Ive arrived. Airport in Lisboa is packed with people, mainly Portgueuse, but I am relieved to hear, all around me, words and phrases in English. Nine and a half hours from Paris. A million miles from Alaska and yet there are no butterflies. In the back of my mind, at all times, I hear myself as I must have sounded to Dominica, my seatmate on Air France flight 1624, I cant believe Im doing this.
But, priorities. I need to get to my first Couch Surfing hostess. The damn payphone! I had no idea, or had forgotten that, foreigh phones dont ring. They beep. I waste almost 5 Euro on this fucking Portuguese contraption before getting it right. Finally, friendly voices. I call Luis. Tell him, Ana is busy but could he pick me up here? He waits nearly 2 hours while Air France mucks up our baggage.
The first of a million thanks. He is standing outside with a sign handwritten, my name on it in black marker.
Ana radiates. Meeting me at the door of her cool, cozy apartment, she bestows kisses upon me (this greeting I will have to learn, for its standard in Portugal) and is immediately so gracious that right away I feel at home. I can see myself standing on her balcony, leaning out. Shes on her lap top chatting away, and lifts it so the face on the screen is pointed towards me. Say hello! she tells both of us. This is not jut a gesture, but an invitation. Gestures, the offering of coffee, of tea, handshakes, tours of bathrooms and backyards, say to the guest You are a guest, and welcome, but this is not home.
Ana doesnt sign off. Insted, I do go out to the balcony, taking in Lisbon, the Vasco da Gama bridge, and she finishes her chat. She has made me at home in the way an ignorance does, invited me into her life. Yes, I am her guest, but my presence doesnt interrupt her activities, wont derail her day. Already weve laughed together, shared a piece of her life that others may not know about.
She takes me for my first really Portuguese meal, what she calls a gourmet hamburger, a burger more like a steak really, with no bun, garnished in cream sauce and piled with thick potato chips. Its delicious. Around us, the breeze picks up, blowing in the smells of the gourmet burger shop, charcoal, a womans perfume, a mans cigarette. All the way home, we talk about our men. Giggling, I emote to Ana about John, finding this common thread between us, gushing about how smart he is, how good looking, how I dont know what to do when I return to him.
Ginginha. Fat ginger berries floating in these tiny plastic cups of it. Jaako, the tall Finnish Couch Surfer and I trade drinks. Were all standing in Al Fama, in the square, backs turned on hustlers and beggers alike. I float a little. Around us are more expats, Pavel and Agnes, the quiet Polish couple, he dreadlocked and cheerful, she blonde and demure. Pedro, scarf at the ready around his neck, jumping about from group to group. Susanna and Emmi, the stylish Finnish students. Its warm. Were all picking the berries from the bottoms of our cups, waiting to head to the old part of town, to a birthday party for Joao, another CSer. The ginginha stand is close by. The night is only begun.
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