Pessoa and the quest to be lost
I stood on the bank of the water as the ferry boat approached. A literal boatload of people waiting to get off and only three people waiting to get on. Myself, and a young couple from Germany. The sky had just turned black and the wind swirled around me in a tangle. I opened my suitcase right there on the dock and fished out jeans and an extra two shirts and put them on over what I was wearing. I had taken a bus to Peniche that morning. I had bought the ferry ticket to Berlengas in the little hut by the docks and asked them to store my bag while I went for a slice of pizza, not knowing it would be my last real food for three days.
The day before I read a line in a quidebook about a bird sanctuary island with no cars, one restaurant renting three rooms, and one hostel located in an old fort. I asked the concierge at my hostel in Lisbon to call the hostel for me. He spoke quick Portugese and then covered the phone with the cup of his hand and said to me, “they have one bed left, there is no electricity, no hot water, no blankets and an outdoor toilet. It’s 23 euros per night. Cash only. Do you want it?”
I had already been traveling for months. I was on a quest to become ever more lost. Not in the way you might think. Not in that millennial wanderlust way. No, it was much more sad than that. I wanted to be as lost physically as I was emotionally. I wanted to be unmoored. The man I had loved for a decade had rejected me again for the countless time, and the landlady of my studio, who had been like a second mother to me, after my five years there, was packing up and moving to California. I was tired of the charade of selling art. I put a price on everything and had one big sale and moved into the cheapest place I could find. Packed one small suitcase and boarded a plane to Portugal.
I found the poetry of Fernando Pessoa in a bookstore in Lisbon. His words were sent to me by God. Like a love letter from a secret admirer, his poems became my companion at a time when I had none. I stuffed the paperback into my bag with everything else essential, and pulled it out anytime I needed a comfort, a touchstone. There are lines from his poems that I still remember to this day and can recall with little effort. They were my scripture then.
The ferry boat regurgitated throngs of people and then gave the three of us barely a moment to embark. We huddled together on the upper deck. I sat near the edge in case I became seasick, only to later learn that it is near the edge of the boat that makes one most seasick. To avoid the tumult you should sit in the middle so the rocking is minimized. I’m afraid it would not have helped in this case. The seas were Angry. And we were like toy dolls being tossed about. We managed conversation which bonded us, me and the Germans, which was a good thing since once arriving we really had to band together. They were unaware that the entire island was cash only, you had to pay to get off the boat, and there was no way back to the mainland that day. I was unaware that my hostel was on the complete opposite side of the island from the dock and the only way to get there was to hike over the mountain. To top if off, the storm was strengthening. We arrived at dusk and huddled under a patio cover at “the restaurant” while the rain came down. Lucky for them, I had plenty of cash. Lucky for me, they were willing to hike with me over the mountain, all taking turns carrying my suitcase. To wait out the rain, we shared one beer and a couple of cigarettes between the three of us, shivering in the wet cold. And just in time, the skies opened and the light held out long enough for us to get to my hostel before dark, and for them to return to the restaurant where they had a room, with my borrowed euros in hand.
I spent three days on this lonely island, sleeping in a cold room in a stone castle with all my clothes piled on top of me and still shivering, eating mystery soup and potato chips, reading Pessoa and painting the birds. On the third day I was starving, so I hiked back over the mountain to the restaurant determined to get a solid meal. The only options were sardines and fish of the day. I requested the fish of the day please, with all the fixins: buttery potatoes and vegetables if available. The waiter spoke very little english, but enough to tell me no. After some frustrated language barriers and back and forth, I determined that he was telling me “No, the fish of the day is for two people.” Ok, I understand. I motion that I am Very hungry. I confirm that even if it’s too much food, I would like the Fish of the Day please. Again, he insists. No. After much more frustration, and arguing, I finally realize what he is saying. (Traveling alone as a woman in Portugal had not been exactly welcoming. When I tell people this I’m always met with skepticism, but it’s true that it wore me down.) And finally I reach for my wallet. I open it and fan out a stack of euros. And I say, “I have the money. I would like the Fish of the Day please.” and in a complete turn of mood, he perks up, and says “Ahhh. You come with me. You pick your fish.” He led me to the back of the kitchen, opened a large white ice chest to reveal a plethora of fresh fish, and instructs me to pick the one I want to eat. I was dumbfounded.
I returned to my table and had an exasperated little cry. After gorging myself on more fish and potatoes than I could possibly eat in one sitting, and an hour of Pessoa, I tidied my plate and table, paid the bill and prepared for the hike back to the hostel. The food warmed my bones and I finally slept soundly, with the waves crashing just outside my little window. I was still dreadfully alone. I was still sad and unmoored. I was still lost. But what I love about this story is the depth of those three days. The distance they gave me from the quest to fix things, find things, meet people, and improve my circumstances. It was just me and the birds, and the words of Fernando Pessoa.
I spent the other evenings at that strange hostel, eating the only food on offer, mystery soup, and pasting mementos in my scrapbook and drawing. I left that Pessoa book at the hostel for the next lonely traveler finding themselves unmoored on that island. And I remember vividly, the lessons that island taught me. To remember how to become so lost that you end up finding yourself.
