Voyassitude

So, I missed my flight back to the U.S. One more —unexpected— day in Portugal should gladden anyone, right? But when your mind is set to depart, yet the most chaotic scenes unfolding at Lisbon Airport’s Passport Control area leave you on the ground, well, that’s frustrating.

So yeah. I missed the plane. I dealt with the chain reaction from what had happened: rescheduling a flight, finding a place to stay, going back to the city.

After leaving my luggage at the hostel I booked, I went out without a plan. I messaged a friend about my issues and she replied, “One last night in Portugal! Make it count and meet your wife.” Those words resonated in my mind as I walked into the Basílica de Nossa Senhora dos Mártires. In stark contrast with the lively movement outside, the church was empty and dimly lit. I prayed for a few minutes.

It’s not that I demanded a reason for my missed flight. I just kept wondering if it was meant to be, if there was an ulterior motive keeping me in Portugal one more day. I’m a religious person, so I asked God if there was a special purpose for what had happened.

Once outside again, I walked to Praça do Comércio and then to Miradouro do Rio Tejo, where I sat down to contemplate the sunset, accompanied by a bottle of wine.

I didn’t see her at first, but she was definitely there before I arrived. A woman, to my left, around forty years old, with hazelnut hair in a ponytail and a brown leather jacket.

 She was crying. Not uncontrollable sobs but slow, silent tears streaming down her face that she wiped delicately with her right hand. It was the kind of melancholic cry that emerges from deep pain. I didn’t mean to stare at her indiscreetly (I was wearing sunglasses anyway), but her affliction was so tangible and poignant that I couldn’t ignore her.

I thought of talking to her, but she was wearing wired earphones; besides, she seemed like a local, so language could’ve been a barrier. But most of all, it felt rude to intrude with spoken words on such an intimate moment of hers.

So I wrote her a message.

I used the little Portuguese I knew for the introduction and then  wrote some quick words in English, praying that she’d understand the language —and my handwriting. I wanted to cheer her up, comfort her a bit. It took a lot of courage to show her the message because I was afraid of how she’d react, given how openly I acknowledged her sorrow.

We were about a meter from each other, so I turned the notebook with the message towards her, caught her attention, and brought the message closer to her. At first she seemed caught off guard, suddenly thrown back into reality with people she didn’t notice in a public space by the river. She looked at me, I motioned to the notebook, and she read the message.

And then smiled.

An open, earnest, broad smile. The kind of smile that surfaces despite a profound grief. She looked at me gratefully and I retrieved the notebook. But then she removed one of her earphones and asked me, in English, if she could take a picture of the message. I agreed and, after taking it, she thanked me. I then asked her name.

Jaqueline. Jaqueline… I wanted to do so much more for Jaqueline. Offer to listen to her troubles, invite her to a sip of the wine I had, confess to her that I’d been hurt and miserable earlier this year, but it all got better in the end… I wanted to help her, but the conversation didn’t progress, she put her earphones back on, and moments later she left after saying goodbye.

I keep wondering if I did enough. I entered a church asking if there was a reason for me to miss my flight and, just an hour later, a chance to help a stranger presented itself. What I did, was it sufficient? It’s the uncertainty that bothers me a little. But, if anything, I made a stranger smile at a time when only sadness covered her face. I hope that was enough.

I don’t know if it was God, or fate, or my own need to make my unexpected stay meaningful, that led me to Jaqueline that afternoon. But I tried my best to make every second count that day. I also met Luana at the same place, a cheerful Brazilian girl with the most extraordinary hair who asked me to take a few pictures of her with the Arco da Rua Augusta in the background. Or what about the wonderful group of travelers at the hostel, people from England, Italy, Turkey, Germany, all of them with so many anecdotes and adventurous spirits. We went for dinner, and it I was impressed by how relaxed I felt, having entirely forgotten the airport fiasco. No, I didn’t meet my wife, but it was, funnily enough, quite a good day.

I will soon try to track online my message to Jaqueline. Maybe she posted it somewhere, maybe I get to reach her, maybe I get to know how she is today.

But if not, I hope she is smiling, I hope she’s okay.