Of Rivers, Moonlight, and Romantics
Tawny, ruby, white. These words together meant nothing to me. Not until one spring evening in Régua when a gentleman brought us three glasses of Port paired with backstories — and tips on which type to buy to impress your friends now, and which sort will impress your friends 10 years later. Pro tip: Don’t ask me which is which, I don’t remember.
I suppose it says a lot about the range of my knowledge on alcohol and Portugal, which is to say as narrow as the spaces between the sardines locked inside the artisanal cans sold in Bolhão Market.
After drinking with obligatory commentary and a unanimous decision that we preferred the white, we decided to wrap the evening.
A little bit tipsy and totally stuffed, my partner and I walked towards our hotel, hand in hand along the riverside and it was perfect. There were gentle beams of amber sneaking through the empty spaces between the arbours devoid of vines. There was moonlight too. God, I haven’t seen it so close in a long time. So bright it painted an enticing silhouette of the towering mountain, the arches of the bridge, and the hypnotizing ripples across the water.
It was also a little strange. Because in this quaint little town on the banks of River Duoro, I was floating in nostalgia. It was a moment far too familiar for a place I’d never been, an experience I’d never had.
I’ve seen beautiful places in the last few years. Some sights took my breath away and others made me wish I was a poet. None of them brought me to this state — entranced, content, romantic, and nostalgic, all at the same time.
Perhaps it’s my idiosyncrasy and sentimentality towards certain bodies of water. Yes, I have unnecessary connotations on specific forms of significant accumulation of water on the Earth's surface.
The river is my sanctuary. The sea is my escape. The waterfall is my dream. And estuary — don’t get me started with estuary — it’s the most productive place on earth. It is hope, pride, and lessons of public speaking. There’s a lot to unpack here, but that’s for another time.
Then I remembered. I was once a hopeless romantic girl who lived close to a river — an estuary to be technically correct — in a small town called Del Gallego. By hopeless romantic, I mean spending hundreds of hours daydreaming of vivid moments with another boy — real, fictional, imaginary, 3D, 2D (oh yes, they were not limited to this dimension) boy.
Many of my imagined scenarios were set in the amber streets of Del Gallego on a tropical evening under the moonlight. They paralleled my anticipation of upcoming local celebrations — fiestas, school events — when the town’s atmosphere transforms into something extraordinary, allowing spontaneous encounters — like being asked to dance by a boy you fancy.
I was never asked for a dance in those local celebrations. Not by the ones I liked.
It doesn’t matter.
Well, it mattered then, but not anymore. While all those memories that happened a dozen times under the moonlight were imaginary, what I felt was real. Every. Single. Time.
And so all that bliss, fluff, and infatuation were etched in my being, tattooed in my subconscious, archived under #notrealbutfeltfuckingtrue — and thrown under my memory pit not expecting to be pulled again — until one spring evening in Portugal.
But it wasn’t all that. There were real memories too. Less romantic, more hopeful and platonic…
The riverside in Del Gallego was where my friends and I used to escape. It was our sacred turf almost every night in our senior year, a place so serene and beautiful. Some nights, the stars danced on the surface of the water. On other nights, the moon cast its gentle light, spotlighting the arches of Kilbay Bridge. On rare occasions, we heard harmless rumbles of thunder — the soft flashes of light highlighting the graceful curves of distant cumulus clouds — as we pretended the heavens were taking snapshots of us.
We talked about our troubles, wondered what university life would be like, and imagined what would happen to us after. I don’t remember the details of our talks, only the safe space and the comfort of being around those who see me for who I am, the people I trust and care about.
No wonder the riverbank of Régua gave me all the feels. I was walking hand in hand with a boy — a man to be technically correct — a real 3D non-fictional man under the moonlight, with the gentle rustle of the glistening river — and I felt safe, loved, and hopeful.
Next time, I will ask him for a dance.
