I Got Here By Language

It's late now, even the hockey game is over, and with my friends Mark and Carmen I've had enough wine for four or five, but the day began under a near-full moon, just as it was over the beach at Puerto Moreles a month ago, when we were saying "Wednesday, I think" or "looks pretty full tonight" or "the ocean looks it full". This morning before light, as I was saying, I muttered something in Portuguese to the taxi driver, enough to get me to terminal dois for my 07:00 to Madrid, on which the flight crew (one of whom seemed to be, judging from her failure to understand any of the systems on board without the help of crew-mates, undergoing severe on-the-job training (this discount airline so cheap they don't spend money on training)) spoke Portuguese, English, Spanish in that order. From Madrid to France it was Spanish, English French, in that order--pause here for me to insert this quote from the seat-back in front of me: "tray table should be stowed in the upright position whilst landing" (and how I've loved to tease my students who use "whilst" or "amongst")--and here in Toulouse, in a series of cafes and restaurants it was, of course, French, but English if it had to be.
I'm amazed I know as much French as I do. In high school, now 50 years ago, the French teacher, Mr. V.,  was a buffoon--at least, we treated him that way. One year we did have a proper teacher--a brilliant teacher, in fact, Mr. G., who was actually French. My French is still better than my Portuguese, though recent time in Mexico (and even the stopover in Madrid) and Portugal have interfered plenty with that old French sense I seem to have.
Anyway, vin is vin. Vinho is vinho, as we say in Lisbon.

Grocery List ($CAN)

Two chicken breasts, $2.63.
375g bag of granola, $3.75.
6 bananas, $1.50.
Onion, $.12.
6 Granny Smiths, $1.60.
Liter of milk, $1.18.
6-pack of stout, $7.00.
2 bottles of decent red wine, $6.30.

Portuguese breakfast: sweets and coffee (always espresso unless you ask for something else).
Portuguese lunch: full meal, anytime from noon to 3.
Portuguese snack: something lightish and briefish (coffee and sweets always an option) around 5.
Portuguese supper: full meal, 8 at the very earliest.

I'm going with BLTs at my place tonight around 8.

Off to Toulouse, nothing Toulouse, tomorrow. There I hook up with some pals from my workplace in Regina. They're shopping for retirement homes. I'll ride in the backseat of our rental car.

HILL NIPPED IN LOVE POEM CONTEST

Lisbon, Portugal.
A thin young Portuguese woman took the "Love Poem to Fernando Pessoa" contest today at the Casa Fernando Pessoa in Lisbon. Among the also-rans was Canadian poet Gerald Hill, whose "You Love" failed to convince the judges, who awarded first prize of a dinner for two to the young woman and her companion. "I couldn't understand much of her piece," Hill remarked, "but I liked it."

In accepting his consolation prize of a book of Pessoa photos and text, Hill added, "I would have given the dinner to that young couple anyway. It was pleasure enough just to be here. I even enjoyed the wildlife over at the Garden earlier. I'll ask my friend Brenda what it is, but I'm guessing duck."

As Happy Hour had arrived at about the time Hill had uttered his fifth line--"three woman under one umbrella, blocking the sidewalk of Rua do Sapadores"--Hill congratulated his fellow poets and headed out for red wine. "I sure hope that Atlantic low doesn't claim my umbrella," he said.

"Come and read your letter of love to Fernando Pessoa"

That's the invitation for tomorrow night's event at Casa Fernando Pessoa. I think I'll read a piece that may go something like this:

You Are In Love (for F.P.)

Where the sea sings its rapture at the shore, you are in love.
With the wooden ecstasies of trams, you are in love.
Translating pen to paper, you are in love.
Three women under one umbrella, blocking the sidewalk of Rua do Sapadores, in wide sunglasses though skies are dull and they're standing under one umbrella, after all--with these women in the dark coats and silk scarves you are in love.
The dogs for whom love is water, you protect with your love.
Holding a key to any room you are in love.
Sacks of potatoes wheeled into the pastelarias, cervejarias, snack bars and restaurants on Largo dos Cominhos de Ferro you love, knowing that, like love, these treasures will be consumed.
With the secrets of your own body concealed against winter rain you are in love.
With the hand that sets the pratos do dia before you, you are in love, hungry for it.

[to be continued]

Getting There

The location I'm trying to find becomes obvious only when I've found it. Somehow, in the approach to the place--which tram to get on, where to get off, how to orient myself to get to the right street--the flurry of looking obscures the finding. Such was the case today in my visit to Casa Fernando Pessoa, where the poet lived his last 15 years. Now an excellent museum and library, the building holds his famous trunk--from which his literary heirs are still pulling new work--his glasses, his box of matches, his hat. And much else, most notably his library of 1100+ books, heavily annotated, now available for digital viewing. (I asked if I could hold his edition of Poems of Walt Whitman but was politely told it would not be possible.)
I thought I'd sit in the library and let the Pessoa vibe into some editing of my own writing. Here again, the arriving prevented arrival.
But I'll be back, with nothing but time and my notebook, now that I know how to get there.

Atlantic Low Pressure: Brelly Wrecks

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Morning Walk to Rossio

 



School. They're all behind walls in Portugal.
 





Stopped here for tea, one of a hundred such places along this walk.





Looking back up the hill toward Graca viewpoint (near my place).

 









Police in Rossio plaza, popular centre of downtown Lisbon, where two guys offered to sell me some pot.

 



Detail of Rossio fountain.

 





Bought a cap to replace the one I bought here in '10 and lost in Regina in '13.

 



Evidence of yesterday's Atlantic Low Pressure



 

Followed the tram tracks home.