By Beth
I am about to reveal one of my biggest secrets: I am absolutely terrified of Portugal.
It might be the end of me to share that. Of Portuguese and Italian heritage, I spent a year living in Portugal in college and learning the language. I've worked in a number of Portuguese establishments since developing my language ability. When I'm in the States, I love hitting up every Portuguese restaurant, pastry shop and everything else that might give me a taste of the homeland. But here I am, back in Portugal, and I am scared to death to even leave my hotel room.
I don't know why, really. I love speaking Spanish to anyone who will listen to me, and my Spanish is terrible. And despite my intense fear of Portugal, I keep coming back. I keep coming back, and then running away. As if someone is going to find me out and banish me from the country forever.
It's strange to have a secret identity. But sometimes when I am in Portugal, I do. I look Portuguese enough to be culturally ambiguous. And when I open my mouth, I am hyper-sensitive to the fact that the person will know exactly where I come from not by my appearance, but by my accent. And for this reason, I do everything I can to mask it. To not speak when I don't need to. To hide in the crowd of Portuguese faces. To walk along the streets knowing exactly where I'm going, taking furtive photographs only when no one is around, to memorize maps in my hotel room before leaving so that I don't even need to glance at them. To practice quick “good afternoon”s and “coffee, please”s so that I won't be taken by surprise. I am like a CIA Agent, a ninja, an investigative journalist that has studied an identity for long enough to be able to act it in energetic spurts.
But recently I have challenged myself with the question of why. Why is it that I can't seem to accept my own identity as a Portuguese-American? Why is it that I feel I must deceive others for as long as I can? Am I embarrassed to be an American? Or am I scared to disappoint people that I don't even know when they realize that I am not one of their own?
Today I ran away from the museum when someone outside asked me something in a thick Sao Miguel accent, and I had no idea what he was saying. I turned right around and went back to my room. I had just gotten outside and I had already had enough. But, God, it feels good to admit it.
Showing posts with label portugal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label portugal. Show all posts
Just Looking for Love
By Beth
It was raining.
I remember the rain the most, because I had been determined to go even despite the foul weather. It had stopped everyone but me.
That's right: me, it would not stop. So I went on my adventure alone.
The town was called Montemor-o-Velho, roughly translated to something that what was derived from “The Old Mountain and Wall.” And that's what it was, a few houses skirting a hill with a castle on top. The stone wall on the old mountain. A speck in the distance from Coimbra, Portugal, where I had been living over the past year. Where Coimbra had cell phone stores and shopping malls, this town had rice fields and wandering farm animals. Everyone knew everyone else. There were few visitors.
The nearest train station: perhaps a two hour walk away. But I hadn't quite had enough of castles yet, and the whole day was in front of me. I hadn't minded the idea of walking two hours for an adventure.
I was lucky on my way there. Two women in a car picked me up along the route, displaying sympathy for my wet walk and explaining the pride they had for their little town far from any sort of urban development. I spent the afternoon exploring the storm-soaked castle grounds, watching old fountains overflow, a haze sweeping over countless fields and unoccupied houses. It was a safe town, that was for sure. Quiet, to say the least.
Until I began my trek home.
I had walked for nearly an hour, splashing in puddles, dreaming up romantic stories about the people who lived in the houses far across the foggy meadows. A few cars passed, but not many. Until one pulled up.
Inside was an old man. He was small and wrinkled, not younger than 70. He rolled down the window and signaled to me. “Come in,” he shouted. “I'll take you the rest of the way.”
Remembering the kindness of the two women just hours ago, I didn't think twice to hop in. Inside, the car was warm and cozy. I felt my body thawing through the heat vents, reaching dry satisfaction just one bit at a time.
The man looked at me. “So cold,” he said, with worry on his face. He touched my hand. “Your hands are so cold.”
I smiled and told him I was fine, but he turned up the heat so that it blasted in my face and on my hands. He let his hand linger on the heat knob. Then he slowly returned to my hand again. Then my knee.
He held it there for a moment. I brushed it off, and it returned. It always returned.
His face was calm. He began to ask me where I was from and where I was going. I was familiar with the flirtatiousness of Portuguese men, even older Portuguese men, and tried to wave the gesture as a cultural difference while I focused on his question. I explained how I was studying at the University of Coimbra, and he said he was very familiar with the town and its university. In fact, he used to work in Coimbra, and knew the drive from Montemor quite well. He also was familiar with the train station I was heading to. I listened to him with the acute concentration of a foreigner, but it was hard to ignore the movements of his fingers. The way I felt them pulse on my knee.
He looked at me. He looked at me for longer than he needed to. I told him to keep his eyes on the road.
“You are so beautiful,” he said to me. “I'm just a young boy, you know. A young boy, looking for love.”
I could have smiled...but I was busy trying to figure out how I could communicate to him that I wanted to walk from here.
But he insisted to take me the rest of the way. The train station was not a far drive, and it was too rainy for me to be outside. And the car was so warm...
He kept looking back at me, these long gazes. He held my knee and rubbed it. He offered me a ride all the way back to Coimbra in exchange for a kiss. I told him the train station would be just fine.
When we approached the station, I let out a long breath. I knew the ride was almost over. I didn't feel endangered, per se. There was little he could do to harm me- he was too feeble, and anyway, Portugal was not known to be a dangerous country. Yet I was still pretty...grossed out. He smelled like my grandfather. I imagined my grandfather hitting on me in a small car in the middle of Portugal. I withheld a gag reflex and tried to maintain my composure.
At the station he continued driving at a steady pace. In fact, he passed it.
“Did you want to get off here?” He asked.
“Yes,” I told him.
“Okay. Then give me a kiss and I'll let you out.”
I wasn't sure if there was a way to avoid this. Either I gave him a kiss, or we drove around with his hand on my knee for what seemed like it could be the rest of my life. I weighed my options. Would I see this man again? No. Would I make his day, a young girl giving him a little peck on the cheek? Maybe. Could it be some form of payment for the free ride he just gave me, saving me from a long, cold walk outside? Okay, probably so.
I turned to kiss him, his cheek stubble in my line of vision. His agility surprised me. At the last minute he shifted his head, and I kissed him smack-dab on the lips. SMOOCHHHHHHH. It was about as wet and as delicious as you can imagine, sweet, juicy apples on a crisp September morning. Crunch. Slurp. Smack. Gulp.
I looked at him in horror, jumped out of the car and ran to the train station. The ride back went much faster than I had expected. I laughed nearly the entire way home.
It was raining.
I remember the rain the most, because I had been determined to go even despite the foul weather. It had stopped everyone but me.
That's right: me, it would not stop. So I went on my adventure alone.
The town was called Montemor-o-Velho, roughly translated to something that what was derived from “The Old Mountain and Wall.” And that's what it was, a few houses skirting a hill with a castle on top. The stone wall on the old mountain. A speck in the distance from Coimbra, Portugal, where I had been living over the past year. Where Coimbra had cell phone stores and shopping malls, this town had rice fields and wandering farm animals. Everyone knew everyone else. There were few visitors.
The nearest train station: perhaps a two hour walk away. But I hadn't quite had enough of castles yet, and the whole day was in front of me. I hadn't minded the idea of walking two hours for an adventure.
I was lucky on my way there. Two women in a car picked me up along the route, displaying sympathy for my wet walk and explaining the pride they had for their little town far from any sort of urban development. I spent the afternoon exploring the storm-soaked castle grounds, watching old fountains overflow, a haze sweeping over countless fields and unoccupied houses. It was a safe town, that was for sure. Quiet, to say the least.
Until I began my trek home.
I had walked for nearly an hour, splashing in puddles, dreaming up romantic stories about the people who lived in the houses far across the foggy meadows. A few cars passed, but not many. Until one pulled up.
Inside was an old man. He was small and wrinkled, not younger than 70. He rolled down the window and signaled to me. “Come in,” he shouted. “I'll take you the rest of the way.”
Remembering the kindness of the two women just hours ago, I didn't think twice to hop in. Inside, the car was warm and cozy. I felt my body thawing through the heat vents, reaching dry satisfaction just one bit at a time.
The man looked at me. “So cold,” he said, with worry on his face. He touched my hand. “Your hands are so cold.”
I smiled and told him I was fine, but he turned up the heat so that it blasted in my face and on my hands. He let his hand linger on the heat knob. Then he slowly returned to my hand again. Then my knee.
He held it there for a moment. I brushed it off, and it returned. It always returned.
His face was calm. He began to ask me where I was from and where I was going. I was familiar with the flirtatiousness of Portuguese men, even older Portuguese men, and tried to wave the gesture as a cultural difference while I focused on his question. I explained how I was studying at the University of Coimbra, and he said he was very familiar with the town and its university. In fact, he used to work in Coimbra, and knew the drive from Montemor quite well. He also was familiar with the train station I was heading to. I listened to him with the acute concentration of a foreigner, but it was hard to ignore the movements of his fingers. The way I felt them pulse on my knee.
He looked at me. He looked at me for longer than he needed to. I told him to keep his eyes on the road.
“You are so beautiful,” he said to me. “I'm just a young boy, you know. A young boy, looking for love.”
I could have smiled...but I was busy trying to figure out how I could communicate to him that I wanted to walk from here.
But he insisted to take me the rest of the way. The train station was not a far drive, and it was too rainy for me to be outside. And the car was so warm...
He kept looking back at me, these long gazes. He held my knee and rubbed it. He offered me a ride all the way back to Coimbra in exchange for a kiss. I told him the train station would be just fine.
When we approached the station, I let out a long breath. I knew the ride was almost over. I didn't feel endangered, per se. There was little he could do to harm me- he was too feeble, and anyway, Portugal was not known to be a dangerous country. Yet I was still pretty...grossed out. He smelled like my grandfather. I imagined my grandfather hitting on me in a small car in the middle of Portugal. I withheld a gag reflex and tried to maintain my composure.
At the station he continued driving at a steady pace. In fact, he passed it.
“Did you want to get off here?” He asked.
“Yes,” I told him.
“Okay. Then give me a kiss and I'll let you out.”
I wasn't sure if there was a way to avoid this. Either I gave him a kiss, or we drove around with his hand on my knee for what seemed like it could be the rest of my life. I weighed my options. Would I see this man again? No. Would I make his day, a young girl giving him a little peck on the cheek? Maybe. Could it be some form of payment for the free ride he just gave me, saving me from a long, cold walk outside? Okay, probably so.
I turned to kiss him, his cheek stubble in my line of vision. His agility surprised me. At the last minute he shifted his head, and I kissed him smack-dab on the lips. SMOOCHHHHHHH. It was about as wet and as delicious as you can imagine, sweet, juicy apples on a crisp September morning. Crunch. Slurp. Smack. Gulp.
I looked at him in horror, jumped out of the car and ran to the train station. The ride back went much faster than I had expected. I laughed nearly the entire way home.
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