Talking to a nine year old

Round 1:
- Wow, you’re tall. Do you bump your head into things?
- Not really, only if things are hanging too low.
- How did you get so tall?
- Good genes, I guess.
- ??
- You know, my mother is tall, my father is tall… and they made me eat soup every day!
- Why, they didn’t like you?

Round 2:
- How old are you?
- 33
- Do you have children?
- No
- Hum, you’re not married?
- No
- Oh! - she said looking sad – you should get married and have children.

Round 3:
- You talk funny, are you French?
- No, I’m Portuguese.
- There’s a French boy in my class, he also talks funny.
- You know why? Because English is not our first language.
- Mum, what is my second language?

Potato Eaters

I am not as creative as Mia Couto, but when I am inspired I make up my own words. My favourite creation is “gepatateerd” which is how I feel after eating too much “pataat” (French fries). Those who know me well know I can eat until I blow-up, I feel very often gepatateerd. Will it ever be accepted in the Dikke Van Dale?
That would be a great legacy to the potato eaters’ culture.

Languages

Although English is not the mother tongue of most of my friends, I’ve decided to write here in English. It would have been easier for me to do it in Portuguese of course, but the purpose is to keep in touch with friends and most of them don’t speak Portuguese.
As you have already understood, this is a kind of disclaimer:” While every effort is made to ensure the accuracy, this translation has been provided for convenience purposes only…”
Please feel free to comment in any language, but bear in mind Mandarin is not my strongest!

Métro-boulot-dodo

It is great to have a routine again, even if it is waking up, taking the metro, working long hours and coming back home again.
After six years in Amsterdam, moving to London can be quite a change. Believe it or not, what I miss the most is my bicycle and being able to go everywhere at any time, breathing fresh air and exercising my lazy muscles.
Now I spend my time in and out of stifling metro stations and crowded busses, trying not to smell the armpit of the person standing next to me. Unfortunately cycling here is only for the fearless ones, if they don’t die under a bus they will of lung problems.
Living in Amsterdam spoiled me: I didn’t have to commute, didn’t have to work late, and didn’t have to worry about health care and pension plans. I had time to go to the gym and see friends regularly.
But it is amazing how quickly one adjusts to changes and how one can be happy in so many different ways.

Going home

At the end of the day, when I am about to leave the office, I usually say “I am going home”. But I also say that I am going home when I am going to visit my parents and sisters. In Dutch there are two words for family: ‘gezin’ used to talk about nuclear family (husband/wife and children) and ‘familie’ referring to extended family (every person related to each other). I wish there were two words for home too, one the place I live in, where I wake up every day, eat my meals and keep my belongings, and other the place where I come from. Maybe even a third word meaning the place where I feel I belong to. Good thing is, some time ago I realized I belong to where I am and in the end I am very lucky because I have two homes to go to.