Last month, as soon as school was out, I boarded a plane and flew home to Portugal. And yes, even though I haven’t lived there in over thirty years it is still home.
I started feeling “home” at the airport (Dulles in Washington DC) as soon as I saw the Portuguese flag flying over the gate and heard my native language being spoken around me. And as soon as the plane landed, my past came rushing in. You might not be aware but my dad worked for TAP-Air Portugal and I basically grew up in and out of planes (quite literally. Back then we were allowed on the tarmac and often even inside the planes while being worked on). I admit my heart has a special place for this airline (bad picture, I know).
It was a pretty smooth flight and the crew was kind and helpful even though they literally served us “breakfast” at the same time as dinner. Basically they handed us a box with a sandwich and a granola bar and said, “For breakfast”. Never seen anything like that, lol. But airline food being what it is, I packed it away and threw it in the trash as soon as I landed.
My first sight of Portugal was the opposite bank from Lisbon with its miles and miles of beach. A sight for sore eyes. And soon we were flying over the Tagus River, the Cristo Rei monument sticking out from the morning fog and all the red roofs from my birthplace emerging underneath us.
Passport check was easy and fast, the bags were already on the conveyer belt and a very nice airport worker helped me get a cart (which was free of charge) so I didn’t have to lag my heavy suitcases around.
The best part was leaving the arrival doors and seeing my sister. It never gets old. Ever!
We had an espresso (welcome home) and then got on an Uber to go home. That was the longest wait of the arrival because the airport is now too small for the traffic it gets and Uber cars have to go through the underground parking. Messy with bad WiFi reception, but we finally got out of there in the capable hands of our driver, Bruno (which is also the name of one of my nephews so I took that as a good sign).
Arriving at my mom’s neighborhood is always an emotional event. I lived in that condo from the age of 18 to the time I left to the US. So driving down the street is a trip down memory lane.
The best was yet to come though. At the window of the third floor not one but two lovely women awaited. My 84-year old mom and–totally unexpected and what a lovely surprise it was–my cousin. I was finally home!
Where is home for you? Do you have more than one? Because we lived in so many places I have several “homes” because after all home is where the heart is.
Author Natalina Reis 