A good long weekend, DESPITE THE RAIN. Sorry, I will stop complaining. Or maybe not. Anyway, another friend arrived on Thursday, so we had two visitors staying in our freezing, rainy brokedown palace. We were well prepared though - Alberto stopped by with more fresh peas and bread. Tiago’s wife stopped by with their three little girls to present us a beautiful pastel de nata grande that they all made together and brought ceremoniously to our gate along with two drawings by the older girls, both of them reflecting the recent visit by Ines. The littlest girl wore sparkling pink trainers that we admired. Princess Leia was brought out to be oohed and ahhed over. Jake barked until everyone petted him, which I wish he wouldn’t do in front of little ones but no one seemed to mind. In the picture Ines drew, Jake was given chicken feet which I really like. Our favorite roosters Potsy and Alphonse have taken to napping with Jake on the porch in the sun, and when Jake comes in for lunch they try to enter the house with him, as if we wouldn’t notice them.
Examining the crayon drawings, I notice that Ines has the noticing ability of a writer - the pictures feature many well-remembered details of her visit including Jake, the baby chicks, the many roosters running about, the size of the house which has a roof that nearly touches the clouds, the found eggs. There are many love hearts, which is something I collect and gift to the h, which she can’t possibly know, and makes me super happy. It feels like acceptance on a larger scale, like Portugal opening its arms to us.
Our daughter Sophia also has the eye of a writer; she sent us a postcard from Lyon, where she and her boyfriend spent spring break in France before returning to Boston to finish their senior year at university. The postcard features a picture of a cathedral high atop a hill they visited; Sophia remarked on the view of the city, in the same sentence mentioning the tiny flowers blooming everywhere in the sidewalk cracks, and the bridge they walked over that featured rooster sculptures. The pictures they text of themselves in Paris eating pizza and drinking wine at a cafe filled me with joy for their intelligence, adventurousness, youthful beauty, and imagined future. Naturally the postcard will join the crayola art on the refrigerator.
There was a respite from the rain on Saturday so the four of us went to Lisbon. I had a three hour appointment with a tattoo artist while the h and out guests went to a museum then to a restaurant so Linda could get the oysters she craved. I was expecting to have to speak Portuguese for the duration of my session which I was looking forward to and dreading in equal parts, but my Russian artist did not speak Portuguese, only a bit of English. We managed to have a good conversation anyway - I find most tattoo artists to be intelligent and deeply thoughtful people. I guess that’s no surprise considering the life path they have chosen. Being an artist - any kind of artist - is never easy, but being paid to beautify while damaging someone’s skin (a pain I had somehow managed to forget) occupies a special place in the artistic world.
I showed the artist some of my other tattoos - there are nine. This one is very nice, very good lines, she said of one. We looked at another on my shoulder. That’s not as precise, she said. I got it on a road trip, I explained. We made a last minute decision. Mmm, she said. That does not always lead to the best result. But, she said, it is part of your history, so it is good, nothing to regret. I agreed.
We talked about our parents and she told me her dad does not know she is a tattoo artist - It’s better that way, she said. Her mom did not approve but was grateful for the money and so no longer said anything critical about it. I nodded, thinking how some things are universal - my own parents were unaware of my ink for a long time, unlike my purple-streaked hair which for awhile was something of a purple lightning rod between me and dad. After the dementia set in, when dad was turning inward and his conversation stilted, he surprised me one day.
What’s that, he asked, pointing to the bee tattooed on my right wrist.
It’s a tattoo, I said.
I know that, he said - I mean, what is it?
A bee, I said, holding my arm closer for him to inspect.
He took my wrist and held it in his own two hands; as always I was surprised how small they were - the same size as my own.
He studied it. Why a bee? he asked.
Well, I told him, I read a comment by Albert Einstein, who said that when the bees die out humanity will only last another five years. I wanted to remind myself how important it is to always make a choice to support the natural world. So I put this bee where I can see it all the time.
That’s really nice, honey, dad said.
While I was getting my ink, another artist tattooed a stylized skull on the upper arm of a man from Seattle who was in Lisbon for a few days’ visit. The four of us chatted about dogs, sharing pictures. The other artist was a young Vietnamese woman with an intricate geometric tattoo sleeve that extended to her hand, and who spoke perfect German-accented English. I was raised there, she explained. But I’m Asian and I love a good deal, I try never to pay full price for anything! She shared a 30% discount code with all of us for restaurant reservations.
A roast leg of lamb for Sunday dinner was Linda’s grand finale - Jake laid nearby in the intermittent sun in the courtyard, drooling. We didn’t bother to leash him, it was clear he had no intention of leaving the vicinity. Linda departed very early today, day 40 of her visit, which is appropriately Biblical given the CONSTANT RAINS. I set my alarm so I could walk her out, the suitcases rolling noisily down the traditional calcada sidewalk that borders our long driveway. I looked up with my headlamp into the tree branches that overhang the gate to see a dozen roosters watching us, but none of them crowed.
The Bolt driver arrived, Linda and I hugged and said our goodbyes and I returned to the house for four more hours of sleep. This morning we had coffee and pastel de nata for breakfast, little Princess Leia pecking contentedly at our feet. Cheepster on the floor! we call out when she is let loose. She is so tiny and fluffy, no more than two weeks old, like a wadded up piece of paper that has sprouted legs and eyes started walking around. When the cold tile is too much for her she twitters in a certain way that clearly says, Someone pick me up and snuggle me! She will settle under a hand, or climb up and nuzzle under an ear, hiding in a curtain of hair that must seem winglike to her.
Before nine Gayle left for Lisbon to take an architecture tour; we started the laundry so that she could be installed in the guest room instead of the foldout couch in the living room, which has doubled as a dining room with four of us eating. Normally when it is just the h and I, we eat at a small metal cafe table in the entryway, where the light streams in from the windows in the floor-to-ceiling doors.
It is, apparently, a time for art. Later this week - which is only supposed to feature two days of rain though I don’t believe it as the forecast today was for zero rain and it is pouring even as I write this, the sky gray as slate - we will take Gayle to go hear the mournful traditional Portuguese music called Fado in the Alfama. I will hit some of the tourist shops beforehand, in search of refrigerator magnets so I can give the little girl artwork pride of place. Then I will finish the twelfth and final edit of my manuscript and turn it over to the illustrator and book designer, who will complete her work on my first book, The Jake of Everything. It is a story about a girl and a dog who are almost hit by a car, instead falling through a door that appears in the air at the moment of impact. There is no doorknob to go back through to home, so they must undertake a journey in this strange new land to find the Knobbler, who can provide one, though in the end only one will be able to return.
Jake sits on his new bed in this old place, watching me carefully - a walk has been promised, the rain has stopped and we need to go now before the low gray sky makes good on its threat of more rain. We haven’t been walking as much lately because of the rain and Jake misses his friends - the butcher and his wife, the churrasqueria owners Carlos and Elaina, the pet store owner, the vet and his son, the pharmacy manager. Just like in the book, he walks the paths of this strange new land with the confidence of one who knows himself to be a friend to all, a Labrador who is jake with everything new while never forgetting where he is from.
I miss the chickens. Entered on the list of things I never imagined saying is, "Sandra, there are roosters in my bedroom." I hope the little chiclet has a long and happy life, she might have trouble believing she is a chicken though. Jake is so tolerant and kind, reminds me of Fred so much. Fred would have carried around the little chiclet, unharmed, in his mouth.
I was hoping my departure would herald a change in the weather, alas it appears this was not so. Last night I dreamt of oysters, some of the best I've ever had. Anywhere.
What a grand and wonderful life adventure you and H are on and it's just going to get better and better. Love to all in your magical corner of Portugal, in my heart forever.