Lisbon Graveyards

I have a thing about the dead and can be found, on occasion, frequenting Lisbon graveyards.

Now before I go any further ... my 'thing' relates to nothing other than wandering among the graves and musing on who the occupant was, what he or she did, what their life was like. That kind of thing.

I do not perform anything even remotely occult-ish ... no seances, no chanting, no attempts at the raising of the dearly departed. Any/all of that would probably require me to wander around Lisbon in the dead of night, looking for a suitable boneyard - none of which I'm likely to do.

For one thing I'm suspicious of the dark and for another - I'd shit myself.

Lovely. I think so anyway.

That out of the way - I love graveyards. And there's a fabulous one just up the road. So far I've dragged my son around it (twice), MPM and my one of friends. In and among, I've been there quite a few times alone. MYM simply indulged me, my son moaned on occasion (and sounded like a whining ghost) but ended (morbidly) fascinated with all the graves. And my friend simply walked out, declaring me 'creepy and strange'.

Don't worry. I forgave her. She still gets a Christmas card.

Now a curious thing about the Portuguese is this: from dying to being six foot under the time span is a max of three days. Say you kick the bucket on a Wednesday? Pushing up daises by Friday. Cash out on a Sunday? You're enjoying eternal rest by Tuesday.

I'm not sure what the Portuguese funeral directors do in those two days. Obviously whatever it is, it's done with a certain flare and with an eye on the 72 hour clock - but however or whyever they do it, do it they do.

You're declared dead, given an appointed reason for death (to me it should simply read: lack of breath or obvious lack of life), then released to the family, shunted to funeral parlour and henceforth deposited either into the Earth from whence you came (I came from the womb, don't know about you) or placed in a crypt.

I wasn't joking.

And a beautiful example of the Portuguese respect for their departed loved ones.

Some of the ... mausoleums (is that what they're called?) are beautiful. In a creepy, haunting kind of way.

And all this makes me wonder why on Earth we Brits take a week. What are our funeral directors doing in the seven days? What boxes need ticking? For me, the Portuguese way is the best way. No hanging around, no prolonging the final journey. No prolonged suffering for the family. Exactly how it should be.

Get with it UK.

The Portuguese In Me

I wrote the title then realized how it looked. So FYI - this is not about MPM and his whereabouts re my orifices. I was actually meaning that there's definitely a little Portuguese in me somewhere. It's a food thing.

I've put weight on, a lá too much Portuguese food. Not a lot but it's there. So I'm going to lose it.

From now on - I'm going to run the 3 minute walk that gets me to the Metro.


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Returned to edit - too lazy to repost.

Scene - I'm buggering about, i-pod firmly implanted. Singing. MPM looks at me.

Conversation:

Me: I'm sorry - I can't sing very well.

MPM: You can't sing. Period.

Moral: love is blind. But it sure ain't deaf.

Learning Portuguese

I keep trying to learn Portuguese. I fear I'm handicapped. It's also the fault of my Portuguese Man.

After 18 months I can make myself understood (when forced to do so) and understand some of what is being said to me. Mostly I just point and engage those that I meet in a game of charades. Something the Portuguese have an innate talent for - I just choose not to enlighten them.

What I can do:

• ask for ... stuff
• decline anything
• affirm most things (I have to be careful here ... I've been known to say 'yes' to 3 kilos of pork before now)
• curse under my breath (and over it too)
• tell people I'm English. Apologetically. Not because I'm not a proud Brit - simply because every time I open my mouth I sound so ... infantile

What I can't do:

• talk in the past or future tense (at all)
• complain (ohhhhhh I how I wish I could utter just a few words beyond 'Não, não gosta ... )
• reply to roughly 50% of what I'm asked by others
• tell our drunken neighbour to "shut the f**k up - no one on God's green earth is gonna give you a f**king beer ... it's stupid 'o clock in the morning you f**k wit"

That kind of thing.

Cascais - the beach down the road. A reason to keep trying to learn ...

Going back to learning Portuguese and my handicap. I'm convinced I have one. I truly want to learn the language but my brain leaks. See? ... I'm handicapped. And as for MPM - he simply rattles on in English and supposes that I'll just pick his lingo up in and among.

My problem is that I don't talk to anyone above and beyond when I'm out and about. I have no real Portuguese friends (accidental but there it is), I'm not the kind to just strike up random chatter with people I don't know and even if I could, I'm handicapped - remember?

So my learning curve is reduced to pinning my ears back, watching ridiculously dramatic Portuguese soap operas (more crying and screaming than script but hey ... whatever it takes), the evening news with MPM and reading Portuguese magazines in the bathroom.

For my part, I want accolades for what I do know, for what I can say. Because I think I deserve it. It's not an easy language to learn and to listen to - well that just makes everything harder. The Portuguese talk at the speed of sound and have this horrible habit of swallowing letters - even whole words from I can (now) tell.

Very single minded of them (in my opinion) and not at all set up for inter-country communication relations. And what's really unhelpful - though I love their efforts to help me - is the fact that my local café, butchers and so on know I'm English and now talk to me in ... English.

My café owner (and yes - it is my café - on account of I go there every day for one thing or another) always greets me with a loud 'Hellooooooo baybeeeeeee ... how are youuuuuuuu???' - which always has me wriggling (we Brits never greet anyone in such a way so I'm not sure where he gets this from or even why he uses it) but there you go - at least he tries.

I've come to the conclusion that I'm to remain forever tongue tied and lost in translation. I think I need to travel around Lisbon via taxi a lot more often. Now ... that's where you really begin to pick up Portuguese.

But that's another story for another day.

The view over downtown (Baixa) from Graça - another reason ...

The Thing About Portuguese Men

Now, the thing about Portuguese men is ... they're kinda the same as any other men. Little boys in adult bodies. The do all the same stuff as a five year old would:

• don't share their toys (tv remote)
• leave their toys lying (man junk)
• grumble when they're hungry (when's dinner?)
• that kind of thing (no - really)

But with a fine prime piece of Portuguese manliness you also get a few added extras. Such as:

• get thee behind me
• jealousy that's like a creeping fog ... barely tangible but obvious
• but women aren't equal to men querida, também?

A Portuguese man. This one chases balls

So you can imagine what fun it may be if you're married to one. Now, I'm not married to one but I do have one. Unfortunately for him, I'm not a Portuguese woman. Even worse, I'm a British woman.

I think I drive him mad.

My Portuguese man. He thinks he's Clint

Luckily for me, he's not like the rest of his Portuguese bro's. He's ... different. He doesn't quite share his toys (that's asking too much of any man) but he does share everything else. Plus I get to walk alongside him.

He, on the other hand, isn't quite so lucky. In both our opinions. Apparently I'm as stubborn as a ten-pack of mules. And I simply refuse to adapt (or is it adopt?) anything remotely resembling Portuguese womanliness (read: total acquiesence).

You see, the thing is, I was raised in a culture where all things are (supposed to be) equal. And even though in reality they're not, we girls fight for our rights. Our men largely acquiese to us. Otherwise they know they're hitting the office on Monday mornings looking like crisp bags and wearing odd socks.

In the grand scheme of things, both of us are very happy with the other. I believe in best working practice in all things and he is simply lovely.

But for sure, he's definitely more grey since he met me ...

Being Portuguese

I've tried very hard at being Portuguese since I came to Lisbon. Very hard indeed.

I was never one for drinking much of anything, above coffee. Or the type that would drift from café to café like an itinerent hobo hoping to keep warm. These days, I drink far too much wine and spend inordinate amounts of time in cafés, if for nothing other than because everyone else is doing the same.

The only difference between me and the Portuguese though, is the fact that I always feel a little guilty. They quaff alcohol with wild abandon and amble from café to café with well heeled aplomb. I'm a lot less well heeled and a little more towards furtive.

The British culture doesn't factor in all day drinking and aimless non-reasons for idling away quality time in dens of caffeine iniquity. Oh no, we Brits binge drink on weekends or after work and only enter a café to grab a quick cuppa, not as a means of socialising with friends and family.

Yes - we've got such habits prioritised quite nicely, thankyou.

Besides which, I have a confession to make. I was just 40 the first time I tried Sangria. I was in downtown Lisbon, Bairro Alto to be exact. Somehow, between the hours of ohhhhh say 21:00 and f**k if I know, I got seriously leathered.

The Sangria kicked off my evening rather nicely. Having never tried it before, I discovered an instant 'like it? I love it' feeling. From there, it was downhill all the way. Literally. I hit the floor at least once and spent maybe an hour or so back in my hotel room convinced I was going to die.

I woke up the next morning, hanging upside down off my bed. Regaining consiousness and having the hangover from Hades was a positive. I'd survived Sangria, Black Vodka and ... ... ... ... ... ... ...*insert whatever, I have no recollection* alive, intact and sporting a dirty great bruise across my forehead.

From that day to this, I have managed to assimilate the Portuguese way of all day alcohol without actually looking drunk. In fact I'm almost a natural at it. And apart from the picture below, I have only slipped off the British Binge Wagon once of twice.

An example of not being Portuguese

Ahhhhh ... I eat Portuguese (food, not men), I speak Portuguese, I breath Portuguese. I'm being Portuguese. The rest of the time ... I'm a Brit to the marra.

Portuguese Politics

I have a dream. To get into Portuguese politics. Or at least get close enough to central government that I can rub shoulders with Socrates (Prime Minister) and have a word with him.

Socrates - my soon to be new best friend.

First - I want to see a sweeping change to the way the portuguese pronounce words. No more 'shushing' on the esses, no swallowing of random vowels. And absolutley no rolling of the rrrrrr's. I'm sick of needing to hawk and spit in the street everytime I try to say 'rua' or 'rapido'.

Further, something needs to be done about customer services. It is not ok to enter a bank/shop/chemist/anything, patiently wait your turn and then engage the teller/assistant/pharmacist in a conversation about your next door neighbours husband's brother's wife's strange affinity for late night strip poker parties. Whilst the husband's asleep.

Uma Galão - coffee with milk in a glass

And while I'm finding fault, what's with the attitude everytime I ask for a meia de leit? Yes, it contains milk and yes, the English drink it by the gallon. But pardon me for pointing out one little fact - it's exactly the same as the national morning drink of Portugal - uma galão. So get over yourself café owners.

Before I become best friends with Socrates.