Should I stay or should I go now? or...the Art of Txiga-ing

"Bzot kre mais um ponche?" he offered, the strong sweet liquid already starting to pour into the glass. "Si!" Josh replied; "No obrigada, m ti ta toma feria" I said...I'm taking a vacation. From alchol, that is. And so we sat, Josh sipping his ponche, me trying desperately to hold Gus in my lap; he wouldn't stop freaking out over the chiuaua Simba who, although twice his age but only half his size, would not stop mounting him.

This continued for about 20 minutes, with sporadic bursts of conversation intertwined, mostly about work and the upcoming huge festa, San Joao. Our neighbor, Arlindo, who had invited us to "txiga" was telling us about his band that would be playing on Monday night, and how we should come. And how it would start around midnight. On Monday.

"Txiga" technically means "to arrive." As in "Nos txiga!" - We've arrived! But as with all languages, there are nuances and alternate meanings, and txiga also means to come over and sit and visit for a while. So when someone says "Txiga, txiga!" and motions for you to come towards them, it is an invitation to hang out for a while. It's sort of rude to turn them down, although as typical Americans we are generally hurrying to and fro...except it's not like there's really anywhere to go in a hurry. It's something we're learning to adapt to.

But we have yet to really master the art of the txiga. Maybe it's because I talk so much, or because in America we like regular streams of conversation, but I find it sort of akward. Here you are sitting in someones house, usually with the tv on, and no one is really talking or you talk in short bursts but not about anything in particular. Small talk...but really, really small talk. And lots of misunderstandings, or at least a degree of difficulty exactly understanding what each other is saying.

"When is your group playing?"
"Last Monday, in Paul."
"Oh, ok so when do they play in Port again?"
"Monday."
"So they played in Paul last Monday and in Port this Monday?"
"No no, just in Port for the festa."
"But the festa is next week..."
"Right, we start early and someone will play every night in the praca."
"Oh down here?"
"No, the other praca."
"Ahh, ok."
*end*

It got even more confusing last night because apparently, in our neighbors first floor, the Camara and some other NGO's have build a community/youth center, with one small room that has computers and chairs for classes, and another open space for youth. I tried to figure out who paid for it, who was involved, who would be doing programming, what sorts of stuff they would be doing, how he was involved, why it was built at his house...I think I got most of it...but I'm mostly confused by the following:

1. The project somehow involves the Camara.
2. The project somehow directly involves my Counterpart...you know, the one who never has work for me or time to work with me.
3. My Counterpart is apparently involved in setting up programs.
4. My Counterpart has never mentioned ANY of this to me.

*sigh*

But I digress, as this is about the txiga.

The artful portion of this for a foreigner is how to exit. At what point is it rude to stay? At what point is it rude to leave? How does one gage this, and how does one artfully rise and exit? They already think we're nuts because we eat dinner at 7pm...apparently 9pm is a better time to eat and they think it's funny when we get up to go make dinner when we're hanging out on the street outside...or txiga-ing. But when you are sitting around, akwardly in someones house that you really only know in passing, and the conversation is halting at best and for the most part you are watching Portuguese soap operas on tv...well...what happens next?

I don't know. I'm not sure I'll really ever know. It's like the whole toilet paper thing - if you aren't supposed to put the TP in the toilet, but there is no waste paper basket to throw the TP into, where do you put it? (the answers I've gotten were "on the floor behind the toilet" or "in the toilet anyway." Verdict is still out on that one.) So in our akward foreigner way, we said we should go so we could feed Gus and plus he was being a total wiggle worm. They also thought that was funny, that the dog had a feeding schedule.

Oh well.

Ti logu,
Dove