Saudade

In Portuguese, there's a word that doesn't have a clear translation into English.  It's a word that covers a mixture of feelings:  longing, sorrow, nostalgia.  Love, loss, hope.  

Saudade.

Saudade by Almeida Junior

In a way, saudade is a lot like homesickness, but it can be a longing for an object, a time, a person...really any tangible or intangible receptacle of love that is away from us.  Something or someone we've had, have, or even haven't had yet.

While I'm typing this, I have the windows of our apartment room open.  Outside, it's much like Rear Window where a few complexes meet to form a courtyard, ours made up of yards, gardens, and sun rooms littered with laundry lines.  Alfred Hitchcock must have visited Portuguese neighborhoods to gain inspiration for his iconic movie set.

Set from Rear Window

The view from our rear window.

Our room has two windows that face this area.  I love having our windows open.  Eric, not so much.  Flies swarm our room, and when he's home from the embassy, he jumps around with an electric flyswatter, keeping score of his hits.

But I love having the windows open.  The weather is perfect right now.  We're in an ideal happy-medium period between summer and the "rainy season," so the sun is still shining, but not at the intensity it was a month or so earlier.  So along with the flies, fresh breezes and sunlight enter our room.  Another welcome guest--for me--is the natural noises of the neighbors.

Since the apartment complexes are close to each other, most of them connected, sounds get trapped in the square.  Someone near by--I can't tell how close since the echoes bouncing from one building to the next distort the origin--pulls on her laundry line.  The metal string screeches against the pulley as she brings her clothing withing reach.  Another person puts dishes away, the clinking of porcelain against porcelain. And someone else has a radio on.

Our first night in our apartment, I opened our windows, and we were exposed to our first greeting from the neighbors, the sound of fado floating across the courtyard and into our room.  I leaned against the shutter to soak in more of the traditional Portuguese music.  But as he lounged on the bed that was strewn with toiletries and clothing, Eric said, "That's going to get annoying."

"No," I said confidently.  I like it."  I crossed my arms on the seal and rested my upper body on them as I leaned out more into the damp night.

I read about fado before arriving here in Lisbon in an accidental but clearly heaven-sent find at the library:  The Moon Come to Earth:  Dispatches from Lisbon by Philip Graham.  As I anticipated this large leap across the Atlantic for a little Arkansan girl, I found solace from his experiences in Lisbon.  When he struggled through the transitions, the customs, and the language of Portugal, I did too.  My sympathy for his situation forced me to imagine myself doing the same in just a few short months from then.  One Portuguese subject that captivated my sympathy was adequately detailed by Graham in his travel journal, fado music with tones of saudade. 

Fado is often sung by a female, traditionally depicting the wife of a sailor or fisherman.  She has a mournfully raspy voice that paradoxically comes to the ear smoothly.  (Listen to the video above.  You'll get what I mean.)  Lightly plucked guitar mixtures of melodies and chords accompany the singer.  I have no idea what the voice is pleading to me through her words, but I feel her message.

Now, as I sit on our bed, I lean my head back against the headboard, close my eyes, and once again let the music immerse me into the emotion.  This is an easy thing to do.  I empathize with her.  So much I feel she is the Portuguese version of my own voice.  Saudade, that complex feeling, weighs down on my chest.  I don't long for the return of my love but for my return to my loves:  my home with all its conveniences, my family and friends who I can understand, and ultimately a purpose to being in a place.  While my husband works at the United States Embassy, my only current responsibility is as a housewife.  And though I'm pursuing a few volunteer options, at the moment my only place of being is in our apartment.  I long for a sense of belonging, of being needed.

I forget that this sense is often filled by Eric, though.  At night, after we close our bedroom windows and shutters, say our night prayers, and tuck ourselves under the sheets, he wraps me up in his arms.  "I am home," he often whispers to me.  To which I reply by bringing him in closer, combining our saudades into one.

My home and me in front of the Edinburgh
castle.  (Obviously not in Lisbon.  I'll be
posting more about our UK trip later.)