The Last Coast of Europe

The Algarve is where Europe ends.

Not politically. Geographically. Spiritually.

After this, there is only ocean.

Lagos is the base. Fishing town. Tourist town. Both.

The beaches are caves. Carved by water. Accessible only at low tide.

Going to Praia da Dona Ana. Climbing down the cliffs. Finding a hidden cove.

A couple is already there. French. Naked. Sunbathing.

They do not cover up. Not staring.

Existing together. Three humans on a beach that will outlast all of us.

Sagres is the end. Literally. The most southwestern point of Europe.

There is a lighthouse. A fort. A cliff.

Beyond: nothing. Atlantic Ocean. All the way to America.

Sitting on the edge. Legs dangling over three hundred feet of nothing.

A man speaks. Portuguese. Then English.

"First time?"

"Yes."

"You will come back."

"Everyone says that."

"Everyone is right."

He is. Coming back. Three times that week.

The food is simple. Fish. Grilled. Lemon. Olive oil. Bread. Wine.

Eating the same meal every night. Different restaurant. Same meal.

The waiter on night three recognizes. "Again?"

"Yes."

He smiles. Brings extra bread.

Hiking the Seven Hanging Valleys trail. Six kilometers. Cliffs. Caves. Views that make the chest hurt.

Meeting a British couple. Retired. Traveling full-time.

"How long have you been gone?"

"Three years."

"Do not you miss home?"

The woman laughs. "This is home."

"Where do you sleep?"

"Wherever we are. Tonight: Lagos. Tomorrow: somewhere else."

"Is not that exhausting?"

The man shakes his head. "Exhausting is going to an office. This? This is rest."

Leaving the Algarve on a Tuesday.

The flight attendant asks, "Going home?"

"Yes."

"Good trip?"

"Yes."

"You look... peaceful."

Not realizing it shows.

The Algarve teaches that endings are not sad.

They are just... endings.

The coast ends. The ocean begins.

One thing stops. Another starts.

There is no tragedy in that.

There is only change.

And change, learned sitting on a cliff at the edge of Europe, is the only constant.