He was a young man once, and proud. This was his farm, passed to him by his father, and he lived in the big house. The farm was built by generations of the Franco family; there had always been a Franco living on this hill. He farmed the fields and hunted the hills and his life was patterned by the seasons.
He married the beautiful girl he loved and was also a little in awe of, and they had children who lived in the cottages around the big house. It was a simple, hard, yet satisfying life, and he worked knowing he was one of a line of farmers stretching too far back to remember.
Then he and his wife were old. They moved into one of the small cottages and his son brought them food every day. His wife had a stroke and for the first time in their lives, they were separated. She lay in a bed in their granddaughter’s home down in the valley, while he was alone in the cottage on the hill.
An Americano came to live in the big house; a man without family and who spoke no Portuguese. He talked to him anyway and the Americano replied with a few Portuguese words and many gestures. Several times he tried to explain how once he and his wife lived in the big house, but the Americano just smiled and said thank you in Portuguese.
Now he sits on warm afternoons outside his cottage and stares at the big house where used to live. When he was a young man once, and proud.
It is neither safe nor wise to stand still for too long in Portugal. If you do, there is a great likelihood you could end up tiled and there will be found a colorful image of some saint across your back, or a delightful picture of a galleon sailing bravely out to discover new worlds in order to pillage, loot and enslave the locals for the sole benefit of the Portuguese nobility who will then turn them all into Christians as payment for sucking their country dry.
It seems as if everything stationary in Portugal eventually ends up tiled. Where Americans might hire a couple of undocumented folk up to no good loitering about on a street corner to slap on a coat of paint, spread around some stucco, or nail up aluminum siding, the Portuguese lay tiles, beautiful tiles. Inside a building or outside, big or small, yours or mine, it doesn’t matter, sooner or later everything gets tiled. If you have a creative eye the buildings might seem very artistic, but if you’re inclined to be more practical then everything can look a bit like a public toilet. A pretty public toilet, though.
The precise term for these tiles is azulejos, which, like most Portuguese words, is not pronounced at all as it appears. Portuguese is somewhat similar to Welsh, but with vowels, or Navajo with the sh sound tossed in every other syllable. If you don’t know Welsh or Navajo I can’t help you and you’re on your own. Perhaps the easiest way to pronounce Portuguese is to remember when you were a kid staggering around pretending to be drunk on Australian sherry like your uncle Bill at Christmas and slurring every word. Works well for me, but then I’ve had a lot of slurring practice. Staggering around while slurring is optional and doesn’t convince the locals you can speak their language, but it does confuse them. And that way you’re equally baffled.
While we’re discussing foreign languages, of which Portuguese is definitely one, I have learned how to communicate with the local peasantry. It’s not at all necessary to learn their language, just let them chatter away while you respond in English. Then point at what you want, wave some euros around and off you go with a lot of grinning on both sides. Could not be easier, just don’t wave dollars because nobody wants them anymore. Do not, I repeat, do not, under any circumstances speak a single word of their language because that will only encourage them to keep talking that way and so they’ll never learn English. Then how will they communicate with you?
Back to the azulejos and their history. The Moors, whoever they were, invaded Portugal years ago and brought tile-making with them. Supposedly, they got it from the Iranians, who insist on being called Persians nowadays, at least those who live in Beverly Hills and build all those huge, ugly mansions do. Where the Persranians got tile-making from is anybody’s guess, maybe from whoever started Home Depot. After several hundreds of years of oppression the Portuguese kicked the Moors out, but kept the tile-making. Where the Moors went I have no idea, presumably back to Mooristan.
Freed from foreign rule, the Portuguese went tile crazy. By the 17th century, which is way too far back to interest most Americans who know nothing about about the world before the day Elvis died, the whole country was covered in tiles. Eventually some king had to put a stop to it because there wasn’t a tree or a dog or cat that remained untiled.
In a way tiling back in those days was a bit like graffiti is today, and just as difficult to control or eradicate. So it was decided that if you couldn’t beat them you might as well join them, and everyone was allowed to slap tiles all over their buildings. There were severe penalties however for tiling animate objects. For a couple of years there was a lot of grumbling about censorship and restriction of artistic freedom, but the Portuguese are a pragmatic people by nature and eventually it all calmed down.
Today Portuguese buildings, subways and train stations are covered in azulejos, and glorious it all is to behold. Now and then, some clothes designer or automobile manufacturer gets a wild idea about azulejoizing their products, but it usually comes to nothing. Azulejos are made to cover walls, not cars or jeans.
Although the Portuguese are sensible about tiling things nowadays, I would still suggest not staying still too long in public, though, just in case you end up with a galleon sailing across your chest. I mean, who wants to look like a public toilet, even a pretty one?
