2 days remaining.
June 18, 2008
Two days remaining. Everyone feels the time as its passing grips our hearts. We arrived to the breakfast table this morning to find Geninha’s eyes red and swollen from crying. She watches Jenna closely – memorizing every detail of her precious granddaughter. Filinto has let work go to play soccer with Marcos or to take him for an ice cream or to play in the pool. Duarte also seems to be feeling the tugging of his heart strings. He will be leaving his mother, his father, his brother and his homeland. His eyes tear easily- which is unusual for me to see. And how can I not feel anything? I feel it all because my senses are more aware. I hurt for everyone. OUr kids are so happy here – we are all so happy here. We will be leaving much behind. This is a place full of love. How fortunate we are – but, oh, how it hurts to say goodbye.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Saturday, June 14, 2008
The Smell of Portugal
6/14/2008
Morning
Damp rock, dew on green grass, damp earth, manure
Late morning
Mint, wild roses, lunches being prepared
Afternoon
Hot earth, dusty rocks, dry grass. Lavender,
Evening
Sweet chamomile flowers, green grass, cool rocks
Nighttime
Wine on the end of a cork, Cool air, grass, blossoms, fresh ironed sheets that have been dried in the sun.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
6 weeks
June 10, 2008
Our 6 weeks in Portugal are nearing completion. We have 9-days left. How did it pass so quickly?
It seems that it takes too long to slow ourselves down enough when we arrive to Portugal. Our grumpy, complex lives in State College remain with us until mid-stay and then as we realize the time is passing we grasp tightly the hours we still have. We’ve had wonderful days but it is only now that I am remembering to savor each moment. Life is moving fast.
The first week: mountain biking, cold, rain, EATING, feira, time catching up with family, listening to the church bells and remembering really special times from the year before.
Week 2: A beautiful week on the Alentejo coast of Portugal, a visit from my mom, surfing, kayaking, touring, playing with the kids, EATING, a day in Lisbon, a ferry ride
Week 3: Back to Chaves and to Quinta da Mata, mountain biking, swimming, playing with the kids, still too damn cold and rainy, EATING, a date, an afternoon at the circus
Week 4: getting bored, EATING, playing with the kids, hey, the sun is out, it’s warm,
swimming, mountain biking, exploring, a beautiful hike, a visit to Lisbon, laying by the pool and reading a book, a day trip to the beach
Week 5: A funky haircut, visits from friends from State College, feira, touring, touring, touring, drinking, touring, EATING, not exercising, laughing, celebrating our anniversary, causing a lot of conflict in our village because we put in a window, and hey, I think I understand about 80% of what people are saying around me. Could it be that I am learning Portuguese?
Week 6: my plan is to EAT well and savor the wonderful food that someone else has cooked, mountain bike for 3 hours each day, play with my children, drink good wine, watch sunsets from our new window, catch-up with my much missed ex-sister-in-law, enjoy family and breathe easy.
And at this very moment, I am gazing at the orange glow, from the sun that set hours ago, above the mountains far across the valley. I have a glass of fine port wine beside me. My children are asleep after another very full day of play. Duarte is enjoying an evening out with his brother. I am peaceful. What a wonderful feeling.
Our 6 weeks in Portugal are nearing completion. We have 9-days left. How did it pass so quickly?
It seems that it takes too long to slow ourselves down enough when we arrive to Portugal. Our grumpy, complex lives in State College remain with us until mid-stay and then as we realize the time is passing we grasp tightly the hours we still have. We’ve had wonderful days but it is only now that I am remembering to savor each moment. Life is moving fast.
The first week: mountain biking, cold, rain, EATING, feira, time catching up with family, listening to the church bells and remembering really special times from the year before.
Week 2: A beautiful week on the Alentejo coast of Portugal, a visit from my mom, surfing, kayaking, touring, playing with the kids, EATING, a day in Lisbon, a ferry ride
Week 3: Back to Chaves and to Quinta da Mata, mountain biking, swimming, playing with the kids, still too damn cold and rainy, EATING, a date, an afternoon at the circus
Week 4: getting bored, EATING, playing with the kids, hey, the sun is out, it’s warm,
swimming, mountain biking, exploring, a beautiful hike, a visit to Lisbon, laying by the pool and reading a book, a day trip to the beach
Week 5: A funky haircut, visits from friends from State College, feira, touring, touring, touring, drinking, touring, EATING, not exercising, laughing, celebrating our anniversary, causing a lot of conflict in our village because we put in a window, and hey, I think I understand about 80% of what people are saying around me. Could it be that I am learning Portuguese?
Week 6: my plan is to EAT well and savor the wonderful food that someone else has cooked, mountain bike for 3 hours each day, play with my children, drink good wine, watch sunsets from our new window, catch-up with my much missed ex-sister-in-law, enjoy family and breathe easy.
And at this very moment, I am gazing at the orange glow, from the sun that set hours ago, above the mountains far across the valley. I have a glass of fine port wine beside me. My children are asleep after another very full day of play. Duarte is enjoying an evening out with his brother. I am peaceful. What a wonderful feeling.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
I am a Balloon
June 3, 2008
I am a balloon
Being a foreigner in the North of Portugal is not easy. I know this place well. Duarte and I dated in this region when we first met, we were married here, both of our children were baptized here and we spent 6 months of sabbatical here. Even after all this time, I feel like a stranger.
I have dark skin and dark hair, so my features look more Portuguese than American – but my clothes, my demeanor and most of all my voice gives me away. It is strange to be so familiar with my surroundings and yet not be a part of this life at all. I feel like a brightly colored balloon hovering over everyone - watching frivolously.
We drive through our village each morning and I take in everything I see as an outsider. I am enamored with our village. I love watching the horse drawn carts, the shaggy dogs, the chickens and the old ladies. The huge granite blocks that form the walls of the ancient houses amaze me. And that’s just it – I love the quaintness of it all because it is not really mine. I don’t know what each of these things means to our neighbors. Why do they have horse drawn carts? Has the rain been hard on them? What about those walls? What do those walls mean to the people I see each day?
The people of our village have lived in the village for their entire lives. Their parents and their grandparents have known little else but of life in Sao Lourenco. The relationships are solid as they have spent every day of their lives together. I watch them walk with their arms linked through the crooked streets and I know that I will never have friendships like the ones they have. The men drape arms over each other’s shoulders as they sit upon the granite stairs at the end of the day. There is a comfortable camaraderie among the people of our village. And then we drive through their chores and their routines and their reveries morning and night in our oversized Land Rover - a colorful blaze passing through their day.
At Quinta da Mata, I am a part of the everyday culture there but I know little of what is really going on around me. I miss so much about the relationships surrounding me at any given moment because I cannot really understand the language. I can sense happiness and I can sense ill-will – my senses are heightened. Otherwise, I am lost. A balloon hovering with no anchor. “Where are we going?” “What’s our plan?” “What did she say?” I miss a lot -the plans, the jokes, the anger, the special moments. I pass by employees gossiping during their coffee breaks and I don’t know what they are saying. They don’t even see me.
I know that I am the only one who can anchor myself but I just don’t put out the effort that I need to when I am not here to learn the language. I lose my motivation when I am busy and living my life in State College. Being a balloon is not my true nature. I think that I am normally a rock – very grounded, very heavy- often weighing things down. Therefore I am at odds with myself because I cannot be myself. I think I am finally understanding what it is like for Duarte who is a man of two countries – always yearning for what the other doesn’t have. I do love Portugal and the beautiful life we have here but I miss myself, my life, my ability to communicate and connect with people around me. If I could connect the two lives that I have, I believe I could be content. I would not feel the swing of emotions I feel each day. I would not be a balloon.
I am a balloon
Being a foreigner in the North of Portugal is not easy. I know this place well. Duarte and I dated in this region when we first met, we were married here, both of our children were baptized here and we spent 6 months of sabbatical here. Even after all this time, I feel like a stranger.
I have dark skin and dark hair, so my features look more Portuguese than American – but my clothes, my demeanor and most of all my voice gives me away. It is strange to be so familiar with my surroundings and yet not be a part of this life at all. I feel like a brightly colored balloon hovering over everyone - watching frivolously.
We drive through our village each morning and I take in everything I see as an outsider. I am enamored with our village. I love watching the horse drawn carts, the shaggy dogs, the chickens and the old ladies. The huge granite blocks that form the walls of the ancient houses amaze me. And that’s just it – I love the quaintness of it all because it is not really mine. I don’t know what each of these things means to our neighbors. Why do they have horse drawn carts? Has the rain been hard on them? What about those walls? What do those walls mean to the people I see each day?
The people of our village have lived in the village for their entire lives. Their parents and their grandparents have known little else but of life in Sao Lourenco. The relationships are solid as they have spent every day of their lives together. I watch them walk with their arms linked through the crooked streets and I know that I will never have friendships like the ones they have. The men drape arms over each other’s shoulders as they sit upon the granite stairs at the end of the day. There is a comfortable camaraderie among the people of our village. And then we drive through their chores and their routines and their reveries morning and night in our oversized Land Rover - a colorful blaze passing through their day.
At Quinta da Mata, I am a part of the everyday culture there but I know little of what is really going on around me. I miss so much about the relationships surrounding me at any given moment because I cannot really understand the language. I can sense happiness and I can sense ill-will – my senses are heightened. Otherwise, I am lost. A balloon hovering with no anchor. “Where are we going?” “What’s our plan?” “What did she say?” I miss a lot -the plans, the jokes, the anger, the special moments. I pass by employees gossiping during their coffee breaks and I don’t know what they are saying. They don’t even see me.
I know that I am the only one who can anchor myself but I just don’t put out the effort that I need to when I am not here to learn the language. I lose my motivation when I am busy and living my life in State College. Being a balloon is not my true nature. I think that I am normally a rock – very grounded, very heavy- often weighing things down. Therefore I am at odds with myself because I cannot be myself. I think I am finally understanding what it is like for Duarte who is a man of two countries – always yearning for what the other doesn’t have. I do love Portugal and the beautiful life we have here but I miss myself, my life, my ability to communicate and connect with people around me. If I could connect the two lives that I have, I believe I could be content. I would not feel the swing of emotions I feel each day. I would not be a balloon.
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