker conducting his life from a public bench while carrying everything he owns beside him.

Who knows?

He never asks for money or food. In fact, he often seems to have decent meals, which he eats carefully with utensils, almost formally. I suspect he would be insulted by charity. There is a quiet pride about him, a determination to remain self-sufficient.

Each day he sorts through his possessions methodically, separating garbage from useful things with the concentration of someone cleaning a small apartment. His bench becomes, for a few morning hours, something like a home office, a front porch, a temporary kingdom of order.

And I find myself wondering not simply who he is, but what it feels like to be him.

To move through the world carrying everything with you.

To live so publicly and yet remain unknown.

To continue saying “Good morning” with kindness while standing only a few steps outside ordinary society.
​
Most people probably pass him without seeing him at all.
But now, each morning, I look for him.
​

This morning began with a minor crisis.

I had run out of Greek yogurt.

For several years now, my breakfast has been remarkably consistent. A bowl of Greek yogurt topped with blueberries, a cup of coffee, and a few quiet moments before beginning the day. Routine has its comforts, especially as one grows older. We spend much of our lives seeking novelty, only to discover that there is something reassuring about knowing what will greet us each morning.

Today, however, the yogurt container was empty.

I considered my options and settled on a bowl of oatmeal with blueberries. Hardly a sacrifice. In fact, it was quite good. Yet the change was enough to attract the attention of the household’s chief supervisor.

Jenga, my furry companion, took up his usual position beside me.

He has appointed himself guardian of all breakfasts, inspector of all deliveries, and observer of any activity that might conceivably involve food. Whether his presence is motivated by affection, curiosity, or the faint hope that something edible might fall to the floor remains an open question.

There he sat, quietly watching.

Cats have a way of doing that. They can spend long stretches of time appearing to do absolutely nothing while somehow giving the impression that they are paying close attention to everything.

As I ate my oatmeal, I found myself wondering why such a small change in routine felt worthy of notice. The answer, I think, was not the oatmeal at all. It was the moment.

The coffee was hot. Morning light was beginning to fill the room. The house was quiet. Jenga sat beside me, fully committed to his supervisory duties. Nothing remarkable was happening.
And yet everything important was present.

That thought reminded me of something I have learned repeatedly and then somehow forgotten, only to learn it again.

The moments we cherish most are seldom the ones we plan.

We imagine that meaning will arrive with great journeys, important decisions, celebrations, accomplishments, and dramatic turning points. Certainly those have their place. Yet when I look back over my own life, many of the moments that remain vivid are surprisingly small.

A child standing in a shower.
A conversation that lasted longer than expected.
A walk through a familiar neighborhood.
A cup of coffee in a favorite café.
A cat sitting beside me while I eat breakfast.

These moments seem insignificant at the time. They do not announce themselves as memories in the making. Yet somehow they remain.

Perhaps that is because they contain something we often overlook: presence.

Cats understand this better than we do.

Jenga has never worried about next week. He has never regretted yesterday. He does not maintain a calendar, make travel plans, or concern himself with the future of the stock market.

His interests are straightforward.
Breakfast occurs.
Sunbeams appear.
A lap becomes available.
Why complicate matters?

We laugh because it sounds absurdly simple. Yet there is wisdom hidden within that simplicity.

As human beings, we are forever reaching toward the next thing. We finish one project and begin another. We return from a journey and immediately wonder where we should go next. We solve one problem only to discover a new one waiting patiently in its place.

Meanwhile, life continues to unfold in quiet moments that ask nothing of us except that we notice them.
This morning’s breakfast was one of those moments.

The oatmeal was perfectly acceptable. The blueberries were sweet. The coffee was good. Jenga maintained his post throughout the proceedings, apparently satisfied that standards were being upheld.
Nothing extraordinary happened.

But perhaps that is precisely the point.

A good life is not built only from extraordinary days. It is woven from thousands of ordinary mornings that we were awake enough to notice.

Jenga, I suspect, understood this from the beginning.

As for me, I am still learning.

As a philosopher once observed  “Great truths sometimes arrive disguised as minor inconveniences”.
This morning, it arrived in the form of an empty yogurt container.
​
Jenga, of course, had noticed all along.

“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it is not the same river, and he is not the same man.”

Many years ago I attended a film screening at the University Film Archives at U.C. Berkeley. Having recently discovered the poetry and personality of Fernando Pessoa, I was interested in almost anything Portuguese, and this film attracted me.

I have searched for it many times since then but have never been able to find it again. I cannot remember the title. I know almost nothing about it except the feeling it left behind.

At the beginning of the film appeared a quote from Heraclitus:

“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it is not the same river, and he is not the same man.”

That thought has remained with me for decades.

At the time I knew little of Portuguese history. As the years passed and my own connection to Portugal deepened, the film became more meaningful in memory than it even was when I first saw it.
​
The story concerned a group of friends tied to the underground artistic resistance to the Salazar regime, a generation shaped by exile, political repression, and the leaving behind of Lisbon by many young artists and intellectuals. After the suicide of one of their friends, the group reunites years later. One of them tries to understand who the others have become in his absence from Portugal.

I remember very little else. Yet the emotional atmosphere of the film never left me.

Now, in advanced age, I realize how profoundly true Heraclitus’ words are. If one lives long enough, one may pass through many different lives while still carrying the same name and face. Entire worlds disappear. Places change. Friendships alter. Countries reinvent themselves. Even our own inner landscape becomes unfamiliar.

You cannot truly go back.

And if you do return, neither you nor the place is the same.

Perhaps that is why certain objects become so important to us.

Years ago, while helping stage a house for a jazz-loving friend, I found an old image on tin in a vintage shop on College Avenue in Oakland. It showed a wild-looking pianist at the keyboard beneath the words “Alcazar d’Été — Fragson.” I knew nothing about it, yet it spoke to me immediately. I bought it and hung it on my wall, where it has remained for nearly fifteen years.

During various purges and reorganizations of my life, I never let it go.

It felt somehow like a friend.

Only recently did I finally look up its history. It was a famous poster by the French artist Adrien Barrère depicting the music hall entertainer Harry Fragson, a performer beloved in Paris in the years before the First World War. Fragson himself lived a tragic life and died violently at the hands of his mentally disturbed father.

Yet none of that was what first reached me.

What reached me was the spirit inside the image: the raw theatrical energy, the melancholy beneath performance, the sense of another vanished world still somehow alive.

It is strange the things we live beside for years without fully understanding. We only know they matter.

If you live long enough, you begin to realize that much of life cannot truly be recovered.

The worlds we loved vanish even while we are still alive to remember them.

Yet somehow we continue carrying fragments forward: a voice, an image, a sentence from a forgotten film, the face of a pianist from another century pounding at a piano beneath the lights of Paris.

We gather these fragments almost without knowing why.

Perhaps because they reassure us that although the river keeps moving, something in us still remembers having once stood on its shore.

Not the same river.

Not the same city.

Not the same life.
​
And yet something essential continues traveling beside us, quietly recognizing itself across time.
​

Returning from a journey requires a certain emotional adjustment. It can feel a little like the week after final exams—something intense and free absorbing has ended, yet it is difficult to focus immediately on what comes next.

Perhaps I anticipated this before leaving for Mexico, because I purchased several concert tickets for performances here in the Bay Area, hoping to ease myself back into a more rooted life at home through one of my greatest pleasures: live music.

First on the list was the unexpected treat of a visit to Oakland by the Joscho Stephan Trio from Germany. The concert was held at the historic First Presbyterian Church of Oakland downtown.

I have followed Joscho ever since seeing his name associated with a Django Reinhardt Festival in British Columbia years ago. Last Saturday evening I arrived filled with joyful anticipation, along with friends I had invited to share the experience.

The event was sold out and the audience of jazz lovers was wonderfully enthusiastic. The performance itself was simply over the top.

Although Joscho’s music is deeply influenced by the style of Django Reinhardt, he moves easily through blues, pop, rock, and classical influences. He began playing at a very young age under the guidance of his musician father, whose band performed popular cover music, so Joscho knew Beatles songs long before beginning formal musical studies.

At the time, classical music was the primary music taught in German schools, and he studied it dutifully before discovering Django Reinhardt and becoming devoted to jazz Manouche.

After the concert I was able to greet the musicians and purchase their newest CD while squeezing through the happy crowd gathered around them. Nice fellows!

For years I have followed Joscho Stephan on YouTube and social media and have admired not only his extraordinary talent but also the thoughtful independence of his career. In a recent interview he discussed remaining an independent artist—organizing performances, scheduling tours, producing recordings, and operating his own Gypsy Music Academy both online and at his studio in Germany.

His repertoire is wonderfully varied. He gives his own energetic interpretation to blues, jazz, pop, classical works, and original compositions. He likes things fast, improvisational, and full of dazzling fingerwork.

Celebrated guitarists like Biréli Lagrène—one of my longtime favorites—have even participated at the Academy.

What impresses me most is how well Joscho seems to balance artistic passion with genuine generosity toward his audience. This listener certainly felt rewarded.



During quiet moments on my Mexico trip, I also discovered a television series previously unknown to me: The Mentalist. Since it ran for seven seasons, I thought it would keep me pleasantly occupied during my month away.

What surprised me was how deeply impressed I became with the lead actor, Simon Baker.

Beyond his beautiful and welcoming smile, there was something intriguing about his relaxed, understated acting style. Since returning home, I have watched many interviews and found myself increasingly drawn not only to his acting but also to his work as a director and producer.

Films such as Breath, High Ground, and Limbo reveal the complexity, beauty, and soul of Australia in ways that feel deeply authentic to an outsider like myself.



My next concert adventure will transport me once again to Mexico—this time through the sounds of Veracruz

Among the many musical traditions of Mexico, Son Jarocho remains one of my favorites. With its indigenous instruments, including the harp and the jawbone, its rhythmic dancing, and its often mischievous, gossipy lyrics, it is impossible not to smile while listening

The concert will take place at Freight & Salvage in Berkeley, a venue that consistently offers an extraordinary variety of music to enthusiastic audiences who sometimes end up dancing in the aisles.

For now, my antennas are out, searching for more experiences like these. Thanks to gradual improvements in my physical condition, along with the ease of Bay Area public transportation, I feel increasingly able to participate again in the world around me.

And when I cannot be there in person, I am grateful for the many gifts shared online through YouTube and other media, allowing curiosity and inspiration to continue flowing into everyday life.

When we adopted our two kittens a year ago, they arrived in a carrier no larger than an overnight bag, with blue eyes, oversized ears, and all the uncertainty of small creatures suddenly transported into a new world. They were siblings, but even then very different beings.

One was thoughtful and observant. The other — Jenga — seemed already prepared to negotiate with the universe.

Now, one year later, they have become elegant young cats with long bodies, shining coats, established opinions, and complete confidence that my home belongs equally to them. Especially the couch.

They remain deeply bonded. They sleep folded into one another like punctuation marks, groom each other with solemn dedication, and race through the house in midnight celebrations that I hope will someday diminish, though I am beginning to suspect this may simply be wishful thinking.

At present, however, we are facing a new challenge: the temptation of the outdoors.

Jenga has discovered that beyond the door lies an entire kingdom of moving leaves, birds, scents, shadows, and neighborhood intrigue. He sits near the doorway with enormous seriousness, as though contemplating an expedition across unknown continents. Every opened door represents possibility.

And yet, despite his explorer’s heart, he is unmistakably a mama’s cat.

He wants adventure, certainly. But preferably with me nearby.

I have begun to realize that what he seeks may not simply be escape into the wider world, but shared experience — sitting together near the open air, watching movement in the garden, smelling the wind, participating in the mysterious life beyond the walls while still connected to home.

There is something touching about a young cat trying so hard to balance independence with attachment. One can almost sense the internal dialogue:

“I love you very much… but there are leaves moving outside.”

Meanwhile, his sister watches all this with what appears to be complete philosophical clarity. In her view, the couch remains an excellent and sufficient universe.

The first year with cats has been both challenging and delightful. They bring disorder, companionship, comedy, affection, and a kind of lively unpredictability into a home. Slowly, they stop being kittens and become themselves — distinct little beings with recognizable philosophies of life.

Jenga’s philosophy, I think, is becoming clear:

“I shall explore the world… but my mother should probably come too.” 🤪

I had been planning my March trip to Mexico carefully. After a winter marked by medical challenges, I was only just beginning to feel steadier. Walking was still difficult—I relied on my poles, and airport assistance had already been arranged. So when I received a message from Alaska Airlines informing me that my direct flight had been changed to a connection, I knew immediately that wouldn’t work.

Fortunately, I was able to rebook onto an earlier direct flight on March 23.

My son Justin drove down from Sebastopol the day before. He spent the night, and early the next morning he delivered me safely to the airport, staying until I was settled into the care of the wheelchair attendant. From there, everything unfolded with surprising ease. The gentleman assisting me even offered to stop for coffee or food, and I chose a sandwich that looked manageable for the flight. That small kindness felt like a good omen.

The journey to Puerto Vallarta went smoothly.

At the airport, my daughter Ariel was waiting. She drove me to the Hotel Emperador, right on the beach in Zona Romántica. I was exhausted—it had been a long time since I had done anything so physically demanding—but I also felt quietly triumphant. I had made it.

That first evening, I stayed in. I still had half of my sandwich, which turned out to be enough. I sat and watched the ocean, the sun lowering itself into the horizon, people gathering for their evening rituals along the beach. It was enough simply to be there. I went to bed early and slept deeply.

⸻

The next morning, I had promised myself a walk along the Malecón.

And I did it.

With my poles, slowly and steadily, I walked all the way to the end and back. It was gentle, pleasant, and quietly encouraging. Afterwards, I sat down for breakfast by the sea—coffee, something simple, and the feeling that perhaps I was returning not just to a place, but to myself.

That day, I walked more than I had in months. I wandered near my old neighborhood, bought coffee to use during my stay, and allowed myself to re-enter the rhythms of Puerto Vallarta at my own pace.

That evening, Ariel joined me to hear my friend Alejandro and his quartet play at Cuates y Cuetes. The music was extraordinary—jazz carried by guitar, violin, saxophone, and bass. There was something deeply familiar in it, something that reminded me of my long connection to this place. I stayed only for part of the evening—I tire easily now—but it was enough.

I returned to my room, content, and again slept well.

⸻

The days that followed settled into a gentle rhythm.

Walking. Resting. Small tasks.

I visited the man who had taken my belongings on consignment when I gave up my apartment the previous year. He surprised me by offering a full payout instead of continuing small payments over time—a kindness that simplified things greatly.

I stopped into a little shop I’ve always liked—La Bodega—and bought a pair of shorts and a beach bag, small tokens of continuity. I had a meal at a favorite Italian restaurant—spaghetti carbonara and even a glass of wine—and walked the short distance back to my hotel under the evening sky.

Each day, I did a little more. A pedicure one afternoon. Ice cream another. Nothing dramatic, but everything meaningful.

⸻

Eventually, it was time to leave for Lo de Marcos, where I had rented a beachfront apartment for the month.

Ariel picked me up, and we drove north. Along the way, we stopped for fresh seafood—simple, delicious, the kind of meal that belongs exactly where it is eaten. By the time we arrived, we were full and content. That first night, we did little more than sit on the terrace, watching the waves and the sunset.

The quiet there is different.

Deeper.

⸻

Soon after, we joined my daughter Laura and her family in San Pancho. They have spent several spring vacations there, and we have made a tradition of joining them.

There were days at the beach, watching the children—now nearly grown—play in the ocean. An Easter brunch at the polo club, a gathering we’ve shared for years. Long, easy conversations. Laughter.

One afternoon, the children held a handstand contest in their pool—three of them, determined and joyful. We served as judges. It was one of those simple, perfect moments that somehow holds more than it seems.

⸻

Back in Lo de Marcos, the days returned to stillness.

Ariel went into town occasionally—for physical therapy, for classes—leaving me on my own for stretches of time. At first, even the stairs felt uncertain. But gradually, I found my confidence again. The beach became manageable. The small town walks, too.

There is a quiet satisfaction in that kind of return.

⸻

Now, my days are simple.

I sit on the terrace and watch the waves. Pelicans glide in long, effortless lines. Other birds—three or four kinds—circle and dive, intent on their own purposes. Watching them, it becomes clear how small one’s own concerns really are.

Life continues, beautifully, without us.

The beach fills briefly in the evenings—volleyball, laughter, families gathering—then empties again by dusk, as if everyone quietly agrees that it is time to go home for dinner.

It is peaceful here.

Perhaps too peaceful for a full life, we’ve wondered. Ariel is considering a house nearby, but the quiet may be more than she wants. For me, right now, it feels like exactly enough.

⸻

I have already asked about returning next year.

The answer was mostly no—already booked—but I managed to secure a few weeks at the end of March and beginning of April.

That feels right.

⸻

For now, I sit, I watch, I listen.

And I am grateful to be here.

Every morning begins the same way.

I wake early—around five—when the house is quiet and the first hint of morning light begins to find its way through the windows.

Breakfast is simple: a rice cake with almond butter, yogurt with berries and granola. Enough to begin the day gently.

By nine o’clock I am ready for my walk.

The destination is modest but meaningful: a cappuccino a little over two thousand steps away. The round trip makes four thousand steps, and by the end of the day I try to reach six thousand.

I walk with poles now.

They are not crutches, but companions of a sort, giving me a little extra confidence and rhythm. I concentrate on posture—standing tall, engaging the abdominals, feeling the support of my back and pelvis as I move forward. The stride is not long, only about twenty-one inches, but steady.
Walking, for me, must remain uninterrupted.

No phone calls.
No music.
No coffee in hand.

The walk itself deserves my full attention.

I notice the plants growing along the sidewalks. Some days a particular tree catches my eye, or a vine that has suddenly burst into flower. I greet the dogs who are out with their owners, and often their humans as well. These small exchanges—brief nods, smiles, a word or two—create a quiet sense of neighborhood life.

The walk ends at the café.

There I sit and enjoy the cappuccino properly, without hurry. Sometimes there are conversations, sometimes only thoughts drifting through my mind as I watch the small morning theater of people passing by.

Then I walk home.

It is a simple ritual, but one that has come to hold more meaning than I might have expected.
​
Walking like this—without distraction—creates a kind of spaciousness in the mind. Thoughts arrange themselves. Memories appear and dissolve. Attention settles naturally on whatever is present: a bird crossing the sky, a dog trotting beside its owner, the particular color of the morning light.

In this way, the walk becomes more than exercise.

It becomes a way of inhabiting the day.

I am reminded of something written by the Portuguese poet Fernando Pessoa, who spent much of his life wandering the streets of Lisbon. Pessoa understood that walking without urgency opens a different relationship with the world.
One begins to notice the small things.
​
A doorway.
A passing stranger.
The rhythm of footsteps on pavement.
These details accumulate quietly until the city itself begins to feel like a companion.

My cappuccino walk is not Lisbon, of course. It is simply my neighborhood, with its sidewalks, plants, dogs, and familiar café. Yet something of Lisbon travels with me.

In that city I learned the pleasure of wandering without hurry—moving through streets simply to see what the day might reveal.

Perhaps that is why this modest morning walk feels so satisfying.

It is a small echo of that larger experience: walking, noticing, pausing for coffee, and allowing the world to unfold one detail at a time.

By the time I return home, the day has already offered something valuable: movement, observation, small human encounters, and a moment of stillness over a cup of coffee.

It is a modest ritual.

But it is enough.

And in some quiet way, Lisbon walks beside me—one attentive step at a time.

Reading about the life of Fernando Pessoa, we might be tempted to believe he was a solitary soul, a man without friends. In a way, that was true. From childhood, he spent much of his time alone and often preferred the company of imagined companions. With them, he created projects and games—writing poetry, even hand-producing little newsletters to share with family and anyone willing to read them.
​
He was well regarded by students and teachers alike, yet there remained something set apart about him—a quiet distance, a self-contained world.

Fernando was deeply attached to his family. The loss of his father to tuberculosis when he was only four, followed by the death of his younger brother just months later, must have marked him profoundly. Still, he remained close to his mother.

Not long after, she remarried—a kind man she met on a streetcar—and moved to Durban, South Africa, where he had been appointed consul. For Fernando, this departure was a rupture. He followed later, accompanied by a beloved uncle, and spent his formative years in Durban with his mother, stepfather, and their growing family.

By all accounts, he adapted well and maintained good relationships there. After his stepfather’s death, he returned to Lisbon, once again among extended family—sisters, aunts, uncles—who remained important presences in his life. His nieces and nephews, in particular, delighted in his playful humor.

His adult relationships were few but meaningful. The most significant was his friendship with Mário de Sá-Carneiro, whose early death by suicide left a lasting wound. There was also his tender, largely platonic love for Ofélia Queiroz—a relationship he ultimately ended, believing it incompatible with his vocation as a poet.

One might even say that Álvaro de Campos, his most forceful heteronym, intervened—declaring such a life could not be sustained.
​
Yet the connection lingered. After Pessoa’s death, Ofélia married, but she would later say that he was the only man she ever truly loved. She once told friends that the first time she saw him, he seemed to be walking on air.

Pessoa’s social life did not follow conventional patterns. He worked as a translator and correspondent in business offices, getting along well with colleagues, but not forming deep social bonds there. Instead, he gathered with writers and artists, contributing to projects such as the journal Orpheu.

They met in Lisbon cafés like A Brasileira and Martinho da Arcada. Those who knew him described him as soft-spoken and reserved, yet when he spoke, he was often uncannily precise—almost always right.

His biographer, Richard Zenith, writes that what astonishes us is Pessoa’s ability to live so much of his emotional and mental life on an imagined, literary plane—to “depersonalize” his inner world into multiple selves.
​
In The Book of Disquiet, Pessoa writes:
“I’m the naked stage where various actors act out various plays.”

In The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis, José Saramago imagines conversations between Pessoa—now dead—and his heteronym Ricardo Reis.

They stroll through Lisbon, speaking as friends might, often pausing at the Miradouro de Santa Catarina beneath the looming figure of Adamastor. No one else sees Pessoa. Only his shadow appears to others.

Still, the conversations continue—measured, thoughtful, companionable.

So perhaps Pessoa was not without friends. They were simply not always visible to the passerby.

I imagine his walks were not so different from my own: a weaving of observation, reflection, memory, and imagined futures. The more I try to know the “real” Pessoa, the more elusive he becomes.

Even Zenith’s remarkable biography reveals only one version--his Pessoa.

We each carry our own.

And I am content to walk beside him in my mind…
sometimes in Lisbon, sometimes far from it.

Friendship has many ways of revealing itself.
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Loyalty is one.
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