Over the hills, under the moon - and off the beaten path

Many modern Danes have  developed a peculiar relationship with harsh weather - we don't adapt, we flee, and when Nordic winter darkness descends, we book flights.  Rita and I succumbed to this impulse last week, boarding a plane to Lisbon, where winter just about now should be yielding to blissful spring.  How perfectly ironic that we arrived just as the historically wild storm named Martinho hammered upon the Portuguese coastline. As we huddled up in our apartment, watching the rain lashing horizontally against Alfama's ancient buildings, we considered how Martinho had conspired against our escape plan; how the brutal winds now seemed to mock the notion that we could outrun nature's rhythms. Yesterday, I sat in a tiny cafe, completely drenched after yet another massive downpour. I scrolled through weather forecasts on my mobile (as if digital certainty might alter physical reality!), when an old man approached my table.  "You came for the sun?" he asked wi...