What Becomes Familiar

Notes on Staying

For those of you reading this post for the first time and for myself, as a reminder of why I write--to see with new eyes, to learn to belong, and to stay awake to the extraordinary ordinary that greets me each day.

The Perennial Immigrant has become a way to reflect on the life I’m building in Portugal with a new language, with new customs, with awe-inspiring scenery and the quiet discovery of kindness and generosity that so often appear unasked.

And that change and growth remain possible at any age for those who dare to dream of 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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We are made of stories--those that have happened, those that are still happening at this moment in time and those that are shaped purely in our imagination through words, images, dreams and an endless sense of wonder around us and how it works. [1]

I walk down our hallway in the dark, noticing the square window at the end, over Ted’s desk, which gives me a glimpse of what is happening outside—but only a little. Set higher up, the view is a teaser of what I might find when I open the left curtain.

Passing into the living area, I turn on the heater and close the hall door behind me, which helps keep the warmth contained. I set down my water next to Afonso and move toward the small space heater to add a bit more warmth to the cold room. Turning right is the kitchen, where the setup for breakfast awaits—neatly arranged.

Every night, Ted asks me what I want for breakfast. Whatever you want is my answer. It’s too late at night to make decisions, and Ted usually makes the right one when it comes to our morning meal. He organizes everything the night before, whether it’s oatmeal, toast with jam, or scrambled eggs. The menu may change, but the intentionality with which it is prepared never does.

I turn back to the darkened room, open the curtain, and sit watching the night sky, the river, the lights of Porto—the usual things that are always there—until my day begins to take its shape. As the sky lightens, I open the rest of the curtains. When the boys make their appearance, the expanse of window will give Ted the weather data he needs to dress accordingly for their morning walk. So it is, most mornings.

We first visited Casa da Música on November 16, 2023, less than a month after our arrival in Portugal, eager to see Sandra Cristina, a fadista born in Porto. We knew the building—designed by Dutch architect Rem Koolhaas—for its striking geometry and acoustically robust concert halls. But more than that, we wanted to experience what it felt like to be among a crowd of Portuguese people, even though we barely knew the language.

We sat in the back row and watched as people arrived—how and when they clapped, the phrases they used when they needed to pass along the row. Com licença, (excuse me) they would say, and I took note. When they stood to applaud after a particularly rousing song, we stood as well.

By watching, I learned how to be here.

A few weeks ago, we attended an Ensemble de Violoncellos concert featuring works by Brazilian composers Heitor Villa-Lobos—Bachianas Brasileiras nos. 1 and 5—and Edmundo Villani-Côrtes, whose Cinco Miniaturas Brasileiras rounded out the program. Thirteen violoncellists—mostly late teens to early twenties—performed effortlessly without a conductor, joined by a solo soprano.

Over two years have passed since our first concert here. More settled now in the language and the rhythms of concert-going, I found myself watching and listening—both to the music and to my own responses. What once felt foreign has grown more familiar: how queues form, how politely the audience moves and listens, the collective respect for the venue and for those performing.

In 2023, I watched others to know how to act. This time, I felt at ease rising to applaud, clapping without hesitation. Once I waited. This time, I was among the first to stand.

I often read other Substack authors asking about the moment they knew they belonged in their new countries—when they no longer felt like bystanders, but as participants. My answer is always the same: for me, it has been incremental, shaped and refined through daily encounters in restaurants, grocery stores, doctors’ offices, and the slow learning of governmental processes.

What makes it more tangible is that I carry two distinct memories of myself: a wide-eyed newcomer in 2023, on a rainy night in Porto, and, two years later, on a sunny Sunday morning in the same music hall. These moments serve as bookends, holding the experiences together. They allow me to see where I once stood—and to recognize that I am no longer quite the stranger I was.

The past few weeks have been wet, windy, and bone-chilling—more so than I remember from last winter. It’s interesting to notice that I now have seasons to compare, one against another. What usually aches in my body, and gathers like storm clouds in my mind, pushes me toward the warm cocoon of home. Watching the weather from inside is safer, less messy. The temptation to lean too fully into my introverted ways is something I try to notice before it settles in.

On a sunny day last week, Ted wanted to try out his new camera, and—wisely—asked me to come along. The world was out: families, cyclists, runners, a grupo de avós (grandmothers), and in one instance, a mother juggling a child on her arm and a dog on a leash. It was cold, but the sun made up for the sharp wind that swept along the marina and through the streets of Afurada. As Ted moved through the crowd, I took the opportunity to do the same.

We planned to be out for about thirty minutes. It turned into an hour. On the walk back, we talked about what we’d seen and noticed together, and about the moments when we’d wandered off on our own. As Ted likes to remind me, you always enjoy going out—if you actually go out. Fair point.

Overcoming inertia, developing patience, letting things unfold as they will—these haven’t appeared on any to-do list. They’ve arrived slowly, through a kind of discovery that depends, at least in part, on my getting out of my own way. Lately, I sense a softening of resistance when I’d rather stay in. I try not to overthink it, and instead remember days like this—when the sights and sounds of the place where I live become small laboratories, reminders of what it means to take a risk and change a life, one ordinary day at a time.

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.

• Are you a coffee or tea person, other? Hot or cold, caffeine or decaf, sugar or not?

• Do you have a favorite show/series you are watching? (I love anything Nordic murders.)

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As always, até logo—see you later!

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

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

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Notes and Sources

[1] Elif Shafak. How to Stay Sane in an Age of Division (p. 9). Profile Books, 2020.

Most photos were taken by Ted Evangelakis, the guy with a Master of Fine Arts in Photography. The not-so-good ones are all mine.