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.