Yesterday, I went back to the village where I spent the first eleven years of my life in Portugal. A milestone birthday of a friend. Aside from three funerals, I had not returned for six years, and not to the English/Irish pub which changes hands often. It was good to see my friends again, and I was thrilled and delighted that so many of our mutual friends were there too.
The stories in the village. There are always stories. How someone’s daughter left her husband because he beat her. She and her son live with their aged father, who has heart problems. She has a boyfriend she sees mostly on weekends in the town I now live in.
Another person whom I was thrilled to see, such a huggable being, has a healthy heart but has got support of some kind in his aorta. He does not seem to age. His kindness, curiosity and understanding of humanness are timeless. His wife, a cheery soul, looks truly happy, her face ageing into the smile that has always been there. I easily give up my seat as she sits down next to the daughter of my greatest friend, now gone into His Glorious Kingdom, for sure. They leave early, as I do. She has a couple of chickens that are poorly, and home is at least forty minute’s drive away, along country roads with only incidental streetlights.
Another lovely face I was surprised to see was indeed so lovely, I took a couple of photos. She has long hair about the same length as mine now. About ten years ago, we had coffee together in the middle of summer. She had just had an ultra-short haircut, with a zig-zag shaved into the one side. At the time I, too, sported a short cut. And now, here we are, look at us, I said. I thought about how she passed by in her car while I was gardening at home once, and slowed down to say hello. I had been grieving for less than a week at the time. She came inside when she learnt that, and stayed an hour chatting with me. God only knows what I said then. Anyway, I did not mention that. Instead, I let her talk about her 18 cats (there were thirty-one once). When she first moved into that place, I thought she only had three or four. I am allergic to those animals, but I did not remind her of that either. What for?
Someone else’s daughter is still doing well in sports, I knew that, but her grandfather gave me the latest details while her mother just beamed the way mothers do.
Then there was the IT guy who saved my bacon when my laptop hard drive crashed thirteen years ago, and waited for me after business hours while I drove 35 kilometres to his shop. He restored everything onto a second-hand laptop of the same model as my old fried machine and I got to meet my midnight deadline for a client in the USA. What surprised me is that he recognised me while I had my back turned to him as I was at the bar getting my second or third glass of wine, I cannot remember which.
I got the updates of the second cousin in another country who is being a pain over land inheritance, something that the said stumbling-block person should have dealt with about thirty-five years ago.
While I was outside having a smoke, I overheard through the window the guy who runs a bed and breakfast complaining about a dodgy fill valve in one of the toilet cisterns. I could have sworn he was talking about something similar about seven years ago.
We heard about the trials and tribulations with bureaucracy of a couple, recent arrivals in Portugal. By contrast, some of us offered stories of our own ease of settling here years ago thanks to EU passports.
Then, there was cake. We all sang happy birthday the South African way. The spouse of the man who had turned 60 sang the first verse of the Portuguese version, I was the only one who joined her, although two others in our company could have sung it if they had wanted to.
In a brief one-on-one we had later, the husband of the migrant couple said he preferred life in his new country of residence. Smaller house, simpler life. His wife said she wants to learn Portuguese. I said she must. For without the facility of that language, most of the truly wondrous aspects of Portugal will remain hidden to her.
I told her that as I got together my small backpack and fastened my money belt around my waist beneath my shirt in preparation for my walk down to the train station, in a somewhat insalubrious area. The wife wondered whether I would be okay. I told her not to worry. I told her that if anyone even thought of touching me, I would f— them up good and proper. She was slightly taken aback (but not because of the swearing), since I had been nothing but sweetness and light all evening. She said it was raining. A light drizzle, I said, it’s nothing—nothing like the heavy rain where we come from, I’ll be fine.
I walked into the night, down the road I had walked so often before, happy that I had come to this gathering. At the bottom of the hill, near the turn-off from the roundabout onto the semi-lit street to the train station, there is an old milestone from a bygone age about eighteen inches high. I made a slight detour and kicked it for good luck, and felt immensely pleased with myself that I had remembered where it was.
Nostalgic journey, nicely done