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I have always lived in the same area and so I'm not sure how I fit this question. But thinking about it a bit more, I realize that there was a time when I didn't feel I fit so well. I went to an international high school here, so I had quite a sheltered upbringing in terms of friends and school life. For that reason, I sometimes don't feel very portuguese. But I do remember some years ago when I travelled abroad, what I felt when I came back on the plane. I saw the Lisbon skyline, and the familiar monuments, the colourful buildings, the sea, and the light. And I felt an intense joy in my chest, and though "I'm so happy to be home, this is an amazing city and I love it!".
So I definitely feel at home here now and can appreciate it more. It helped when I started living in the real world. I still have moments of feeling like an outsider, but much less so these days.
I think that Portugal is a very welcoming place generally and people feel ta home very fast. This summer an old friend of mine who lives in England came out here for a visit. She hadn't been here in almost 10 years. She came with her new husband, and she loved it here and made several new friends. When she left, she cried. She's currently considering getting an apartment here to come for holidays regularly. So I think I'm quite lucky actually.
Though I often think that I'd love to live somewhere like New York or London, for a few years. Just for a change, and for the bustle of it all. It must be amazing for a time.
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Whether we write or speak or do but look
We are ever unapparent. What we are
Cannot be transfused into word or book.
Our soul from us is infinitely far.
However much we give our thoughts the will
To be our soul and gesture it abroad,
Our hearts are incommunicable still.
In what we show ourselves we are ignored.
The abyss from soul to soul cannot be bridged
By any skill of thought or trick of seeming.
Unto our very selves we are abridged
When we would utter to our thought our being.
We are our dreams of ourselves, souls by gleams,
And each to each other dreams of others' dreams.
Fernando Pessoa, 1918
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