When
being in Portugal, one definitely feels saudade. Extranzeiro
can even feel
it,
´cause he or she is far from his country. That is the feeling late
at night, when you can not sleep and reflect and think back at your
life. When Portuguese reminisce their past times, lovers, friends and
events in the rainy Coimbra night, other people do the same. They
also can not sleep, crying for sun that is forever hidden behind the
panorama of University campus, all the jolly breezes and chanting old
men disappeared from dusty tascas. Of course, we, foreigners
can not speak about saudade, explain its origins and meaning. We do
not usually even have a word for that. For many languages „
saudade“ is indefinable. But sometimes feelings do not need words,
they need heart. They need past experiences, they need memories of
greatness.
It
is utterly beautiful to see the rain drops touching the dusty
buildings in this grey night. Everything is sad, somewhere is chaos
and somewhere are losses. There are people restless as Fernando
Pessoa, but this pain, october-time sadness gives them so much power.
Those emotions are beautiful, vivid, god given. Those emotions are
colorful, forever -lasting. One lids a cigarette and watches how its
smoke raises to the cosmos. From cosmos you could see Lisboa. From
the Lisboa you could see miradourus, where, in Meddieval
Times, small boys and girls looked how caravels went to new rich,
unoccupied, unknown lands and islands. All the city was filled with
hope of better, success of the winds and the certainty that they
will come back. Every morning those boys were there, imagining all
the richness, weird nations and jolly boat rides on turquiose sea.
But as the days went by, they start miss their beloved ones. Missed
their touch, their beards, their perfumes and the way they said their
names. They missed their fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters,
family at the kitchen table. Most definitely there was bacalhao at the
table, while the wines never ran out!
*
5
-year-old Miguel was anxiously waiting his grandpa to come back. He
wanted to see him near the oven, smoking patiently his strong tobacco
and sipping port wine, while telling the stories of love, hope and
better future. Miguel remembered how he spilled sometimes tobacco on
his coat and that he never minded to look like that, he would look
deep into boys eyes and say:
„ You
always have to embrace the past.“
Miguel
used to listen those stories, sometimes even crying. Crying 'cause
they were so alive, so vivid, so touching. But since he was a small
kid, he did not want to think of the past so much.
„ What
about future? Why I can not look to the future?“ asked the small
boy. At the same time mellow breeze from Tejo freshened the small
dusty house.
„ You can,“ said grandpa very softly, then took strong puff from the cigarette,“ but you always have to remember. You always have to remember to live your present, future in a way or in a manner that makes its' passing always so painful, so touching, so hearty.“
„ But
this is so complex, difficult feeling, grandpa!“ answered Miguel
„ This
is just saudade!“ answered grandpa.
With
this memory in mind, Miguel waited his grandpa to return from the
distant lands. He stayed in this miradouro for ages. He aged
and grew old, but he never stopped going to miradouro
to look for the sea. He never stopped ageing, he never forgot his
childhood and his grandpa. He never forgot the beauty of the saudade,
the poetic soul of this nation, the gracious tenderness of missing
something, someone so much that it starts emotional firestarter. With
tears come laughter, and with euphoria comes the pain, all mixed
together, all mixed in one. All mixed in to the bloodstream of true
portuguese.
When
this blood mixes with port wine, portuguese are not afraid to be
poetic. He is not afraid to be himself. He starts gradually to talk
about her, her red-dotted dress and cocoa smell. Or about her
high - heels clanking and clipping on the cobblestone streets of
Coimbra. He takes another sip of the sweet port wine, lights a
cigarettes and murmures,
„ Oh damn, I can not even describe feelings, things, sounds and memories I am right now feeling, when thinking back to this girl.“
And
he does not have to describe. Because he is feeling saudade, it is a
undescribable feeling.
*
Babel
Radio show is very vulnerable to share their saudades in the rainy
nights of Coimbra. It rains like crazy, but we feel beautiful. We
feel as forever-lasting souls, true humanbeings. Even if the passed
times hurts us, the pain makes our heart sing. Shall we be poetic?
*
Oh,
I remember when me and my Cousin were young. We were every summer
trying to fix grandparents road with our small hands.
We
were there every day, next to this old farmhouse and golden fields.
We believed naively that we could really change its condition.
At
that time we even believed that we could fix all the roads. We could
take on the highways and bridges, our wild hair singing in the
summertime breeze.
We
sat on the top of grassy cellar and ate our Nutella sandwiches,
after that we took our dishes to grandmother. As good boys. At
dawn we helped her to pick strawberries..
I
do miss those days..
And
who does not remember his first kiss! It is nothing that touches your
soul. There are no magic painters who could bring down the stars to
color your heart golden. She was sloppy, and I was drunk.. And
I was stupid, dumb and excited. Now I realize this is the best
way to deal with life..Thats the key to happiness.
I
miss building snowmen in the frosty night, cold, severe Estonian harsh
weather, me and my cousin throwing snowballs at eachother.
Grandpas
nose red as Rudolph´s. And damn.. the carrot did not stick...
but the memory remains..
I
miss my first slow dance, hands sweating, moving glumsy, eyes
looking down to the ground not to her eyes. To her soul. To her
heart.
She
was a girl with dotted dress, big breasts and Valentino perfume.. I
was just a boy, a dreamer, an unruined soul..
I
long for those quiet autumn nights, rain hitting the windows, me
excited while reading great words. I miss the euphoria, the bookworms
virginity in
this silent, comfty room. Just me, Erich Maria Remarque, cup of tea.
And a dream. Once write great words..
Oh,
I miss my grandmother, her morning pancakes with rasperry jelly, a
lot of sugar. A time where a boy did not have to do anything. Or you
could just relax or collect Pamela Andresons pictures as I did. The
cold Estonian weather could not be killjoy enough to me under the
blanket. I was having Baywatch session. Damn, why do you think
that I am describing male half-fertilizement practice, for crying out
loud, I was five! Underneath the
blanket with flashlight, happy as Christmas.
That
was my first love..
I
miss my grandmother telling me and my cousin bedtime
stories..Actually there was only one story. Red riding hood.
But we never got sick of it,'cause this is a good story.
