The singing guitarist on the park bench is as good or better than any other I have ever heard. For famous musicians who tour and play on stages, we pay a hundred dollars for a ticket, wait in line, stand in a crowd, and take pictures. For this guitarist on the bench, we eat our baguettes, read our books, clap absent-mindedly in between his songs, and maybe toss a few coins in the upturned hat at his feet. Who will stand and raise their hands for this unknown musician in the park? Who will be the first to say that he is good, even if nobody else has already set it?  think we do what others give us permission to do. I think we like the things that other people like. Maybe it is better this way; it is more orderly, at least.

I watched a pigeon walk along the wooden planks of the roof deck where I sat at the edge of a beach chair, eating picos y espetec.

I thought to myself, how helpless does that pigeon look hobbling around me hoping I’ll drop a pico.

Then the bird all of a sudden leapt up and took flight, at first diving over the edge of the building, down in between the other nearby buildings, and then up into the sky.

How wrong I was that a bird should look helpless. Even the rats of the sky are magnificent in flight.

For some reason, I thought Spain would be all Sangria on the beach and octopus at cobblestone cafes but Madrid is more like New York City the buildings are tall and say you can’t see landmarks to orient yourself. Tapas are most often pieces of bread with different toppings like raw fish or tomatoes or mashed avocado. They call prosciutto smoked ham.

It seems like more people spoke English in Portugal, whereas people in Madrid just speak Spanish and don’t know as much English. I wonder if that’s because Portuguese is a less dominant language. So people are forced to learn English whereas Spanish is a more dominant language so more people don’t bother learning English.

The architecture is more beautiful here. Buildings in America are boxy. All the architecture here is ornate. Curved terraces, fences.

It’s true that people eat much later here. Our reservation for dinner last night was at 10:30. And there were still groups being seated past 11. One theory we have for why people stay up later. Here is the heat. It’s hard to do anything when it’s hot. Outside, you almost immediately start sweating. So maybe people stay up later to take advantage of more hours when they can be outside without sweating.

On the plaque next to the painting at the museum it said the painting was depicting the idea that desire is the force of life. Those who have strong desires are the ones who move things in the world

The desire, in order to be effective, must have two qualities. It has to have the magnitude, the power, the passion in order to have enough energy to have an impact. And it also has to have direction.

The second quality of direction is important but often overlooked. If you have a lot of passion, but you are not focused or directional or intentional, your passion will spread out in all directions and not really have a great impact in any one place.

Excess magnitude can compensate for lack of direction. If you have your desire has excess magnitude, then perhaps you can spread it to two or three or four different directions and still make a great impact in one of the directions. But if you try to spread to 50 or 70 or 100 different directions, you will have only a small amount of impact in any one directions.

Perhaps someone with greater magnitude of desire can have more impact in multiple directions. But it is best in order to have the most impact to have the greatest magnitude of desire and focus in only one direction. This is how you bring about the most change in the material world.

In the middle of the day, it’s like the wine drunk has chose me, like the sangria chose my soul to intoxicate, like the fermented fruit found my mind to inhabit with the idea to cross the street without looking both ways, almost getting hit by a motorcycle and a car from both sides at the same time, but not even caring whether it would happen.

The sun is too bright and the building tops are too beautiful, so it’s not important to do anything except for smile and walk in a way that is more like dancing. Stepping in and out of shops. Looking at things just to look but not caring about buying because my drunk mind doesn’t think about owning or taking things home, it only thinks about right now and feeling good, so I step out of the shop and walk along the cobblestones, looking for the next thing to entertain me.

As a man was eating at a bistro table for two with his lover on the other side, a black olive jumped off his plate and onto the cobblestones, then started to roll down the hill. It rolled and rolled all the way to the bottom. The man watched it and I saw as he considered getting up from the table to chase the olive down the hill. He looked at the rolling olive with an expression that said he knew he had an obligation to not litter the streets with olives.

Perhaps he would save someone from stepping on it and ruining their shoe or squashing it and making the streets seem slightly unpleasant for everyone else walking by. There are plenty of reasons why there can’t be olives all over the cobblestone sidewalk. But even as he considered all this, he had to also consider that he was at a meal with his lover and he had his napkin already on his lap. And it would have created a scene for him to get up and run down the hill, chasing the olive. So he left it and let it roll and looked back down on his plate and continued to eat.

With my elbows on the table and my knuckles under my chin, I watched the ice cream slowly drip down the side of the cake, as we waited for the waiter to bring an extra plate. My stomach full of ravioli and veal. We discussed whether we would go to the bar or just go home and get in bed and watch TV. The piano music playing softly from the speaker overhead. Plants in vases hanging from ropes swaying softly, even though there was no wind inside the restaurant. The clinking of plates in the kitchen. Other diners conversing in the other room.

When I asked the bartender what is Vhino Verde, he started to explain that it is wine that is made when the grapes are still young and green, then he realized he could explain better by just letting me taste. So he got out a glass and pulled the bottle out of the fridge and poured me a small drink. It was carbonated and bitter, like white wine but less sweet. I appreciated the taste very much, but I didn’t like it. So I ordered two glasses of red wine instead.

He poured the glasses very generously, with probably twice as much wine as I’m used to having poured in a glass in the U.S. It was only two euros per glass. I gave him a ten-euro bill. He gave me back a five-euro bill and a one-euro coin. I left the one-euro coin on the bar. I brought both glasses back out to the patio and handed one to Kirissa and told her we’re going to get very drunk for less than ten euros.

In Porto, the tourist culture is pervasive. Anywhere you walk, there are myriad patios for wining and dining. Perhaps it’s not just for tourists though. Perhaps this is just the culture here, even for the locals.

It’s more relaxed, more beautiful. The architecture is wonderful everywhere. A few times we’ve climbed a hill or turned a corner around a cobblestone alley to find an amazing view over the Douro river or over the multicolored buildings rising up the hill.

More people smoke here. People drink on patios under umbrellas. Sangria and wine are at the top of most menus. The streets are not straight on grid systems like they are in American cities. They curve and wind around and crawl up hills and turn around corners. Even the urban design permeates the more free-flowing culture here, whereas in America, it seems the streets permeate the culture of right angles and sharp edges.