TALKING ABOUT TALKING
People are strange
When you’re a stranger
Faces look ugly
When you’re alone….
Lately I’ve been thinking about that old Doors song, When You’re Strange. As a foreigner who does not yet speak the language, I am a stranger here (also, pretty strange), and the song is pretty accurate in one way – if you make no effort to learn the customs and the language, people will not seem friendly and welcoming. Sometimes they will even seem mean, *seem* being the operative word. I’ve yet to meet a mean or unfriendly person here, but definitely a smile, a bom dia, and an effort to speak the language and obey the conversational customs – for example, greeting older peole with the respectful “A senhora esta bem?” vs. Oi! – go a long way toward getting a friendly response. Fail to do these things and you are bound to feel lonely, even if you’re not alone.
It’s a lesson that was very clear to me a few days ago. We had an errand day – certain essential tasks had to be completed. I had five different conversations in Portuguese and fell into bed at midnight – normally my time to write – totally exhausted.
First, we had to borrow a car (obrigada, Tiago!) to go to the nearest bank branch which is Sintra. We arrived at ten to see a dozen people in line ahead of us. All over Portugal the method to queue is to take a number. An electronic board displays what number is being served at which customer service desk. These boards give me PTSD because of a uniquely terrible experience at the Lisbon airport, way back when we were first considering a move here. Pardon me while I go into total recall.
We had missed our connection through Lisbon headed to Oslo and in trying to rebook the flight entered Dante’s tenth circle of hell. We were directed to the customer service office and waited for about fifteen minutes before grokking that we needed to have a ticket to actually be in the queue. We got our ticket and watched the board. When our ticket number popped up we went into the little office with three customer service reps, to counter #2 as the board had indicated.
“Only ONE person, no luggage,” someone snapped.
The h ducked out. I held out my ticket.
“No we called that already,” she said.
“Yes, just seconds ago,” I said, surprised.
“You’ll have to take another ticket,” she smirked.
The next customer crowded past me and took a seat in front of her. Confused, I went back out and took another ticket. We wait another ninety minutes – the h grousing and me snapping at him – until our number appeared. I raced inside to counter #1.
“Sorry,” the woman said, shaking her head. “We called that, no one responded. Next!!!”
I stood there utterly flummoxed. Was it a joke?
“But I stood there right outside the door for an hour and a half, and when my number came up I came right in,” I said – to no one, as none of the three women behind their glass partitions would make eye contact.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
No response.
“Can someone please help me?”
No response.
Now I was feeling stirrings of anger. I breathed deeply, knowing any show of emotion would only make things worse.
“I’m sorry but you just called my number.”
I stared at the floor. They would have to physically remove me, I decided.
The woman at partition number three relented.
“Okay, I will help,” she said in a “hurry up” voice. She held out her hand for my ticket. I sat in the chair in front of her glass partition and handed her our boarding passes for the missed flight.
“Oh, I can’t help you with this it’s not a TAP ticket,” she said, handing it back. I looked doubtfully at the boarding pass with the TAP logo. She pointed to some small print at the bottom. “Operated by Lufthansa” it read.
“You have to go to the Lufthansa counter.” I swear she smirked.
We had waited in line two and a half two hours total to hear “sorry we can’t help” in thirty seconds. I thanked her for her help without being sarcastic – I was feeling pretty defeated. To this day I do not know what triggered these women to be so rude and unhelpful. Was it that we didn’t understand the sistema de bilhete at first? That we brought our bags into the office (others did the same)? That we didn’t speak Portuguese? It’s an enduring mystery but whenever I’m at the airport and pass this little office I shudder, praying I won’t need its services.
We went to the Lufthansa counter which was shuttered and dark. We went to the Air France counter next to Lufthansa and asked, any idea how we can get help changing our flight with the Lufthansa counter closed?
Sure, they said. Go to the counter that says Ground Help (I no longer remember what the exact name is but we’ll just say that’s it). We found the Ground Help counter after asking two different uniformed airport employees and being misdirected each time. It was shuttered and dark. We’d now been floundering around the airport for three hours with no way to rebook our connecting flight.
I opened my laptop and looked up the Lufthansa website, found a customer service number and the h called. Sorry, a voice told us, we can’t help you with that problem. Is there a number you can give us for someone at Lufthansa that CAN help us, the h asked. Um, hang on, said the voice.
While the h wrote down two different numbers provided, I searched the internet for “how do I rebook a TAP flight operated by Lufthansa?” I found an uncommonly long Resdit thread rife with rage, and buried within the horror stories was a phone number for Lufthansa customer service that did not match any of the numbers the person answering the phone at Lufthansa provided – numbers by the way that were not answered and provided no option for a message or an alternative, just rang and rang.
We called the number from the Reddit thread and reached a Lufthansa customer service agent who spent the next ninety minutes rebooking our flight at a cost of $1,009 and requiring us to send pictures of our passports to him by email which felt sketchy as hell. Despite the odd requests by the customer service agent it all turned out to be legit, we got rebooked then scrambled to find a hotel, as the flight was for 5:00a the next morning.
When all arrangements were in place and the Uber to the hotel confirmed we just looked at each other. Is Portugal rejecting us? I asked the h, near exhausted tears.
While I had been dealing with the rebooking agent the h had done some research of his own, and showed me the results: the Lisbon airport is regularly rated the worst in the world. It’s not personal, he said. It’s always like this.
Sure enough when encountering another issue going through passport control an agent remarked to us “There is a schizophrenic relationship between the airport management and the workers.” I was impressed he knew the English for schizophrenic, then realized the problems were probably so constant he’d found it necessary to learn the translation long ago. Now if you come to Portugal consider yourself forewarned, and don’t judge your trip by your experience in the airport.
Now, every time I see one of those little machines dispensing queue tickets, the memory of our experience at the airport washes over me, and my hands get clammy. At least my Portuguese is better now, and I’ve learned to start every transaction with what I’ve come to think of as the Vestibule of Politeness: “Ola, Bom dia, esta bem? Por favor, eu preciso de adjudar pouco.” (hello, good day, how are you? Please, I need a little help.”) No matter what the person says the next word out of my mouth, no exceptions, is obrigada (thank you), before continuing with my request.
Portugal is a polite society, and leaving off these niceties in a conversation will mark you as a rude foreigner… which is actually true, leaving off these politenesses IS rude. The American way of expecting your consumer needs to be immediately met – whether it’s a purchase transaction or a question answered or a problem addressed – and jumping right to your request without first acknowledging the humanity of the person helping you is more common than not.
I have always made a point of greeting any person on the other side of the counter and asking how their day is, but I have to take care that the stress of mentally translating what I want to say before speaking does not cause me to skip the Vestibule of Politeness and just barge through the conversational front door. Politeness matters, always, especially here, especially if you are not fluent in the language.
The wait at the bank was more than an hour. We walked around the mall, had a bica and pastel de nata, walked around some more, always returning to the queue every fifteen minutes, mindful of the experience at the airport. As we stood around with a growing number of people in the queue, a young woman approached me and asked me a question.
“Desculpe,” I apologized. “Eu nao falo bem Portugues.” (Sorry, I don’t speak Portuguese very well).
She gave me a big smile and an approving nod. “You sound good!” she said in Portuguese. I laughed. “Obrigada, tu e muito gentil, mas, ainda estou a aprender.)
“Parabens!” she exclaimed, apparently having forgotten all about her question, so happy was she to hear my fumbling attempts to communicate that I can’t really communicate. We laughed and my confidence inched up, but not too far, Portugues has a way of keeping you humble. Nao e facil is the most common thing I hear (with just the teeniest hint of pride) when I tell people I’m learning the language. No, I always agree. It is NOT easy.
When the electronic board flashed 22, we stayed put, literally staring at it til it turned 24, then moving quickly to the assigned customer service number. The woman looked at us quizzically, smiling, her expression clearly asking “Why are they running up to me? Is this some kind an emergency?”
Hello, good morning, I hope you are well, I’m sorry I don’t speak Portuguese well, I said in Portuguese, but devagar (slowly). To my relief she did not smirk and say “Sorry we called your number. Next!!”
Por favor, fala Ingles? I asked.
Um pouco, she said, looking apprehensive.
Não há problema, vou tentar em português, I said and she smiled broadly, with an expression that said hey, not bad!
In my slow careful Portuguese I told her I needed to change the phone number associated with my account, and order a debit card, and though I know I didn’t say it perfectly, she was very kind about it and more importantly clearly understood. We completed the transaction and at the end she told me my Portuguese was very good and I responded obrigada, nao e verdade, tune muito gentil (thank you it’s not true, you are too kind) and I felt very accomplished and not my usual irritated self for having to wait so long.
I’ve considered getting back in the habit of carrying a book with me wherever I go, but here it feels risky – in the US when I did this I’d get so engrossed when reading I’d often miss my bus stop being called or my number coming up at the DMV, a thing I do not need to happen here thank you very much.
Next I registered for my World ID at one of Sam Altman’s WorldCoin orbs to collect my UBI (I already have €30, the h has more than €350, having registered more than a year ago – yes it’s real money and anyone can register, learn more here). The young man helping me with registration spoke a bit of English but when he heard my Portuguese insisted on testing me. When he asked what I did and I told him I am uma scritora (a writer) he stood at attention and shook my hand which sure beats most responses I get. It was the longest conversation in Portuguese I’ve had to date and he was very kind, lying right to my face how well I was doing. I know better but I still floated out of there, feeling I may actually crack this nut one day.
Later the h had his language put to the test when the electric company called. Oops, we installed the wrong monosplit, they told him. You can keep it but we’ll have to charge you an extra €600, they said.
Ou que? the h asked. Or we come out later today and uninstall it then install the actual unit you ordered. We opted for the uninstall, as we had already notified them it was not a great installation job,
They arrived promptly at 4p and initiated the uninstall, proving that service and bureaucracy in Portugal can be efficient when necessary. We were happy with the result which made it easy to be understanding when they called to say the water heater install would not take place the following morning as scheduled a month ago because they didn’t have the equipment and couldn’t tell us when it would arrive.
Meanwhile I had a conference call with my new Portuguese teacher, setting up a weekly class. “Now I’m going to test your language development,” she said, and I had my second longest conversation in Portuguese, without the benefit of seeing the person I was talking too. My accent is too Brazilian, she said, and we must work on your grammar. But you are easily understandable, she added. I tried not to be too thrilled. Every time I get even the teeniest bit confident someone makes a friendly casual remark to me in Portuguese that sounds like a roomful of inebriated librarians shushing me and I’m chastened.
At the end of the day a trio of police officers arrived in response to our call about the horses that appeared on our land a few weeks ago and have been depositing huge quantities of manure while trampling the muddy ground so thoroughly one needs muck boots just to walk the path.
We know who the horses belong to, the police said. We’ve called him, he said he thought this land belonged to him.
It was an odd and thoroughly ballsy choice of confabulation; the h produced our deed of ownership and a map of the land (the h is like that, always ready). The police squinted at his laptop and agreed, yes, it is definitely our land. We waited but the horse owner did not show; the police took photos of all the propriedade privada signs posted on the walls and trees, grimacing as they wiped the manure off their boots. They took their leave promising a follow up with the owner. Two days later there are FOUR horses up there, but they are moved over to the sliver of land between our property line and the public walk. Whether or not the owner of the horses owns it is not clear, but it seems doubtful as I have noticed the camera – the municipality of Sintra – cutting the grass once a quarter. Two of the horses are tied to our trees, and could clearly wander back onto our property – a crafty move by the horses’ owner, and a way to say eff you while maintaining plausible deniability. You can’t help but admire it. We could probably contact the police again – in all our interactions with them, we have found them to be helpful and responsive. However it’s probably best to just move “install temporary fencing around the perimeter of the property” up on the priority list. Sigh.
The day wore me out, though I took less than my usual 15,000 step average. It’s tiring to have to mentally translate everything you hear and plan to say, which makes me wonder if I’m being thoughtful enough when speaking English – after a day of speaking Portuguese it seems that in English I’m just blithely jabbering away without any premeditation or reflection at all. This bears thinking about, when I’m not too tired from thinking about talking.