MY DREAM IS PORTUGAL

My dream is Portugal now that I am retired. I have this delusion that it is heaven on earth. All Western civilization is there, from the Phoenicians, Greeks, Romans and Muslims to Medieval architecture, the European culture, art and soccer.

I have decided that Coimbra, the country's first capital, is my destination. Located near the coast and in the shadows of Portugal's highest mountains, the ancient university city of 150,000 sits on the banks of the Mondego River, the only river that originates in the entire country and empties out into the Atlantic 25 miles later at Figueira de Foz, a city of 50,000 that is a tourist attraction with some of the nation's most beautiful beaches.

Coimbra is located two hours north of Lisbon, two hours south of Porto and five hours west of Madrid by train. The city is majestic and is centrally located in a nation that is approximately 400 miles long and 100 miles wide with a population of 10 million. I have been studying Coimbra. One-bedroom apartments in the heart of the city rent for $300 to $400 and there are numerous offers for English teachers. Portugal is famous for its nostalgic people, its varied menu and its world-class wines.

I want the ocean breezes to sweep through my mind. With the exception of my sons, I want to forget Brownsville's dismal diurnal descent into doom. We struggle on the edge of civilization at the ass end of the Rio Grande River where more shit flows than through this Third World City's sewer lines. If the police had to distinguish the politicians from the criminals, they would have to turn in their badges.

When climate change finally melts the polar caps, God won't have to resort to fire as he did with Sodom and Gomorrah. The gulf will rise and wash this stain off the face of the earth.

"I could have been champ," says the disfigured pug starting his day of drinking in a dive at noon.

Brownsville could have been something, a San Diego or a Miami, but the Mexican-Americans who inherited power from the racist Anglos have proven more nefarious as they savage their own people with the scorn of Banana Republic dictators. 

I'm ridding myself of everything that will burden me. I don't need these crooks weighing on my mind. I can't save a people who don't want to be saved.

Instead, I want to live in a comfortable apartment in downtown Coimbra. I want to walk the streets in search of restaurants and bars where a man can sit and inebriate himself on his fantasies. I want to enroll in a gym and work out regularly. I want to read and write. I want my mind clearer than a crystalline mountain stream jumping with rainbow trout that I can eat raw.

I want to play music at a couple of joints and converse with the patrons. I want to speak and hear Portuguese all day. I want to order breakfast, lunch and dinner in the language of Fernando Pessoa. I want to see serenity in my face. I want to take the train from Coimbra to Lisbon or Porto or Madrid, maybe even Paris and Rome.

But I'm stuck. I fear I will never escape this town that means everything and nothing to me. I can't escape the fear that I'm holding a bad hand and I may have to fold.