A Portuguese Revival

I interrupt the saga of our family’s interruptions for a story of song, solidarity, and some surprising medical news.

T and I pregame before Taylor arrives. I may have overdone it with the glitter.

On Thursday we pulled Theadora out of school early and whisked her away to Portugal for a Taylor Swift concert. This is not what we told the school. I’m fairly confident the French education officials would not consider this an excused absence. But I figured that Taylor Swift would do more for Theadora’s mental health than anything her middle school has to offer. It’s been a tough year.

About a year ago, after a labyrinthine labor of love, I finagled two tickets to Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour concert in Lisbon. I had applied for tickets in every single European city she was playing, and Lisbon was the only venue that even allowed me to try to purchase tickets. I hadn’t suggested the possibility to T, sure that we could not swing the cost and that I would never succeed at getting through to the ticket people, but an editing project appeared and the ticket goddesses were with us. There were surely other things I should have used the money for, but nothing that would have made Theadora as happy.

I had found us a room in the Bairro Alto neighborhood, in the center of Lisbon’s hills. On the day of the concert, Theadora and I spent the morning preparing. We donned matching dresses in different colors, Theadora in Lovers era colors and me in the colors of Folklore. We fastened on the friendship bracelets we had made in preparation and covered our bodies in glitter. I have always loved to glitter.

We had time for a quick wander around the city and a stop in Lisbon’s oldest bookstore. Everywhere we went, we ran into other Taylor Swift fans, in sequined dresses or Taylored T-shirts, and we all lifted our bedecked wrists in acknowledgement of our community and shared evening plans.

I approached the concert with excitement—I love much of her music too—and trepidation. I don’t like crowds. Drunk men tend to fall on me. Strangers touch me. Everyone makes too much noise. The last concert I attended was Paul McCartney at Madison Square Gardens in the early 2000s, and I felt out of practice.

The hardest part was the waiting. We had to be at the Estádio da Luz by 3 p.m. but the opening band didn’t start until 7 p.m. We waited in a queue of sparkling, cowboy hatted, bedazzled young women—and more men than I expected. We talked with the silver-clad women in front of us and listened to similar conversations buzzing all around us. I was impressed by the impeccable English of the Portuguese. The last time I was in Lisbon in 2004, no one spoke English. Now everyone does.

Once inside, we staked out a place to stand by the front rail of our assigned area. Inexperienced in these things, I hadn’t realized that we wouldn’t have seats, that we would be standing for the entire concert. I thought of my damaged spine and unreliable energy levels and wondered if I would survive.

We sat with our backs against the railing, trying to shield ourselves from the sun and protect our bare legs from the burning metal plates beneath them. It was sunny but not hot. Men stationed around the stadium handed out free paper cups of water all night. We took out our books and read until a girl came over to ask if T wanted to trade friendship bracelets, making her day. That gave her the courage to approach others, weaving through the crowds and talking with other girls until I was afraid that she’d lose her spot or not get back to me before we were trapped by the crowd.

I was adrift in a sea of clearskinned youth and beauty. I have never encountered such a happy and well behaved crowd. Everyone was bright-eyed and sober, high on only music. No drunk men fell on top of me. No one vomited on my feet.

Paramore opened, ebullient frontwoman Hayley Williams rocking down the stage. The band played all three of Theadora’s favorite songs, Still Into You, The Only Exception, and Misery Business. Williams was a delight, beaming with gratitude to be there, and moved to tears by the fact that the Portuguese crowd knew all the words to her songs. “I hadn’t known if our music translated here,” she said. “But you are all singing along!”

At last!

Then Taylor Swift ascended from below the stage in a glittering rhinestone bodysuit and matching boots, and the audience lost its collective mind. The Portuguese girls next to me began weeping with emotion, singing along as if every word was a love note to Taylor. I saw two girls actually faint away.

My own initial emotion was the joy of seeing a woman radiate that much power, take up that much space. Once she began to sing, I forgot my tired legs and aching spine. I forgot all of my anxiety about getting us there, about my forthcoming scan, about our finances. Every one of the 65,000 people in that stadium knew all the words to every song. When we all waved our arms I watched the lights from our wristbands undulate in unison, moved by the coordinated collective euphoria. I have never been immersed in communal ecstasy of this magnitude. I was impressed by the spectacle on stage, but most of all by Taylor’s music and unwavering confidence. I crave that level of belief in myself.

She sang for four memorable hours, finishing at midnight. Even T’s feet were weary on our way home. We poured into the Metro with everyone else, the crowd patiently waiting their turn to board. By the time we got home, we were shivering with cold and exhausted, but full of memories and a resonating soundtrack to accompany us into dreams.

While I enjoyed the concert, my truly magical day was Saturday. By pure coincidence, the European Association of Creative Writing Programmes was holding a symposium and pedagogical conference in Lisbon that same weekend. I joined the EACWP many years ago after meeting the association’s manager, Lorena Briedis, a Venezuelan writer with more joie de vivre than I thought could fit in one person. At a literary conference in York, we tumbled instantly into a friendship as heady as a romance. She persuaded me to join the teacher training course in Normandy that summer.

That week at the Moulin d’Andé rocked my writerly world. I met and worked alongside writers from all across Europe. The approaches to creative writing education varied widely. Many European universities do not have creative writing departments; young writers have to study at an outside school of writing. I made friends I hope to keep for life.

Since then, I have attended every symposium and gathering possible. But for the past two years, I haven’t been able to attend any conference anywhere, due to my diagnosis and treatment. I have felt alienated from my literary communities in the US, the UK, and Europe, pursuing my work in unrelieved solitude.

When I walked into the conference Saturday morning (leaving Tim and Theo to explore the city without me), Lorena wrapped me in a long, fierce hug. I could not believe my luck to be able to see her and the others. My friend Martino was there from Turin, and his face lit up when he saw me. “I’ve been following you online,” he said. “Sending you hearts.” It turned out I didn’t need to explain my situation to anyone who knew me. They have all been keeping track of me online. I found this incredibly moving. I thought everyone would have forgotten me.

My beloved friend Lorena

I participated in all of the workshops, ecstatic to be among such spirited and friendly writers. Lorena took me to a vegan cafeteria for lunch and we talked about our personal lives, picking up from the last time we spoke. I was a dark lightbulb that had been plugged into the electrical circuit of the EACWP and brought back to life.

At the end of the day, we walked down to the water and took a ferry to a village on the other side of the wide river. There, we ate grilled fish looking back over the water at Lisbon as the sun set. The service was leisurely, and by 9 p.m. we had not received our main courses. We needed to catch the 9:30 ferry to get back in time for the open mic. We didn’t want to risk getting trapped on the wrong side of the river.

As we debated what to do, a woman appeared from nowhere and said, “You want boat taxi to Lisbon?”

Frank (president of the EACWP) leapt to his feet and said “Yes! Yes we do!”

“But we already have return ferry tickets,” I protested.

“I will treat!” said Frank. “Let’s go!”

So we followed the woman down to the sandy beach and watched her beckon to a small boat. “How do we get in?” we asked, already removing our shoes. “You see the wave come, you wait for it to go, then you jump onto chair.” She had dragged a chair from the restaurant to the shore. “Then jump from chair into boat.”

This was indeed what we had to do. The first woman to attempt to climb on ended up needing the crew to roll her into the boat, her ass in the air, the rest of us helpless with laughter. (She was laughing too, appreciating the humor of the situation). The rest of us squeezed aboard, and it took off across the choppy waters, soaking us in sea spray. I was giddy with happiness. As we zigzagged across the waves, the experience brought to mind my first journey on the Red Sea with a group of friends from Yemen. We had climbed aboard an even smaller boat and sped off under starry skies toward Kamaran Island. I felt the same euphoria then, the energy of a simpatico community, the enchantment of the landscape, the thrill of adventure.

I struggled to sleep that night, still fizzing with ideas and emotion. All of the next day the euphoria persisted as Tim, Theadora, and I walked the hills of Lisbon, visited a museum of azulejos (the Portuguese blue-and-white-and-sometimes-yellow tiles on the side of buildings), and packed up to head home.

One last and most significant high note. Yesterday I had a blood test, a scan, and an appointment with the brilliant Dr. D’Hondt. I’ve been experiencing worrying symptoms, and was sure I was having a recurrence. But Dr. D’Hondt told me that my scan showed no sign of disease. And my bloods were actually decent. I credit the curative powers of Taylor Swift and the EACWP. I was overcome with gratitude for my currently healthy state, renewed hope of getting to the US this summer, and determination to use my time well. I so love being alive.

May you all find yourselves in communities that lift you. May you learn to take up space. May you sing your heart out.

Barring unexpected events, next week’s post will continue the story of our evacuations.

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