Not everything has gone smoothly! Here are a few of my new-to-Portugal blunders. I can laugh about everything but the police.
When I came back to my apartment the very first time the very first day, I couldn’t get my key to work. Trying every which way, knocking on doors up and down the floors . . . no response, no solution. My contact person’s phone number was inside on the table. What choice did I have but to Google the nearest police station? What would I say? Estupido! I rehearsed my speech the entire way there. A group of policemen were gathered at the station entrance. After explaining my dilemma to this unexpectedly large audience, two men separated themselves out and escorted me to their car where they put me in the back seat. Then, in addition to apologizing for bothering them with something so silly I had to admit to a fourth-floor walk-up. “Da nada.” No problem. The fellow who followed me up the stairs put my key in the door, adjusted the knob half an inch and, yup, open. “Don’t worry,” he insisted. “This happens at least once a day.” I wasn’t consoled.
The woman in charge of the apartment explained the touch button cook top by pressing here and there while explaining in Portuguese, Lights came on and numbers glowed. It looked easy. But later, when I tried, no matter how hard I pressed or how soft, nothing. I YouTubed instructions. Ah. Got it. Put the pan on the burner first. Be sure to press with your finger pad not the tip. Okay. I see. Still, nothing. I Googled how to do omelets, pasta, everything, in the microwave for two weeks before I saw the woman again. I Google Translated my question. She couldn’t resist smiling. It really is simple. This button first, not that one.
At the true-to-its name Jumbo market, I waited in line with my little baggies of produce and box of milk. Things are done differently from store to store, Jumbo is overwhelming, and the line long, so I was a little nervous. Back in March during my first grocery trip, not realizing people bring their own bags, I put my bread and cheese in my purse as others looked on. This time, when my turn came, I was informed through gestures and Portuguese that customers weigh their own things on digital scales right in the produce section. I would have gone myself but the cashier insisted on calling someone. (Just as well. I hadn’t been very successful with that stove.) The whole long Saturday line waited while a helper took my one red pepper, two tomatoes, and small bunch of broccoli back for pricing. Everybody was patient, no one said a word, but I felt unusually large and so very American.
There’s a confusing array of symbols and words on two separate panels on my apartment building’s washing machine. I push and pull buttons and knobs until I hear water running. Funny thing: I mentioned this to an expat yesterday, and she’s been doing the same thing for a year!
Clothes dryers are rare, but I have my very own clothes line and clothes pins. The line is all of three feet long. I’m four floors up. Anything that falls has a long way to go. I have to lean across eighteen inches to hang things. Did I mention I’m uncomfortable with heights? The first time, the clothes stayed put, but the clothes pins vanished. The next time — I’m sure I had two pillowcases. At least it wasn’t my underwear.
Nevertheless, this is home sweet home.