Even in a world ruled by fascists,
Where human rights are so small
Fluffy eyelashes remain
And beneath them are other worlds.
But, dressed in a thin cloak,
Giving a finger ring to me
Portuguesa, why are you crying?
I’m not crying. I cried it all.
Give me your lips. Pull up and don’t think.
You and I, sister, are weak.
Under the bridge, like a gloomy eyebrow
Two tears invisible to the world …
“Portuguese Love” is a poem by Evgeny Yevtushenko written in 1967
I AM HERE
Strong wind. Very strong. Deeply piercing, aching wind. Alive. Breathing something incoherent to the very depths of my being. A forest full of illusions. Aspid and the basilisk under the soles of my soggy shoes. Psalm 90, so that it would not be scary and the trees surrounding me from all sides. The noise, but still rather a whistle through the rustle of leaves and birds that do not hide indignation with a strange play of air, their infinitely different voices merge into something single, ringing and not bothering me at all on this 29th night. Night in the dark forest. In the coastal embrace of the Father of all water on Earth, visiting the Great Ocean, next to the Black Madonna, two kilometres from the tracks of dinosaurs, within walking distance of the ancient Visigoth church of Sao Jiao, abandoned and frightening by its silence. I’m here. I’m in Nazare.
WHY AM I HERE
Legends are created from myths. Myths embody our eternal return to the original creation. Returning to the original, we comprehend ourselves. Comprehending ourselves, we will know God. This chain contains eternity, and it is about it that I will speak.
I am often asked why I chose Portugal. How did it happen that I ended up on this land? Why not Italy? Not Spain or for example, why did not stay in Canada? In the end, for what reason did I leave behind Moscow, a place in which everything is familiar to me, a city that nurtured me. And it is always difficult. It is difficult to hear and answer this question. Hear — because in my head are flashbacks of memories, moments and events that I experienced several years ago, in those days when Portugal imperceptibly penetrated the paradigm of my earthly incarnation. And for the most part, these memories are sad, because all that is gone forever makes me sad about past greatness. Answer — because you need to answer so that the reasons are clear. And this is far from easy.
Portugal is not for everyone. No offence to those who were born here, and even more so to those who were not lucky enough to live here. This is just a fact. Portugal. Her winds, rains, her stunningly beautiful Sun, her boundless strip of sand framing the Atlantic, her sunsets and sunrises that no great mind could describe because it is impossible to convey in words the beauty of the Lord. Hundreds, thousands, millions of parts make up a single whole, forming an incomparable form of Portugal. Thin as the most beautiful waist of a woman of the North, pure as the honour of “INVICTA”, crazy like the first rebellions against the Moorish rule, truthful as the whole life of the famous one-eyed Portuguese and many-faced as heteronyms of the great Lisbon man.
Portugal is only for those who can see themselves in it, for those people with whom it forms a single whole, creating a connection that cannot be broken. It is not like any other place on Earth, it is not comparable with anything and thank God, I thank the Creator for this — Portugal is not for everyone.
To move to any country, to get to a place for a long time living, you need two things — a reason and a portal. The reason is the event that precedes the move and provokes it, and the portal is the place that is the entry point for your movement. Such are the rules. And there is no other way. The reason for my move was my work in a large company in Moscow that sent me to a conference in Lisbon as part of a working trip. At first, I did not like this big and noisy city at all, I was pushed away by its appearance and, in particular, its smell. I was “lucky” to be in this amazing place on Saturday and already on Sunday, walking with a measured step in the center, I could fully feel a very strong smell of the monarchical center of Portugal. It was then that I thought, my God, this is not a city at all, it’s a real living creature that smells bad after a night of rampant dancing, sex and a huge amount of wine drunk.
So I saw Lisbon. On the morning of Sunday, the day before the planned departure to Moscow, I went for a run. The city was asleep, empty streets, quiet and calm Liberdade, turned off fountains, the majestic and perfectly lively Pombal with his lion. Everything seemed to freeze as if preparing for something very important. I felt someone’s close attention, a look, almost a touch on me, almost a whisper right in my ear.
“Stay, you didn’t see Me” … In this strange, as if feminine, but at the same time very deep voice trees, bushes, freshly painted park benches, an elderly lady measuredly crossing the square and even her plain-looking dog spoke to me. Everything around me resisted my rejection of Lisbon and the desire to leave as soon as possible.
Then Sintra happened. Taxi to Rigaleira, my close inspection of Moon Mountain, some incredible, somewhat chaotic and confused feelings, the understanding that I’m not going anywhere from these indescribably beautiful Portuguese hands.
Portugal is a woman. At least for me. Infinitely rich in its beauty, and history, fertile Mother, who promised to feed and love and kept her every word.
From Sintra, I ended up in Nazare. Being very interested in one of the main relics of Christianity (you were hardly told why the figurine of the black Madonna from Nazare is really important, and believe me, its importance is not connected with the tourist legends and has a completely scientific justification), I immediately went on the road.
WHAT THE WAVES HIDE
History is energy. The energy that seeps through the sandy threads of time from yesterday to today, forming tomorrow. Without feeling the energy, it is impossible to know the story, no matter how hard a person tries. When they ask me to show Nazare stopping there for a couple of hours, I always refuse. Because it’s like asking me to tell about my grandmother who saved dozens of lives on the operating table and this story will have to be completed in 60 minutes. It’s impossible. For me, Nazare is not just the biggest waves or the most beautiful wild beach in Europe. This place is made up of hundreds of fragments, shining, bright, and tender.
Photos of seamen whose lives the Ocean took, widows, left one on one with their memories, dressed in dresses that are blacker than night, a majestic rock in which layers millions of years have been imprinted and sacred sand sparkling in its purity under the scorching rays of the Sun’s disk, fishing boats slowly leaving for the night and flocks of birds circling greedily over the heads of sailors soaked from torrential rain, the sound of wind in a pine forest divided into two parts, light and dark, abandoned church, resting alone in the darkness around which a gray-haired shepherd walks a herd of black goats. The smell of cheap washing powder, native and pleasant, smelling of childhood and mother’s care.
The snow-white walls of the little houses and the linen hung in perfect order here and there. And also there is a yellow fog coming from nowhere, the wind in February, which is about to tear off the roofs of houses in Sitio, people who are delightfully beautiful with their light shining from their hearts, a waitress in a “grandmother’s cafe” with eyes colored like Portuguese autumn, swollen veins of an old man, full of blood and stories he is carrying home a basket of fresh fish and a smile. The smile of a man who just smiles. Smiles to you, to others, to himself, to the skies. This is Nazare. And only after all of this the world’s largest waves, surf and handmade fur slippers comes.
Every day I thank God for what I have, for being here, for this land that through hundreds of lives I randomly searched for. Sons and Maidens of the great country of salty air, these words are for you.
Be blessed. For centuries.
