Portugal the remeder 2

2. Day 1 Izeda

Getting anywhere is an exercise in patience and a mix of adventure.

Of all the problems I associate with my fragile eyesight, the worst is undoubtedly the loss of independence and freedom that driving gave me. My second home (if not my first) was my old secondhand car.

I left Valladolid early, although the bus line wasn't exactly known for its punctuality. There, I had the chance to strike up an interesting conversation with a Ukrainian truck driver living in Braga, who filled me in on his version of what was happening in his homeland. Once on the bus, I also managed to exchange a few words, very brief and somewhat detached, with a Portuguese woman from Braganza who worked in Spain. Every life is enough for a novel…

Getting to Izeda wasn't easy without a car. I wanted to stock up on food because I didn't know how I'd get supplies here. I had to find a taxi and explain that I'd have to wait for my groceries. The trip was enriching, offering insights into current issues that affect all of us who were born and live in this chaotic and troubled society.

The house made a good impression on me. A building at least fifty years old that preserved even the smallest details of another era. It was located on the outskirts but integrated into the town center. As soon as I entered, I noticed that musty smell of a closed house.

This first day was about exploration and settling in. The owner, whom I didn't get to meet personally, seemed very attentive and organized. In the reception area, there was a table with a guestbook, travel brochures, a registration form, and a mural with various notes.

In the kitchen, written on sticky notes, were instructions for using appliances. Everything was meticulously written with an unusual thoroughness that greatly surprised me.

It was a house that was too big for one person, but it was the one that best suited my needs at that moment: to escape from humanity.

Despite its classic, understated Portuguese style, the house exuded a welcoming atmosphere; a feeling of calm and relaxation enveloped me.

I started putting away my groceries, arranging the few things I'd dared to bring for fifteen days. Fifteen days from which I had high hopes. I required that break, that restraining order from unempathetic, toxic, malicious people, and Portugal had the perfect dose of the elixir that cures such ills. I wasn't disappointed; that feeling of "not the hammer again" didn't return.

Of all the rooms, I chose one that didn't have cribs. It gave me a strange feeling, as someone who had never been a parent, to sleep in such places. It was a feeling of fear, of dread.

My insatiable curiosity led me to every last corner of the house. Everything breathed at a different rhythm, in a different time.

I felt an unusual chill for May, a chill of an empty house, a chill of old age, of loneliness and sadness. It took me a while to light the fireplace, and as if the house itself had smiled, I felt comfortable, at ease within its walls, as if my whole life had unfolded in its embrace.

I didn't go out that day. The fatigue from the trip and the adjustment had taken up all my time.

In the afternoon I opened my tablet and accessed my course on creativity. I started it more for the status it gives on a resume than out of necessity, but I learned some interesting things that I might be able to apply to my musical creations.

That evening, I had browsed through some books and decided to read for a few minutes before going to sleep. Reading and writing are already exhausting for me. But before that, I had seen a video library in the living room and started looking for something interesting. I'm not much of a film or video person; I consider it a genre that has become very devalued (like all art in general). Among several options, I chose Atonement, and I must admit that it piqued my interest so much that I decided to watch one every night I was there.

Atonement, in my opinion, boasts an excellent cast with masterful performances. The plot is a bit slow, but it doesn't drag. In it, we discover how we sometimes think we see what isn't there and how this can unleash a series of terrible and dramatic consequences: the effects of war and its devastation, both material and human. Deep down, we are all Briony, Cecilia, and Robbie. Accusers and accused, judges and defendants.

During the night, despite my exhaustion, sleep was not restful. Ghosts from my past appeared in my sleep, like Briony; I still wonder if they too will ever be able to atone. And what about me? A nocturnal bird kept me company all night with its song-chatter. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before; I always thought that birds that weren't nocturnal slept (and perhaps dreamed of their ghosts).