Portugal's Portion

Is it any secret that I look for signs in all things and like to follow life like a scavenger hunt? Nope. This trip, especially this segment, was no different.  

When I sacrificed my own seat and my own leggy joy for my husband and sat in the very middle of the entire airplane, I assumed it might be a discomfort that would pass before I knew it.  I assumed I would be asleep. That didn't happen.  Even when the captain turned the lights off so that all his little duckies could catch a wink as he flew threw the night and over the Atlantic Ocean, even when all those around me snored in unison after their Ambien released its comatose inducing substances into their tummies simultaneously, even when the elegant flight attendant cocked her head in a way that said "Really????" when I handed my red wine glass back to her after declining a refill and then reconsidered based on her professional opinion that I should partake in at least one more drowsy glass of red wine, even after all of that I could not fall into a slumber. I was uncomfortable and staring into a mini television screen a foot away from my face that revolved from a map and flashing, moving airplane (that's us) to Vince Vaughn shouting in Portuguese to a cartoon and so on.

My view

I managed to pass the state of tired into the state of bodily auto-control. Nick reminded me that "At least you're not flying to Australia.  You'd still have 15 hours left.  Imagine that with a reclined granny on your lap." (His last trip to Australia- and probably the reason it was his last- was disastrous. The seat in front of him had a witchy old lady in it and she lucked up getting a broken seat that reclined REALLY far.  Nick was the unlucky passenger.  He was seated directly behind her. And what can you do? You can't get snappy on a granny no matter what, right?)  He was right.  That was a good point.  I only had to stay up a little longer. I closed my eyes anyway- hoping sleep would sneak upon me. Instead I got subconscious picture shows of things like two red balloons positioned in a staggered way floating up and past me. Other things that were vivid at the time but more cluttered than the balloons entertained me, but I can't remember them.  The balloons were simple.  And I saw them again later... 

This is the deal. I find that almost my entire adult life the following question has loomed above me: "Where is it in this world that I want to be?" I want to find my perfect place. Ideally, see it ALL and find my place along the way.  I have found some that are perfect already, I adore what I have seen of France. And who in the world doesn't think Italy is perfetto? I love certain parts of California.  New York City makes me feel alive.  And Georgia is "home"- my roots, South Georgia pines to Atlanta's tree top canvas to the Coast's haunting mossy oaks- "home."   There's more to see, obviously. But those are my favorites so far.

from our seats at
Portugal's Airport

Nick and I sat at the gate looking out the airport windows and we both knew we were flying to that spot.  We sat down on the smaller plane that was going to zip us right over to Switzerland from Portugal and we buckled our seat belts.  I said "I hope we love it. Because I have that feeling this is it." I was all-senses-go.  I was ready.  I didn't know what to expect because I hadn't been to Switzerland, only over it, but I knew I was on my way to my wish come true.  Finding my desired home.

This is melodramatic... it may seem I am exaggerating a lot, but I'm not.  To me, this was big.

Beside me was a Portuguese man.  He was of medium build, had strong and useful hands, and a simple, quiet, friendly demeanor. He ate his meal served to the passengers methodically and carefully, not making a mess with crumbs.  He was invisibly chewing... eating like a cat drinks milk.  When he turned to us to speak to Nick, after hearing some of our conversation about me being the language dummy, he had almost-hidden passion in his eyes.  This tidy man was probably a physical labor worker, one of a trade that takes care but is demanding- like the person that makes a perfect stone wall.  This man that so many would look right past spoke 5 languages.  Common.  Not common for me, not common for my country, but common for those living in countries that aren't gigantic and isolated and forgetful that others have languages too. I wished I retained those languages.  He and Nick conversed in Italian, laughing some.  And then, this man included me with a separate, universal language.  When the plane landed and we rolled down the pavement in our new location he started humming a song that means a very specific thing to me.  Fur Elise.  Do men normally hum Fur Elise when their plane taxis?  Honestly, I didn't think they did and hearing it sent tingles down my spine.  This song means one thing.  I have an angel.  And I think she brought Nick and me together.  Her portrait hangs over my (our) bed and I see her and smile everyday.  I never met her, but I feel much from her.  I think of her when I hear this song.  (And after a chilling instance in my house, my friend Arin does too!)  Considering the number of times I have looked at that portrait and asked, "Where do I want to be?" this hum was more like 'dong'. I gasped a little meek gasp and looked at him with childlike curiosity and tried to find mutual understanding of what that meant.  Silly, because he didn't pay mind to me and kept humming away. But this meant I was getting a sign.  This meant "I'm here. I'm giving you sweet signs. You might be right..."  

Gotta Go Keep Urban Village.  Didn't proof.  Don't be mad. I'll tell you where I've landed tomorrow.