I must confess that I landed in Lisbon a few years back, full of hope, armed with enthusiasm, Google Translate, and a suitcase full of impractical shoes. The cobbled streets, I reasoned, would be charmingly uneven. Turned out, they were pleasant until one tried to walk on them wearing anything with a heel, because that was when one’s ankles started creaking and complaining at the same time.
Time flies when one is having fun, but I soon realised that here even time slowly shuffled down a cobbled lane, humming softly and stopping for coffee every few minutes. I arrived expecting sunshine, ocean views, and perhaps the occasional sardine. I did not, however, expect the unnecessary stairs. The Portuguese love stairs and they build them into every possible surface. If a building has two floors, it will somehow have three flights. Additionally, if there is a perfectly flat route from A to B, rest assured there will be a charming stairway carved into a hillside that adds four hundred steps, and a mild sense of betrayal, to your journey.
But to be fair, everything here is delightful. The streets smell faintly of grilled fish and eucalyptus, the buildings are coloured like scoops of gelato – pistachio, peach, and lemon. Moreover, nobody is in a rush, ever. The national mood remains somewhere between “We will get there eventually” and “Why get there at all if the coffee is good right here?”
Also, people here take life slowly, which is a wonderful way to be, unless one is in a hurry, which one quickly learns not to be. A plumber I once called came three weeks after the scheduled appointment, looked at my leaky faucet, nodded solemnly, and said, “This is a problem for Segunda (Monday).” It was Quinta (Thursday). I’m still not sure which Monday he meant.
But for all its eccentricities, the country has a way of getting under your skin, in the best way possible. The sunsets are so beautiful, they make you forgive the fact that Portuguese bureaucracy is not so much a system as a lifestyle choice. It starts with a form, which requires another form, which must be signed by a person who works every second Tuesday and is probably allergic to email.
However, there is something inherently healing about Portugal. Maybe it is the ocean breeze, or the wine that flows more freely than actual water. Or perhaps it’s the sheer number of elderly men who look like they stepped out of a Fellini film, impeccably dressed, sipping coffee and arguing loudly, all at once.
But of course, there are adjustments. For instance, nothing opens when you expect it to, and everything closes just when you really need it. Besides, the weather reports are basically fiction, but it does not matter because the sky is always too pretty for any arguments.
So, how does it feel after five years of being a resident here? Well, now the country seems less like an exotic postcard and more like a well-worn sweater: colourful, slightly frayed, and impossible to throw away. Though I have to admit that I still don’t know what half the street signs mean but I have learned how to wait, how to wander, and how to say ‘yes’ to life even when it arrives twenty minutes late.
“You mean sim” my spouse corrects me.
I realise I have spoken aloud once again.
“Sim igual” I respond in my best Portuguese accent.
