By definition, there isn’t much of a distinction between a rut and a groove. Both are long, narrow cuts in a surface of something; synonymous with furrow. In American colloquialism, there is a big difference between the words. To be “in the groove,” is a desired state; going with the flow, moving effortlessly through a task or a period of time. Being “in a rut” means you’re stuck in a dull routine with no variation or surprises; slogging. Like many states of mind, it is all a matter of perspective.
I have always feared falling into ruts. Most of my many jobs have felt like ruts in pretty short order. I’ve rarely lived at the same address more than five years. My decorating style was in a constant state of flux. About the only long-term commitments I’ve had throughout life have been in my relationships; lifelong friendships, close family ties, a strong marriage. For the most part, relationships have been the grooves that have kept me centered and moving forward.
The avoidance of ruts was a driving factor in our move overseas. Tim and I both felt that exposure to extreme change on a daily basis would keep us on our toes. Learning a new language, immersing ourselves in new cultural norms, navigating new systems, and seeing new things would certainly keep our brains and spirits agile. Our brief experience as immigrants in Portugal has certainly lived up to our expectations!
To an observer, our daily routine might look like it’s skewing perilously close to a rut. We have a very predictable routine of puttering around the house in the morning doing household chores, showering, checking up on yesterday’s news from the United States. We review our Portuguese homework, maybe read a little, possibly tend to some financial or visa-related tasks. Most days, we walk a little or a lot, and we usually end up at a grocery store to fill a backpack or two with necessities. All the makings of a rut.
But, as always, it’s our budding relationships with folks we’ve met here that transform that would-be rut into a groove. It’s a dinner date with friends that blossoms into a guided tour of an ancient fort, followed by a delightful evening of chat and laughter with new friends. It’s an impromptu drop-by for cocktails that morphs into a long afternoon of discovering how much we have in common with the folks who were strangers a month ago. It’s an afternoon meet-up at the neighborhood cafe that migrates to a near-by restaurant for a leisurely dinner and great, meandering conversation. Ah! That’s LIFE!
Yesterday morning, Tim and I set off on a quest to find a specific hair salon that had been recommended to me by Barbara. We hiked to the furthest reaches of the town, down main thoroughfares and up tiny alleys. I’d just about worn my knees to nubs and was unhappily facing a long walk home, so we stopped to rest my bones and check our phones for near-by salons. We’d not been perched on that wall more than a couple of minutes when a tall older lady approached us. I’m not sure what tipped me off to the fact that she was not Portuguese, but somehow I knew. She began speaking with us in a language that wasn’t local, but also not English. I shook my head sadly to let her know I could not understand. She said something in Portuguese then, but since the phrase she used was not one from the first chapter of our textbook, I was stymied. I said, simply, “English?” In beautiful English, she responded, “Oh, are you English?” When we said we were Americanos, she smiled and nodded. “Well, I could tell you weren’t Portuguese, and I was so hoping you might be Dutch.” We had a lovely little exchange with her and learned she was 75 years old, born in Holland. She’d married a Portuguese man, raised her children here, lived here for many decades. She said the older she got, the more homesick she was to hear her mother tongue. How I wished I could have exchanged a few pleasantries with her in Dutch! She was clearly disappointed, but was kind enough to spend a few minutes chatting with us in English. (Have you noted the fact that in a span of three sentences, she conversed in three languages?) I hope she finds a Dutch tourist or expat soon.
Having given up our search for the salon, we kept walking in the general direction of home. As we passed our favorite park, a lovely bench beckoned to me to rest my joints again before completing the final quarter mile. Almost as soon as we sat down, a dapper gentleman passed near us, stopped, and looked at us closely. He cocked his head slightly like a robin listening for a worm, and then began to speak to us. Again, we were forced to admit we didn’t speak Portuguese, and he said, “Well, I speak English.” He asked us how long we we’d been in town, where we’d come from, how long we were going to stay. He seemed happy that we were planning to make Setubal our home, and told us what a nice city it was. He said he was 72 and asked Tim how old he was. This gentleman who had thick snowy-white hair, joked that he’d thought Tim would be older, looking at his balding pate. We all laughed, and then he said, pointing to his head, “It is better to have good thinking and bad hair than good hair and bad thinking.” We talked about how friendly we had found the local citizens to be, and he agreed. He said if he weren’t the kind of man who liked talking to strangers, he would never have met two Americans in the park. While we chatted, I noticed he kept glancing up to an apartment building across the street. He finally said, “I would like to invite you to lunch, but my wife would be embarrassed if we only had enough food for two people. I wish I was sure we had enough leftovers for four.” We exchanged names and a few more pleasant comments before moving on. His name was Joao – the Portuguese equivalent of John – and I truly hope we’ll run into him again someday.
When we were a couple hundred feet from home, I ducked into Ana & Diego’s Unisex Salon to see if 1) anyone there spoke English, and 2) I could make an appointment. It turns out Diego spoke perfect English, and I didn’t need an appointment. Ana gave me the best haircut I’ve ever had – not a single word of English required!
When we got home, we found a text from Barbara, inviting us to lunch on Saturday. Wayne wants to introduce us to a local dish called Bacalhau Espiritual (Spiritual Cod) before we all go to a matinee at 4:00. What other culinary marvels might we discover in a country that has a traditional dessert called Camel Drool?
No ruts here!
