Campismo Grande de Lisboa, Outrela Portugal

We've been here three days. Everything is soaked, in the fragrant, repressive way of temperate forests. Eucalyptus trees surround us but they're a poor cover against the torrential rain and driving wind. It stops and starts; none of us are brave enough to race downhill and check out what's been affectionately been dubbed "Expat Pirate Camp." Instead, we're huddled around a small fire, started with Kleenex and twigs, under the campsite's picnic shelter. It is black and liquid and not yet 8 p.m.

I should explain 'us'. After days of delays and mix-ups, and with the unexpected and unprecedented help of several Couch Surfers, I've finally met up with Brandon. Here at the campismo, we've accumulated others: Tommy, Glastonbury's finest, big and blonde and somewhat clueless, who's been working for room and board and fresh veg on a farm in Porto; Paul & Jacky, young Australians who've been at this for weeks and are headed to Greece next. By virtue of the English language, we've found each other. Tommy, beer in hand at 3 in the afternoon, comes out of his slow meander as soon as he hears Brandon and I speak. Paul and Jacky are tented up behind us, heads perked up when Tommy laughs out loud, exclaiming "Fuckin' Hell, man." Soon, we're all crowded around a picnic table, sharing two liter bottles of Super Bock (Portugal's favorite beer), a large bottle of tart, cheap white wine, chips, plastic containers of bacalhau com batatas.

The rain is blowing into the fire. We can't get the lights to work, so we've rigged a flashlight to hang over the table, and cut apart water bottles so their bottoms can serve as candleholders. Before the rain started, Paul, Jacky, Brandon and I set out across the highway to a local market. There are pork cutlets, chicken breasts, cloves of garlic. A bag of huge black grapes. More Super Bock. A slab of beef. Butter, a huge, round loaf of pao mistura (bread, its crust still dusted with flour). For days we've been scrounging the campsite's tiny store and over-priced cafeteria for things that aren't too pricey, unsatisfied, and no less wet nor cold for it. Tonight, we are going to make a feast. Brandon and I pick over the groomed ground and find enough small logs and fallen branches to get the fire roaring. Over it, we gingerly place the grill grate left behind by some other campers. Paul and Jacky cut vegetables and open bags of chips. Somewhere in the night we lost Tommy; he resurfaces the next day, having sensibly taken the bus into town to stay the night, high, dry and warm in a hostel.

The total blackness requires Paul & I to alternate roles, one of us holding the flashlight, the other using dirty hands, a plastic fork or our single knife to turn chunks of meat that have been slathered in butter, salted from a twist of paper, and sprinkled with chopped fresh garlic. The smell is killing us. Hunger is a constant but not unbearable thing, has been for a week or so, since none of us can eat more than we can carry or afford, and the two are not mutually exclusive any longer. From somewhere, there's music: Coltrane, Eric Clapton, Bob Dylan. (Brandon has his laptop, an incongruously lush accessory in this place that smells of eucalyptus and wet clay, that's slowly filling up with woodsmoke. At least here, between the four of us, there exists a companionable silence about what this entails. Although there are hot showers, none of us has worn a completely-clean or dry outfit for days. Our shoes are caked in clay and mud. Everything we own, collectively, exudes a bit of dampness at all times, and most of this time, we are indescribably but triumphantly weary. On the tram or bus or on foot, we're set apart by our heavy packs, by the half-purposeful, half-wayward way we walk. In the campsite, we have anonymity-no one here is concerned with much but protecting their belongings from the rain, or finding a hot drink or meal, as are we. In the campsite, we have each other.

It takes 20 minutes for the pork to finish, and we rip it apart with our fingers, sharing out pieces blackened by the fire, seasoned with the rusted grill grate. In another 25, the chicken too is done, though by that time we've made our way through half the bag of grapes, two rounds of a sharp sheep's cheese, a bottle of Super Bock, yellow peppers, an onion, some tomatoes. Jacky and I stand quietly around the fire, watching the beef cook, listening to Paul and Brandon delve into politics-they're discussing Obama and his healthcare reform and the recently-awarded Nobel Peace Prize. The fire's smoldered down further, the light from the candles blocked by our bodies, and instead of joining in, Jacky and I stay silent, the warmth and presence of other people a deterrent rather than an encouragement to conversation. To point out the differences between our cultures, our countries and ourselves might spoil it, might force us to remember that, rather than a patchwork and somewhat soggy solidarity, what we have is a strange combination of disparate politics, of nations who do not get along, whose expats, even, may never see eye to eye.

By the time the beef is done, we're all too full and exhausted to handle it. Brandon produces a single round Tupperware container. Everything-chunks of chicken, pieces of bread, large strips of steak, garlic-is swept into the container, since we are loathe to waste anything. It will become breakfast. The rain has let up just slightly, so we don't bother throwing garbage bags over our heads or shrugging into raincoats. Jacky is the first to say goodnight, then myself, and we leave Paul and Brandon to finish the last of the Super Bock. Back in my trusty REI tent, I find everything as dry as I had left it, although the two lea sides of the tent are wet through, the rainfly plastered to the tent walls, rivulets draining down between them. I don't brush my teeth. I climb into my sleeping bag with my winter jacket on, using a folded sweater as a pillow. I have no sleeping pad, so my body must adjust to the hard, flat ground, and yet, within minutes, I am asleep.

I sleep without dreaming, and must sleep well. When I wake up, everyone else is gone. Brandon tells me later I have slept until noon. As I crawl out of the tent, the sun is out, and the leaves of the fum tree above me are starting to dry.