By the time we moved to Porto,
he said, “This is great, we’re three hours closer to Biarritz.”
By the time we left Porto,
our life was already split
between long weekends in Biarritz,
ice skating and Disneyland in Paris.
Porto was enigmatic.
Fresh seafood in Matosinhos.
Some easy days.
A life that functioned just enough.
By the time we left our home in Porto,
I left him and Padme to close down the house.
I drove to our first charging stop with my little one, Pheby,
two Portuguese Water Dogs curled up on the car floor,
my first baby, Petra, with one of our cats contained on her lap.
My hips heavy behind the wheel,
like the bulging transport box pressing down,
on the tow bar behind the rear axle.
My eyes on the navigation screen,
shushing my girls;
it was pouring down in sheets,
the sky dark before sunset,
the highway wet and black.
We placed our stuff in storage,
my motorcycle with friends.
By the time he followed us in our small car,
with Padme sitting beside him and our other cat boxed on her lap,
I called,
sent them to McDonald’s to catch up with food.
By the time I got to the first Supercharger,
the complex was black.
No power.
Hotel and all.
No charging possible.
I called him.
He baggsed a charger at Burger King in Fefe.
I found him there, half an hour back the way we came.
The lights were on.
Charging wasn’t.
30 km range left.
Charge enough to get us nowhere.
I wasn’t enraged as I might have been.
Now we were leaving.
I had no commitment to making it work.
The house we left behind breathed water from every direction.
Months of him in the souterrain pumping
sewage, groundwater, rainwater,
while the landlord hid.
Nights without a husband.
Days with a father.
By the time we left, I had no rage left for Portugal.
Three moves in four years.
Boxes. Storage.
Silence after pitches.
Money late, or not at all.
Him steadying what kept shifting.
Me keeping the house moving.
School. Dogs. Dinner. Bedtime.
By the time the charging grid came back online,
by the time we arrived at our first rest stop outside of Burgos,
the sky turned from black to grey.
We got to sleep after the shops had opened in the morning.
The sky dark, the air heavy and wet,
we never saw the sun as we drove on after midday towards France.
By the time I collapsed onto the mattress at our Airbnb near the Atlantic,
I had fought off a cough and cold for a week.
I stayed in bed for three days
sleeping in fragments,
managing him and my daughters by text.
He brought me croissants buttery and crisp,
Magret de Canard,
served in bed.
After the third night,
I drove 15 minutes in downpour
to charge the car and shop for food.
I even found some Haribo liquorice for him.
By the time I got back,
I drove with a full charge and a smile.
The French know how to navigate roundabouts
and didn’t cut me off.
The next morning we went on house viewings.
Rain alternating between hard and harder.
The first house spoke to me.
Our bedroom would open like a hotel suite
to the saltwater pool,
the garden.
I stopped.
I pointed.
I said,
“I want you to build us a Balinese outdoor bathroom here,
with a bathtub big enough for two.”
