The unidentifiable beauty of keeping up appearances

It’s white and although the single glass sheets are set in just plain aluminium, the ochre painted window frames, the red of the old Portuguese roof tiles and the lush growing ivy against the two-hundred-year-old dry-stone wall, are colouring the little cottage into a dream for the eyes. There’s a nice little car underneath the newly built carport, which on its own looks like it’s escaped from an old farm. All is well restored with an eye for historical details and upgraded to a certain standard of modern living. Beautiful views all around. Nicely located on the top of a hill, overlooking two different valley’s with olive- and orange trees, expanded with hilltops and even a faraway view on the first mountaintops of the Serra da Estrela. The sort of feel most foreigners seek when scrolling thru the brochures of a real-estate agent, a perfect place to fall in love with. The farmer next door is a friendly man, treating you often with fresh vegetables, the baker delivers warm bread every morning at 7, by knotting a bag to the door-handle because the occupants of that dream are still asleep. The wine, olive oil and goat cheese are produced on either side of the street, chickens laying their eggs almost on your doorstep. There are beautiful things made in a rebuild 300-year-old ruin which is now a carpenters workshop, soft music echoing across the valley and at nighttime, the terraced garden looks stunningly underneath the moonlight. It could be the sound of cutlery on earthenware plates, wineglasses framing a late night supper among friends like music-making bells and crickets singing a song, that celebrate a living dream.

In the modern days of social media, times of unbridled needs to propagate success and unjustified appropriation of private truths, it seems hard to acknowledge the cracks in, the once so convinced started, an adventure which is under pressure by a new reality. Some are not affected by the re-written laws of existence, some are in denial and some do realize it could all fall apart, but are holding on to the last lifebuoys, which scantily are thrown by the now corrupt leaders of a once caring society. And yet we continue to exhibit our version of the truth, knowing that it is five to twelve. Because of misplaced pride we try to explain our quest for solutions as ideological steps towards a more sustainable future, we are telling ourselves that it’s not because the need is great, not because the water rises to our lips, not because our dream is threatening to fall apart, no, we can’t bare the thought of being looked upon as one of those who just didn’t make it. We are trying to convince others that our dream just evolves into different views on the way our lives should be. When some of us gather, we tell each other stories about the road we have traveled to that beautiful place in the sun, enjoy each others company, drink wine and, for that moment in time, embrace the feeling of freedom, take a photo and put it on the unavoidable time-line of our social exposed life, just to make sure our dream keeps alive in the outside world.

It’s a hard awakening the morning after, not because of the wine, you don’t get a headache from our neighbours own concoction, but because of the struggle to keep in control of your own destiny, knowing that the friends you were with the night before are starting the day with the same fear of tomorrow. Knowing in the back of your mind that it’s not a sustainable situation, you’re torn between thoughts of fighting, running away, devious solutions or just simply giving up. To hell with nice antique furniture, that accomplishes the historic cottage so well, garden-center coloured plants, electric consuming devices and all poverty masking trivialities. Well, maybe a third coat of paint on the facade or flowerpots next to the doorstep aren’t such a bad idea when coming to the point of selling the dream. No, although we will use terms as “downgrading space”, seeking a “more balanced” life, getting more “in touch” with nature, be advocates of “sustainable” living and the community of “outcasts” in “tiny houses”, tents or trailers, it isn’t a matter of free choice anymore. Our own gouvernment “back home” decided to let the “EU” for whatever that still stands for, decide what’s going to happen to the pension we paid into for almost 40 years, after shifting it already by 5 years. The solution seeking kills creative brain cells, the old body struggles, the idea that some friends have to solve even more difficult problems is worrying and yes, the knowledge that you are no longer able to help others seems the most frustrating.

The solution is obvious but at the same time such a big step. It could look like a step backwards but at the same time, with some foresight, a giant step towards a better future. A farewell salute to a world of superficial beauties and culturally specific codes of conduct and behaviour, becoming like the brave that did it before and the ones that are trying to. It would make sense to combine the energy, creativity and common knowledge of a group of friends, knowing that everybody has a different grade of braveness. Nobody knows how long it will last, but at a certain age, who cares. The Ivy will still grow against the dry-stone wall, it’s an ineradicable and corruption-resistant plant. The front door could be painted in a different colour, but would still be the opening to somebody else’s dream.
The journey of figuring it all out, accompanied by stressful days and restless nights is scary and at the same time exciting. Hoping for support by people who went to walk the same road that lies before you or finding out that there isn’t a road yet and embrace the unidentifiable beauty of making one. It’s just that at a certain day you realize that there is no point in keeping up appearances…