Letter from Portugal

We have made our way from Lisbon to Porto, which was once the home of JK Rowling.

Apparently, Rowling was teaching here (I think?) when she stumbled on a certain bookstore, and that store inspired her to write the Harry Potter novels. Or something like this. The Porto bookstore has milked Hogwarts for all it is worth; you now have to pay money *just to enter* the store, and there is a massive crowd waiting outside, as if awaiting entry to the British Museum.

Earlier today, we wandered into an exhibit devoted to the works of Aurelia de Souza, a woman who lived from 1866 to 1922. Ms. de Souza painted herself (see the lady attached to this post), painted flowers, painted children gossiping. I was touched by the images of the children, who reminded me of my critters back home. One image had two kids plotting mayhem while a half-interested sitter tried to focus on a little knitting project. Some things never change.

I don't carefully read every tourist nugget, but my new understanding is that a fabulous American opera singer made her way to Portugal in the 1800s, and she talked her way into power. She married the King. But she had an overly intense interest in Romanticism, and she spent the nation's cash on an extra chalet in a vast park. (Romantics like greenery.)

Unlike Marie Antoinette, this opera singer wasn't murdered. But royal members of the subsequent generation *were* murdered. The country became a republic even before the opera singer had abandoned her own corporeal shell. You won't see today's Portuguese citizens wringing their hands over anyone like Camilla, or worrying about some kind of Prince Harry-esque Lisbon celebrity writing a muckraker memoir called "Spare."

One more note on Portugal -- you must try the pastries!

Comments

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Joshie

When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...

Josh at Five

Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...

Liars and Saints

Search This Blog