Distance from home is not measured in kilometers or miles, but in fading memories blurred by every passing day. Memories invoked by the yearning of the mind to be where the heart remembers happiness and easiness of the days. The days, whose reality is glazed by the patina of nostalgia, are made that much more irresistible but that much more far away.
I remember sitting on my grandparents’ porch in the outskirts of Brežice on a hot summer’s day, shielded from the heat by the grapevine stretching its branches above us. The wine was cold and my uncle’s story about my father’s university career was bringing tears of laughter to our eyes. The story goes (my father disagrees) that, when he came back home after failing an exam he should not fail, my grandparents confronted him. There was tension in the room. I can only imagine my staunch grandfather pouring his anger, a rare display of intense feelings on my father’s side of the family, into my father. As any father would, he asked the ultimate question that I have heard echoed from my father dozens of times. Will you do anything with your life?, Do you think about your future? In response my father easily shrugged his shoulders and said: Life is short. “At that point mother and me slowly exited the room”, my uncle added. In the background my cousins were screaming, running around barefooted on the grass playing football with my brother, while the summer day turned to dusk.
It was my second day in Lisbon. It was a warm and sunny day, a starch contrast to snow-covered February in Slovenia. We went out in the afternoon to do some tourism, as is appropriate. Out of the building and to the right. Down the slow slope of R. José Estêvão, past the enormous mural I never took the time to really look upon. Turn left, then right, over the underbelly street of Lisboa, the Regueirão Anjos, where the alternative cohabit with the homeless. With a slow touristy pace we arrived to Avenida Almirante Reis, the blood vein of Anjos. We stop at the traffic lights. I look around with the inquisitive eyes of a child. Everything is new. The melody of the language, the warmth of the City, tall, with tile-encased buildings leaning onto each other. She takes my hand and holds it, like it was nothing special. I looked at her, confused, what is happening? Sex is one thing, but public display of affection? She says: “Why not?” Overflown by the invoked feelings, I embrace the power of her love. We kiss as the red light turns to green. Across the Avenida we go up the hill to Monte Agudo. The view stretches all the way to fake Jesus on the other side of the river Tejo. I look across the cityscape. The city that became my home.
In Šiška, next to Celovška cesta, there is a small studio apartment in a highrise apartment building. One of many built in the golden days of Yugoslavian socialism. One room, bathroom, and a balcony. While I was sitting on the balcony with my hostess, sightlessly looking towards Rožnik and sharing a joint, we unanimously decided it is a good day for procrastination, since, if university took us 5 years so far, it can wait another day. So we invited our friends for a card game of Tarok and food. Despairing about university together is better than doing it alone. Slowly arriving, they bring goods. Some greens for food and some for smoking, a few beers, a bottle of wine and sour cream — the ultimate add-on to any food. While some start preparing the meal, I start dealing the cards. Slovenian swear words seem too mild for a game of such high pride stakes, so we readily use Serbo-croatian to denounce opponents and despair over the fate of cards dealt into our hand. When Valat is played, a rare but highly valuable play, the swearing intensifies and the rest of us lose the will to play as today’s winner is obvious. Luckily the meal is ready, remedying the annoyance of the defeated and silencing the gloating of the winner. In the background, the melody of Iztok Mlakar’s Od Franca Frančiškina god, a song praising the hobbit-like life of eating and drinking, is stimulating our appetite. When the powers of the day are spent, some venture home across Ljubljana and the rest of us fall asleep on the overcrowded bed. Surrounded by friends, the day glazes to memory.
“Saudade (…) is a deep emotional state of nostalgic or profound melancholic longing for an absent something or someone that one loves. Moreover, it often carries a repressed knowledge that the object of longing might never return. One English translation of the word is missingness, although it might not convey the feeling of deep emotion attached to the word “saudade”.— From Wikipedia under “Saudade”
