The Sounds of Portugal
Our cab driver, grizzled and swarthy as so many old Portuguese men are, drove us from the airport, narrowly missing cars and pedestrians alike until he stopped at the base of a cobbled road in the heart of Lisbon. In his limited English, he gestured for us to get out and pointed to the narrow road we’d have to climb to reach our accommodations. After flying all night and coffee-deprived, we grudgingly began weaving through the crowd, hauling our luggage over the bumping street, the wheels protesting severely, up, up, up the incline and fortunately, soon found a door with “19” over it.
Just before I opened the door, a baby began screaming. Not the whining sound that is identifiable in every language- but shrill, like it was being bashed against the cobblestones. I looked around but nobody in the crowded square seemed concerned. The screaming stopped, then started up again.
It wasn’t a baby but a peacock, strutting around, crying to any females within range of his voice,
“Pick me! Pick me!”
I breathed a sigh of relief.
The next morning, I opened our 2nd story apartment window and looked down below at the row of tiny shops selling everything from colourful earthenware to hand-woven blankets and always, those mouth-watering pastels de nata, or Portuguese custard tarts. The tarts didn’t speak English, but I did become dear friends with each one I met!
The next place we stayed in was a home east of the city of Evora. Here, our only neighbours were the clusters of fragrant lemon trees on one side and silvery olive trees on the other. Dozens of birds singing songs I’d never heard before, swooped from tree to tree. Not a human in sight.
In the early morning, wild dogs barked, roosters crowed, then I heard the distant sound of clanging bells. Looking out over the field, along the ridge of a hill, I spotted a flock of sheep meandering slowly, a dog yipping at the rear, their shepherd leading them to who knows where. Later that day, the sheep made their way to the property beside us, happily grazing on the scrub or sitting under the trees, shaded from the hot sun.
But one sheep turned and faced me, locking eyes with mine, unmoving.
He was silent.
Not screaming like the peacock.
Not incessantly barking like the wild dogs.
Not proudly crowing like the roosters.
Not distracting me with fancy swoops and sweet songs.
I am drawn in. Words buried deep in my heart come bubbling up.
Behold the Lamb
Led to be slaughtered
Opened not his mouth
Gentle and humble of heart
Loved us to death
I smile. God is in Portugal, speaking loud and clear.
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A great read