Okay, not extreme duress, but a heightened degree of tension.

The 49ers are playing the Dallas Cowboys in my family room (huddling not six feet from my couch), it’s an important game, and there is an audience of three cheering on the local team. As you can imagine, there is a lot of commotion. My mother-in-law and husband are heavily invested and have exuberant responses to just about every play, while my father-in-law is much lower-key, and I would include myself in that group. Okay, the truth? 

I’m just not that into it, and I realize this is a deplorable attitude, but I’m sort of sick of games that involve balls, running, and keeping score. And besides, from just about every room in the house, I’m keenly aware of what’s going on with the game. 

So instead of being glued to the television, I’m putzing around, finishing up my packing, watering thirsty plants, and manically organizing our daily clutter. I’m enamored with this house, and I will miss her while we are away. I love the way the morning sun slants into the dining room from the patio. It’s mystical, and no, this is not the wine-talking. I like to stand barefoot in the center of those transcendent rays, coffee in hand, absorbing the warmth of the sunkissed hardwood floors on my feet. It’s scrumptious. 

Am I the only one who does this? I didn’t think so.

Tomorrow we’re heading to Portugal to visit my son Tony and celebrate his thirty-second birthday. As a bonus, we get to spend time with his significant other, Thalita. I’m so excited I can barely focus on packing, deciding which cords I’ll need for charging my various devices, and which shoes will be the least destructive to my feet, yet remain fashionable. Oh, and because it’s a different country, I’ll need one of those doohickies so I can plug in my devices! Details…all I want to do is lay my eyes on my boy and hold him in my arms. 

I’m sure he feels much the same.

As soon as Larry and I announce to the family that we have booked tickets to Portugal, my oldest daughter Julie decides to tag along, claiming she’s never been to Portugal, and if we’re renting a beach house in Prede, she wants a room with a view of the ocean. Kind of saucy.

This is what happens when you over-procreate.

Then, of course, when her sister gets wind of our impromptu outing, she also wants a room with a view. Her own, preferably. So now there will be four of us traveling to Portugal to celebrate Tony, experience the charms of Lisbon, and spend all of Larry’s retirement money on fancy dinners! 

I can’t tell you how much I miss being together as a family (but I’ll try), when all of us are in the same zip code, and we have the opportunity to sit with each other, listening for the things not being said, but insinuated. You know what I mean? It’s referred to as reading between the lines. You can’t decode such innuendos on Zoom calls or through a text message. 

I like sharing a delicious meal together, hunkered around the same table, shoulder to shoulder. This is how we animate our souls. Okay, this is how my soul is animated. I know, I lean toward the dramatic, deal. I believe it’s in the breaking of the bread that we recognize each other. The true selves that we normally mask with personality and ego come out to play. I miss being able to argue about inconsequential things, to laugh hysterically over an exaggerated story we’ve all heard a million times, and then argue over who’s doing the dishes. 

I like taking in the majestic views of the Atlantic ocean at sunrise and lounging over multiple cups of coffee while coordinating our plans for the day, incorporating our divergent agendas. It is so rare when we are all together, even a majority of us, but when we manage it, something extraordinary happens, we revert to our customary roles when we were all living under the same roof as a family. 

It’s comical, revelatory, and I realize I’ve missed us.

The last time all of us were together was Larry’s retirement dinner, celebrated in September. And when I say I miss us, that includes my sons-in-law, Tim and Nic, along with Thalita and all the grandkids. Big families mean big fun and hardly any drama! Bahaha

The flight to Portugal, direct from San Francisco, takes eleven and a half hours. I’ll just be honest, unless you’re in first class, with a pod of your own to sleep horizontally, it’s brutal. I don’t sleep well under the best of circumstances, but sitting in a stiff chair, vying for elbow space, with Larry blocking my access to the bathroom is not ideal. I’m just keeping my eye on the ball, seeing Tony is the goal, and I will vocally deal with the requisite discomfort. It’s not like we’re traveling by horse and buggy. It’s business class, we have extended legroom, and they actually serve us dinner. After dinner we never saw a stewardess for the rest of the night. I think they were hosting a poker game in the cargo space. All I know, is when I finally entered into a deep rem sleep, they opened all the shades, served me a shot of weak coffee, with a slice of ham shoved between two enormous pieces of bread. Obviously, the law of metaphor is working here, and I’m the ham. 

Landing in Portugal is a breeze compared to what I was imagining. There were no lines at the customs department and our bags were waiting for us when we got to the baggage claim. I have to report, there was a small mix-up between Tony and Larry on the exact point of rendevous, and this had Larry spastically racing around the airport looking for our son. 

I’m just an exhausted piece of ham in need of sleep, but I’m savvy enough to stay twenty feet behind him as he tries to get his bearings, knocking people over in the process as he’s glued to his phone as if it’s a tracking device. 

He keeps saying, “sorry, sorry,” to these annoyed travelers.

Could this be why Americans are referred to as ugly?

This is when a person of interest catches my eye. He’s sitting at a coffee shop. I inch forward as if the paparazzi for the National Inquirer, trying to keep my cover. I need to get a closer look at this handsome young man in a baseball cap, focused intently on his computer, with his back to me. I don’t want to be rude, but I have a feeling that I gave birth to this person, and suddenly I scream, “Tony!”

Most people around me stop dead in their tracks and turn to witness the unexpected source of commotion. It’s not highly recommended for foreigners to scream in the middle of the airport. It’s alarming, to say the least. And then it happens, he rises from his chair, and I pull him into my arms. He relents and lets me overhug for a while.

And this is when I remember Larry is still headed outside, oblivious that his wife has found her treasure.

I yell, “Larry, I found him,” as if I just encountered the Holy Grail!

I’m Living in Portugal, obsessed with my kid, so I have no time to write and read this week. Miss you all.