by Julia Weigelt

The sky over São Miguel stretched endlessly as I looked up through the sunroof of our rented
car. Shades of blues and soft grays shifted with the clouds that moved as if the Atlantic itself
breathed life into them. The cool and brisk wind rushed past my open window, tousling my hair.
Beside me, my boyfriend Davi navigated each curve with an ease that made it seem as if he had
driven these roads before, though neither of us had set foot on this Portuguese island until today.
We passed geysers sending up clouds of steam, small towns, and dense, green hills. The air
smelled of salt and earth, a mixture of ocean spray and the scent of minerals. The island was
alive, shaped by time and the elements. I couldn’t wait to lose myself in it.

As we approached the capital of São Miguel, Davi glanced at me with a small smile.

“Bem-vindo a Ponta Delgada,” he said. Welcome to Ponta Delgada. In Portuguese.

I loved seeing him enjoying speaking Portuguese. Though Davi had grown up in
Germany after moving from Brazil as a child, his first language had never left him. The way his
eyes lit up when he talked, the ease with which the words flowed from him. It was a part of him
that I could never fully share, but that I admired deeply. Whenever we traveled to Portuguese-
speaking countries, it felt like he was reconnecting with something vital. I could see it in his
face, the way he thrived in those conversations, the way people responded to him, as though they
recognized something in him that was uniquely theirs. And there, beneath the admiration, was a
pang of jealousy. He could slip into any group, form bonds effortlessly.

It wasn’t just the language, though. Davi’s openness, his unrelenting curiosity, was
magnetic. People were drawn to him, not because he spoke Portuguese, but because he threw
himself into every moment with such energy and passion. That was the part of him that
captivated me, the part that pulled me into his orbit. It wasn’t just on vacations, either. Back in
Germany, Davi was always pushing me to step outside my shell. He’d pull me into conversations
I would have avoided, nudging me into social circles I’d never have ventured into on my own. I
found myself discovering new parts of life, new hobbies, new friendships, and new perspectives,
that I never would have thought to explore by myself.

Sometimes, I wondered if it was precisely the differences between us, the things that
made me hesitate and hold back, while he threw himself into life, that made us such a perfect
match. Where I was cautious, he was fearless. And somehow, that balance made everything feel
just right.

“It reminds me of home,” he told me, while taking a bite of the Bifana, a classic thinly
sliced pork sandwich we had just bought at one of the little street booths on our way from the
airport to our rented apartment. Originally a typical dish in Portugal, the Bifana has made its way
to Brazil, where it can be found in different variations.

For me, traveling to Portugal was a big adventure. Everything was new, exciting, and
sometimes scary. Traveling and getting to know other cultures in different countries fascinated
me since I was little. I loved to explore the unknown, the thrill of being somewhere unfamiliar,
getting away from the routine and the predictability of everyday life. It was about seeing new
things, checking off places I’d always dreamed of visiting. But Davi’s perspective was different.
It wasn’t just a place he was visiting, it was also about reconnecting. It was a chance to revisit
parts of his identity that living in Germany had dimmed, to reconnect with the things he loved.
And I couldn’t help but wonder what it must be like to see this island through his eyes.

The sun had sunk low by the time we parked our car near our rented apartment, a
charming building at the corner of a quiet street, its wrought-iron balconies tangled with vines.
Blue azulejo tiles framed the windows, their intricate patterns glowing under the streetlamps.
Large windows framed a picturesque view of terracotta rooftops sloping towards the distant
harbor, where fishing boats gently rocked in rhythm with the tide, their chipped paint telling
stories of years spent braving at sea.

Too restless from our travels to sleep, we decided to explore the neighborhood. The old
town unfolded in facades of white and charcoal, a striking contrast that reflected both the island’s
volcanic origins and its seafaring history. Cafés stood side by side, their terraces alive with the
murmur of conversation and the clinking of glasses. The warm glow of lanterns cast flickering
patterns on the cobblestones, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. Locals lingered over vinho
verde and pastéis de nata, greeting each other with the warmth of old friends.

Then, we found the bar.

Tucked between two unassuming buildings, almost easy to miss if not for the low sound
of laughter curling into the night. Inside, the lighting was low, a golden glow cast by shelves
lined with dark glass bottles. The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and citrus, a
comforting embrace against the cool island night. A bartender, tall, with salt-and-pepper stubble
and eyes that crinkled at the edges, looked up and smiled.

“You like gin?” he asked. His voice, smooth as the clear liquid he poured, carried an air
of certainty.

We nodded.

“Then you need a Drunken Bee.”

We watched the bartender with fascination as he skillfully twirled the bottle, flipped the
shaker mid-air, and poured the drink in a smooth, effortless motion. A few minutes later, he slid
our drinks across the counter, the golden liquid in the short glass catching the light. I lifted the
glass to my lips. The aroma was unexpected. It tasted sweet but strong, smooth but with an edge.
The honey, deep and rich, mingling with the bite of gin and vermouth and the crispness of tonic
and lime. Clipped to the rim was a small box with a couple of pieces of popcorn. I could feel the
egg white foam that was still stuck on my upper lip, leaving a faint, silky trace.

I took another sip, and warmth spread through me. It was, somehow, exactly what I
needed.

Davi took a sip as well, exhaling slowly as he set his glass down.

“That’s good,” he murmured, tilting his head as if trying to place a memory. I watched
him, the way his fingers traced the condensation on his glass, his expression distant but content.

“The honey reminds me of when I was a kid. My mom used to give me honey and lime
when I was sick.”

As Davi spoke, I felt a sudden rush of understanding. Something stirred in my chest, an
ache both familiar and elusive. A feeling that had shadowed me since childhood, shifting with
time but never quite leaving. I had found it in many places before. Just as I had found it, I had
also lost it. But the loss had always been followed by rediscovery, in a new city, a new landscape,
a new moment. A feeling I had chased across continents, as well as in my home country
Germany.

In German, we have a word for this kind of feeling – Heimat. There is no true English
equivalent. It is not simply home, not just a place, but a feeling, a deep-rooted sense of belonging
tied to memories, landscapes, and emotions. It’s the scent of damp earth after summer rain, the
way your childhood street bends just so, the warmth of familiar voices you have known forever
and the way the light falls on a certain corner of your room. It is something you may never return
to, yet it remains a part of you. It is where you are rooted, even when you are far away. I smiled,
but something inside me twisted. His childhood had a taste, a sound, a language that was not my
own. Davi’s Heimat was wrapped in the rhythms of Brazilian Portuguese, in the sweetness of
honey and lime, in the warmth of a culture that he carried with him even after years in Germany.

But what if home is not a single place, but something fleeting, something that slips
through your fingers the moment you think you’ve grasped it?

I had spent years searching for that feeling. I had searched for it in the landscapes of my
childhood, in the cities where I had lived, in the people I had loved. Sometimes, I thought I had
found it: on a quiet morning in the Alps, in the hum of a city street at dusk, in the weightless
moment before a plane touches down somewhere new. But it always faded, just out of reach.
And here we were, in a bar on a Portuguese island, tasting something that meant home to Davi,
but left me wondering what Heimat truly meant to me.

And suddenly, I understood.

Heimat wasn’t about where you were born. It wasn’t about belonging to a specific place.
It was the taste of something familiar in an unfamiliar setting. It was the way a scent, a sound, a
simple drink could bridge the past and present. It was in the moments that caught you off guard,
the ones that made you pause and think: This. This is it.

And this moment in the bar. This. This was it. I was surrounded by people that loved me
and that I loved. On a vacation that I planned by myself and that gave me the feeling of being
free. Welcomed in a bar of a stranger who treated me like a long-time friend. Legs sore from a
day of hiking with someone I had come to love from the bottom of my heart. The chatter around
me felt like a melody, an unfamiliar rhythm, but one that somehow felt comforting. Talking to
people I had never met before, learning words in a language I didn’t speak, each syllable felt like
a bridge to a new experience, a new connection. The warmth of the drink in my hand matched
the warmth of the people around me. Getting tipsy from a drink that tasted just as I would
describe my perfect drink. I could feel the joy seeping in with every sip, the taste lingering on
my tongue. A little bitter, a little sweet. This was my home, right here, right now. Not defined by
geography, but by everything that made me feel alive.

That first night in the bar turned into many. Over the next three weeks of our vacation, we
returned to the small, hidden place every evening, slipping into our usual seats as if they had
been waiting for us all along. Hermano, the bartender, now more of a friend than a stranger,
greeted us with the same knowing smile. He never forgot our drinks, never asked what we
wanted. Two Drunken Bees would appear before us like a ritual. When he asked about our day,
we had new adventure to tell every day. Stories of hiking crater lakes where the water glowed
like oxidized copper, of eating corn cooked in the sulfur pools at Furnas, and of diving from
cliffs into the restless ocean.

Hermano loved to share his insider tips, always eager to tell us about the next hidden
gem we should explore. Each piece of advice came with a story. Stories of his childhood on the
island, where the days felt long and the nights were filled with laughter. He spoke fondly of the
beach parties with his friends, the sound of music drifting through the warm island air, and the
feeling of freedom that only those summer nights could bring. He would tell us about his
adventures traveling to the other islands of the Azores, each trip a new chapter in his life, full of
discovery and wonder.

But there was one story he told most often, the dream he and his wife shared about
opening a bar in his father’s old house. It wasn’t just about serving drinks, it was about
preserving a piece of his heritage, the essence of his roots. The bar wasn’t just a place, it was a
tribute to his Heimat, a place where the past and the present mingled in every conversation,
every drink, every laugh shared with strangers who soon felt like family.

Hermano had crafted something extraordinary with this bar, through his passion for
mixing drinks and his welcoming spirit, he had created a piece of home not only for himself but
for everyone who walked through his door. For Davi and me, it became a place of comfort, a
home away from home. For countless others, whether regulars or wanderers like us, it was a
brief but unforgettable experience, a moment to taste the heart of the island and to feel like we,
too, were part of something bigger.

As we stood to leave the bar for one last time, a familiar ache settled in my chest, heavy
and sweet. My gaze lingered on the smooth wood of the bar, the memory of its warmth still
vivid. The air carried the familiar scent of citrus and alcohol, now blended with something softer,
something fleeting. I wanted to freeze the moment, to press it into the folds of time so I could
reach for it whenever I needed. I felt the weight of nostalgia settle in. I didn’t want to say
goodbye.

But just as we stepped onto the street, I heard hurried footsteps behind us. Hermano was
there, breathless and smiling. He reached out, pressing something small and delicate into my
palm.

A tiny bee, carved from wood.

“For you,” he said. “So you always find your way back.”

I curled my fingers around it, the wood warm against my skin, as if it carried the last
traces of the bar’s golden light. I tucked the bee into my wallet, fingers tracing its edges as we
walked away. Even now years later, it remains there. The Drunken Bee had been more than a
drink. A reminder that home is not always a single place. Every time I look at the little bee in my
wallet, it reminds me of bees, honey and my understanding of Heimat at the night in the bar. Like
a beehive, Heimat is built from many small parts, each place I’ve been, each moment I’ve
collected. Even though Heimat is so different for Davi and me and we come from different
places we call the bar our home. And like the bees I would always keep moving but I would
never be lost. It is a cycle of movement, of returning, of carrying pieces of each place with me.