My father

My father was called Dario, not Dário, like everybody in Portugal - annoyingly, irritatingly - insisted on writing. How dare they correct me? I know my father's name, it's Dario. No accent, you hear me? No accent, full stop. Dario, like the Persian King of lore, the father of that other great ruler, Xerxes. From the old Persian Dârayavauš. Also known as Darius. We are talking civilisation here, people!

My father died in 1996. I sometimes miss him a lot, like some kind of physical pain that grows inside my gut and then goes up my chest, straight to my heart. It squeezes. Old Egyptians were right to think that the heart was the centre of our humanity, so many of our emotions seem to grow in there. What would our brain do without the heart and the gut? It wouldn't feel the same...

My missing him comes in waves. Like a tsunami. Like today. I was standing by the kitchen door towards the balcony watching the rain of polen be swept away in the yard, and then this yearning for my father came rushing through my body. I so wished he was there, turning the corner, smiling at me. Sometimes it happens when I'm walking in the street. I just wish he would turn up and hug me. I wish I could run to him and hug him. Hug him long and long, and still longer. I don't cry, I just feel my chest growing tight, a sort of pain. A good pain of saudades.

I don't believe in the afterlife, I never did as far as I can remember. But my father lives in me, in my gut, in my heart, in my brain. And his name still fills the airwaves of my emotion. Dario. No accent. You hear me? You hear me, you fools? How could I not know how to write and pronounce my father's name. It's the same name of a famous old Persian King. Persia is today's Iran. Persia was a great civilisation. Dârayavauš. Darius. Dario. In the name of my father.

Chicago

We were supposed to leave today, but then we got sick and decided to leave on Saturday instead. I got a phone call from the office this morning asking me what the weather was like... in Chicago! I had to say we were still in Brussels in the middle of a tapotage session in St. Josse to release Georgie's lungs from mucus. Valérie was very nice and gave Georgie two fruit toffees after the session. Georgie behaved so well.

So, here we are, still. Waiting to go to Chicago. We'll start a new blog to report on our three months in the land of the free. It will have photos and bits and pieces of what we do and think while there. We'll send it around to friends. To share. Pour partager. Para Partilhar. För att dela oss.

Wie Sind die Clowns

Brussels, 28 May 2010. My daughter wants to listen to music from iTunes in the computer. Her choice? The Swedish artist Zarah Leander singing "Wie Sind die Clowns?". Not much to comment. She's a star! Georgie that is. Well, Zarah too, of course.

Zinneke Parade

Senne or Zenne is the river that runs through Brussels (that's right, the same name as the bigger one in Paris). The river was covered over in the XIX century because of its foul smell from rotting animal carcasses and all sorts of domestic and industrial sludge. It now runs under Boulevard Anspach. Jules Anspach, the Brussels' bourgmestre whose name was given to the Boulevard after his death in 1879, wanted it to be a showcase of modernity. He built beautiful apartment buildings à la parisienne that no one wanted to live in. The Belgian bourgeoisie couldn't really part with their maisons de maître unifamiliales (a sort of national obsession).

Anyway... zinneke is also Brussels' dialect for mutt (many of them ended up in the river) and by extension anything that isn't pure, that is mixed. Like Brussels today.

The Zinneke Parade happens every two years and has been going on for the past 12 years. It's the parade of the mixed, the parade of the mutts. I went there yesterday with my cousin Andreia who was visiting from London. I loved it. It was one of the best Zinneke Parades ever. We stopped by the bar Au Soleil (my hangout in my early days of Brussels in 1996) and watched group after group of ravellers go by. All the mutts of Brussels in a beautiful swirl of colour and fun. I was glad my daughter is growing up here in this town. We are all mutts in here. Yuppeeeeee!!!

Georgie threw paper petals into the air. Some ended up inside a man's beer glass and they both laughed. A lot. We danced to drums and ran away from giant spiders. We saw a cloud that had been caught and brought down to earth. We touched the cloud. I wonder if they released it in the end. I so hope they did.

middle-age

I now realise I'm getting into middle-age when I notice the beauty of youth. Casually. It can happen in the tram, or coming out of the cinema. Or just standing at a corner watching people go by. There's no lust involved, just a pang in the stomach and the tightening of my jaws.

The realisation that their muscles are supple, their tummies are flat, their necks don't flap, their eyes wrinkle only when they smile. Their hair is all on top of their heads and not coming out of their ears, nor sprouting in bushes of grey in unexpected places. Yes, lately I started noticing the beauty of youth. Not before. I felt part of it. Not anymore.

There's no sadness. Maybe a bit of jealousy. Then again that pang in the stomach, sometimes a nervous twitching of the mouth. Or just the intense look of the eagle. I observe how laughter seems to inhabit the body of youth, how they jump with each step, how the sun shines brighter on their skins. The beauty of youth makes even the not-so-handsome young look beautiful. And that's how I realised I'd come to middle-age.

Lisbon in bullet points

• we went to Lisbon in April for a week and a few more days.
  
• we crossed the river and went to Barreiro to eat Magnum ice-cream.
• we spent 7 hours queuing in Sta Apolónia train station in Lisbon to get tickets for Paris because of an Icelandic volcano that decided to erupt and spew ashes all across Europe's skies.
• I had marmelada with bread for breakfast every morning.
• my mother was having one of her good spells and was really helpful.
• Guida was feeling down. I hadn't been to her flat in ages; apart from a new sofa it still felt the same. We had corn biscuits and tea for dinner (my dietitian was thankful, I'm sure...); it felt like the old days at university but then it used to be me complaining about life and seeking her shelter. I wish we could have been to her birthday. It hurt not to be there, and all for just a couple of hours.
  
• at Manuel's and Gonçalo's I had dinner with some Portuguese friends and arguments were hurled across the table like a tennis match. It felt good. I still think I don't know how to show appreciation for the good food they always cook, I wished I knew how to, but my paltry palate doesn't seem to help.
  
• Guilherme gets annoyed with Georgie's attention, but she so looks up to him.
• Zé was in good shape and fun to be with.
• Carla has brown eyes that shine, or smile, or both, or something in between.
  
• we had my cousins for dinner and I wished we could do it more often.
• we went for lunch with my grandmother to a fish restaurant near São Bento; we were all happy.
• the usual pleasure of bookshops where most books are in Portuguese.
• strange to see so many newspapers in Portuguese and so many news of which I know so little.
• Gloria's apartment continues to be a home from home; I sometimes forget it isn't ours.
• we spent many hours at El Corte Inglès; the place is a shopping trap but it was convenient and there were a couple of rainy days when it served of refuge (and their toy section is very entertaining for small children and you don't have to buy any of it).
• we went to Palácio da Ajuda where Georgie was treated like a princess by the staff; apart from two other visitors we had the rooms all to ourselves.
• we ate pastéis de nata almost every day until we got bored.
• we went to Portugália for lunch and had a look at the lobsters in the aquarium; they didn't look happy nor very appetizing but I'm sure a lot of people don't care.
  
• we bought hair combs at Martim Moniz, surrounded by ghosts from Portugal's former colonies and all the new people that came with them; it was exciting and it was weird.
  
• we went to the zoo and got rained upon; like waterfalls raining from the sky; then came the magnificent sun.
  
• Georgie got a gold bracelet with butterflies and stars.
• we are now positive that the sun in Lisbon is not the same one that shines over Brussels.
• Manuel, Gonçalo and their son Guilherme confirmed that they would come and visit us in Chicago at the end of August.
• I learned that my cousin Ana Luisa has breast cancer; I wish she could stop smoking; I wish her laughter won't go away.
• I wrote my "China in Africa" report in a cyber-café near Chiado called Fábulas where 90% of the customers are foreigners stranded in the blue of Lisbon, this time further stuck by the epic revenge of the Icelandic volcano many miles away.
  
• at FNAC the staff is so friendly I always feel like hugging them or even crying a little.
• in Lisbon we never get stuffy noses, it must be the air.
• after Lisbon the first days back in the office are difficult; I feel like turning all day long in my office chair and going out for long walks.
  
• I'm glad I'm healing my wounds and Lisbon is starting to feel good; I know the rages won't disappear but it's good to feel them subsiding.
• we tried (almost) all the food that they make at El Corte Inglès.
• we went to Lisbon's Castle and learned about Dom Afonso Henriques and his mother Dona Teresa. Georgie was impressed that the son could tell the mother to go away forever. She learned that Galicia is in Spain.
  
• the peacocks in the Castle were covered in light.
• we saw Paulo Filipe and enjoyed the evening together; he says his flat is crumbling down, but he sounded resigned.
  
• I don't remember any pigeons this time, only water in the fountains; where did they go?
• we learned that there's a saint called Filomena. Her tiny statue is inside a little casket made of glass in an old church near Casa dos Bicos, by the river. She was wearing real earrings and a ring with a diamond. We learned that there's a Virgin Mary that protects the staff of the Portuguese customs and that she lives inside that church too.
• the church had a statue of Jesus with real hair carrying the cross, and Georgie thought he was alive.
• we came back to Brussels quicker than we expected, when the sky opened up and we could fly.
  

mirror, mirror on the wall

In the morning, sometimes I don't recognise my face. It's only late at night, under the mirror's light that my face comes back to life. Purple eyes, fleshy lips. What does my face say? I look, I look, I look. I look some more. My face remains silent and yet it seems to speak. Wished I could hear what it has to say. I'm sure I'd understand. If only I could hear it. I try, I try, I try. Purple eyes, fleshy lips. Going to sleep. I never recognise my face in the morning. It must be the light.