In my family, we are always encouraged to have fun. We laugh a lot, and seem to be able to tease and make fun of each other, without making anyone feel bad. The most important with being successful of having fun is of course to never poke fun at something that is too close to the truth. We are a loving secure family unit, where everyone counts, and everyone is equal. As I am the third among four kids, and I am the only boy, I am sure I receive preferential treatment in some way, but it is never to make any of my sisters feel bad. As a boy in the sixties and seventies, I get boy stuff, and I do participate in activities that is sisters would do anyway, so to them it is just what I do. I am a daredevil as well, so I am sure they look at me with wonder and amazement as I venture through life taking one chance after the other. I am third, my oldest sister is five year older than me and the second is three year older. She is the middle sister and feels a bit insecure, with being in the middle, but she is as loved by everyone as we all are. My youngest is six years younger and is of course total of eleven year younger than my oldest sister Merethe. Merethe leaves the house to get an apartment at 19, and Kirsten–the middle sister-leaves for boarding school at 16, so with Lise and I joining our parents for traveling, we are somewhat far apart in our little family , but always feeling together as a unit, . We were far apart physically at times-as when travelling my oldest sister was to stay with my grandparents, and the middle one off to boarding school, but always close as a family. My father is working in Lisbon Portugal, apparently they are splitting a huge ship, an oil tanker –in two- adding a huge middle section before putting them all together again, making the ship 40 percent larger. This sounds like a mystery and a miracle to the twelve year old me, and I am extremely proud of my father that can make things like these happen. My mother and I take off from Fornebu Airport, and after a brief layover in Copenhagen-it is 1974 and if you want to go outside of the Northic countries you must fly through the more international cities of Stockholm or Copenhagen-we finally arrive in Lisbon. Being up in the sky, in an airplane, flying is for me up there among the coolest things I could possibly be doing. I have a dream of becoming a fighter pilot when I grow up, so the taking off at 400 miles per hour and landing like a bird is of special interest to me. Speed is everything for a twelve year old, and I almost break my nose looking through the Plexiglas of the Boeing 727. When coming through customs, we see the wonderful bearded smile of my father. He is a burly man, with a full beard, and is and always has been the center of universe to me. After he started working aboard and we don’t see him as much he is even more the superhero to me. Now he is not only constructing enormous ships in shipyards he is getting to live I far away cities doing it and we get to visit. I remember when I was an even younger boy and occasionally I got to go with him in to Akers Mek. Shipyard to work. What an experience for a young boy. He took the 6:20 ferry from Flaskebekk pier in to Oslo and even for a young eager boy ready to be in fantasy land for a day. Getting up at 5:30 in the morning was pushing it. My father even made me egg sandwich that earl, and it was with awe I thought he was Mr. Fantastic himself, even having time to make such a wonderful sandwich to me that early in the morning. My mother usually slammed two pieces of bread with strawberry in between together, while I put my jacket and backpack on, and she continued to handing me the sandwich before shoving me out the door. ‘Don’t be late Jessie”, she would say before shutting the door behind me. The egg sandwich my dad made, I am sure he made it only for me-never for himself that early, was just like everything about him-Mysterious and heavenly. He put the egg in the pan, poked a whole in the yolk- frying it a little while- and turning it over before putting the egg on top of a piece of bread. Even one egg per slice of sandwich! That was treatment reserved for the rich the young me thought to myself. Dad stood there smiling and waving at us as we came through the sliding door in the arrival area.
There were still soldiers in the streets, the revolution was just in its final stages, but we had been assured from the letters from my father that it was safe to be in Portugal, even if the country had just been through overthrowing a military regime. “The Carnation Revolution” had started as a military coup that begun in 1974, which overthrew the authoritarian regime called The Estado Novo. My oldest sister had told me all about this revolution and it added to my already romantic view of the country I was about to visit. Apparently the revolution had started as a military coup, but the coup was quickly coupled with an unanticipated and popular campaign of civil resistance. It had led to the fall of the Estado Novo and the withdrawal of Portugal from its African colonies. This was just fair; I had made up my mind that this was the coolest country ever, as they didn’t even have to fight to have a revolution. It was also only fair that the African colonies were given their independence”, I proudly had announced to my sister after she had explained the happenings a few weeks earlier. Flowers in the pipes of guns- How romantic- and what a contrast to other revolutions I had read about in the many books I already had read in my young 12 years.
We drive in a brown Opel Commodore, with a bench seat. I am in the middle I the back seat and look out in the streets with wonder. After making the short trip from the airport that is located just North of the city center, I had noticed that we almost clipped one of the few real tall buildings in the city below us, when we were coming in for the landing of the airplane less than an hour earlier. We drive down through the city as my father was explaining how the city works, pointing out a few statues and water fountains as we made our way through the traffic. We see soldiers on the street corners, still with the flowers in the gun pipes, and I roll the window open and wave to one of them.
“See mom-he smiled at me” Mom turn her head and smiles at me as well, saying that she think she saw it. . Her focus is at my father that she has missed intensely, and no way had she seen the solider smiling to me, I think to myself. We make our way to the Avenida de Liberdade were apparently outré hotel Europa is located, and I look out at the huge avenue. I see a huge statue of some kind down on in the middle and see that the street is lined with trees several fountains further down. I see shoe-shine boys, with their wooden boxes that they keep their brushes and creams in, and see that there are businessmen on the chairs sitting reading their newspaper as the young boys are working their shoes over. I have never seen anything like this and I am thrilled watching all the new and exciting things unfolding in front of my eyes.
“You have your own room, right next to ours” my father explains to me through the mirror hanging loosely in the front windshield. “You are a big boy now, and you need your own room”
“Cool”. I smile back at him. My own room, I am in heaven. This will be a great time.
The hotel is located half way down the “Avenida de Liberdade, and has a very fancy dressed doorman that opens my mom’s door, takes her hand and helps her out as she steps on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. I get my own door, and my father gets out as well. I look up and see the Hotel Europa sign in new modern letters on the overhang that sticks out from the main building. The hotel must be very new I notice as we walk through the revolving doors. I have seen these kinds of doors before, as I have visited my grandfather at his work in the Grand Hotel Café’ in Oslo, and I have excitedly stepped through them many times. After talking the elevator up to the fourth floor, we get in to my hotel room. As my father have said it is just adjacent to their room, and I run in to “my” room and throw myself down on the bed and look up at the ceiling. My father tips the bell boy, and we I follow him in to my parents room. They have a suite, and it has a sitting area and a mini bar that I see is full of drinks. “Help yourself to a coke” my dad says and I quickly grab a coke and open it up. I am not familiar with the coke in a can, but manage to figure out how to open it. Back in Norway there are only bottles of coke, and the can is new to me. The can fuzzes, as I flip the metal handle open and I swallow the whole can down in a couple of gulps. It’s hot outside, and I am obviously thirstier than I realized.
It’s Sunday morning, and during breakfast my father is telling me that we are going to see Portuguese Bull fighting. He is explaining that in Portugal t is more humane to the bull as they don’t kill the bulls after playing with them. My family is not really approving of the sport of Bull Fighting , at least not as we know it from reading about Spanish Bull Fighting, but I think we all agree that the Portuguese style is an approved by us all. Last time my father was home, he brought me a wooden arrow that he told me was called a bandeirilha-a wooden small javelin that apparently is used in the fight with the bull. I am beyond excited and have been hoping that we will go to see a Bull fight since I heard that I was going to visit Portugal with my mother.
We go make it down to the lobby area and meet up with my dad’s colleague Mogens and his wife. Mogens is a big muscular Danish man that has tattoos covering his bulging arms sticking out from his short sleeve button up shirt. My dad has a similar shirt on, they are called……., and seem to be popular among the men he works with. I look at Mogens’ arms, and can’t help to notice a see a snake covering his entire right arm. It comes down and goes around the arm several times and notice the head of the snake coming through a few leafs that is tattooed on the arm. It looks like the arm is the branch of a tree, and there are leaves that are cleverly added to the arm to make it all look like the snake is on a tree branch. The snake as I see it looks like a python, and is looking straight at me with an open mouth-as that he wants to jump at me. The fangs are bigger than what I see a snake would have, they are actually huge and the tongue slivers through the bottom teeth. I have heard my father telling me that many of his sailor friends have tattoos, but never actually seen anything like this. “I don’t care what you do son, but don’t ever come home with a tattoo” he said one time. “If you want to be a man, getting tattooed is not going to make you one, and you will probably be regretting it for the rest of your life, if you get one, and you will not get a tattoo, right son?” I listened to him and agreed that time, but the snake coming down Mogens arm is pretty cool. “A man that wants to get a tattoo, should get a “fake: one painted on his arm, and after two years, if he still likes it, and still want one, , then he can get a real one. But most people getting tattoos, gets bored with it, and want a change, that is why they have so many. The one they have gotten tattooed is not enough, and they keep getting new ones. “This made sense to me back when he told me this, but I don’t see Mogens being very ashamed of his snake tattoo. He has the snake with leaves and some writings on his right arm, and his left is covered with other smaller ions. A naked woman, a writing of some sort that I cannot make out, together with a ships wheel in blue, and a funny looking Andy Cap cartoon holding a beer in his hand. He actually looks pretty proud of what he has on his arms, and is quite the contrast from the fragile, blond skinny chain smoking wife that is accommodating him. She gives me a hug as I can’t get my eyes off her husband, or her husband’s tattoo. The tattooed man certainly has an effect on me, but I decide that my father is right, and that I will not get any tattoos when I grow up, at least not unless I become a sailor. Only sailors have tattoos I decide, and I am not planning on going to sea.
We get in the brown Opel; I am in the back, behind Mogens, with my mother in the middle next to Ninna, the frail wife of Mogens, or Mr. Tattoo as I call him in my mind.
“Have you stolen this car?” my father smilingly asks Mogens, as Mr. Tattoo drives through the traffic with in Lisbon. Its heavy traffic with old cars, bicycles, motorcycles and mopeds, all trying to get past each other and all going like it is a race to an invisible finish line. Honking of horns is apparently the way to get everyone’s attention, but I don’t see how it helps. Everyone is honking their horns so it seems like it is counterproductive, as no one is paying attention to the honking. Mogens drives like he has stolen the car, I think to myself, but he ignores my father and me and the ladies in the back bump back and forth as he is making his turns and swivels between lanes and between and in front of the other travelers.
“We are going to “Campo de Pugueno”, the arena or “ Praca de Toiros” as it is called in Portuguese he says to me through the mirror. I see his snaked arm moving back and forth and the open mouth of the snake seems to be moving back and forth as to jumping at us for a quick attack, then retracting, for so to jumping at us again. The naked woman on his left forearm is laying down resting in the sun in the window. He has a cigarette between his middle and index fingers in his right hand and the snake now looks like he spits smoke out from in between his fangs, almost more like a dragon than a snake. My father is smoking as well, actually smoking, I think, as Mr. Tattoo has not yet taken a puff, busy as he is with avoiding the other vehicles in the busy Sunday traffic.
I see out of the window, and in front of me the “Praca de Toiros” appears. I try to say it to myself, but the Toiros sounds more like Tysrus, but nevertheless-it sounds very exotic and exciting. He turns; left and in to an alley, before parking the car a couple of blocks in an open gravel area that has an open space. We get out, and I take my father’s hand and hold it tight. His other is holding my mothers and we walk quickly behind the Danish couple towards the entrance. It is busy as the event is just about to start and we hurry through the gates an in to the arena up the stairs and walk past some locals before sitting down in our seats. I look around and see that it is packed while taking it all in.
“We just got here in time” I say to my father. “It looks like they are about to start.”
“First you will see the cavaleiros. Remember how I told you that the Portuguese bull fighting is different from Spanish, and how they don’t kill the bull. It is in two stages, and after the cavaleiros there will be the pega. You’ll see son”
“But what is the cavaleiro dad?”
“Cavalo means horse, so the cavaleiro means the horseman or knight if you want”
The crowd applauds as the bull is let in to the arena. He is huge, and looks mean and runs around a little as to check the place out, a couple of guys are jumping over the fence from the area between the fence and the wall that goes up to the seats where the spectators sit and run as to tease the bull. This has its effect as the bull runs towards them to stab them, but they jump over the wall just before he can get them. One gets a little close, but manages to escape the sharp horns. The crowd-including me- is excited and cheer the men and the bull on.
“Look there he is” I point towards the opening in the fence towards the opposite side of where we are.
A man –the cavaleiro I remind myself-on a horse comes out in to the arena. I am as amazed as any boy can be because this is exciting. HE has what appear to be three spears in his one hand, spears with red ribbons on them, just like the one my father gave me last time he was home.
The horseman knight is very good on his horse and he rides around in the arena to check the bull out. He teases him by riding in front of the bull and the e bull is chasing him, just to miss the horse by a couple of inches each time. My mother is covering her eyes as she is scared for the horse.
“Does the bull ever hurt the horse dad?
“Well, I am sure it happens, but it looks like this guy is pretty good. He rides sideways now, and walks sideways towards the bull that is standing there e bit confused. Each time he gets close the horse jumps to the side and avoids the angry beast. The bull chases him and the cavalairo holds his distance and carefully watches the bull, but never close enough to get hit. He backs cleverly away and faces the bull that now is standing in front of him the middle of the arena. Then the horse charges towards him and as he narrowly passes the bull he pins one of the Bandarilheiros -another tongue twisting word I have difficulty pronouncing. “Look mom, he stuck on of the javelins in his back and its hanging there. The show goes on, and after a while the horseman or cavaleiro is finished with his job. The crowd is excited and apparently this has all gone as planned, because the bull is standing in the middle, a little tired after all the excitement, with three beautiful Bandarilheiros perfectly placed on top of his back just behind his neck. He is almost pouting or a little embarrassed, but definitely a little disappointed that he could not get the horse with his horns. I am sure he would have loved to get the man on the horse at least, I think to myself.
I look over to my left, and in a couple of rows a beautiful woman, dressed in a traditional fancy dress is sitting, watching the event. I see an older man in a suit next to her, and they are sitting among what appears to be three couples in her group. The old man is probably her dad I quickly decide. With her black hair, brown eyes and fancy dress, she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.
My mind drifts a little and I am suddenly the cavaleiro in the arena, with three bandeirilhas in my left hand and holding the reams of the horse in front of the angry bull. I waive to her and she throws me a kiss with her white hand while she shyly covers her hand by a red hand fan. She pulls out a bouquet of red roses and throws them down to me in the arena. I bow to her and trot the horse towards where the bouquet has landed in the dust. I slide down on the side of the horse, hold on to the saddle with one and cleverly pick the flowers up. The crowd cheers me on and I waive the flowers over my head. As I have conquered the bull and with my daring horsemanship and braveness also won the senoritas heart.
Back to reality and I look over at my mom that is looking at me with a smile on her face. She knows that I have a tendency to drift in to dreams and I feel she know what this dream was about. I look at her, but she is quickly back in her conversation with Ninna. I hear her in her western Norwegian dialogue mixed in with some Easter Norwegian and a couple of Danish words she has picked up from my dad and his work for AP Moller, the Danish company. She does not speak much English, but makes do with the mixture of dialects and they seem to do well as they are chatting on about just about anything except the bull fight in front of them. My father and Mogens are both smoking and talking about what sound to be work related.
“Look” I am still a little embarrassed, even if my mother has her attention somewhere else, and they don’t know what I was dreaming about anyhow, but I and point to the arena as to move her attention away from my dream. “The forcados!” I remembered what my father had called the group, and it is exactly eight men -just as he described them – that has entered the arena. They are not in the arena per se, but are behind the fence on our side where I can see them prepare for something. During my interaction with the beautiful senorita, the bull has drifted over to one of the sides of the arena. A couple of Matadors, or at least that is what they seem to look like, has also entered the arena. “Bandarilheiros” I hear my father say to Mogens. They have huge blanket, or cobertor, another word I have memorized from my father’s explanations. It is really pink, not red as I expected, and it is bigger than I had imagined. They tease the bull, and move it towards the middle, using the cobertor to distract and move him. He does not give up through, and is agitated from the teasing. He is facing the wooden wall opposite from us, and a couple of Bandarilheiros are teasing him, as to get the attention of the bull away from the other side, where the Bandarilheiros are behind the wall. Then, as the bull is distracted by the guy that has now jumped over the wall again, the eight forcados dressed in an outfit consisting of khaki knickers with white socks and burgundy jackets. One of them also has a brown beanie hat with a ball on top, and is standing in front of the others. Looks like a little “nisse” I say to my mom, referring to the forcado in the hat that looks actually remind me of a hob gobbling from the old Norwegian folklore, but her attention is on Ninna and whatever they are discussing. After a while and many cheers from the crowd, the bull is perfectly placed again, right in the middle of the arena. The bull is looking at the main forcados that is now walking slowly, his hands on his hips, moving the hips back and forth, looking-focused-at the bull, and I am half standing watching what is happening. The crowd is ecstatic, and everyone is cheering. The bull charges forward, the forcados-in nisselue-backs a little before the bull charges at him, with the horns on either side of his belly, as he is holding on and being lifted backwards. Even my mom and Ninna are cheering now, and it’s the coolest and most daring move I have ever seen. He must have been three centimeters away from being stabbed in the belly, but he was always in control. The other forcados are behind him, and as the main daredevil is being lifted they all, at once jump on the bull. They hold him, as he is charging them backwards, but the small men manages to somewhat control him. One of them have grabbed on to the tail, bit all the others are holding the area around the head and horns, as to help the first nisse-forcado so he doesn’t get hurt. They are up against the wooden wall, but move the bull backwards, more in to the middle of the circular arena. Everyone is standing on their feet, I look over to my left and see that even my new secret love over to the left, with her fan in her hand, waiving frantically as she looks excited. Suddenly, they are all-including the guy that was the first one on the beast and had been hanging on with the two hors dangerously on each side of his abdomen area- jump away from the beast- or everyone except for the guy hanging on to the tail. The bull is frustrated-I think this is the purpose- but the bull starts swirling around as a dog chasing its tail, but this tail has a man dressing knickers hanging on to the tail, and he slides around as the bull turn his head and horns down-to charge at him if he lets go, but it is just like our dog Shaggy back home, he never gets a hold of his tail and eventually loses interest. The brave forcado lets go and the bull stands there, in the middle, looks at the man in knickers and knows that he is losing, or already have lost fight. A small perfect circle is made in the sand from the forcador’s heels when he slid around holding on to the bulls’ tail. He looks sad. I think of one of my favorite cartoons-the Disney classic Ferdinand the bull, where every time I see the carton story of the bull that is so loving at heart, sits down to smell the roses in the meadow, but sits down on a bee, gets sung and appears to be a furious bull that everyone wants to see in the Plaza de Torres in Madrid. Every time I see the cartoon, I want Ferdinand to fight the matador, but not this time. I think it is sad, that the bull has lost; he has fought bravely, but is tired. He has fought, but somewhat I think that he was probably to be beaten before the fight even started-but I cheer him on. A few minutes earlier the cavaleiros, the Bandarilheiros and the forcados were my heroes down in the Praca de Toiros, but I have a new hero no. The bull that stands in the middle while ten thousand people is cheering, is my new idol. He was never going to win, but has fought bravely and has lost the fight he was not ever going to win. The bullfight is over for me. It has been an exciting time, but I am sad for the bull, and when the Matador comes out, as to finalize the whole event, it is an anticlimax. The crowd cheers and the bull continue to fight before it is too tired to do anything anymore.
“They don’t kill the bull in Portugal” I hear Mogens tell his wife, as she wants to leave before they kill poor Ferdinand.
“Let’s see the whole thing”
I see the Matador-he is supposed to be the bravest of the brave-I am sure that is what the cheering crowds think, but the three Norwegians and two Danish do not get the point, and Ferdinand the bull in the middle of the arena is our hero this day. It has been a fantastic display of tradition, history and daring moves from what I am sure are the most professional athletes, but the way it is done leaves us with a sad feeling. Maybe we don’t get it, I am only twelve and even if watching the focadors and the cavaleiro has been a thrilling event, I and sad to see the poor bull being worn out and teased to the end. I look over to my left, and see the woman that just earlier had been waiving down to the men down in the arena, and I imagine her also being sad. She can’t possibly think that these are the kind of men she wants to be loved by. Maybe a Norwegian young lad with sad feelings and sad eyes is more her taste I think, and I see her eyes. They have turned to me for a brief movement, maybe a second or two and her dark mysterious eyes under the hat meets mine. She must have seen the sad expression in my face, out of the blue as she is standing up to leave the arena; she looks straight at me, opens her whiter gloved hand and blows me a kiss, just as she had done to the cavaleiro earlier in the day. “Dad, dad,mom, did …..nothing”
I am blushed red in my face and I am not sad any longer. One kiss from my love and I am in the Praca de Toiros; I am Matador, I am a Cavaleiro, I am even a Forcados, but I am down in the arena-and I am fighting furious Toiros, and I am winning senoritas hearts and I am picking up picking up their roses as they want to win my heart over. They don’t know that they have already done so. My heart does not belong to the arena and the brave matadors and cavaleiros. My heart belongs to the underdogs, the brave bulls fighting a lost cause. I decide that being a bully and fight the weak is not my destiny. My destiny and believes belong to the weak and the underdogs, to the ones that are not supposed to win. I am from Norway, the small country way up there in the North. We are a proud people we Norwegians. We once ruled the seas, and raped and plundered throughout Europe and beyond, but we always have been ruled or unionized by other countries and kingdoms for hundreds of years. We are the little guys that once in a while come through and win over the big guys. It is romantic when David beats Goliath, and even doesn’t happen very often, there is pride when we-the small guys win. Now, my heart belongs to the lonely bull standing down there in the Place de Tories after having fought so bravely against the tyrants. It didn’t work out for him this time, but he gave it his best and fought like a gladiator and a true champion. My heart belongs to the Touro, and of course to the beautiful Senorita that not long ago smiled at me and threw me the kiss.
“Jose Maria de Fonseca- Try to say it Jessie “My dad insists that I try to say things when I am travelling, and we are in a different country. “Jose’ Maria de Fonseca” I roll it off my tongue like I have spoken Portuguese my entire life. The first thing I have spoken in Portuguese is a wine brand, or maybe not-it must have been frango. Frango is Portuguese as well, and I have eaten frango dinner ever since I arrived in Lisbon a few days earlier. I love the way the cook the chicken at the Lisbon restaurants cut in half with the herbs and fat mixed in on the skin. I have gobbled chicken down daily as my parents have been trying out, more of the local dishes and Portuguese specialties like Cataplana and Baccalao, with a bottle of Jose’ Maria de Fonseca of course. My mother like to try out the local version of her loved Baccalao, as she feels that since she is from Alesund, and she even occasionally makes the dish for us every now and then. When her and I were on the plane together she told me that the reason they make Baccalao in Alesund-the small fishing town on the west coast of Norway- is that have learned to cook it from the Portuguese. They use so much dried salted cod for the dish in Portugal a, and Norway produces and exports klippfish, the Norwegian version of the fish, so it is some sort of a trade agreement between our two countries. We sell sold them fish, and they gave us the recipes. Great deal for us Norwegians and I love it when my mom makes Baccalao. She makes the tomato basted version of it with, layers of fish, potatoes, tomatoes, tomato paste, onions and chili pepper.
“I only make one type of Baccalao Jessie. Apparently there are 365 different ways of making the dish. I heard that any woman that wants to get married, should know how to make at least 100 ways, in order to capture a man’s heart and be able to with pride get married”
“Well, I like yours mom” I said, knowing that she enjoys it when we like her cocking, and I like to please my mother.
: You’re such a sweet boy Jessie. One day you will capture all the beautiful girls’ hearts son”
“Jose Maria de Fonseca” I try again. We are in the car from the Bull fight and I am placed in the middle of the bench seat up from with the men. “You sound like a true Portuguese young man, already”
“Yeah, and he is bigger than most Portuguese men as well” Mr. Tattoo says from behind the wheel. The two couples have been drinking wine-Jose Maria de Fonseca-during the bull fight, and are already in quite good mood. My mother is chatting with Ninna in the back seat, and the combination of Western Norwegian dialect, Danish, mixed in with some English for words that they are having a hard time figuring out, sound all funny to me. I am in between the men on the bench in the front. The men are wearing their khaki safari shirt, a button down shirt sleeve shirt that is worn over your jeans, and yesterday my father took me to a tailor and bought me a red and yellow version. I feel pretty good about myself, and feel like one of the big boys. The disappointment of the fact that the bull; seemed so pitiful at the end of the spectacle is overshadowed by the memory of the exciting cavaleiros, matadors and fun and daring forcados.
“Did you see the senorita look at Jessie?—ohla-la” I overheard my dad saying to Mogens back when we were walking out of the arena-, loud enough so that I could hear it and so that I would know that he had seen that I was looking at her. My father, mother and sisters always love to tease me, but I don’t mind, I like the attention and enjoy being teased, especially by my father. He also knows it and make sure his teasing comments never hits a topic that knowingly will hurt anyone.
“Not sure if we will see her at the hacienda, but you never know”
“What is this place again Mogens”
“It is outside of Lisbon, on the south side across the bridge. I have the directions”
“What is it Mogens? I am excited about the events this morning, but even more so about where we are going now in the afternoon. After breakfast Mogens had told me we were going to somewhere after the bull fight, but hadn’t paid much attention, and I have a hard time understanding Danish as well. Not like my father that is talking Danish like a native. And all I could think of was anyhow was the upcoming the bull fight.
“This is where they breed, train and prepare the bulls for the arena. Sort of like an academy for the bulls and for the Matadors and other performers” I understood what he said now.
“And we will have a late lunch, and there is wine and refreshments, Maybe you’ll get to see them train the bulls as well.”
“Where is it at dad?”
“Mogens?” Dad apparently doesn’t know either.
We will cross the bridge towards Setubal, and take highway 252 North for a while. I’ll probably be an hour or so before we get there. Can you check on the map Bjorn, while I try to get out of this traffic?”
My father gets the map, but we are on the highway already. My head goes back and forth, and I see a huge football stadium behind me on my right.
“Look dad, is that Benfica?
“That is Estadio de Luz. Where Benfica plays”
“Does Sporting play there as well?”
“Sporting Lisbon has a stadium that belongs to them, just 3-4 kilometers up the road. That is what makes the rivalry between the clubs even more special”
“What do you mean-rivalry” Mogens asks. I know all about the rivalry, my father knows that as he gave me the insight when he was home, but apparently Mogens will need to get informed.
“Jessie-why don’t you give him some insight”
I am proud that my father doesn’t just jump in and explains but gives me the opportunity to share what I know.
“Well, there are two teams in Lisbon that are really good; Sporting Lisboa and Benfica. Sporting Lisboa has historically been the team from the nicer neighborhood, and sort of like the rich man’s team. Benfica is from a neighborhood-the Benfica neighborhood- located just 3-4 kilometers from each other. Sporting has been so successful in the earlier years nut Benfica has been very good since the mid-sixties”
Mogens is listening interested, and I see that the women in the back are listening in on what I am saying.
“ Since Eusebio-or the Black Panther” , the Mozambique player that joined the team in the sixties signed for Benfica, they have won just about anything possible to win, including several European cup championships. On top of that, there has been a revolution here just now, and as Benfica represents the poor part of the country, the team has almost been a representation of the poor fight and struggle for their independence and equality for all classes.”
Wow, impressive son, you have read up on your football son” Mogens says
“Who is the better team now?”
“Benfica” I answer without any hesitation and with a smile. Since my father has been working in Lisbon, I have adopted Benfica as my team, and Eusebio as my favorite player.
“And Eusebio is the best player in the world. Everyone says Pele, but Eusebio won the Golden Boot! The Golden Boot! He has to be the best player in the world.”
They all smile, and as we are passing underneath what looks like an aqueduct above us, I see the huge bridge that will take us over the canal-I sit, hands crossed in the middle with the big boys. Proud of myself, and hopeful that MR. Tattoo is as impressed of y knowledge of football as I am of his snake tattoo that looks at me from his arm. . At the distance I see the Jesus statue that is looking over the city, and I try to impress them all even more and add to the Football history lesson:
“Did you know that there is a similar statue in Rio de Janeiro as well? You know- the city in Brazil, the old Portuguese colony?”
“Really” I hear Mogens say, but I can hear in his voice that he already knows this. They know their geography the two men. Both of them have been sailors when they were young. My dad sailed on a coffee-ship back when he was a teen ager, and I am sure Mogens has been there as well.
”I did not know that” he says, and my smile gets even bigger, but I know he is just pretending to not know. They do that, the gown ups, pretend to not know, and know. My buddies and I most of the time pretend to know when we don’t. Strange I think to myself.
We cross the bridge and see the huge monument of Jesus up on the hill to our left. The son of God, or the statue of the son of God, is standing on top of a gray block of concrete, hands out, as he is blessing this city on the west coast of this country that I already am in love with. I look to the left below the statue and see the bay that must have been great to dock ships in, back in the days when Portugal had explorers like Vasco de Gama and Ferdinand Magellan. No problem for me to pronounce these names, as I have practice saying them many times after I found out that I was to visit Portugal. I know my history, and my geography. When we studied Magellan, last year, I traced his route on a world map, and I can see where it all started down from the bridge. I close my eyes and imagine all the ships that have been anchored down there in the bay through the ages.
The bay, the statue and the bridge disappear behind us, and we are speeding up down the highway. The traffic has somewhat disappeared, and Mogens is relaxed with his arm –the one with the naked woman-leaning casually on the door window. He has a Camel in his right hand again, I can almost smoke it, that’s how close it is to my face, but I don’t mind. My dad is on my right, also smoking a camel, and Ninna is in the back right also with a cigarette in her hand. She is puffing on a brown long cigarette, a more I think I saw on the box. My mom doesn’t smoke, but she has been surrounded by smokers her whole life, but doesn’t seem to mind either. She might as well have been smoking, I think to myself, as she-and I- is both probably inhaling as much smoke as the others, but I don’t mind, and neither does mom.
I see a sign that says Setubal, but before we get there, we take an exit on the right before turning over the highway to the left. The road is smaller, and I see old farmhouses, donkey behind an old broken farmhouse, not at all farmhouses like in the country back home, it looks poor, and it doesn’t looks like they have the same kind of equipment that I have seen and driven back when I visited my uncle that has a farm in Norway. The tractor as old and rusty as the shed it stands next to and I think the donkey probably is of better use than the tractor. We shoot down the dirt road and after a few minutes take another left. The men are discussing the directions, and my dad is the map reader. He points down the road, and in front of us I can see a larger place, a white beautify building, looks like the one I have seen in one of the westerns that they showed on the Monday night movie a while back. I think it was El Dorado with John Wayne, but I wasn’t sure, maybe it was The Magnificent Seven? I remembered that they were in Mexico in that movie. Well, in front of us I saw what must be the place, because Mogens spins the large brown Opel in to the large area in front of the Haciendas’ main house and stops to the side of the house.
We go in and I can see that we are expected. There are some other folks there as well, A couple of American tourists, they sound like John Wayne I think as the man is la big man with a huge belly and he is loud when he talks. The rest are all Portuguese, or at least that what they look like. There is wine and beer, and I get a Coca Cola I a bottle that I drink fast. My parents and the Danes are in to testing some of the Jose Maria de Fonseca, and a couple of bottles are opened.
“I think that Rose wine is better” says my mom. The host behind the counter, or bar or whatever it is looks down behind the bar, and opens another bottle. “Madam, Here you are” he says and hands her a glass of what she was referring to.
“Why don’t you go and check out the Bull Fight arena back around the house Jessie. We’ll be there in a minute “My dad don’t have to ask me twice, and I look out the door and around the house and see the practice arena. The arena or ring is the same size as the one we went to in the city, but with only three rows of seating for the spectators. I see a young Matador that is practicing with a young bull, as I go in to the seats. He is playing with the young bull, and is using the cape to move him around him. I see that the bull has no horns, so I tell myself that this can’t be that dangerous. My parents, Mogens and Ninna, followed by the Americans and the Portuguese tourists are all there now. Wine in hand and attentively watching what is going on. The host is explaining what the young trainee is doing and is telling us the names of the different moves, and about different styles of bull fighting and I am attentively listening to what is saying.
“You want try?” I look up at the host that has asked the question. “We have small bull that want to learn and maybe you want try to fight with bull?”
“Of Course”, Mogens says. “Come Jessie. You got to join me” Mogens takes my hand and I follow him as he jumps over the wall between the seating area and the arena.
My mom is covering her eyes, but my father is laughing in his burly laughter that I can recognize anywhere. “I’ll go first” I hear Jessie say. The bull comes in from the doors on the other side, and as he looked small from back in the stands, he definitely looks bigger down here. I notice there the horns are cut off, and not as long as the ones on the big bulls in the arena earlier. Mogens holds the cape that one of the helpers is holding and the bull charges towards him. He jumps to the side, not at all anywhere close to where the bull is. The bull swirls the head a bit to the side and kicks his right foot, before running at him again. After a couple of times, the helpers come out and distract the bull, so that Mogens can get behind the wall. “Your turn Jessie”
My heart is racing. I am scared now. The bull looks pretty frightening and is bigger than I expected. I sneak up to the middle where the guy with the cape is standing urging me ion. I run towards him and sort of hide behind him away from the bull. “Here, this way boy. Hold it like this, and when bull comes you go to this side, and hold the blanket out to side”
“OK, like this?”
“Yes like this is good, you are Matador”
I stand there, I am sweating. I am just 6 feet tall, but I am only 13 years old. I am thinking that I will die, but I still stand there and focus on the bull that hasn’t paid me any attention… I am in the stadium, or in the arena-Place de Toires and I am a Matador, I am the crowd favorite, but there is one thing they don’t know; I am scared to death. The Bull moves quickly around, and sees me. I stand still, like a statue, like the Jesus Statue on the concrete block I stand there in the arena. With a pink cape that is too big for me, and a bull that is supposed to be small, but that looks big looking at me. Then, a kick in the dust, a look to the side, and a charge forward, I hear the crowd, or maybe it is my father laughing, or my mother screaming, because the bull is racing forward full speed, towards the Matador. “Like this you hold the blanket and jump to side and move bull under blanket” the trainer has told me. I remember it, I say it to myself again as I watch the bull , as in slow motion coming towards me, to beat me up, to spire me with his cut off horns that looks hard and frightening-at least with a bull behind them crazy with hatred towards young boys . Before the bull gets to me a thought flashes through my mind; I am wearing a red shirt. A flashy red safari shirt with yellow flowers that for sure is more tempting for the bull than this big old blanket. The sun is in my eyes, I see the trainer waive to the side, I see a bull charging straight towards the Norwegian Matador trainee-me. I don’t think, I don’t have time to think, I have rehearsed what the trainer have said, Jump to side, hold blanket, and move bull under”, but it doesn’t make sense now. It is happening too fast; I can’t do anything but……..run. I am Norwegian; I am not Portuguese or Spanish. I am not to ever be a matador, I need to live I think and I run. I drop the cape, or blanket or whatever and I turn to one side-away from the charging bull and run. Run out of sight, out of the middle and jump, in one perfect diving motion over the wall, to safety. I am not a Matador; I am a Norwegian young boy that was over my head there face to face with the big horned animal. I am safe, safe from humiliation, safe from the bull and I am glad. I can only think of what the Senorita with the fancy dress and the red roses would have say. Maybe she would have felt sorry for me? Maybe she would have kissed me anyway, thrown the roses to me and kissed my sweaty forehead? I would have fought the bull had she been there. I know that for sure, if the Senorita had been there, I would have fought the bull, but I would have worn a different shirt, one without the color red.
The adults are in a very good mood. “Jose Maria de Fonseca” has been in a festive mood, because they are acting different then they where this morning. My mother has mixed Jose’s rose’ with his cousins red and white, and has an uncooperative stomach. My father and Mr. Tattoo has battled Mr. Fonseca, and is in a mood that only can resemble a bachelor party, because there are more laughter and humor coming from them than in my grandfather’s 60th birthday party when he had all his buddies, and me, over for dinner and drinks. They are having a good time, Mrs. Tattoo, the Danish version of Twiggy, is also laughing, but she doesn’t know what she is laughing at or of. We are all going to the car, because it has been decided that we will drive to Costa de Coparica for a swim in the ocean. The gentlemen open the door for my squeaky mother and chain smoking Twiggy, and I hear the Dane answer my father.
“I think it is just right that he drives, we are all too drunk to be driving” They laugh and the decision has been made.
“Jessie, you take the wheel. You have driven a car before right?”
“Ahh, well, I am not sure that I can drive sir”
“Nothing to it, come here.” My father gets in the passenger side, and Mogens sits in the drivers spot. It is a bench seat, but I am sill outside the car.
“Here come in and sit between my legs, and I’ll help you get started”
I jump in and he shows me the two pedals.
“Only use your right foot. Start with holding your foot on the left one, which would be the break by the way, pull the gear in to D for drive, and slowly let go, like this.” I feel the car starts rolling slowly.
“You hold the steering wheel” I take it and turn slowly left, then right and get the r on track.
“See, pretty easy right? Then push slowly ion the gas to get a feel for it, and start driving. That’s all there is too it” I can smell the breath that is a mix of Jose’ Maria de Fonseca and his cousins, and Mogens is not sober.
“I think I can do this Mogens”
I think you can too, son.” He moves underneath me, slides to the middle, and let me have the car.
“Take it slowly and we’ll see how it goes. Follow the dirty toad.
I am driving. I am thirteen and I am driving an Opel Commodore. I wish my buddies could see me know. If I tell them they will never believe me. All of the sudden, I go a bit faster. It is no traffic, it is just farm houses and fields surrounding us and it feels great.
“You can go faster if you want Jessie. We won’t ever get to the beach if we go this speed.”
I push the gas and the car jolts forward in response. My mother is feeling better now and giggles in the back seat. The men must have totally forgotten that I am a kid, and feels comfortable with me driving them all in a car, in a foreign country, and with no driver’s license of course. But they don’t care, and I am in heaven. I go faster now, and we come to a bigger road. I tale right as instructed, and I am now in a two lane paved road that has a sign that says Lisboa on it. I take the road for a while and the adults are impressed. “You are a natural driver son, on the next intersection, there will be a sign for Lisbon, It is the highway, but you can handle it.
I see the blue sign for Lisbon and it has an A2 on it as well. I turn on the highway, and it has two lanes in each direction. I speed up and enter the highway. There are other cars there, not crowded, but other cars that is passing me “You must go a little faster” Mogens says and does not need to ask me twice. I speed up, I look down and I see the speedometer go from 60 to 80, I am in a movie now, I am a movie star I am Steve McQueen in Bullitt, I am Emerson Fitipaldi at Monza or no, I am Niki Lauda, and all of the sudden I think that be careful, you don’t want to crash. The adults do not seem to be scared, I don’t know why, I really don’t know what I am doing, but if the adults are ok with this, so am I. I push the pedal down, I am doing 90 now. And I am passing the other cars. I am moving through the highway like I really am on a race track going for the checkered flag. The adults are laughing, I am smiling because I can do this, I AM doing this and it feels liberating. I drive with a purpose, and go straight for the bridge that will take us to Lisbon, but my father tells me to take the next exit.
“Slow down, we need to take this road. See –it will take us to Costa de Caparica, the beach”
I maneuver the large Opel to the right lane and slow down before exiting the highway. I am comfortable with the whole thing and look left and right before speeding up, a little bit faster than I should, because Twiggy in the back drops her cigarette in her lap and squeals. There is some commotion in the back, but they manage to get the cigarette and through it all out of the window before her dress catch on fire. I don’t slow down; I speed up because I am on a mission. The parents seem to forget that it is actually the thirteen year old boy that is driving the car, and talk about other things as I am doing the driving. I know that this will end soon, but I would have driven to Norway if they asked me to, because being thirteen-behind the wheel- as the private chauffeur of four adults, is a dream come through. I drive with a purpose; I see signs for the beach and know where to go without any further directions from the adults. I take a left down the street with the hotels and turn right towards the beach area. It is a sandy road, the sand must have blown on to it, because I look in the mirror and see a cool sand cloud appear in my back mirror as I am driving, a little too fast for comfort, but it looks cool. Turn in and stop over there”, my father directs me, and I do as I am told. I make a quick stop, slide and spin a little before going to a complete stop, and the sand makes a rally car-chase like cloud before we are in a complete stop. I have won the race. We are alive, and we are safe. I hear my mother say something like “I don’t really think we should have let him drive”, but who cares, I got them all safe to the beach without harm, and I feel like bird that is kicked out of the nest from the top of a tree, and realizes that it can fly, and how liberating it is.
“I think I want a Porsche when I grow up dad”
“I bet you do son, I bet you do”
