The location I'm trying to find becomes obvious only when I've found it. Somehow, in the approach to the place--which tram to get on, where to get off, how to orient myself to get to the right street--the flurry of looking obscures the finding. Such was the case today in my visit to Casa Fernando Pessoa, where the poet lived his last 15 years. Now an excellent museum and library, the building holds his famous trunk--from which his literary heirs are still pulling new work--his glasses, his box of matches, his hat. And much else, most notably his library of 1100+ books, heavily annotated, now available for digital viewing. (I asked if I could hold his edition of Poems of Walt Whitman but was politely told it would not be possible.)
I thought I'd sit in the library and let the Pessoa vibe into some editing of my own writing. Here again, the arriving prevented arrival.
But I'll be back, with nothing but time and my notebook, now that I know how to get there.
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