Life is truly a poem in different accents

Arte de Judith K. Wrigth

Life is truly a poem in different accents

Katia Bonfanti

The Mercado da Vila, on a morning that blended the harshness of winter with the generosity of a bright blue sky, defied the cold touch of the wind. The chill hid itself in the footsteps while the buzz of the market stalls created a soundtrack. I was walking, soaking in the scene, when I heard my name leap out from the terrace. It was Pedro, waving for me to join a table with a couple.

As soon as we greeted each other, I realized that one of those rare moments of simplicity was unfolding. And the unexpected, nothing trivial, was that my English skills would be put to the test — with native speakers, but that was just a detail. Between steaming cappuccinos and Portuguese delights, Pedro enthusiastically announced, “Peter is a writer, and Judith is a painter,” before heading off to prepare another coffee. It was, indeed, an encounter filled with essential simplicities for me.

Communicating with native English speakers, always an exercise in attention and sensitivity, invited me to cross the delicate balance between what is understood and what is felt. As a psychotherapist, I know that words are the bridges that lead us to others. Judith, Peter, and I understood each other through speech and an invisible language made of pauses, glances, and gestures, translating what could not be expressed in words.

When we communicate, we don’t just exchange ideas. Above all, we learn to intertwine ourselves with the deepest essence of human experience. Being there with the two of them, by chance — as much by chance as destiny allows — was a gesture of surrender to the sensations that arise from silence and speech, free of any commitment to order or time. I write only what emerges, like someone catching leaves in the wind.

Among so many ways of creating, mine is to follow the trail of emotions. Each encounter is an uncertain map, drawn between sips of coffee or “meia de leite,” as we allow ourselves to start from any point in our lives to uncover who we are.

Peter, with a calm smile, didn’t fail to mention the way Brazilians pronounce “meia de leite” — a softness that seems to cradle the sound. He also spoke about our habit of elongating verbs, the eternal gerund that flows very well to Anglophone ears. Judith, on the other hand, told me about the volunteer work she happily does, teaching English in a social project in Cascais. And so, time flowed like a river.

Peter laughed as he said that, to native English speakers, the Brazilian “está chovendo” sounds more natural than the Portuguese “está a chover.” Language, after all, is a mirror of those who live it: in English, “it’s raining” carries the same simple, direct cadence. These nuances opened the door to other memories.

I thought then of a recent podcast by Miguel Esteves Cardoso on Antena 1. With his usual lightness, he said: “I love listening to Brazilians speaking English. They melt.” And there we were, intertwined by languages, by cultures, by distinct ways of naming the rain and drinking coffee, turning chance into poetry and the encounter into learning.

Peter shared his journey as a historical novelist. Listening to him, I realized that writing is often an act of reconstruction — like mending the weave of a fabric unraveled by time, giving voice to what was silenced, and rescuing humanity amidst chaos. I remembered the shadows of stories that accompanied me in childhood, like echoes that never fade. Today I know that, in the face of conflict, true humanization can either bloom or wither, like a flower amidst ruins.

The novel I wrote — still shelved within the library of my hesitation — speaks of a war that, like all wars, shatters the delicacy of life and sows wounds that may never heal. There is something cruel and eternal in the memory of violence, but also a fragile beauty in the effort to narrate it, to give shape to what tears us apart inside.

The most beautiful moment, however, was between the stories and the smiles: there I was, having coffee with Peter V. Wright, the British author of the Lambs of War series (Lost in the Shadow of Death and A Tempest of Death), and Judith, his wife. Judith, with the serenity of someone who carries worlds in her gestures, showed me one of her paintings on her phone — a composition that seemed as light as it was profound.

I stayed there, imagining how her experiences as a migrant filtered into the colors and strokes. It was as if each brushstroke were a gesture of belonging, of reconstructing herself on paper, just as Peter’s stories gave voice to what was lost. Judith’s painting was not merely an image: it was both root and flight, a reinvention that said, without words, what perhaps no language could ever express.

In the end, we said goodbye, grateful for the encounter. “The market is the best place in Cascais,” Peter commented with a light smile, and I could only agree. There, stories intersect without haste, and people come not only to buy but to share moments that transcend the mundane — like sharing a coffee moment.

That day, at that table, I realized that the ordinary can be extraordinary when we open ourselves to see it. There is a subtle magic in the encounter, in time spent without urgency, as if the simple act of being present could reveal the beauty that stitches together the moments of life.

I promised myself I would dive into Peter’s books, letting his words guide me through the layers of time and humanity. And when we meet again at the Mercado da Vila, who knows, perhaps it will be time for a book signing — a celebration of art and the encounters that transform us.

Because, as in the Palavras & Azeitonas column, the best is always yet to come! Cheers to coffee and the market that brings me so much joy.