A June wedding in a faraway village We came to Portugal knowing only the words for apology (desculpe) and gratitude (obrigado) and were stunned by the beauty on every hand, the seaside city of Porto on the river Douro, the narrow twisty streets and red tile roofs over skinny passageways into stone-paved courtyards, the crowd on the stone wharf at night, the girl swinging flaming torches and an old man singing to his guitar about his many heroic disappointments. We came here to attend a wedding and meanwhile I was happy to sit at a table in a café, surrounded by strangers, eating a meal such as my mother would have served, pork roast and cabbage and boiled potatoes. The language barrier feels very comforting: Ignorância! It sounds even better in French: ignorance. Italian: ignoranza. German: ignoranz. I impersonated intelligence long enough; time to be myself. Our teachers taught us that it was important to be well-informed on current events so that we could be good citizens, and The Washington Post’s motto, “Democracy Dies in Darkness,” has nice alliteration, but does everything depend on a bunch of Eagle Scouts wading through tall grass with flashlights? I relish being anonymous and powerless in a place where I understand nothing. Nobody cares what I think about Whatsisname and Whatchamacallit. We’re just people here. The waiter pours another glass of water. “Obrigado,” I say. At home in a beautiful land
Whose language I don’t understand,
Here for a wedding
And gladly forgetting
The rational life I had planned.
The language barrier
Makes me feel merrier:
Vive l’amour. C’est bon. Très grand. Read the rest of the column >>> | 
