We’re Somebodies!
We’re Somebodies!
All you need is love… but mail is a close second
Yesterday we received our first piece of personal mail. We’ve received one piece of mail since we started occupying the property - a notice from the municipality that we have been accused by a neighbor of illegally burning brush. We have in fact burned brush, and often, but always following the very bureaucratic process for approval. We’re not too worried - the unnamed accuser states they observed us burning on July 5th, which is not true because we were in San Francisco on that day at our our temporary residence application meeting. Still we must go through the process of providing proof of innocence which is annoying. This being the age of iPhones, one wonders why the proof of burn isn’t demanded, rather than proof of not burning - proving a negative isn’t, after all, really possible. Still we gathered all the evidence - flight receipts, passport stamps, the permission trail for the last five times we did burn, which proves we knew the process and have a demonstrable history of obeying it. We then gave it all to a lawyer, having been advised that if a lawyer (advogado) presents our case the municipality will be far more inclined to accept the proof with alacrity.
Still, what gives? Our last burn day was May 29th…I not only have the proof, I remember it well because there is a nationwide ban on burning from June 1 through October 31. Portugal prioritizes the prevention of wildfires, something we take seriously having lived with wildfires in Northern California and Tahoe for many years.
Did you make an enemy? our lawyer asks. Not to our knowledge, we say, but who knows, perhaps our presence in a once-abandoned house, taking away formerly available parking places has aggravated someone’s sense of fairness. It’s hard to know. We’ve made so many friends and met so many nice people, it’s not something I’m going to spend time worrying about. Though I do wonder, what the hay, vizinho?
Speaking of vizinhos (neighbor s), we met a new one on a walk with Jake, our ambassador of international friendship. Gorete is a tall, elegant woman who we passed once, then twice on a hilly route to the north of our fazenda. Boa tardes were exchanged, then Jake was patted and admired. Gorete speaks four languages, and between her rudimentary English and my imperfect Portuguese, we established that we are Americans who recently moved here (I thought you were German, she remarked). She showed us her home, one of the lovely and large new construction cul de sacs that dot the edges of our village. We exchanged info on Whatsapp and she kissed me the European way, both cheeks, leaving me with a faint imprint of her perfume that for the rest of the day provided a little waft of happiness, reminding me there is way more good in my world than bad, something I am deeply grateful for and remind myself, mantra-like, every day.
We’ve been waiting for the h’s official residence card, now overdue to arrive any day. We have a shiny new mailbox with our name on it, awaiting this exciting delivery. Yesterday when the h came up the walk holding a white envelope, hope flared, but it was not the card - it was, however, *a* card, a Christmas greeting from, appropriately enough, sister Holly (❤️). They found us! I yelled. I couldn’t quite claim we’re somebodies like Steve Martin in The Jerk - we don’t have a phone book where we can look up our name and number (do they have phone books here? Do they still print them in the US? It seems so quaint now…) Still, suddenly, Christmas cards, which I’ve always found faintly annoying because of the air of duty around them, seem much more precious than they’ve ever felt. We remember you, they say. We still love you, way over there. A thin thread stretching from our cold damp renovation -in-progress all the way across the Atlantic to the warm houses in the US with Christmas decorations and snow outside, containing all the people I’ve ever loved.
Today after weeding the garden and and cleaning the stove left behind in the Quinta that we decided is salvageable, I’m going to the store to buy some cards and get them written, addressed and in the mail so they get to our loved ones in time.
Then, I will demand the h make oatmeal cookies for my birthday, fulfilling the promise that he would have the stove operational within two hours of it being cleaned and ready to go. Life is exciting these days - a light and space heater in the palaceta, working appliances and a flushing toilet in the Quinta, and days away from having this combination of modern conveniences under one roof. As soon as we do I plan to have a cocktail party, inviting everyone we’ve met (grand total is now 17) to sample my caneles and egg nog. Now to talk my Scroogey h into a few cheering Christmas decorations. I thought you found some, the h protested. And I did - a skinny Santa stashed in a cupboard that I cleaned the years of grime from. He now sits in the kitchen, lit with a string of battery-operated lights. He’s a good start, I say. The bowl of tangerines from neighbor Alberto’s garden also seems festive, but when we eat them we’ll be back to just skinny Santa. The h pretends to hate Christmas decorations - it’s a yearly battle for me to express the spirit of the season. A battle I feel well girded for, thanks to the little square envelope that found its way across an ocean to my coffee table.