I sit on a stone wall, which is shaped like an arch, among many other stone arches on the hillside, high above the Douro River, and overlooking much of Porto.
A few autumn leaves are scattered about.
Down at my feet, the grass is worn through to the dirt from the footsteps of the many visitors before me.
Cigarette butts and soda-can tabs are crushed into the dirt.
A pigeon stands on the stone next to me, head bobbing slightly, inspecting me with orange eyes, centred with a black dot.
Pigeons have often annoyed me, by I am mesmerized by the beauty of this individual bird, with its sparkling turquoise neck feathers, purple chest feathers, and the band of white across the top of its grey beak.
I have no food for you, I say, and it wanders off.
The view of the Douro River from above excites me; it’s a perspective I rarely enjoy, to look down upon ripples of waves, seagulls as white dots floating on the water, suddenly rising as wings spread.
I particularly enjoy looking down on soaring birds, so different from looking up at them.
Boats line the shore; they are of all sizes, from two-person rowboats to ships that can hold hundreds.
Most are idle, seemingly waiting in anticipation to fulfill their purpose of transporting goods and people from one place to another.
Other boats, moving along the river, are fulfilling their purpose, their wakes as evidence of their effort.
Looking down onto buildings from above changes their perspective.
While walking across a bridge earlier, I was drawn to the beauty of a stone building above me, clinging to the upper ridge along the river.
From above, however, I see that the roof has caved in and that the building is abandoned and secured from entry.
The building, with its veneer of beauty, is rotting inside.
The roofs of most of the buildings I see in Porto are covered in brown tiles, or orange tiles, or some colour in between.
In most places, the buildings abut against their neighbours, so that only the height and façade of the buildings alert the eyes that they have moved from one building to the next.
As a display of real or perceived importance, the church spires rise above the surrounding architecture.
I feel at peace here, partly because of what I can see, and partly because of the subjective things.
I’m giddy about the beauty around me; but I’m equally giddy about just being in a place that has such an intriguing history, a sense of mystery, and which is famous for that most delectable of fortified wines – Port.
I am excited about the anticipation of adventure.
And while it may not be adventure of the Indiana Jones type, the turn of every corner delights the eyes, leaves the head full of wonder, and inspires the soul.
Before I leave this idyllic hillside bench, I glance again out to the ocean, following the river, and then gaze across the city.
I listen to the sound of autumn leaves dance across the cobblestones under intermittent gusts of wind.
I imagine that if it wasn’t for the movement of the people, vehicles, and hanging laundry below, I would think that the buildings on the other side of the Douro were just painted there.