THE HIGH MOUNTAINS OF PORTUGAL by Yann Martel ⭐⭐⭐⭐

In the little understanding I have of Yann Martel, he seems to like bringing animals and humans together. And I like the way he does that.

In the little understanding I have of Portugal, there is the water, there is port wine, and there is the border with Spain. I didn’t realize there were hill-y mountains anywhere in this small coastal country, and besides the existence of the random rural villages there, I’m not sure I know much more about them now. Regardless, the three accounts of the book connecting through grief and the mountains are touching, sometimes edging on the fantastical, and are an interestingly abstract snapshot of Portugal through the twentieth century. I finished it on my second day in Porto, now knowing more than I did yet still overwhelmed, surrounded by a language that sounds like Spanish, Swedish, and Arabic cut up and mixed together into word salad. It’s intimidating, but I found solace in the book’s translations and cultural cues served to me in palatable bites.

I enjoyed this book, especially as a sidekick to this particular trip but more so as just an approachable story that didn’t hurt too little or too much, and successfully entertained with a combo of folly and feeling. The descriptions are extravagant and clear, even if the plot is not. I won’t make it to the High Mountains of Portugal this time, but I’m glad to have seen them through this.