If my father was alive, he would be sitting at his table right now, studying the tattered world map pinned to the wall. My habit of travel caused him worry as he got older. Ironically, his Mayan journeys were my inspiration. Still, he eagerly read my dispatches. If stylistic flaws follow, it's because my writing coach is no longer looking over my shoulder. Lisbon has a tropical feel that reminds me of Colombo, capital of a former colony. There are palm trees and cooling breezes from the ocean. Men in suits wear no socks. Africans from Angola and Mozambique hawk beaded necklaces. The tiled sidewalks undulate sensuously calling to mind gently rolling seas. The truth is, I hate being a tourist. Three hours is my limit for monuments and museums. I prefer sitting in a cafe,
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