I’m still thinking about that confusing weekend because, well, how could I not be?
It all started with a short car ride into the neighboring country. Our tickets were cheap, though we were basically robbed when it came time to checking bags.
Anyway, the elderly gentleman sitting next to me didn’t speak great English, but he was chatty as hell. He was pissed that the new Pope was American—that much was clear.
Somehow, his wife guessed that I might be American, and we all smiled. It was easy for me—deep down, I didn’t give a sh*t where the Pope was from. Nor am I taken to bouts of excessive patriotism, particularly not in metal tubes flying above the earth.
The gentleman extended his hand. I hesitated for a brief moment, as he had blown his nose in a handkerchief a few moments prior, but I shook it anyway.
He and his wife were returning to their motherland for a visit. After he taught me a few expressions in his mother tongue, I started reading the romance novel I had brought—don’t ask.
When we finally landed several hours later—nowhere near India—I couldn’t help but feel hints of South Asia.
I mean, who knew there were airports where you still had to take a long bus ride to the terminal?
And don’t get me started on the customs line—efficiency is not a word that could be used to describe the process.
India must have been on my mind anyway, as my son and I were there for an Indian wedding. Visually, that made perfect sense, but our brutal North American accents were a source of confusion—both for others and ourselves.
By the time we finally made it to the hotel, we were greeted with the news that our room wasn’t ready yet, meaning we had to roam around town for a bit.
One hour of sleep in a seated position doesn’t make for a great day out, but our first meal was a smashing success. My son had fish, also known as bones and eyeballs with a hint of muscle. I had something slightly easier to chew—octopus.
Upon leaving the local joint, some dude accosted me, his goal being money. Not having exchanged any cash into the local currency, I ultimately managed to escape his demands. In the process, he shared whatever was on his hands with my sweatshirt.
My son and I proceeded to walk up some narrow streets and take a few panoramic shots. Sleep deprivation and inclines are a tough combination, but we thankfully stumbled upon a small convenience store with water. Sensing commonality, the Bangladeshi man working there asked where we were from. Never one to disappoint, I gave him the India answer he was looking for.
Back at the hotel, our rooms were ready, and we showered quickly. Then we donned our costumes for the first wedding event—given our fraudulent status, we had to purchase them new ahead of time. I remembered that such outfits didn’t have much give, so I moved gingerly to avoid undesired tears in unfavorable locations.
As we awaited the shuttle bus to the venue, we realized that many of the guests were far more authentic than us. Many, however, were even more fraudulent, as in frankly pale. At the event—located in a historic fort—this latter batch stayed close to the open bar. I learned later that a group of youngsters of varying authenticity had to be carried out.
The next morning, out of sheer necessity, my son and I slept in late. Like good Americans, we ate lunch at McDonald’s, ordering, of course, the company’s take on a pork-based national specialty. We emphatically labeled the experience as cultural.
By the time that meal was done, it was already time to put on a second set of costumes for the weekend’s second event—the actual wedding.
The host country was over 80 percent Roman Catholic—my airplane seatmate and a 360-foot statue of Jesus Christ on the way to the venue were reminders of that.
The wedding, in contrast, was Hindu. One of the two involved families belonged to the third-largest ethnic group in Pakistan. By convention, the dinner consisted of vegetarian Indian food, and no alcohol was served. That said, back at the hotel, I noted the now-notorious group of youngsters drinking directly from numerous large bottles, none of which appeared non-alcoholic.
I sensed contradiction, that of the inspirational type.
Determined to see more of the city, my son and I awoke early the next day to check a few boxes. We learned several things, mostly that we didn’t care much about European history at that particular moment. After declaring our intellectual pursuits defeated, we turned our attention to eating, tossing back some sort of egg pastry, squid with the ink still in it, and more fish bones.
As we got ready for the last event, we noted how much more comfortable we felt in suits. Pockets, I decided, were fantastic.
Once at the reception, the heartwarming speeches reminded us that while the two families looked similar, their languages were about as similar as French and Swahili.
The world’s lingua franca, English, certainly came in handy.
Many of the servers spoke it, too.
Even in a place like Portugal.
***
I stopped for a moment and tried to make sense of the prior 48 hours. I started with the fact that my friend who was there had roots in Goa, India, a former Portuguese colony. Perhaps the confusing weekend wasn’t all that perplexing after all?
My friend, however, was born in Kenya. He spoke with a thick British accent—and lived in the US.
He was Christian, married to a Hindu, also with a thick British accent and an American Green Card.
Neither minded my atheism, intrigued instead that my son would soon be attending a Christ-centered school.
As I continued to think, I accepted a piece of chicken from a gentleman serving hors d’oeuvres, throwing in an obrigado.
Then I took a sip of Sagres, content at having figured out absolutely nothing.
Because confusion, I realized, is a beautiful thing.
