I landed in Lisbon on a rainy day of Orthodox Epiphany in January. Now we are in June, in the heat of San Antonio’s celebrations, when the air is soaked with the smell of grilled sardines. By this point, I dream in a mix of English and French. As for my Portuguese, I’m in the basic expressions phase. That’s what you should know about cultural integration.
A grumpy neighbor, known to hate everyone in the building, waves at me from her balcony when I come back home from another day of shallow meet-ups and search for opportunities. Small jobs for real estate give me 35 euros per retouched set, a crash course in Lisbon’s neighborhoods, and hope. There are still people and places you don’t have to share. I’ll have my two-bedroom, with a balcony with a view of the old town. One day. Maybe even in Paris.
[Don’t feel, do—chorus in cathedral, repeated like a mantra, mixed with tram noise and fado in the background]
Lisbon never sleeps and never hurries. You never know when your bus arrives. They have no idea when your paperwork is through. What you know is that Monday to Sunday, tiny bars in Bairro Alto welcome you to grab a cheap caipirinha and dip in a blend of Latin and Afro rhythms and hashish smoke. I wonder how come they all live in shared apartments and yet find it affordable to go out every night. My new luxury.
***
When you live in a city you have no memories about, a birthday party invitation means you are settling down. The cinematographer I assisted on a night cemetery shoot invited me to his party.
What you should know about international celebrations, forget your customs. That’s what I’m not aware of yet. In my culture birthday means presents.
{- 20 eur for a body care set. A nice gift from The Rituals, in my opinion. }
{Total balance 25 EUR}
When I show up at Casa Bazileira 30 minutes late to the date, Bruno is not there yet. Somehow, I bump into his friends, a Brazilian couple, who take my attempts to communicate in broken Portuguese with empathy. By the time Bruno arrives—an hour late, with his wife and their seven-year-old son—I already know all his guests by name.
In my culture, we don’t show up empty-handed. And if you invite, you pay the drinks. In Lisbon, they have a million ways to get together and have fun. However, gifts are welcome, it’s not a must. Sometimes it’s friends who cover the party, other times, like tonight, you just meet and have fun, each pays for himself. I bring gifts and flowers to these days.
In the film school they call it exploring laws of the new universe. I call it lost in translation.
{- 6 eur for 2 glasses of red wine. Total balance 19 eur}
In a few hours, music gets louder, conversations warmer, and Bruno’s friends are my friends. What you should know about Brazilian people, they are the warmest friends and the loudest party makers. At least that’s what I learn in a matter of a few hours at Casa Brazileira.
[Latin rhythms that make your body move unwillingly]
And then they turn down the music. All eyes on stage. Just so you know, what they call a stage is rather a cozy space free from tables in front of the entrance. You have a mic and a few colored lights in blue and yellow. That’s the performer who makes it big. She wears a red dress, like a tango dancer, and a red flower in her straight dark hair. The moment she takes the mic I can’t take my eyes off her. In the film school, they teach exercises for presence. But I doubt you can learn this effortless grace. Unless you are a drag queen, and diva is your DNA. You know breasts are fake, hair is a wig, and curves are pads, but damn, what you see is the most poisonous ecstatic femininity.
In the breaks between the performance, Bruno’s son walks around with a hat asking for donations for LGBT support. Donate 2 euros for a chance to win a rainbow flag. Although I never won the lottery, I try my lucky chance.
{- 2 eur for LGBT. Total balance 17 eur}
Where I’m from, drag queens exist in a world you don’t usually witness unless you are one of them. In Lisbon, guys with beards and full makeup on welcome you in Sephora. Nobody turns head.
In film school, we don’t use the term gender-fluid. Surprisingly for me, modern teenagers flex on Soviet Union aesthetics and World War II. Last year, we had our first gay pride that looked like a bunch of people walking through the tunnel of armed police. That’s what you should know about personal freedom in my hometown.
[Fireworks. Or maybe explosions. No one can tell anymore.]
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
- Lisbon EP#4 My Foster Home
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