Act III. Scene 1.

I'm happy here. Really happy. It was the right decision and I knew it after the first walk we took down to the square, jet-lagged and ecstatic. But if I'm honest, it still feels like a vacation. Nothing has gone wrong yet in the way that real life eventually always does. Nobody's sent me a bill I don't understand. Nothing in the apartment has broken in a way that requires me to explain plumbing to someone in Portuguese. So ask me again in six months. But for now, yes. Right decision.

I have locked myself out of my apartment twice.

The first time was the day after we arrived, of course. My phone was in there too, so I had no way to call anyone or look anything up or translate the words I was going to have to say to a stranger. After a brief head-in-hands “What am I gonna do?” panic, I remembered that my real estate agent's office is right around the corner. She got a locksmith over quickly and was extremely gracious about the whole thing.

Then two days later I did it again. Same locksmith. He recognized me. We had a good laugh, mostly at me. This time I watched him work. Rather than using a complicated set of tools to try to jimmy the lock, he just pulled a large sheet of flexible plastic from his tool chest and slipped it between the door and the frame, gave it a wiggle, and it popped open. That was the entire skill that I paid 60 euros for, twice. I'm considering cutting out the middleman and trying my hand at self-burglary.

In my defense: Portuguese doors don't give you the option of leaving them unlocked. Closed is locked. There's no in-between setting, no little button, no way to run downstairs for thirty seconds like a normal person. The door decides.

The people.

I lost my computer glasses somewhere between New Jersey and Viana, so I walked over to the local optometrist and picked out a pair of Guccis, which felt like a very confident thing to do in week one. Then I went to pay and he asked for my address. He chuckled when I told him. He used to live in my apartment. Not my building. My apartment.

Then there's the kitchenwares shop. I went in for pots and pans and came out an hour later feeling like I'd made a friend. I don't fully remember how it happened and I don't think I ever got around to comparing prices.

Newt is having a harder time.

We arrived during peak festival season, which is charming for me and a nightmare for a dog. Marching bands come right down the street below our windows. Every night there are percussive fireworks, which as far as I can tell are fireworks with the pretty part removed, leaving only the explosion.

He’s a neurotic mess. He's been reduced to living on the mattress on the bedroom floor, which is currently his entire concept of home. It doesn't help that the apartment is completely empty and echoes like a parking garage. I've hired a decorator and I can't wait to start filling the place. Right now it's not a very welcoming environment for a nervous pup. Apparently the noise dies down later this month. He just has to hold on.

The good news is I found a dog walker he adores, and we've become daily regulars at the city park on the riverfront. There's a real dog community down there and Newt gets all the attention. His size, his striking coat, the fact that he's thrilled to meet absolutely everyone. I'm on a first name basis with a few of the pup parents now. That's how you meet people, apparently. You get a beautiful dog and then just stand around. And he gets to go into the stores. No more sad faced, whiny waiting outside.

The apartment.

Three floors, three bedrooms, three baths, and floor-to-ceiling windows running the entire east-facing wall of the living room, looking down on a busy intersection. It's the best thing about the place.

Then there's the private terrace on the roof, which is currently empty and quietly begging for potted plants and somewhere to sit. I have plans.

The town.

It’s exactly as romantic and picturesque as I'd hoped. Tiny one-lane streets and alleys packed with shops and people. A gorgeous central square that seems to be bustling at every hour except maybe between 3:00 AM and dawn. Newt and I went out for a late walk last Friday expecting the place to be dead. Instead: families strolling, cafes full, music playing softly.

And the whole city is clearly building toward something. Streets are closing. Bleachers are being erected along streets. Lights are being strung up on every street, block after block of them, and nobody seems to think this is remarkable. It's the ordinary preparation for something everyone here already knows about.

I don't. Whatever's coming, it's big enough to shut down the town, and I get to watch it unfold without knowing exactly what it is. I can't wait to see this place lit up. Newt has no idea what's about to hit him.

One complaint.

The seagulls. Jesus Christ I feel like Tippi Hedren.

We're spitting distance from both the river and the ocean, so they're everywhere. Loud, territorial, and genuinely aggressive. They have opinions and they share them. At 4:30 in the morning.

Newt and I are united on this one.