Rua Silva e Albuquerque, 29 R/C Esq.
Lisboa
Portugal
June 30, 1997
Dear Isabel,
My apologies for not writing sooner. I thought you’d like to hear how my month of June has gone.
The República is interesting and full of characters. There’re officially five of us altogether; the fifth element graduated and has moved one. Half girls and half boys, with me breaking the tie. Everyone returned from holidays; the turma or gang is my roommate Pedro, another fellow named Rui who just graduated, and Eliza and her roommate Cláudia. Everyone has these strange nicknames, Cláudia’s known as “The Nubile,” and Rui is “The Communist” – for instance. I’m “Kiki,” short for pukiki – Hawaiian for Portuguese! The girls jokingly call each other husband and wife. “Because we’re always together.” “Why not sisters?” “Well, you know,” they laughed when I asked. Rui is always at his girlfriend’s, and I will see him only at night sleeping or on the way out in the morning. He has Social Democrat Party banners on his wall with their bent arrow logo pointing upward and a fist grasping a red carnation. Pedro’s family is in South Africa. He started off a bit distant and standoffish. I chalk this up to him no longer having the room to himself. Or at least this is what I gather, as he moved a pile of papers in a truculent huff from my now bed when I lugged my suitcases in.
Everyone is so polite and sunny that I don’t feel so lonely if I ended up in an apartment alone. Over a beer in the cavernous kitchen the first night, I told them why I’m in Portugal, and they asked questions about my wife – Eliza clued them on to my wedding ring. We’re content, happy, I said. I must’ve repeated myself a lot since Cláudia parroted what I said, and the others laughed. Or maybe I sound like an idiot; do you know the chorus from the racist Ena Pá 2000 song Baltazar: “Baltazar tem azar” where they make fun of African Portuguese? That’s my biggest fear – messing up the first person with third in the song, a linguistic faux pas all around. I personally think they were all stoned. I hate how in the States, we consider foreigners cute, childish, or buffoons since they don’t have full command of our language. I’m a functioning, intelligent person, and being laughed at because my adjective, case, or gender doesn’t match the substantive hurts. I must speak and listen more. Or rather, I should have spoken to you more. I do miss our elocution sessions in the grad student lounge where I read Eça aloud and you laughing at my swapping syllables.
You wrote that you feel that there’s something strange going on your side of the Atlantic. You are correct, [my wife] did leave for Charlottesville. I don’t know why she didn’t say goodbye to everyone. We have old friends down there, so that’s why she must have jetted. She wasn’t too thrilled with the thought of heading to Lisbon for a couple of years. Moving to Providence was hard, and then me going to Macau didn’t help much either. The stress of separation and the whole unknown about the grants coming through probably contributed to her silence. I’m confident in a few months she’ll bore of the Piedmont and come out for an adventure. And you know me, optimistic as always and working to forget, I throw myself into my research – which is going very well as of this writing, I might add.
The Library is an oasis of calm. I share an office with a professor on the cusp of middle age from North Carolina named Bill. We have long meandering conversations and linger together in a nearby bookstore, the Livraria Lácio – you’ve been there, right? He’s good company and a wise mentor. Case and point: after a couple of days tracking down books core to my project illustrating the social construction of the opium house in Macau, I confessed to him that I’ve discovered that my research project is in peril. The literature is a single poem and a chapter in nineteenth-century ethnography: a short poem and an even shorter chapter. He reminded me that literature also encompasses official documents and suggests I look to government publications for facts and figures. I saw the light; the ever-elusive subject of the how and whys could be buried in the troves of bulletins from the Colony and in obscure reports from the League of Nations. I’ll figure it out.
As for my schedule: I get into the groove of note-taking in the morning and writing in the afternoon. Then, I lunch at the Library cantina or one of the many small cafés up and down the Campo Grande – a long stretch of trees, flowers, and grasses in front of the National Library – with my Brown colleagues and other Research Fellows. Our favorite place is the Restaurante Capas Negras. We drink wine, chat about what we’re doing, and gossip about those back home; I feel truly happy and confident in my academic ability for once.
I’ve made a habit each morning of taking a different route from my apartment to the Library. Eliza walks with me now and again, and we talk about the weather or the late-night drinking or womanly companions of the boys in the República. She calls me tú or sometimes an odd continental Portuguese formal familiar, which is either endearing or sarcastic depending on circumstance, I’ve learned. She’s bright, lively and sharp, and stylish in a preppy way. You would like her.
Life is calm, pleasant. In the evenings, I return to the República, cook a little something, listen to the girls talk or go to the cinema. Pedro sometimes appears.
Oh! You’ll like this: on Saturdays, we all tackle the task of cleaning the apartment and spend the evening together eating family-style. Eliza and Cláudia have taken on the project of tutoring me in the art of making Portuguese soups. They tell me that to be Portuguese, one must have a love of soup and stews. My favorite and easiest to make is Caldo Verde: potato, leek, garlic, and chiffonade of kale. Handheld food processor in hand, which they call a magic wand, chunked and boiled potatoes are made fine. After several pours of white vinegar and a few handfuls of minced kale, it is finished with sautéed chouriço caseiro – a smokier and piquant Portuguese cousin of the Spanish chorizo. One evening, proclaiming my apprenticeship is over, Eliza gave me the wand. I turned it on before dunking it in the pot, and potato water splashed all over my two teachers and me. Both cried bolas – the Portuguese version of the word shit. How come you never say that? In fact, I’ve learned a whole treasure-trove of swear words and caustic slang that I can’t wait to try out. Yesterday, for instance, I learned a pair of interesting ones: beijoqueira and frígida. Cláudia called Eliza the former since at first she’s completely crazy for someone and wants to always be with them – in a smothering suffocating sense of smooching all the time; then Eliza called Cláudia frígida[i]; with Cláudia retorting that she’s simply tímida[ii]. They finally settled on reservada[iii]. Fun. Although, I think it is actually the opposite.
At any rate, Sundays, I spend walking the city, riding the train to Cascais to watch the coast rush by, or simply listen to the accordion players at the Cais do Sodré train terminal. I am lost, taking in the gentle brook-like murmurs of the Portuguese. I could live this way forever.
One month of twenty-four over. Who knows what the rest will bring? Tell everyone in the Department I say hi. I miss all of you. I’ll do my best to keep you updated. I am a poor correspondent, as you all know.
Best,
[i] frígida means cold, when describing a person “cold fish.” Beijoqueira is a portmanteau of beijo (a kiss) and queiria (would want), thus “wanting to kiss” or “kissable” in a cute way, “kissy.”
[ii] Shy.
[iii] Reserved.