Why Portugal?

I have never been to this beautiful country, but a year ago, on January 11, there was a "Make your own vision board" workshop in Alsóörs.

A vision board is a creative visual tool that uses a collage of images, quotes, and symbols to represent our personal goals and desires. This inspiring tool helps us stay focused, increases our motivation, and supports us in achieving our goals through visualization.

Six of us participated, plus the two workshop leaders. We could choose from a huge selection of images and texts cut out from newspapers and magazines, then we were given a large A3 sheet of white paper and had to stick our selected images and texts onto it. I immediately asked for two. I said that I had so many plans and desires that one would not be enough.

At that time, we were still very confident that David would recover from cancer, which is why it was perhaps strange that these images and these sentences appealed to me. And yet, at the top left of the montage, there is "Color it anew," in the middle left, the helping, colorful hands, and at the top right, a picture that could have been taken on the Atlantic coast of Portugal. 

Then all of this faded into the background because caring for David until his death (he died on May 13) and the period that followed kept me very busy. However, a few days after his death, a very vivid image flashed into my mind: I saw myself loading my two dogs into the car with a suitcase and driving non-stop to the west coast of Portugal. I saw myself sitting on a rock by the ocean, with my dogs on either side of me. Then this image faded a little because of all the things I had to do, but for the last three months, I've been getting nothing but signs: Portugal, PORTUGAL. Even from people who had no idea what was going on inside me. And I feel that if the signs are so strong, they cannot be ignored, I have to follow them and find out what this is all about. In the meantime, it turned out that a Canadian couple I am friends with are spending February in Portugal and would definitely like to see me while they are in Europe. I will be with them for a week in the Algarve. On the way there, I will visit our Spanish friends who live in Barcelona. It's like when you start putting together a puzzle and most of us start at the corners and edges because that's the easiest part, and we don't know yet, we can't see what it will look like, but then the pieces come together nicely and a clear picture starts to emerge. That's how I feel right now.

I moved back to Hungary from Canada eighteen years ago because I wanted to be with my parents, who were 70 at the time. I miss the diversity I experienced in Canada terribly. The multitude of people from all over the world, the different cultures, foods, music, and the openness, kindness, and acceptance of Canadians. David was an extremely philanthropic, open-minded, curious, and sincere person, and I learned a great deal from him. He was always able to lift my spirits when I felt discouraged at home. However, now that he is no longer with me, I cannot find my place in Hungary. The children are scattered around the world (one in Australia, two in Canada). I don't know if Portugal will be my next or final stop, but I feel so drawn to it that I have to get to know it and experience what this country is like.

Then 2026 started so fantastically promisingly, and this also gave me the initial push to trust myself, trust my instincts, and get going. On January 1, I met a very nice family who are now renting our house for a year. This gives me the opportunity to finally turn inward a little and figure out what makes me happy, what I enjoy doing, and—last but not least—where I can find a new home.

Renting out the house also meant that I had to do a lot of sorting and packing. I was most afraid of our office, as I felt that it would take the biggest toll on me emotionally. I was right. This is how it started:

It's 6:35 a.m. I looked at the clock at 3 a.m. and had been tossing and turning for quite some time. The specter of packing loomed before me—I couldn't get back to sleep, so I finally got out of bed at 4:15 a.m.

I am sitting on the floor in the office, next to me is a drawer full of papers. Papers written in David's handwriting. Work notes, thoughts: "Today we have the most advanced communication system in history, and yet people are unable to 'talk' to each other and distinguish between fact and fiction"; a message to me: "I went for a walk, I'll be home by 8:30. I love you, your David"; a piece of paper on which he lists important dates related to his illness, including the day of my father's death. Another piece of paper with a bank password reminder: "My favorite pastime: sundowners with Zizi." I look at his neat handwriting (he was a lefty) and remember when, at the dawn of our love, I said to him, "I think it's so sexy when someone is left-handed." And I can see him responding with a mischievous smile, "I'm going to write all night." And my tears start to flow, just flow, because I realize that this is a final farewell to our house, our home, our life together, which was full of happiness, sincere affection, love, difficulties, struggles, warm embraces, countless meaningful conversations, gatherings, parties, laughter, work, walks together. This too is a purification now, a farewell, a "send-off." I feel that he is with me, inside me — in every fiber of my being. I feel his wonderful embrace, his scent, I see his beautiful green eyes, full of life and emotion. And I hear his voice saying to me: "My little Zizi, we have loved each other with everything we had. Go, live your life, find your happiness!"

I love you, David Victor Michael Hull. I will love you forever. "And one day, my crumbling heart will melt into yours, and we will be together for eternity."

All this helps me looking ahead too. There is a lot of love in me, and there was a lot in David too, and it was a huge blessing that we found each other, coming from such different places and times. That's what I focus on. That we were given almost 30 years. And that we were able to live them to the fullest! But life and everything is finite. And I can accept that. He will always be with me, giving me strength, and I will remember his wonderful spirit, his love for people, his openness. He is a huge role model for me. But I also have to accept the fact that he is no longer  with me physically. I will be fine.

I joined the "Hungarians in Portugal" Facebook group and very quickly received kind responses to my questions. One person wrote at the end of her message: "If you give people smiles, you will get them back many times over." I never lack smiles, so I think I'll be fine.