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?
All countries have history; what else could they torture schoolchildren with? But Portuguese history is fascinating for one particular reason. Before 1974 no one in Portugal spoke Portuguese, everyone spoke English. Portuguese hadn’t even been invented and they only called themselves Portuguese to make the Spanish mad. Didn’t work, the Spanish don’t care. Then came the great 1974 Carnation revolution. A guy called the Salad Czar was running the country and according to some Portuguese I know, he did a mighty fine job. There was no crime, no Adam Sandler movies and Coca Cola was illegal. Nothing to complain about there, until an American corporation got involved and it all went sideyways. Now, I’ll try to be historically accurate, but remember we are dealing with a foreign country here, so facts might be a little malleable. It seems the Carnation Company was a freedom symbol for the Portuguese -- go figure! The population took to the streets, threw Carnation cans at the cops, poured condensed milk down the soldiers’ rifle barrels and generally created chaos. The Salad Czar bailed and the Portuguese had their own country. But they didn’t have their own language, not until a committee created one. It was made up of the most confusing parts of the languages the committee members spoke. So, Portuguese is part Spanish/Italian/French/Serbian all bound together with a bit of ancient Norse and some Welsh swear-words. To make it more incomprehensible, the committee chairman had lost most of his teeth on the soccer field and spoke with a wet lisp. That is why the Portuguese slur every word and learning Portuguese is as exasperating as pushing Jello up a ladder with your butt.
Which brings me to the humble abacaxi, or pineapple in the sensible, civilized world. This Portuguese word was made up by a committee member who was a Scrabble player and those were the letters he had. A side-note here: don’t ever try playing Portuguese Scrabble because there are no rules. No one wanted to call the pineapple an abacaxi until the committee member pointed out it would irritate the Spanish no end, so they all instantly agreed. They also agreed that now they were an independent nation it was essential only they could speak the language properly. So classes were formed to teach the Portuguese how to look stupid when faced with a foreigner trying to speak their language. They were very successful, and here’s an example. Yesterday, I went into a bakery to buy bread rolls. Simple, really. So, in my best Portuguese I asked for two bollinas. And got the blankest stare you’re ever likely to meet; this young lady had obviously been top of her class. I made all kinds of lunatic Americano gestures until she was quite satisfied I was properly humiliated, then said ‘Oh, bollinas.’ She’s lucky I don’t carry a gun anymore, not since that silly tragedy in Dallas. Now, think on this: I was in a bakery, so you would assume I intended to buy a bread product. If so, my bollinas was very close to her bollinas, so don’t you think she could have figured it out? After all, I wasn’t trying to buy spark-plugs for a ‘62 Mercedes, or show her a picture of Christiano Ronaldo’s willy. Christiano’s a soccer player who’s big around here, but I don’t know how big his willy is though, and don’t care to find out.
And while we’re on the subject of willies, here’s an American- English/English-English faux pas. As everyone in Britain knows, a willy is something all little boys have and love playing with until they’re about seventy five years old. So imagine the chuckles several years ago when the Americans (God bless them) released a movie about a killer whale titled FREE WILLY. Free Willy indeed! Dozens of young men were arrested in London after the movie came out. It seems they would wander around the streets, unzipped and smashed to the eyebrows, shouting to any young lady they passed, ‘Wanna free willy, darling!?’
Said young ladies and the local constabulary were not amused, while a few young men were gobsmacked when some of the braver lassies replied, ‘Looks more like a guppy, sweetheart!’
Such are the perils of foreign languages. It’s good the Portuguese have their own country, but they made a mistake with the language. I know that when there are no foreigners around they speak English to each other, so why not drop the pretense? Why don’t we all speak English, with or without willies, and make the world a safer, happier place? That would make the Spanish mad.
