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This month, I had the good fortune to step away for a week and head off on a European adventure. The catalyst? Picking up my daughter from her study abroad program. The bonus? Getting acquainted with two very different but equally captivating corners of the Iberian Peninsula—Salamanca, Spain and Lisbon, Portugal.
Our first stop was Salamanca. The University of Salamanca was founded in 1218. That’s not a typo. It’s older than the Aztec Empire. Walking its stone corridors and towering buildings reminded me how recent American history really is. In the U.S., “historic” usually means built in 1850. In Salamanca, that’s considered new construction! While enjoying the sights and culture there, I also managed to grab a selfie with the family at city hall.
Next was Lisbon—a city that’s experienced so much turmoil yet continues to thrive and attract millions of visitors. After a devastating earthquake in 1755, which flattened the city and caused fires and flooding, Lisbon had to rebuild from scratch. It followed a similar path of cities rebuilding after devastation: Tokyo, Warsaw, San Francisco and Chicago, yielding amazing architectural outcomes. Not only did the city have to rebuild, but it then went on to weather monarchy, revolution, dictatorship and finally, reclaimed its democracy after the bloodless coup of 1974. I hit 22,000+ steps a day exploring Lisbon, providing a chance to feel the history in every tile, tram ride and stairway.
As I wandered through sun-warmed plazas, enjoyed tapas and wine and browsed in centuries-old bookstores, I experienced a change of pace. In these cities, time stretches. Meals are an event. Bureaucracy still involves actual paper. People walk, talk, linger. The days start later and end later. Mañana/Amanhã. There’s pride in the slow, the old, the enduring. In contrast, America—especially California—feels like it’s always sprinting. Faster Wi-Fi, quicker e-bikes, shorter video clips, the ever-present buzz of what’s next.
And yet, for all of the trip’s charm, I couldn’t wait to get home.
In the most American way possible, I found joy in sliding behind the wheel of my Wrangler parked at LAX, merging onto a freeway I’ve driven a thousand times, and racing toward home. My cul-de-sac might not date back to the Middle Ages, but it’s my slice of heaven. My neighbors wave and deliver my recovered packages. My fridge is stocked with my TJ’s favorites. Europe is stunning and a wonderful escape—but pulling into my driveway reminds me that the most beautiful place in the world is the most familiar.
There really is no place like home,
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