In Translation

Freedom is not the absence of commitments, but the ability to choose – and commit myself to – what is best for me.

― Paulo Coelho
The Zahir

Things didn’t change much after the Work Bestie’s declaration of flirting. Every now and then, though, he’d say something that would land right on target. I couldn’t… what… how was I supposed to respond to that? I’d just walk away. Sometimes in the middle of a sentence. In that moment, I couldn’t with him.

Now, I’m not one to be outdone. I just needed a moment to regain composure before getting him back. I relished those moments when I could make his eyes go wide with scandal. We flirted like a couple of kids playing tag. You’re it!

Portugal could have been the perfect opportunity for some hit and run flirting. It’s just that it had taken the Work Bestie so long to offer me any tangible commitment. Now that we were officially exclusive I wasn’t going to jeopardize that by acting like I was single.

There were other girls in my cohort who were free of all commitments, though. I was surprised at how many of them were using Tinder in Portugal. I believe they spoke more Portuguese than I did, and wanted to make friends who could help them improve a language they were approaching (or already had) fluency in, and they enjoyed having these casual tour guides in a new place. Whatever else they enjoyed about these Tinder matches, they weren’t telling me. Either way, good on them.

I’m still pretty sure that dating apps are for modern women who want to be murdered. Fortunately, my instincts proved wrong, and as far as I know the single ladies were having fun on Tinder while we were there, and not getting murdered even a little. I’m all for people having fun.

I think some of them made friends, like platonic friends. I’m not entirely sure how to tell the difference. Portuguese people were all so warm and friendly. I feel like Europeans, in general, have a very different sense of polite personal bubble size than people in the U.S. With even the body language being foreign so much can be lost in translation.

I’m from a sprawling city, in a sprawling state on the western edge of a sprawling country. I’m used to having a lot of personal space. Like I’ll be happy if the whole six feet, social distancing, thing is permanent. Also, though, I was so happy to see everyone I met. I was very much, “OMG, we’re in Portugal!” all day every day. I didn’t say that out loud, but man was I feeling giddy about it. Also, I’m old and harmless, so people (and animals) tend to be pretty comfortable around me pretty quickly. By my observations, either everyone in Portugal was flirting with me, or they’re just really friendly there. The latter feels more likely.

During my bom dia phase in Ponta Delgada, I occasionally got more conversation in response than my command of the language would bear. One such occasion was a very nice man, who smiled sweetly and made sounds that I assume were Portuguese words. I told him, “No, falo.” This is a horrible construction, by the way. It was the result of my brain trying to go, “no hablo español,” and then switching from not speaking Spanish to not speaking Portuguese mid-sentence.

He continued making Portuguese sounds at me, and seemed very friendly, but also incomprehensible. I mustered a full, “Eu não falo português.” He sighed and added charades, first word…I was the first word. More specifically my face. My face was… more incomprehensible words, and finally he tried “bonito.” That I understood. No one has ever worked so hard to tell me my face was pretty. I gave my sincere thanks and then ran away, ‘cause I was not looking to engage in any questionable conversations, and we’d hit my compliment quota for the day

The other random stranger who might have been looking for more than I was offering was far less charming. In fact, he was full-on creepy. It was our last day in Ponta Delgada and there was a gap of a few hours between when we needed to check out of our lodging and when the vans would collect us to take everyone to the airport.

I love my wheeled luggage in most environments. Portuguese sidewalks, with all the jutting edges of their decorative bricks, are not on that list though. So rather than wheel all my worldly belongings, bumpity-bumpity-bumpity, to some cafe and then wheel them all back, bumpity-bumpity-bumpity, to my pick up spot, I decided to go stand in front of the hostel for a few hours. So there I was, with all my luggage, leaning against the outside of a hostel, scrolling through diversions on my phone. 

I don’t remember now where the young man appeared from. He was young, younger than the man who wanted me to know my face was pretty, probably younger than me, older than my kids, I’m bad at gauging ages. He was an adult. I smiled in that self conscious way you do when you’ve been startled back into your surroundings by someone unexpectedly in your personal bubble. Something was awkward about our eye contact as he passed, but I assumed it was me. I’m awkward. And he’d startled me. I reckoned we were sharing an awkward moment because of me.

But then, when he got to the end of the block he tried to gesture for me to follow him, like I should go with him around that corner to lord knows where. I mean, maybe he was trying to lead me to another hostel, thinking this one had refused me. Portuguese people have been that kind of helpful, in my experience. I don’t know though, this guy stared at me in a way that made me want to wash his gaze off of my skin. For so many reasons, I did not follow him around the corner and when another group of pedestrians moved closer the creeper made a hasty retreat.

I was suddenly glad that this was my last day in that neighborhood. I mean, to be fair, two months of pedestrian travel, at all hours, often alone, and I only encountered one creeper, so Portugal is doing something right. I’m assuming his trying to summon me like I was a stray dog, is not indicative of the Portuguese flirting style. 

I’m not really sure what is though. There was a guy who worked roughly adjacent to our program who seemed very friendly, but that was kind of his job, to be friendly to us. Having had my own hospitality as part of my job conflated with flirtation before, I’m very hesitant to project any interest onto other people who are supposed to be nice to strangers as part of their jobs. Besides, you know who else is friendly, people who want friendship.

This man was friendlier than most men, especially in the States, but less friendly than my landlady in Lisbon. She was constantly petting my hair and complimenting me beyond what I could comfortably bear. Compliments are uncomfortable, but probably good for me in small doses. She had an ex-husband and vibed as straight, so if that much intimacy was normal to casual friendship, I’d say that a person would have to be very direct to show interest in Portugal. 

I am very perceptive, but also, when it matters the most to me, deeply clueless. I often joke that my first clue that someone is interested in me is their tongue down my throat. Not because anybody actually kisses like that, but because that is the level of subtlety I can see through.  If you’re acting like a friend, I’m going to assume that you are, in fact, interested in friendship. 

The Work Bestie was so confusing in that regard. He came at me every kinda way, and sometimes not at all. He would be talking about our future like it was a given we would be going places, doing things, together, and then disappear for a bit, and come back reset to square one, like we weren’t even flirty. Then he’d disappear like he was never going to return and out of nowhere he’d be coming in hot. It can give a heart whiplash, always changing direction like that.

When she found out that the Work Bestie and I were a thing, a mutual colleague would often refer to him as, “your man.” Every time, for the longest time, I would correct her saying, “he is not my man.” To be fair, she was usually expressing frustration at some lack of communication and/or follow through when she’d say this, as in, “your man better get back to me soon.” It was rarely a situation that I’d claim him proudly. More importantly though, he’d remained very skittish around labels for much longer than was cute. 

I reckon the natural progression of a relationship is to meet someone, become acquaintances, maybe even friends, and then there’s flirting, or an invitation to go out together. If either party isn’t into it, it’s over before it’s even begun. Or maybe things progress. You get to know each other better. You ask more pointed questions. You spend more time observing each other, interacting with each other. Here and there, there’s a pause to evaluate, could you spend the rest of your life with this person. And maybe at some point you get a clear nope, and the relationship ends. Or maybe things progress.

The Work Bestie and I had been a really slow burn. We spent a long time being friends, and then a long time talking to each other, and then a long time fooling around, and then a really long time going together before we were finally going steady. Once we were exclusive, there was no way I was messing that up. I was not flirting with, chatting with, or even looking too long at other people. He may have been a mess, but that mess was my man, after all.

If I’d been single, I might have tested what flirting in Portugal was like. I’m curious by nature. I was only there for two months, split between two cities. That’s not long enough for me to do more than flirt, even if I wasn’t in a committed relationship. Still, I can’t help but wonder where the line between friendly and flirty is in that country. Someone ought to explore it, and report back to me, for science. 

Personally, I was a bit of a prude during my stay. The Work Bestie had taken so long to make things officially exclusive. I was not going to risk some new friend sliding into my DMs with any kind of disrespect. I certainly wasn’t going to be out there making ojitos at anyone. If the first step to flirting is seeing someone, it stands to reason that the opposite of flirting is to not see them. I kept my nose down and my gaze averted and did my best to avoid any misunderstandings.

She blocked her eyes and drew the curtains

With knots I’ve got yet to untie

What if I were Romeo in black jeans

What if I was Heathcliff, it’s no myth

Maybe she’s just looking for

Someone to dance with

Michael Penn
No Myth