Flying is Hell, Family, and a Birthday

think of it as a word smörgåsbord wherein a hammock makes an appearance

You’re about to read life: examined. It’s an invitation to curiosity, a collection of ideas and thoughts about living a creative, intentional life—all from my perch in Portugal.

—> Thank you for your support <—

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[Regarding the war that erupted in Ukraine today. I hesitated to send this newsletter—honestly, it seems wrong to do so. But, I recognize that, among other things, silencing artists regardless of the size of their reach is what authoritarians want. So, to Putin and his cronies, I raise a defiant middle finger. 

Sending compassion and strength to all those affected, and optimism for a quick resolution to this outright violation of Ukraine’s sovereignty.]

In the neighborhood. Setúbal, Portugal.

You probably didn’t notice, but I missed publishing last week’s issue of life: examined.

My apologies if you track your time using this newsletter as a guide. Although I’m guessing zero people use life: examined as a reliable source for such things. 

Anyway, here I am a week later, but still on a Thursday—at least according to West Coast time.

Publication of life: examined is likely to be wonky for the next week or two because the universe asserts its dominance over my plans, demanding attention and shredding my agenda to tatters. So, to life’s unpredictability, my attention I am giving. 

That’s pretty vague, so let’s do this in a list sort of way, taking time to unpack the activities that have happened (or are still happening) since I last wrote to you. 

Lisbon, Portugal

TRAVEL + FAMILY

Surprise—I’m back in San Diego! 

I know, I know—I was just here a few months ago. But, before that, it had been two years since I visited my family in, ahem, America’s Finest City. 

I’m not pleased that I’ve already broken my one transatlantic flight per year rule—and it’s only February. Does it count that I didn’t fly at all for two years? 

But this trip back to California felt essential.

My mom had surgery on Monday (she's home and doing well, thanks). I wanted to be here with her and my brother and to support them with my superpowers, which consists of making coffee, toast, and soup. That, and bad puns—my brother and I excel at corny pun-telling. 

PLANS

I hadn’t planned to return to San Diego so soon because flying across the Atlantic to the far western edge of Freedom Land nearly wrecks me every time (plus my arms get really tired). 

Getting to California from Portugal takes nearly 24 hours if you add the 3 hours before the flight that you arrive at the airport, the flight itself, the several hours of waiting and wandering at the connecting airport—plus the time in the air for the last leg to your destination.

Does this sound fun? It’s not. 

Post-911 flying was already an exercise in stamina and ridiculousness.

Fold a heaping portion of pandemic panic into the absurd theater of shoe removal, pocket-emptying, and interminable queuing… and voila! You have the recipe for an un-fun time.

Flying. 

Is. 

Hell.

By the way, has there been another shoe bomber since that Richard Reid guy? Why do I remember his name? What kind of shoes were they? I have so many questions.

Like most plans, my intent to hunker down for winter in Setúbal was foiled. Good thing I keep a light touch on all plan-making, knowing the universe is always up to chicanery; the bedrock of misery is high expectations.

The tighter I hold, the more profound the disappointment when things go awry. 

Setúbal to San Diego

I was surprised to find myself excited to return so soon to San Diego. My last visit was a good one and this visit has been, too. 

I feel like I’m finding my groove with maintaining family connections, and my family is coming to terms with me living abroad—and that my decision to do so isn’t an indictment on them. 

As I’ve said before, physical distance does not equal emotional distance, but it’s hard not to conflate the two. 

I’ve had a complicated relationship with my hometown. Sometimes loving it, often not so much, but I think I’ve finally found equanimity with San Diego. She no longer pushes my buttons. I can be here and enjoy it, focusing on my family, knowing that soon enough I’ll return to Portugal, my dog, neighborhood, and friends. 

I can appreciate both places—it isn’t a contest between them. 

Yay, Birthday

This was the first year in many that I’ve been with my mom and brother for my birthday.

My birthday was the day before mom’s procedure, so we just lazed about the house, drinking coffee, snacking, and enjoying the sunshine. 

I spent my birthday like I do most days, with no significant events or activities—the only difference was I did glorious nothing with my mom and brother, instead of by myself.

It was the perfect way to say hello to a new year and bid the old one adeus. 

Art Come Home

A friend I met in San Diego, who has subsequently moved to the same city where I live in Portugal, is here now in San Diego. Confusing, I know. He arrived the day after I did and will be here a few weeks after leaving.

This good friend has offered to ship the last of my artwork, an awkward bundle of odd-sized pieces (don’t tell him), with the stuff he’s sending to Portugal.

A friend who will help you finish your international move is a true friend, indeed.

Looking forward to reuniting with The Bathers (by Gerardo Meza)

Once I hand off the artwork, I’ll have few possessions remaining in San Diego.

I’ll return to Portugal with two carry-ons stuffed with bits and bobs that I left behind three years ago, including books and my camping hammock.

Although I’m not usually a keep it just in case kind of person, apparently I am with this hammock. We don’t even have history, me and this hammock, she’s still new, but I imagine the future memories we’ll make together.

I’m pleased to have emptied five blue plastic containers, leaving behind just three bins of books and files. And I’m sure my mom and brother are relieved to have the leaning tower of Shanna’s stuff whittled down to a modest stack no taller than a nightstand.

Even for a human without a lot of stuff, moving abroad takes time.

Color Craving

Perhaps moving abroad is never truly finished. Or at least the process takes longer than one might imagine. It seems something, tangible or otherwise, is always left behind.

Before I moved to Portugal, I sold all my furniture and other items that filled my tiny apartment, then I moved with just three suitcases, a backpack, and a dog. I'm still not done—and I'm minimalist-adjacent!

Too much stuff makes me nervous, I like visual calm, yet I've been craving the colors and shapes in the various paintings and photography that inspired me to purchase them in the first place.

Through art, my white walls are ready to be enlivened—and so am I.

Perhaps I'll even add some magenta or chartreuse to my black, grey, white, and blue wardrobe, but probably not. I remind myself not to get carried away with unbridled color lust—bringing art back into my life is the first step, so for now, the uniform remains.

Maybe it's the coming spring that's drawing me toward more color, or just the rhythm of my life as it changes tempo with each new year.

I tend to swing hard, a pendulum in motion moving toward and away from things, ideas, and places, rarely stopping for long. I don’t often know where I’ll land, but it’s always interesting to find out.

Leaving, Again

During this trip, I’ve seen exactly one friend who dropped off a large framed watercolor that she’s been babysitting for me since 2018. I’m grateful to the people in my life and the kindnesses they have shown me. They are a part of this transatlantic move, joining me throughout my days, even if they don’t know it.

In a few days I’ll head to the airport and back across the Atlantic to Portugal, my now-home away from the place I was born.

It’s bittersweet, this always leaving, but I look forward to seeing Milo again and sleeping in my own bed. Even though Milo always steals the best sunbeams.

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Favorite Portuguese to English Auto-Translation of the Week:

It’s a super cute cat. Always looking for affection. Not all cats are good. Drunk with some on the trigger. Is not afraid of dogs. Btw he’s not afraid of anything.

From an animal rescue organization about a new resident.

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GOOD LINKS:

• Is Black Veganism the Future of Soul Food? via ASU’s surprisingly & consistently stellar ZÓCALO PUBLIC SQUARE

• I can’t get enough of Never Too Small. Thank me later.

• Check out Significant Objects—its a literary and anthropological enterprise devised by Joshua Glenn and Rob Walker (Rob’s a friend and subscriber to life: examined).

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Thanks to these generous readers for their support:

Denny, Janice, Meghan, Mandy, Peter, Rich and delightful anonymous humans for supporting life: examined through Buy Me a Coffee.

Never expected, but it’s always appreciated!

Whether it’s a coffee, a comment, a like, or a share—I’m grateful for your support!

Until next time, be well, stay curious, and thanks for reading life: examined