Eu sinto saudade da minha terra. The verdant mountains call my name, vim aqui, volta they say as if my heart has not longed the exact same way. Sometimes they are whispers, other times shouts, but the persistence of my homeland is comparable to that of a cheetah chasing its prey. Eu sinto saudade da minha terra. I yearn for Rio. I yearn for the places within. I yearn for the marvelous gems of places that one has to search in every nook and cranny, every lush tropical rainforest, every picturesque sand beach where one struggles to stand on without burning their feet. Eu sinto saudade da minha terra. My heart aches for the melodic rhythm of Brazilian Portuguese. Each and every word sliding of the tongue in such a musical way, almost like an art form. Scratch that it IS an art form. An art form where one has to master the complex grammar, the vast amount of regional accents, and most importantly the warmth and hospitality of the language. The same language that raised me, the same language that taught me how to read, the same language that became the stepping stones and foundation for every other social skill I now acquire. Eu sinto saudade da minha terra. My family always joked that you can always smell Rio before you see it. I’m not talking about the congested favelas or the Bahia de Guanabarra which, trust me, you ALWAYS smell before you see, but rather the gastronomy. Bilingual in Longing 43 by Nico Schleifer ’30
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