I wake up to a shy knocking. Then a piece of paper slides under my door. It’s one of these unbearably cute drawings with short strokes serving for grass and long ones for trees. There’s a big dog in it, and a figure with a round face, messy hair and “ha ha ha” in a dialog box. That’s how Tomas, a 7 y.o grandson of Beatriz sees me.
The knocking repeats. As I open, armed with a whisk and a sieve, a saucepan as a hat, Tomas gives me this cheerful “ha ha ha”. And I laugh back. And it feels like home.
It’s been around a month since I moved to Beatriz. She gladly agreed to rent me a room for as long as I needed.
When her grandson sleeps over, we play guess-an-animal quizzes. My Portuguese allows us to communicate in short phrases and gestures. That’s how I learn the language.
Tomas’s mother brings him over quite often, and I’m the only one who can manage walking him — so pushy he is. I don’t mind the occasional pet sitting. Beatriz has a cat that loves to sneak into my room and nap on the chair. She treats Charlie with a distant disdain. Probably why the cat is not in the picture.
In film school they teach you about designing the material world through sensory details. What do you take from a family portrait when the people in it have no relation to you
{-350 eur for rent}
{Account balance 130 eur }
***
Every morning I sit at the desk — a coffee mug by the laptop — and go through job announcements.
Plan A, ambitious: video productions.
Plan B, basic: photography gigs.
Plan C, where I have zero experience: shitty jobs. Like waitressing, maybe.
What you should know about employment in Portugal as a non-EU citizen:
It’s not about your portfolio, background, or talent. It’s about your work permit.
But I don’t know it yet. To get a contract, you need a work permit. To get a work permit, you need a contract.
In film school, they used to laugh at your script in front of the whole room — and then add:
“We’re preparing you for real-world challenges.”
Now I see why rejection has no power over me.
Every morning, I lean into the office chair Beatriz found by the trash bin — fully functional though — and send out another hundred emails:
“Dear Sir,
I don’t remember the last time I had to send over my CV. My reputation used to do the talking.
But here we are.
People used to know me as a good producer. When I switched to photography, it was enough to say it — and the jobs came. Same with PR, same with directing.
But here, nobody knows me. So I guess I need to give you some insight.
I have zero experience in events, real estate, or business portraits. I always aimed higher than that.
Since day one, I’ve been paid to create staged beauty.
Fresh out of university, I stepped into a publishing house as a fashion editor.
That’s when I learned: a couple of hours in a makeup chair, plus false lashes, plus extensions, plus a few well-placed pins in a dress — and voilà, you’ve got a celebrity. Don’t try it at home.
You might call it fake. I call it storytelling.
Once, when I was handling PR for a major TV host, I came to see him on the set of a commercial. A junior assistant of a senior assistant of a general assistant led me to his trailer — which looked like a luxury hotel room inside.
“Wow! Like a celebrity!” I said.
“I am a celebrity, Helen,” he replied.
And I laughed.
That’s what you should know about my clients.
One day in winter 2014, we were heading to a Forbes fitting.
You’d imagine him stepping out of a black car, sunglasses on, strutting into the boutique.
And it would’ve been accurate — if the street wasn’t blocked by a protest.
People stood for their rights with Molotovs, stones, and bare hands against the police armed to the teeth.
They didn’t want to let us through. But a bit of charm — and a selfie with one of the officers — did wonders. It could’ve cost me my career if the picture had leaked. Soon, my boss was trying on Lanvin and Saint Laurent in a fitting room with plush chairs for the editorial that won’t happen.
Next day, the entire boutique staff had to be evacuated due to gunfire.
That’s what you should know about my problem-solving skills.
I hope this gives you a brief idea of my professional background.
Portfolio attached.
My best,
Helen”
They rarely write back — I take it as a silent no. And when someone does, don’t get your hopes up. In Lisbon they are into coffee chats.
Last week I had to go to the other side of the city to discover how George, or maybe it was another person, moved to Lisbon years ago and settled down, and married, and started giving classes in fashion. He didn’t have any offer for me. Just was curious. That’s what you should know about networking in Lisbon
The other day I met Jose at his office just to have this two kisses greeting, and a basic conversation about why I moved and my plans. It could be an email saying something like: “I’d consider you”. But in Lisbon they have all time in the world.
In film school, they tell you to cut the scenes that don’t move the story forward. But what would you do if your life looks like a sequence that doesn’t bring you anywhere? I’d probably cut it, but all I have now are these coffee chats.
{Account balance 115 eur }
***
“They don’t read emails. Just go there,” says Beatriz at lunch.
And then she remembers a friend of a friend who works at a night club.
“He might need people at the bar,” she says
Plan C comes into action.
“Ha ha ha,” says Tomas.
I laugh back. He repeats it even louder. A piece of broccoli falls from his fork onto the table. Lenin says him to behave.
Tomas says, “Broooooccoliiii,” and rolls his eyes.
Beatriz pours herself more wine.
What I like about dining in Portugal: wine goes with every meals starting in the afternoon.
Colleagues won’t judge your choice if you go for beer at lunch. But honestly, what do you expect from people who kiss at business meetings?
In film school they teach you to find vibrant details to give the story an authentic voice. I think I’m succeeding.
“Do you date someone, Helen?” asks Lenin.
Since I’ve moved to Lisbon a month ago, I got attention I used to have in my teens.
I couldn’t imagine myself at risk of getting pregnant just by going down to get some pastry for breakfast.
They hit on me everywhere I go.
A young guy on a bicycle pulls up, wondering why I’m alone.
He is 24. I’m 36.
“Mais l’âge n’est qu’un numéro.” (But age is just a number.)
He doesn’t see any obstacles to us kissing.
I do, though.
A drug dealer approaches me to suggest some “herbs,” and when I refuse politely, he introduces himself.
A dating app offers me unlimited matches.
My Instagram explodes with DMs.
I’m so confused I end up making my city tours alone.
I haven’t met anyone since my pay-for-one-get-two, and then split-the-bill, date with Jose.
All guys in Lisbon are Jose. Names may vary. The attitude doesn’t.
Today, someone texted: “I’m younger than you but I would like to talk?”
I said yes.
I don’t share all this with Lenin. Just shake my head.
“I would like to take you out on a date,” says Lenin.
Beatriz pours herself another glass.
“You are washing dishes today you were saying?” I put my plate in the sink and excuse myself.
In film school they tell you you should create a believable family portrait.
I doubt they’d call it believable when your landlady’s son-in-law asks you out.
This is mine, anyway.
[An indie song plays from Beatriz’s CD collection in the cabinet. You wonder how they still use this medium.]
***
What you should know about paperwork for non EU citizens: don’t expect them to communicate in English. Tax payers from overseas are welcome though. Theoretically speaking.
To register a freelance activity, you have to show up at the tax office at least half an hour before it opens. At 8 a.m. you will be number 150 in the line, and by the noon there will be no tickets available.
You also have to bring a standard list of papers — easy to get for any EU citizen. But not you.
You need a tax representative.
A friend of a friend of Beatriz knows someone who could help.
We agreed to meet by the tax office outside the city. I took the wrong train, and when I finally got there 30 minutes late, all sweaty and blushing, no one was there yetHalf an hour later she emerged out of the car followed by an assistant and a bunch of people – other clients. None of them spoke English. I reminded myself to never make assumptions based on WhatsApp chats.
We left the assistant holding our spot in line, and the lady drove us to the bank.
An eternity spent waiting for the security check to open my account.
Another hour to sign something I couldn’t translate — just blindly copied from a template.
An hour before closing time, we were back at the tax office.
Minutes before my turn, we discovered they’d forgotten to give us a paper with my bank details.
We figured it out in the app, though. Five minutes before they closed.
You don’t expect a tax office employee to be friendly, but the man who registered my freelance activity adjusted his glasses and said, “Write down your password somewhere.”
“Ready!” — he pressed submit.
And… the system failed.
Block out the whole day for the Portuguese tax office.
{- 100 EUR to the tax representative}
They call it bureaucracy.
I call it improving communication skills.
By the end of the day, I was able to share my morning adventure about taking the wrong train.
We hugged and wished each other good luck.
[Wearing headphones to mute the noise on the train back. Doesn’t help much. I’ve run out of mobile internet. No music for today]
***
In film school, they teach you to crush your hero — throw obstacles at them in a rising progression.
I think I’m rushing it: it’s not even the middle of the first act, and I’m already at the breaking point.
“What are you going to do with the rest of the screen time?” they’d ask.
I wouldn’t have an answer.
At midnight, I’m meeting a friend of a friend of Beatriz — a guy who runs a nightclub called Titanic.
What would you wear to an interview to look professional?
Andre — that’s the guy’s name — meets me in the middle of the dancehall.
There’s a bunch of people by the bar. Other than that, the place is empty.
The bartender is missing. And I think: they probably really do need staff.
I can’t hear what he’s saying because of the music. We chat at the entrance while he smokes. No, I don’t speak Portuguese. But I’m learning. I’ve never waited tables. He offers me a beer.We go back inside.
In the few minutes Andre was gone, a guy at the far end of the hall spots me and starts walking over.
“Would you like to dance?” he asks.
“I’m already dancing with him,” I say, pointing to Andre, who’s handing me a beer.
{12 EUR account}
Titanic drowns.
Enjoyed reading? You might like other chapters of Lisbon EP
- Lisbon EP #1 THIS IS NOT A SUCCESS STORY
- Lisbon EP #2 A BLIND DATE
- Lisbon EP#3. Family portrait
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