Portugal, Still

On home, belonging, and the stories that follow arrival

For those reading this post for the first time—and as a reminder to myself—I write to see clearly, to remain attentive, and to stay awake to the extraordinary ordinary that greets me each day.

The Perennial Immigrant began as a way to reflect on the life I was building in Portugal. It has since become a place to explore belonging, place, family, and the ongoing practice of learning—through new languages, new customs, familiar rhythms, and the kindness and generosity that so often appear unasked.

And a reminder that change, growth, and wonder remain possible at any age for those willing to stay curious about other ways of being and doing.

If this reflection speaks to you, please press the ❤️ button below — it helps The Perennial Immigrant find its way to new readers.

Walk slowly. Listen closely. Learn always.

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I don’t take for granted my being here for one second. 
I owe my life to this country.
Craig Mod. Things Become Other Things: A Walking Memoir

It’s a cloudy, humid morning, and it may stay that way all day. The river is still, and there are sailboats out, skimming across the quiet water. I saw them a few minutes ago, but now they’ve moved into parts of the river beyond my sight line.

The street is quiet now, but for much of the morning hundreds of runners passed by, first one way and then the other.

This is a yearly event right before the festa season starts. It is both beautiful and annoying. I’m glad for the life it brings to the street and the sense of community it creates.

But the claustrophobia creeps in when I see a car trying to get out of a garage and unable to do so. My mind immediately goes to the worst possible scenario. Then I remember that most worst-case scenarios live only in my overactive imagination.

I’m working on it.

My body is still trying to adjust to being five hours ahead when it feels as though it is still five hours behind in the United States. It feels good to be back in my own bed, and that helps, but it will take a few more days for the jet lag to work its way out of my system.

I’m on the balcony perch again despite the dampness. I almost stayed inside but reminded myself that I’ve sat out here on much colder and windier days.

Ted is sitting beside me reading Pico Iyer’s Aflame: Learning from Silence. I got him hooked on Pico Iyer, especially the books about his time at the Buddhist monastery where author and songwriter Leonard Cohen spent nearly five years.

Stitch was asleep on the couch but decided he needed to make himself heard when friends stopped by down below. We’ve all been traveling and were catching up, grateful to be back home.

There is a lot percolating in my mind, some of it not quite ready for prime time.

We’ll see what shows up.

The images above appear on The Perennial Immigrant Substack page. The one with my first hat—the winter hat—with the shadows on the beach near our first apartment, was taken during our early days in Portugal.

The one by the river, with my second hat (there have been a few more since), was taken shortly after we moved into our current home in early 2024.

Back when everything felt shiny and new.

And in many ways, it still does.

I started writing The Perennial Immigrant in late 2022, while still living in Coral Gables, still working as a chaplain during the pandemic, still dreaming with Ted about a move to Portugal. We spent three years talking about it before finally making the move in 2023.

We were looking for a better life.

Portugal was our great adventure. When I first started writing, the story was about getting here. Then it became about those first months and years—the excitement, the uncertainty, learning a new language, figuring out how things worked, and slowly building a community.

Then somewhere along the way, over the course of 137 posts, I became restless. I wasn’t quite sure why.

Life had become more settled. More familiar. Less intimidating.

The people around us were no longer simply our community. They had become friends and, in many ways, family. The language was still challenging, but no longer frightening.

And that settledness confused me a little.

So I waited.

We traveled to Spain and France, took in everything we could, and returned home wanting more. We walked portions of the Camino Português and spent days moving through landscapes shaped by centuries of history.

Gradually, something became clear.

Portugal was no longer simply a country where we lived. It was home.

I no longer felt like a stranger trying to understand it from the outside. It had become the place where my life unfolded.

And slowly the writing changed.

It became less about how to live in Portugal and more about what it means to grow into a place. To look around and notice the extraordinary ordinary that fills a life—the river, the gym, the neighbors, the gatherings around our dinner table.

And during this last trip to meet our grandson, I found myself writing about something else as well: what it means to love across borders without feeling the need to choose.

Those of you who have been walking with me for much of this journey probably understand that already. For newer readers, perhaps this helps explain where this publication began and where it finds itself today.

As for what comes next, we’ll see.

Change has a way of showing up when it is ready.

This last Atlantic crossing, west and back, for the first time finally gave shape to something that had been sitting quietly in the background for quite a while.

Now I seem to have found the words.

The mist on the river has lifted slightly, allowing a hazy view of the Porto side. The two horizontal lines on the surface seem like separate currents, though they could just as easily be remnants of boat traffic that I missed.

Who’s to say?

The Riviera Rose, sister cruiser to the Andorinha, is docked and in my line of sight.

From where I sit today, inside at my small desk situated between two trees on either side of the street, their full foliage makes it more challenging to get a clear view of the river.

Nature doesn’t ask permission.

The other day, a cat ran full speed up one of the trees, disappearing quickly into the leaves.

During yesterday’s walk, I noticed one of the familiar relics along our route—an old pier slowly surrendering to time, tides, and storms. A month ago, the moss covering it gave the appearance of a complete structure.

At least in my imagination.

Living by this quiet, more protected section of the Douro gives me front-row seats to things that were here long before I arrived. Soon they may become underwater reminders. Pieces. Parts.

Or maybe I’m romanticizing all of this to suit my narrative.

Time will render the verdict.

Ted took a photo of Stitch yesterday, on duty and barking at anyone who dared enter his line of sight. O rei da rua, we call him, overseeing his kingdom and protecting his people.

But if you look beyond him, there is the river. In the foreground, the rocker and a portion of the dining table.

Stitch, the river, the rocker, and the table.

All protagonists in our story of life in Portugal. Steady companions that reassure me I am where I’m supposed to be.

Two sets of sheets have been washed and dried—partly outside, partly inside. The sun has been fickle these days, so we do what we always do, a routine that gives rhythm and rhyme to laundry days.

It has been this way since our early days here.

We returned to the gym this week, on Monday and Tuesday—segunda e terça-feira, as they are called here. Three weeks away from the routine reminded me that older bodies are slower to regain their flexibility.

Today is a day off. Tomorrow, quinta-feira, Amanda will undoubtedly remind me of that fact.

Still, I enjoy the way our Brazilian friends celebrate. This week marked the first anniversary of the gym’s current location. There was bubbly, cake, and a surprising number of treats, all before noon. We gathered around a small table and toasted the aniversário.

It is so much more than a place to exercise. It is a place where people enjoy your company and know a little about your life.

There are family photos, laughter—lots of it—exercise machines with funny names that I helped invent, and, of course, exercise.

Oh yes, that too.

Our friends who were here a few weeks ago let us know that Portugal is playing tonight in Houston. Somehow that has found its way into our schedule.

Other than the gym and a dinner out, it has been a quiet week. I’m grateful for the time to restore and refocus.

In a few days, we pack our bags for five days in the Açores, on the island of São Miguel. Our professora de português is leading a small group, and for the first time in a long while, we’ll be traveling with an itinerary rather than making it up as we go along.

There will be tea plantations, volcanic landscapes, the traditional cozido cooked underground by geothermal heat, Sete Cidades, churches, pineapples, and the fishing village of Rabo de Peixe.

But more than anything, I find myself looking forward to seeing another corner of Portugal that remains unfamiliar to me.

The forecast calls for mild temperatures, some rain, and a chance to hear Azorean Portuguese, with its distinctive sotaque—an accent that sometimes challenges even our professora.

Good walking shoes, a rain jacket, curiosity, and perhaps a little stamina will be required.

My trip to the United States already feels like it happened much longer ago, and yet we have been home only six days.

Time has a way of folding the past and present together.

The mist has settled once again on the river.

It’s time to walk Stitch.

If you’re up for it, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Answer all, one, or none—whatever speaks to you. I’m simply grateful that you’ve read all the way to the end.

• What part of your routine helps you feel most at home?

• What are you looking forward to in the coming weeks?

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As always, até logo—see you later!

Thank you for the gift of your time, attention and support.

This is a reader-supported publication. Subscribing is free, but if you wish to support my work in a more tangible way, you can become a Supporting Subscriber for a nominal monthly or annual fee— or buy me wine, a coffee, or a treat for Stitch, our wonder pug. who believes all good writing begins with snacks.

Obrigada,
Maria—The Perennial Immigrant
Vila Nova de Gaia, Portugal

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Notes and Sources

Most photos were taken by Ted Evangelakis, the guy with a Master of Fine Arts in Photography. But the photos here are a family affair.