The End (sob)

Well, I’m back. After 10 months in Portugal, I’m back.

June 30: I woke up at six am. I was so excited, I couldn’t sleep any longer (though normally, I try to resist all attempts at waking me until at least nine). Walking down those red spiral stairs, I noticed the lack of stuff. I could have gone roller skating in our tiny house. I counted our last Portuguese coins as some of our neighbors helped us load up our gear. We were on our way to the airport.

I noticed the tiled roofs and cobblestone streets fly by and remembered watching the Lancaster farms zip past us as we drove to the airport in Philadelphia. When we got there, my mom wanted to spend all the euros we had left. I got a couple pretty good key chains out of that. That made us a little late. After much slipping on the waxed floors and silently begging the passport people to hurry up, we just made the plane, five minutes before take-off—no wait.

On the first plane, there was no screen on the back of the seat in front of me. I fell asleep, which was probably good, because I was about to get time warped. Well, sort of. I just added five hours to my day.

In London, we had four hours to board our next plane. Four hours never passed so fast. We almost missed that one, too. Imagine the sight from the perspective of the crew waiting for the Allen family at the gate:

On the big plane, I got a kid’s British Airways pack: magazine, socks, and some postcards. I immediately turned on the entertainment system in front of me. I watched Toy Story 2, tons of Cartoon Network cartoons, the Lightning Thief, and How to Train your Dragon. By the time the last movie was done, my ears hurt too much to think straight. Not sure whether that had anything to do with landing.

My grandparents met us at the airport. I was pretty happy to see them. Well, actually, I was ecstatic. Actually, I was happier than you could really write on a blog. I did guinea pig impressions all the way home. Then I can’t remember putting my head on the pillow. The next morning, I woke up at six again, thinking it was nine.

I’m very happy to see my friends, family, and mac ’n’ cheese again, but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss Portugal.

Poptropica, Lightning Thieves, and Ruins, All at Once!

Taking a detour from the Portuguese, or rather, going back before the Portuguese conquest of the peninsula, I would like to talk a bit about ancient Greeks and Romans. My life is currently sort of themed Mythology, mainly Greek.

Wandering the Ruins: As a follow-up to our exploration of the ruins at Milreu (see my blog on the Algarve), my dad and I visited a ruined village, Conímbriga, north of Lisbon, close to the medieval city of Coimbra. It was really cool. There was an old villa that had a restored fountain and you could drop a coin in the slot to see it play. Unfortunately, someone had vandalized the coin machine. Perhaps a monster sent by Hades? We hiked all over the old village and saw the remnants of shops, courtyard pillars, and many mosaics. My favorite were the baths. They had lots of little brick arches underneath, through which the water flowed. There was also a wall which the villagers had hurriedly thrown up against invaders, just before the town was abandoned. Who were the invaders? I was hoping to find out, but I guess the people who run the ruins & archeological museum don’t know either.

Reading the Book: The Lightning Thief. It’s about a boy named Percy who finds out he’s the son of Poseidon, so he goes to this camp for kids who are half human, half god. Halfbloods. Then he has to go on a quest to bring the master lightning bolt back to Zeus and clear his dad’s name. Zeus accuses Poseidon. Everybody except Zeus says it’s in the Underworld and Hades took it; but did he really? If Poseidon didn’t take it, like Zeus says, and Hades didn’t take it like the staff at Camp Halfblood says, who did? It’s great; a real page turner. My favorite mythological creature: Cerby (Cerberus), who likes to play with red rubber balls (though they don’t last long).

Playing the Game: Ever heard of Poptropica? It’s a website where you can create a character and then try to beat islands by mastering different games with themes, for instance, Reality TV Island or Shark Tooth Island. I recently went on the site, to find a Mythology Island! You have to collect some sacred items for Zeus, or all of Poptropica will face his wrath. If you beat the island, you become immortal. Not you. Your character, I mean. Though, do I want to be immortal? It seems like the gods have a lot of problems. Take Zeus, he can’t even keep track of his thunderbolt... Losing track of your thunderbolt might be even worse than losing track of your transportation pass (though I don’t know, having faced the wrath of my dad when I leave that behind...).

Battleship

My dad homeschooled me this year, which allowed for some creativity in my work. For this answer, the question was, Write a story problem that includes charting data on a graph.

Battleship

Belated Blogs: Math, Myths, Moving

Well, I'm finally home, but you will hear of that soon enough. Right now, I have some really really really really really really overdue mythological and mathematical blogs I need to post. Just so you know, in this picture I am listening to fado with a lolly pop (or a chupa-chup) in my mouth.

If You're Dreaming of a Vacation, I Have Just the Place...

This is a cartoon of my recent vacation to the Algarve, the southernmost region of Portugal.

A few notes to help you make better sense of it:

End of the World – This is the place Europeans thought was the end of the world before the Americas were discovered. It’s a long strip of land that juts out into the sea. You can walk right out to the very end, peer over treacherous overhangs, and see the waves crashing on the rocks below. Between you and the sea, little signs that warn you that the ground might just cave in, a few sinkholes where it has, and a long fall. No, we didn’t really fall in.

Enthusiastic Restaurant – This cartoon was no exaggeration; in fact, they had dozens more signs and far more froofra than I could draw at the little restaurant just up the street from our beach house! They were right about the best “puddings” in the Algarve (did I mention all the Brits and Aussies around? who knew that “pies” were “puddings”?). Not your typical Portuguese desserts, much more creative. All the Portugese restaurants have the same desserts (not that I’m complaining about arroz doce, leite creme, or bolo de bolacha—can’t get enough of them, mainly because my parents rarely “splurge” on sweets after dining out), but this place had stuff I’d never seen before. My favorites: Strawberry Shortcake Cake with Raspberry Jam, Triple Chocolate Pie, and Lemon Lime Tart.

Chickens in the Cloister – In the Serra de Monchique (inland, mountainous region, full of natural springs), we hiked, hot and sweaty, uphill (no springs) to see an old ruined convent. From the outside it looked mysterious. Mysteries to be discovered after we clambered through a hodgepodge horta (veg. garden) to get in: The groundskeeper seemed to have set up camp in some rooms. He had dumped crates, tarps, and broken scooters all over the place! He had a chicken coop in the cloister. I walked into one room full of old car parts and pet bowls, and a bloodthirsty dog shot out of the corner, probably intending to kill me the way he was growling. Good thing he was on a chain. On our way out, there were smelling salts, dried herbs, oils, and bits of cork for sale (we didn’t splurge). And, when we were done, the guy wanted a tip. What, for ruining the ruined convent?!

We spent every other day at beaches: mostly our own Praia da Luz, just a couple minutes walk down from the house, with cliffs on one end, rocks to climb on at the other, stretch of sand between, and freezing waves. On some days, if you stood in front of a breaking wave, you could get blasted far up the shore, dragged back out sideways with the current, and then left with a mouthful of salt and a bikini bottom full of sand. But we also went to the wild beaches on the Costa Vicentina, the Praia Dona Ana at the bottom of cliffs with caves and rock formations surfacing like mermaids and monsters from the waves, Ria Formosa—a natural preserve over towards Spain, full of birds (several “life sightings” for my Dad and for me, though I’m not exactly keeping records) including a little tern, diving into the water for fish or crabs. We saw storks nesting, too, driving to and from the Algarve, in the Alentejo.

Now, I just wish I could go back and dive into the waves. It’s about a million degrees hotter now than when we were on vacation! I might just survive if we open up our pool here on the quinta...

My First Paycheck & the Pains of Becoming a Professional Illustrator

A few months ago, I sent in a cover letter and sample drawings to try to become an illustrator for a magazine called Stone Soup, where kids write and illustrate poems and stories. Two hundred and fifty kids send in stories or drawings each week, so I knew I had a really rough chance of getting in. But after a few weeks, I heard back from them and I had the job! Well, in theory, I had the job. I was on board as an official illustrator. That meant my drawings were in the files and I could be called on anytime in the next couple years to illustrate a story. Or not. But then, within just weeks, I got an assignment. This blog is about illustrating for a magazine in just 12 simple steps.

I wanted to do the first drawing in one hour, one day. Well, let me tell ya, THAT sure didn’t happen! My first drawing turned out to be one of MANY sketches.

Step 1: reading. I read (and re-read) the story and the note on which scenes I was to illustrate. Stone Soup’s editor suggested details and characters to include. In brief (because you don't want me to give the story away and my preliminary sketches will give you a glimpse): back then and far away, a girl, a masked ball, a bird.

Step 2: research. Back when my parents had unlimited internet access and I HAD internet access, a.k.a. before the quinta, I got on Google images and searched “clothes from the 18th century.” What I got were video game characters, people dressed in garish polyester based on 18th century clothes, and two pictures I wanted. I also looked up furniture and bluebirds.

Step 3: my first illustration, or rather, sketch. This was the one I thought was THE ONE and wasn’t.

Step 4: more sketches. I drew blue crayon pictures and showed them to my mom. Almost all my work goes through my critics/editors, a.k.a. Mom and Dad. My mom’s the art critic and my dad is the copyeditor. She says, “I like this and this. But Gemma is the main character; are you SURE you want her in the background, behind the chair, in profile? This is the most exciting moment of her life, after all. Those aren’t exactly period chairs. What you could you do with this empty space. If these two things were in the same picture, it would be perfect.”

Step 5: drawings. I drew LIGHTLY, in pencil, in perspective, in detail all the things that we had liked in my many blue crayon sketches. I showed the drawing to my mom: “What about making the window bigger? And what do you see through the window? Can you see through the curtains? Are they blowing? Oh, I thought we liked the OPEN window.” I revised, filled in, finally finished the drawings.

Step 6: color sketches. I made copies of my illustrations and tried different color schemes, methods, media (settled on markers and pencil), and asked for feedback from my critic: “Yes, yes. No, no, no. Wait, I like that yellow. Pink, silver, black? But that will blend in with the wall. We won’t see your details.” She liked the painterly look on the pics hanging on the wall. The reflection in the mirror (which you can’t see in my sketch) was tricky.

Step 7: color. Looking at the color sketches, I colored in the pictures verrrrrrrrry caaaaaaaarefully. I used up all my MP3 player’s battery while doing this. Most listened to tracks: “Pavement” by Lindsay Mac and “My Song” by Brandi Carlile.

Step 8: Mailing. We packed off the drawings, my cover letter, and a photo of the illustrious illustrator (ha!) and sent it registered mail. “É o mais rapido e seguro,” we were assured at the post office. (Translation: this is the quickest and safest way to send your work.)

Step 9: Tracking. It was NOT the quickest or safest way to send it. Days later, many exchanges of e-mails with the editor later, many calls to Portuguese and US postal offices later, etc., it was still stuck in customs in NYC. Why?! What did they think I was trying to smuggle in?

Step 10: Panic. The production schedule might be held up.

Step 11: Whew! We made it, by a day.

Step 12: My first paycheck, ever!

Now we have the finished product. But YOU have to look for the July-August issue of Stone Soup (probably available any place they sell magazines, by mid-June, I think) to see it!

Maybe my next blog will be about the pains of posting blogs or getting them past two critic/editor parents.

Convento dos Capuchos (or, The Convent of the Caped Monks)

Capuchos means capes or hoods. Capuchinho Vermelho: Little Red Riding Hood. Os Capuchos: hooded Franciscan monks.

I just visited Capuchos, an old monastery made out of cork and rock. It's a labyrinth, full of little nooks and cranies. In my comic, you might learn about the monks' life there.

The Expected & the Unexpected: Visitors, Pneumonia, & Colds in the Country

As you may know, the person who rented my parents the Lisbon apartment from which I wrote all the blogs you have read up until now was due back at the end of March, so we had to move (more friends left behind, though these can still stop by). We moved to a quinta (a sort of a country summer house, once a working farm, with old stables now overgrown with weeds and stuffed with bundles of magazines) in Sintra. Our quinta is great. It has gardens, labyrinths, a tangerine grove, a swimming pool, a bench covered in Azuleijos, and wilder parts further out, past the fence at the end of the backyard. We live in a two-story stucco house, with freezing tile floors in front of a fireplace my parents haven’t lit, and a metal spiral staircase. I’m writing from a great little house that’s built on the grounds of the old chicken coop; the only thing cooped up there these days is my mother (whenever she can escape to write). The only slightly bad thing is how the cold seeps into my bones on rainy days in our little house. Even though it’s spring, it still feels like winter in there sometimes. Not only my dad, but all of us kids are sniffling and coughing with spring colds. Our house is also a little small, but I could seriously live here forever! I mean, not really. I could live here forever if it was summer forever and my friends and family came to visit. And Portugal started making Mac ‘n’ Cheese. But my point is, the quinta is great.

This Easter I went to a beach. My mom drove around curving back roads for so long that Kati (my sister) got sick. Oh well, thank goodness we hadn’t thrown out the pretzel bag yet. It was too cold to swim, but there was a GIANT sand hill. I slid down it countless times, but now I’m STILL trying to get sand out of my socks.

At the quinta, we also get lots of animals. If you just kick a rock, a few lizards scurry out from under it. There are some cats and toads, too, and my dad goes bird watching almost every day. He once saw a bird with a bright red eye. The plants are also amazing. There are lemons and oranges in the wilder part, and a bush with edible flowers. They taste sort of minty with a drop of honey, but not really sweet. Nobody but Kati and I are brave enough to try them. It’s a great place to live for the summer.

Mummies in a Ruined Convent

One morning at the end of March, while my dad was still sitting in his chair at home, working up to pneumonia and reading mystery novels, the rest of us finally headed off to see the mysteries from the Archeological Museum in the ruins of the Carmo Convent, destroyed by the Terramoto (earthquake) of 1755. All the people were in the church when earthquakes shook down the roof and the candles. The candles burned the remains of the church, and later monsoons added to the whole thing. I had wanted to go for a long time, though I only knew about the mummies (which were as wonderful as I had thought, except that my macabre mother compared them to me and my little brother Isaac—I’m still waiting for the nightmares).

Um passeio em Lisboa: Na segunda-feira, dia 22 de Março, eu fui à Baixa em Lisboa com o Isaac, a Kati, e a minha mãe. Saímos do metro na Rua do Crucifixo e comprámos pão, salgados, e argolas de ovo. Depois descemos pela travessa e virámos à esquerda na Rua do Ouro. Aí subimos no Elevador de Santa Justa até ao Largo do Carmo onde parámos para comer antes de ir ao Museu Arqueológico no Convento do Carmo. Apresento-vos o Convento do Carmo:

Maria Helena Vieira da Silva and Arpad Sizenes's Art

Last Monday, before heading to music theory, I went to a museum featuring artwork by Maria Helena Vieira da Silva and her husband, Arpad Sizenes. She was the more famous artist, but his work was also amazing. They both developed modern art styles, but Viera’s paintings were alive, active with violent colors, while her husband’s work was more calm. He painted geometric cities and abstract seagulls and the sea, while she painted cities like swirling labyrinths and myths, like Orpheus, and burning libraries. Born in Portugal, she studied and lived in Paris and Rio de Janeiro. When she missed Lisbon, she painted it from memory. Sizenes, who was originally Hungarian, painted Budapest as a “City of Martyrs.”

Szenes

Vieira da Silva, "Biblioteque"

Vieira da Silva’s self portrait is black and grey, but Arpad's portraits of his wife are more colorful and lively.

My favorite painting by Vieira da Silva looked like a huge haunted house with tons of trap doors. A very rough translation of its French title (“Au Fur et à mesure”) is “as one goes along” or “gradually” as if one were winding her way through this dark labyrinth. My favorite piece by Sizenes was titled “Mermaids.” Even though it is abstract, you can almost see the mermaids. It seems as though they are swimming in the sky and the water is below them.

The museum also had a temporary exhibit of paintings by Mily Possoz, another Portuguese painter, who lived and worked abroad, befriended Vieira da Silva, and seemed to like depicting ladies and cats. My favorite, not the one below, also pictured a fancy lady sitting at the window with her cat in her lap.

I only brought home half of what I wanted from the gift shop—but that’s better than usual. I would have liked a print of that haunted house—instead, my mom bought me a book (not that I don’t like that). I looked through another book called Os Desastres de Sofia (The Disasters of Sofia), illustrated by Vieira da Silva.

Vieira da Silva, "L'issue lumineuse"

Here are a couple of my own illustrations, based on a recent reading of Grimm's fairytales:

My Uncle Doug's Visit

My Uncle Doug came to visit us a couple weeks ago, on his way home from Iraq. We had a long wait at the airport, but he finally arrived. In five days, we went to most parts of the city, and to Belem and Sintra. Some of the sights: the acquarium, Pena Palace, Jeronimos monastery, Gulbenkian museum. Sounds: Mozart and Beethoven rehearsed by the Metropolitan Orchestra (see below) and I taught him a little bit of Portuguese. In the final strip of my comic, Uncle Doug is showing off his Portuguese. The translation is below, adapted as if a Portugese tourist in the USA were saying it.

1: Surrey, where is iiis de Bathrooom?

2: "I don't speeek Portuguese. I speeek Engleesh."

3: "Would you like sunglasses?" "No."

4: "Would you like ice cream?" "YES! YES! YES! YES!"

On the last night, Uncle Doug ordered calimari, seafood stew, steak sizzling on a stone, and custard in Carnide. I thought he was underestimating the size of Portugese dinners, but I was underestimating the size of his apetite.

During my Uncle Doug's visit, I made it to two concerts. The first, with my Dad, was a performance at the Gulbenkian of Beethoven's Missa Solemnis, parts of which I'm also singing with my choir at the Instituto Gregoriano. "Gloria" was glorious, but I dreamed other parts of the concert--literally, since it only started at 21h30 (time, recorded in Portuguese). I've attached below my sketches on the program from the Orquestra Metropolitana rehearsal I attended, with Uncle Doug and my folks, Ike (watching and listening in astonishment) and Kati (sleeping through most of it, like I had the night before). It was amazing to sit two meters from the orchestra and watch them work with the conductor. And, I had a chance to talk to Ana Claudia Serao, whom I'd heard perform earlier this year at the Museu do Oriente, and who also studied with my cello teacher, Anne Hernant.