Embarrassed, in Portuguese
Small mistakes, slow progress, and the long road to finding home.
You know that mortifying moment we’ve all had when you're exhausted at the airport, barely functioning, and the gate agent cheerfully says, “Have a nice flight,” and you, without thinking, reply, “You too”? Well, embarrassing mishaps like that happen every day when you’re learning a new language in a new country.
Since moving to Lisbon, Portugal, and practicing Portuguese, embarrassment has just become part of my daily routine, lurking around every corner, ready to humble me whenever I start thinking to myself, “Man, this move has gone surprisingly well.”
I’ve greeted a restaurant hostess with “obrigado” instead of a proper salutation like “olá” or “boa tarde.” I’ve awkwardly replied “sim” (“yes”) to the friendly “tudo bem?” (“how are you?”), and I’ve fallen into the typical pitfall of English-speaking tourists and new arrivals by not pronouncing the Portuguese word for bread, “pão,” with nearly enough nasalization, instead asking for “pau,” which is Portuguese slang for dick (thankfully, since it’s a mistake that happens often, my unintentional advances have been met with harmless eye rolls rather than alarm).
Even when I pronounce everything correctly, it often doesn’t feel like enough. I walk up to the quiosque and confidently, in perfect, well-rehearsed Portuguese, order: “Queria um galão e um pastel de nata, se faz favor,” only to be met with an unimpressed, slightly condescending, “Do you want anything else?” My eagerness to get it right, to look the part, was a dead giveaway.
And then there are the rare moments when I actually pull it off, when my accent is convincing enough that someone mistakes me for a native speaker. For a brief second, I’m riding high, proud of myself for fitting in. But the illusion never lasts. They follow with a flurry of long-winded responses that sail right over my head, forcing me to admit, “Desculpa. Ainda estou a aprender português” (“Sorry, I’m still learning Portuguese”). They don’t hide their disappointment. Disappointment in me, it seems, for pulling a bait and switch.
It doesn’t help that I feel like I studied too hard to still be making such silly mistakes, to still understand so little. In the few months leading up to the move, I completed an online course, regularly studied flashcards with vocabulary and common phrases, and even started listening to Portuguese music on repeat in hopes that catchy hooks would lodge themselves into my brain and expedite my path to fluency. All of that only to arrive and not understand a word when locals speak at a lightning-quick clip, swallow half their vowels, and leave me standing there, smiling blankly, wondering if all those flashcards were just me playing school.
It also doesn’t help that seemingly everyone I meet here is so effortlessly multilingual. My friend from Brazil? He speaks Portuguese, English, and Spanish. My Parisian friend? French, Portuguese, English, and some Italian. My friend from Finland? Finnish, Portuguese, and English while dabbling in Dutch. Meanwhile, I embarrassingly admit that I speak… English. Just English. I sometimes toss in, “Well, I did take a Spanish course in college” to soften the blow, hoping they won’t call me on my bluff because I’ve forgotten almost all of it.
Looking back, I realize I was probably more than a little naive to think my wife and I could just show up in Portugal and pick up the language quickly, to blend in seamlessly. We’ve wanted to shake the tourist label as quickly as we could. At the very least, we’ve aspired not to be those Americans. The ones who expect the world to accommodate them, who arrive on foreign soil assuming everyone will roll out the red carpet, speak English, and smile through their cultural clumsiness.
But in many ways, that’s exactly what’s happened. Lisbon is kind to people like us. A basic level of English is widely spoken, and most locals will graciously switch to it the moment they see us floundering. I try not to take that for granted. Our experience here would be drastically different without that linguistic safety net.
That fallback has cushioned our transition, no doubt. But it’s also an uncomfortable reminder that we are always being accommodated, even when we’re trying not to be. It’s the realization that we’re still outsiders, and will be for some time. Belonging somewhere takes more than arriving with good intentions. It requires effort, commitment, reciprocity, and showing up in a way that honors the place and the people. That’s what we’re working toward, day by day, word by word.
There’s been a lot about this move that’s felt surprisingly smooth: the walkability and transit, the plethora of communal green spaces, the accessibility of quality produce, all things we’ve relished since setting foot on this soil. But there was always going to be friction. There’s no shortcut, no microwaved path to starting over somewhere and calling it “home.” Home is something you build, with time and intention. The growing pains of learning Portuguese are part of that process. It’s a struggle that won’t last forever, and it’s a struggle that won’t be our last.
Just this past weekend, Ashley and I finally ate dinner at our neighborhood tasca, a traditional restaurant that is the essence of Portuguese culture in a time capsule, where English isn’t a given like it is in many other establishments. Ashley punted a million times before finally giving in. Her main concern? “Honey, come on, we don’t know enough Portuguese yet to go there.” Turns out, she was prematurely apprehensive, at least this time.
Dinner went surprisingly well. No major blunders. We ordered, asked for wine recommendations, and even made some alterations, all in Portuguese. Our server, who seemed skeptical at first (likely clocking us as foreigners immediately), eventually warmed up and started cracking jokes. We couldn’t understand everything (a reminder that we’re still far from fluent), but we caught the gist and laughed along. He was teasing a coworker, a sad Benfica fan watching their bitter rival, Sporting, clinch the league title on the TV by the bar. We even chimed in with a simple jest of our own: “talvez no próximo ano” (“maybe next year”), and it landed.
We decided to quit while we were ahead and pay the bill. It wasn’t a flawless conversation, but it felt good. It was a glimpse of what life here might eventually look like. Not just getting by, but actually connecting. We’re not there yet—not even close—but we’re hopefully moving in that direction, on the long, detour-filled road to home. One flashcard, one awkward exchange, one tiny victory at a time.
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There's no point in stressing too much about learning Portuguese slowly.
For us, the real question is not how good your Portuguese is, but your attitude. That's what separates "those Americans" from that funny guy who makes a few linguistic lapses. A woman who comes into a patisserie and asks for a coffee and a "queca" instead of a "queque"? That will make every employee's day and there will be second-guessing jokes for days. Now that's integrating yourself into the culture without realising it. Next time, the staff will greet you with a smile and ask: do you want the same?
I didn’t realize the pitfalls of mispronouncing pão! Thanks for the warning.