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On International Women’s Day in Portugal, I saw lots of female pedestrians carrying large, long-stemmed flowers. It turns out that shops and businesses all over town were handing them out to women patrons in celebration of their day. Has that tradition started in the US? It was a lovely gesture, and it got me thinking about Portuguese women.

Every single day, wherever I go in Setubal, I am surrounded by tiny women. Most of them appear to be older than I am – maybe in their 70s or 80s. I’m fairly tall by American standards, but I don’t tower over my fellow females back home. Here, I feel like a stilt walker. I would go so far as to say that most of the older women I see are less than five feet tall – many of them miss five feet by several inches. We were walking to dinner with friends last week when one of them observed he’d spotted a new candidate for the title of Portugal’s Shortest Woman. It seems, he and his wife have also noticed the decidedly diminutive ladies. In fact, our friend had done a little research on the subject and had come up with a theory. Apparently in the post WWII era when these older women would have been in their formative years, Portugal was going through exceedingly hard economic times. Our friend Wayne theorizes that the nutrition was so terrible during those years that the children never had enough to eat, which ultimately stunted their growth. My Portuguese friend Helena, whose mother is among that generation, says Wayne’s theory may be right on the money; there were severe food shortages back then. Helena is about my height but her mother is very petite. When I see these women walking with their heads held high and their shoulders erect, I offer a silent salute to their courage and persistence. They made it through very difficult times and they’re still here.

But there’s more to the story of Portuguese women. Helena was 17 years old when the revolution that overthrew the government of longtime dictator Salazar happened. She has distinct memories of oppressive times before the revolution. She has told me stories of her family wanting to go to Spain for a vacation. Men and children were allowed to travel freely across the border, but married women had to carry husband-approved, government-provided permission papers in order to leave Portugal. Helena recalls her father going to the local governmental offices to obtain the travel documents for his wife so she could accompany the family on a holiday. She also recounts that there was a popular cafe in the village where she grew up. In addition to great coffee, they were known for the cakes and pastries they made. When Helena’s mother wanted something special to serve at dinner, she would send her little daughters to the cafe to buy the goodies. It seems, most of the patrons of the cafe were men. Women who showed up there in the middle of the day were, at best, thought to be lazy housewives who should have been home cooking, cleaning, and tending children. At worst, they might have been perceived as brazen women attempting to draw the attention of men who were not their husband. That kind of repressive culture can leave a mark on the psyche of any woman. Knowing a little about their life experiences, I have greater respect for these women whom I’ll probably never know personally.

There’s so much to write about, and with our growing social opportunities, there’s so little time. I’ve been stockpiling some images from Setubal that may help me tell some stories more easily than relying 100% on written words. Let’s see how that goes.

In previous posts, I’ve shown you the typical “modern” apartment blocks that provide most of the housing in Setubal. Above, and below, you’ll see two examples of a different style of housing, found in the older sections of town. Notice the intricate detail on these beauties.

Well, I feel like I’ve caught up a little. I’ll add more in the near future. Thanks for reading.

A conversation that shows up often on media sites for Americans living abroad is whether people like us prefer to call themselves expats or immigrants. “Expat” is verbal shorthand for “ex patriot”, someone who is living outside their motherland. I’d say that most of us default to using the expat moniker because it’s quicker to say.

Whatever we call ourselves, our status as Americans living abroad can only be seen as an unearned perk of privilege. In our personal case, we would never be considered wealthy in the eyes of most of our fellow Yanks. Tim and I have always had enough; sometimes even a little more than enough. We’ve lived simply; old cars, old houses, lots of second-hand furniture, little accumulation of expensive gadgetry. But the privilege granted to us at birth as white, middle class citizens of a world-class nation has opened lots of doors. We’ve always had access to quality education, decent jobs, adequate housing and first class healthcare. Not only were we able to accrue a modest savings account, but we are assured of being warmly welcomed by the governments of most countries on the globe. Our United States passports give us access to nearly anywhere we can dream of going.

Most of the circumstances that allowed us to make the choice to live abroad are not universally granted to huge numbers of the world’s population. Just as we didn’t have any role in being born white, middle-class Americans, the people who are not able to freely roam the Earth also had no choice in where they happened to be born. Tim and I are humbled by our dumb luck.

We talk sometimes about the reasons we found ourselves living an ocean away from everyone we cherish. It seems like it was always in our minds, although we never seriously planned for it until the last couple of years. Wanderlust and curiosity about our planet were the driving forces. Economics became more important as we recognized that our retirement income would erode over time until our lives would become very small if we stayed in the US. We began to get a little nervous about Medicare becoming a perennial political football. And, like so many Americans in the last couple of years, we became weary and frightened by the mean-spirited rhetoric we were hearing daily from certain politicians and the people who follow them.

And so we began our big experiment, full of eager anticipation and quite a few questions. Could we learn to navigate a culture we’d not been born into? Were our senior brains agile enough to learn a new language? Would our host country continue to embrace us if we failed to adapt quickly enough to their ways? Could we stretch our money enough to breathe easy every month, plus venture out into an even wider world occasionally? Could we really thrive without owning a car? But we never questioned whether we would be allowed to stay, or if we would be harassed by governmental agencies or private citizens. We are, once again, recognizing how fortunate we are.

One of our long term goals is to obtain a Portuguese passport – become citizens of this charming little country. That can take as little as five years, but will most likely take closer to seven. I wonder sometimes, after having achieved that goal, will we ever move back to the United States? For lots of reasons, it’s hard to imagine being extremely elderly in this place. But, we also can’t quite see how we’d manage back in the States. As it turns out, we enjoy being car-less, but that’s a very hard way to live almost anywhere in the US. Healthcare here is top quality, and very reasonable. In fact, we just bought a comprehensive medical insurance plan last week that cost around $1200 for both of us, for a year!

We love the warm, sunny climate, the sense of history, the fresh, unprocessed food, and the kind, generous people. I’m not surprised to find I really like living in a socialist country. The thing about socialism in Europe is that long ago, the people came to the conclusion that it is fair and noble to make sure folks have what they need to live a nice life, and they have decided that the government is a reasonable entity to oversee the programs that provide necessary services. No one seems to question that somebody might be getting more than they deserve. Everyone just simply accepts that living in a society means everyone watches out for each other. I recall seeing a Michael Moore movie a few years ago. Near the end of the film he was interviewing a woman in Iceland who was in a position of high authority in that country. He asked her if she would ever want to come live in the United States. I will never forget her response. She acknowledged that the USA had wealth, power, and influence, but she said living there held no interest to her. When asked why, she paused and said simply, “Because you don’t treat each other very well.” The sad truth of that statement hit home with me. Here, people treat each other well. I’d miss that a lot if we came back to the States.

Last month I finally read a new idea of the expat vs immigrant discussion. A guy who lives here in Portugal and has just published a book about his decision to never live in the US again, suggested this: If you live in a country not your own with the idea that you may eventually return to your native soil, you are an expat. But if you have no plans to ever live full-time again in the land of your birth, you are an immigrant. For me, the question is still not completely answerable, but more and more, I’m liking the sound of “immigrant.”

Finally! We made it to Paris! What surprised me the most was how familiar it all seemed. For someone who loves movies as much as I do, Paris feels like an old friend because we’ve seen so many of her iconic buildings and romantic streetscapes come to life in the cinema. She is, indeed a femme fatale, a diva, a star.

Our first night, we had a rendezvous with our American friends Maureen and Steve, and their charming daughter Kimmy, plus their friends from Germany. We all boarded a clean, bright city bus and took in the views on the way to the Eiffel Tower. We timed our visit to the tower for just after sunset, when she is lit up to her most flattering advantage. Shortly after we arrived, the incredible iron monolith burst into a brilliant show with thousands of lights flashing and sparkling in ecstatic frenzy. What a sight!

We walked across the Seine, stopping briefly to watch the boats and admire nearby bridges, before purchasing some crepes from a street vendor. The night was clear and brisk, and we were slightly intoxicated by the mere fact we were in Paris. But, I was weary from a day of travel and a miserable head cold, so the party broke up and we took another bus back to our hotel.

As is Tim’s and my custom when we first arrive at a great city, we booked two different loops of a sightseeing tour the following morning. Breakfast at a small cafe, followed by easy navigating through the underground metro system, brought us to the hop-on, hop-off double-decker bus. We were happy to see the sun, but were missing the warmth of Portugal as we made a chilly tour of all the highlights. It is a cliche’ to mention the vast amount of history that’s taken place in the this city. Centuries of art and culture have been inspired by her, and are now protected and preserved in her magnificent museums. Even the “ordinary” apartments of Parisians through the ages are elegant, and stately. They fill block after block, street after street, throughout the fashionable and less fashionable districts of the city.

By mid-afternoon, our tours over, we settled into another small cafe for a late lunch. We spent on two burgers and two beverages twice what we spend on a full dinner in Setubal, but the burgers were delicious and the atmosphere was magical. Who pinches pennies when in Paris?

We strolled a few blocks to the Louvre museum to people-watch and get a glimpse of the massive building. In the half hour or so that we meandered in the new visitor entrance of the pyramid, we were overwhelmed. The modern architecture is absolutely as grand and timeless as the enormous former palace that makes up most of the cavernous galleries of this place. We were two of thousands of folks at the Louvre that day. It was clear we had arrived too late, and with too little stamina to make much of a dent on the artwork housed here, but we’d absorbed plenty of the atmosphere, so we decided to head for the hotel. Taking a hike through city streets, across a bridge, down a pedestrian boulevard, we could drink in even more of the Parisian vibe. Traffic was intense, but it had no impact on us as pedestrians. We learned later that the Prime Minister of China was in town for meetings with President Macron, and security on the roads was high. I was feeling completely tapped out when we arrived at the hotel around 4:30. I had to bail on Tim and dinner with friends in favor of sleep. Waking only briefly to eat some of the crackers and cheese Tim had brought me, I slept through until 7:30 the next morning.

The following morning, still in the clutches of the head cold, we began what was supposed to be an easy day. We enjoyed a different view of the city from a boat on the Seine. Sheer delight, again conjuring scenes from countless films we’d seen. The plan for after the cruise was to take a short walk along the river and grab a bus to the Museum d’Orsy, to visit some Impressionist masterpieces. When we got to the bus stop, it was closed. In dire need of lunch, toilets and rest, we decided to walk toward the next bus stop in search of a restaurant where could could satisfy all of our bodily needs. As luck would have it, we chose the only extended length of pavement in all of Paris with neither toilets, nor cafes, and precious few benches. We noticed that the main street we were on, and most of the intersecting streets, were blocked by all kinds of police vehicles and gendarmes. These guys were dressed in black and were covered in so much protective gear, they looked like armadillos. Watching the news later that day, we learned that Angela Merkel from Germany had joined President Macron for his talks with the Chinese Prime Minister, and large swaths of the city were virtually shut down. That included the bus line we planned to take to the museum. We trudged wearily on, me fading like an old corsage. When we finally reached our destination, Tim checked out the best way to enter the mammoth building. No luck. He learned the museum was at capacity, and they were only letting small numbers of people in as the same number exited. Looking at the entrance queue of a few hundred people, we knew the Impressionists would have to wait until our next visit. We grabbed lunch, rest (and a toilet break) across the street and then began the loooong walk to the metro station that would take us to our hotel.

While I napped in preparation for dinner with Maureen, Steve, and Kimmy, Tim explored town on his own. The evening ended with a wonderful meal and great conversation with old friends. I was completely satisfied with my trip to this world-class city.

In my next post I’ll tell the story of meeting a woman at the next table in a restaurant our first night. It set a jovial mood for the whole trip. Now, I’ll end with a thought that has been nagging me since we left Paris. For all the talk about things we’ll see on our next trip to the city, I really wonder if the next trip will ever happen. With all the world that we’ve not yet glimpsed, will we really return to the places we’ve already seen? I grieve slightly at the lost opportunities of this visit to Paris, for fear they may never come again. But I also smile, knowing we were actually able to walk along the fabled streets, breathing the air and seeing the sights of that magnificent place.

I promised I’d write the story of the beautiful woman we met in a Paris restaurant, so here it is: Tim and I were seated at a small table by the window in a large, mostly empty restaurant. Just after ordering, the server seated a beautiful young woman at the table next to us – about four inches away. As courteous strangers do in large cities, we and she avoided eye contact to at least give a nod to privacy. Tim and I enjoyed a delicious meal and quiet conversation, while she ordered, and then ate her own dinner in silence.

Throughout the meal, we were chit-chatting with the server. We all laughed when I tried to use a French phrase, and all my brain could come up with was Portuguese. The server finally asked if we were Americans, and we confessed that we were. He was curious why we kept slipping into little Portuguese phrases, and we told him we were now living in Portugal and had flown to Paris for a long weekend. He asked a few polite questions about how we liked Portugal, and then left the table. I noticed that the young woman had stopped eating and was looking at us. She spoke quickly, saying in lovely, lilting English, “I apologize for intruding, but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. You’re living in Portugal?” We confirmed that was correct, and she proceeded to tell us her story. She is Brazilian, so Portuguese is her native tongue. She is married to an American, and they live in NYC with their two young children. They have just made the decision to move the family to Lisbon in July. She said she needed only an international airport to do her job, and her husband needed only an internet connection, so they were free to live anywhere. Although her husband is obtaining Italian citizenship through his grandparents, they chose Portugal as the perfect place to raise their children. When I asked what kind of work she did that required a nearby airport, she stated simply that she was a model. Judging from her natural beauty, I wasn’t at all surprised. She wanted to know all about our reasons for moving, what our early experiences in Portugal had been like, if we were happy with our decision. She was delighted to hear our positive reviews. We had a nice conversation, and left the restaurant feeling as though we had collected more evidence that the world was on the brink of discovering our adopted country in a big way.

Now, on to a few other items that have captured my interest. First, there is an unusual custom – or I should say law – here that requires compliance by anyone who has any commercial establishment. From bookstore to a B&B, laundromat to art gallery – all commercial endeavors must provide a Complaint Book where customers can lodge any complaint they have about the way that establishment conducts business. Proprietors must post a sign telling customers about the existence of the book. When anyone logs a complaint, a numbered carbon copy is automatically created. The business owner must send the copy to a central governmental office, where it is officially registered. I’m not clear on what happens then, but there are strict fines if business owners are found to be noncompliant. I believe the watch dog agency monitors statistics about the kinds of complaints being made, and looks for patterns that might be addressed on a national level. I also assume that knowing someone is keeping track of these complaints might influence the business owner to work hard to make their customers happy before a complaint is made. I’m not sure what the pros and cons of such a system are, but it is a novel enough idea and I wanted to record it here.

Next, we were with our friend Mike the other day. He and Helena had picked us up for a lunch some distance from our apartment, to meet another American couple. Now, we were returning to their home/AirB&B to help assemble a set of bunk beds. Mike was driving around the busy downtown area looking for a parking spot in one of the public lots for which they have a permit. At a signal from a scroungy looking guy, Mike made a turn toward a particular lot. He said something like,”There’s a space in here, if my guy didn’t steer me wrong.” Sure enough, there was one open space in that lot. Mike pulled in and handed the guy two cigarettes. We were curious about this transaction, so Mike explained the system employed in cities throughout Portugal. The local government provides basic housing for folks who find themselves homeless. In the case of the guy who signaled Mike, he and his brother share the apartment provided by the city of Setubal. In exchange for the housing, the residents are offered non-paid service jobs that allow them to earn tips in the form of cash, food, or cigarettes. Mike’s guy and his brother work in a couple of adjacent parking lots, signaling passing drivers when there’s an open space available. All day long, they survey their territory and usher cars to legal parking spaces, earning enough to meet their needs, while helping to relieve congestion on the crowded city streets.

And now, I’ll add some photos of our new apartment and the fantastic views we have from our perch 10 stories up.

After years of resisting the tricks of retail establishments to lure us into buying their merchandise; after months of shedding 99% of our possessions; after weeks of living with our landlady’s household goods, we have begun to enthusiastically acquire new stuff. The initial flurry of purchases has been joyful, frenetic, and exciting. We’ve refurnished our living room, added some art, and filled in a few necessary items. In a single night, we assembled eight pieces of Ikea furniture with a feeling of satisfaction. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed playing with colors and textures, and unleashing my creative spirit as we establish our new home.

In just 18 days in our new apartment, I think we’ve acquired all we need to maintain a pleasant and comfortable life. Perhaps a bit more than our basic needs. With the exception of a pair of drapes, a couple of mixing bowls, and a few lamps, I think we’re done. I really hope we’re done. I’ve been reminded in these past days about the allure of accumulating stuff, and frankly, it scares me. Tim and I have both felt so wonderfully unencumbered by the psychic weight of stuff in recent years that we don’t ever want to be trapped in the grip of materialism again. Wish us luck!

This week brought another kind of bounty to my life. I had a face-to-face visit with a friend from home. Wendy was in Lisbon for a couple of days prior to embarking on a cruise, so Tim and I took the train up to spend time with her. Tim returned to Setubal in the afternoon, but I stayed overnight to extend my time with Wendy. What a great boon it was to see a dear friend sitting right across the table! Phone calls and video chats are a lifeline, but there’s something extra special about being with a favorite person again after a long separation. It makes me look more eagerly toward our visit to the US in the fall. The best news for me now is that our new Ohio friends, Sandy and Jerry, will be in town next week for a couple of days, bringing some hometown vibe with them. Can’t wait!

We also made the acquaintance of an old friend this week. “How does one become acquainted with an old friend?” you might reasonably ask. We finally got to meet the owner of the apartment where we’d stayed our first four months here. Melodie returned from her annual six-month stay in Guinea Bissau and got in touch with us almost immediately. We’d only “met” through texts and a couple of phone calls, but our rapport was instantaneous, even through those somewhat impersonal channels. We all recognized we’d found kindred spirits before we ever laid eyes on each other. How nice we can nurture this new friendship in closer proximity now. Melodie is a French citizen who grew up in Guinea and has lived in Portugal for several years. What a fascinating history, and what great stories and perspective she brings to a dinner conversation!

With a place of our own and a growing circle of local friends, we are really putting down roots in our adopted country. But video chats with family and visits from US friends remind us that our original roots are still strong, too.

Our past two weeks have been so full that I haven’t taken the time to capture our experiences here. I’ll try to rectify that – at least in part – with today’s post.

We finally had the opportunity to meet our first landlady, Melodie when she returned from her six-month stay in Guinea Bissau. Through her texts, phone calls, and the experience of living in her home for four months, we were quite certain that we would really like her when we met. We were right. She is a delightful woman, slender and attractive, 40-something. Her nationality is French, but she grew up in Africa and considers herself more a citizen of that continent than of Europe. She taught herself Portuguese when she moved to Lisbon a few years back, and, despite her claims to the contrary, she’s pretty darned good at English, too. She is friendly, intelligent, funny, and also compassionate and kind. We all felt as if we’d known each other before. She’s in France for a few weeks on a family matter now, but will return in three weeks. We’re eager to continue our new friendship with her.

A couple of days later, we found ourselves in Lisbon for a great, albeit, too-short visit with our friend Wendy. She had arrived in Portugal prior to leaving on a cruise. Tim and I had lunch with her, and then Tim returned to Setubal. I ended up staying over in Wendy’s lovely hotel so we could extend our chat time. She hired a tuk tuk driver to show us the city, and we had dinner with her family that night. It was surreal to be sharing face-to-face conversation with one of may favorite people from home, and I’m really glad I had this chance. It only makes me miss her, and other friends and family even more.

After spending a couple of weeks getting our house decorated to something close to what we want, we knew it was high time to begin thanking people who had made our transition to Portugal as easy as it’s been. We invited Melodie, Ken and Jo over for dinner. Although we have more folks to thanks, our table size and inventory of plates and glasses limited us to three guests plus ourselves. What a nice evening we had! Conversation flowed easily, and we all became better acquainted through the stories we shared. Because every day is a “weekend” in retirement, our guests were able to stay late, doubling our enjoyment of the evening.

We took the following day to invite Mike and Helena over. Helena was detained at their Air B&B because a guest was very late checking in, but we had a nice visit with Mike. He announced that he and Helena wanted to take us to Cascais (Cash-KYSH) on Saturday if we were available. Yes, we were!

True to the plan, they picked us up Saturday morning and made the hour drive to beautiful Cascais. This is an upscale suburb of Lisbon that sits on the Atlantic coast. It’s a favorite spot for expats from all over the world, and it was easy for us to see why. We wandered around the gorgeous city center, admiring the expensive shops and fine dining. We walked onto one of the area’s pristine beaches, and navigated the Easter crowds to have lunch at a fabulous Brazilian buffet. It was a perfect day of bright sun and brisk breezes, making every one of the thousands of people we passed happy that they were in Cascais at that perfect moment.

Then M and H drove just a couple of kilometers outside the center to two different neighborhoods that the Portuguese call “social housing.” These are similar to what we call subsidized housing or “projects” in the States. At one time, these areas had been shanty towns where people lived in makeshift shelters of cardboard or tin. The poverty was intense and crime and despair were rampant. In the 1970s and 80s, new government initiatives launched innovative reforms that changed the fate of these neighborhoods and the people living in them. What we saw on our visits were clean, well-maintained apartments, painted sunny yellow. We saw cheerful neighborhood schools, playgrounds, a social activities center, and inspiring street art. The first place we went had a handful of huge murals that depicted the joyful spirit of the place. As we drove to the second one, Helena explained that in 2016, the government had awarded grants to local graffiti artists to create art in this place. Over the course of a single weekend, 21 artists converged here and created 21 robust, inspiring, four-story high paintings on the sides of apartment buildings. The four of us set off on foot, determined to see every single one. For over an hour, we explored the neighborhood, with each peek around the corner offering hope of seeing yet another masterful example of street art. We were not disappointed. If we were so inspired by what we witnessed, I can only imagine how proud the residents are to have such images adorning their homes. Be sure to check out our photos at the end of this post, which can’t do justice to the real art.

Helena had one more surprise in store as she asked Mike to drive along the coast and into the huge natural park. At every curve in the road, I was reminded of the rocky coastline along Route 1 in California. The cliffs, waves, secluded beaches, and a setting sun took our breath away. We watched surfers being pulled out into the choppy sea by huge, colorful kites, and children playing tag with the surf. High above, the roadway was dotted with restaurants and ancient forts converted to four-star hotels. What a fabulous way to end our first visit to Portugal’s coastal area. I stretched my eyes as far west as they would go, and bid a silent hello to the far away California shore.

When Mike and Helena brought us home, we invited them up for an impromptu dinner, compiled mostly from the leftovers of our parties earlier in the week. Again, conversation was fun and easy, and lasted long into the night. And what was even better, they invited us to join them for Easter dinner the next night! Helena made the best lamb I’ve ever tasted, and we enjoyed a fourth dinner with friends in one week.

This week, Sandy and Jerry, new friends from home, arrived in Lisbon ahead of a garden tour they’re taking. We took the train to the city once again and enjoyed a perfect day sitting at a sidewalk cafe having lunch, and walking around the area of their hotel. They were gracious enough to be willing to take the train to Setubal the next day, and we were delighted to show off our little city. These recent visits with folks from home have warmed our hearts and made us look forward to future visitors who make their way to our corner of the world. Come one, come all! We have the space and we’d love to see you! Until we can show you the sights in person, I hope you’ll enjoy these photos.

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Since my last post, we’ve been very busy, and loving every day in sunny (and not-so-sunny) Portugal.

Last week Mike and Helena took us for another exploration of our region of this little country. We drove through another stunning natural park and arrived at a place called Cabo Espichel, at the southern tip of the Setubal peninsula. The day was as perfect as days in paradise can be, with temps in the low 80s, low humidity, brilliant, cloudless skies, and a light breeze. As the car climbed to the top of a mountain, we were treated to a panorama of lush farmland, quaint towns, and rustic windmills. We passed groves of cork trees and acres of olive trees. Finally, we reached the flat top of the mountain which was covered with mounds of scruffy holly shrubs and patches of bare rock. At the edges of the mountaintop, the land dropped away to vertical cliffs with their feet stuck firmly into the sand of wild, secluded beaches, kissed by the deep turquoise sea. Sharing the breathtaking scene were a windswept ruin of a stone cottage, a large functioning lighthouse, the ancient remnants of a monastery, and a beautifully maintained old church. I took lots of pictures, some of which I’ll share below, but none of which do justice to reality. We spent at least 90 minutes up there, soaking up the sun and the silence of this oh, so peaceful place.

On Monday, Helena and I went to a nearby town to the home of a young woman named Cori. She’s an American, married to a Portuguese man, and the mother of three young boys. She and my Portuguese friend Milu hosted a brunch for seven women who have agreed to form the nucleus of a new social organization called Serendipity. We plan to meet monthly for fun and friendship, and to take on a couple of volunteer/social projects each year. It was a very nice day, and I agreed to host the June meeting at our apartment. I’m looking forward to getting to know the three women I met for the first time at Cori’s.

That night, I hosted another “dinner party” at our place, with Helena providing most of the food. She and Mike brought a lovely couple with them – guests in their Air B&B. John and Verna, from Seattle, have been on a tour of Portugal for several days, exploring the country for the ideal retirement spot. They had been impressed with nearly every city and village they’d seen, but when they came to Setubal, they knew they’d found their future home. The six of us shared stories and laughs late into the night. The next day, John and Verna opened a bank account and accomplished several other administrative tasks to make their transition to Portugal quick and easy. After a farewell dinner at one of our favorite restaurants yesterday, they left for Morocco, then back home to sell their house and pack their belongings. They plan to move here in October!

Starting tomorrow, we’ll be spending some time over the weekend with another couple who are scouting for their new home. I’ve been corresponding with Cathy and Dan through Facebook for several weeks, and we’re looking forward to showing them around town and introducing them to some friends. The day they leave, another Facebook contact is coming to Setubal with her sister to see if our city is right for her. Bethann plans to move to Portugal on a solo adventure this summer or fall, but is trying to find the perfect fit for her. After we’ve walked her around to see the highlights, she and her sister will join us at a Meet-up event with expats and locals at a little seafood restaurant near the beach. She’ll have a chance to meet our friends Ken and Jo, Helena and Mike, our tutor Helena, plus a few other welcoming folks. Let’s see if she can resist the charm of that bunch!

Amid all of this social activity, Tim and I have carved out some important projects of our own. First, we had our immigration interview on Tuesday, and were granted our residency cards for the coming year. That’s a big step, and one we’re excited to have completed. Additionally, armed with our newly-minted monthly transit pass, we decided to explore the far reaches of our city by starting to ride the many bus lines that weave across our flat city center and high into the surrounding hills. We’ve had minor adventures along the way, including on bus being forced off its appointed route by a road closure. As the driver wended his way through the steep and twisty roads of an “upland” neighborhood,” the streets got tinier and the parked cars more dense. Eventually, the bus reached a point where forward movement was impossible, side streets were impassable, and backing up was too treacherous to consider. The driver ordered all the passengers off the bus to find our own way down, while he pondered his predicament. I’ll wonder until I’m 106 how that poor man got that bus out of that pickle!

Anyway, we have many more bus lines to explore, but for a few dollars a month for all the bus, train, and metro rides we can squeeze in, you can bet we’ll be venturing further afield much more often in the future!

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The Portuguese are kind people. Tim and I have been the beneficiaries of their thoughtful kindness innumerable times since even before our arrival in their country. This week I was reminded again how kind they are when my friend Jo told me a story. She had a recurrence of a minor medical condition that needed a doctor’s attention. Although Jo and her husband Ken are 21-month veterans of living in Portugal, they’re fairly new to Setubal. Jo hadn’t yet had the occasion to cultivate any relationship with a local, English-speaking doctor, so she asked our Portuguese landlady, Paula for a recommendation. Paula gave her a name and phone number, and then checked back with Jo to make sure she’d had no trouble making an appointment. On the day of the appointment for her in-office procedure, Jo was touched to learn that Paula had stopped by the doctor’s office to make sure she was okay. Did she want a friend to wait with her? Had the doctor been able to help her? Did she need a ride home? Paula learned from the receptionist that Jo was with the doctor and doing fine. After Paula confirmed that Jo had a way home, she left the office. Jo would never have known of her quiet kindness had the receptionist not told her.

These are the common courtesies the Portuguese people we’ve met show us every day. Now, I don’t want to paint a picture of total paragons. Portuguese folks can be impatient drivers. Some are loathe to pick-up after their dogs. The boisterous celebrations and horn-honking after the local team wins an important soccer match can last for hours. But, their person-to-person relationships are sprinkled with an easy, natural kindness.

I thought of this the other day when a friend of ours posted an article on a Facebook page for American immigrants. It turns out that Portugal has a surprising law on the books that assumes most of their citizens would naturally chose to come to the aid of strangers in an unconventional way. In this country, everyone who dies is automatically assumed to be a willing organ donor, unless they have opted out through a national registry. This little country has a low opt-out percentage, and consequently, people spend less time on the waiting list for organ transplants than would be expected elsewhere. The law, and more importantly, the citizenry’s tacit acceptance of it, remind me again how the default setting of these folks seems to be whatever is the greater good for society. That shows up in a willingness to pay higher taxes to provide for the general welfare. It’s reflected in the policy that pregnant women, people with small children, the elderly, and people with physical impairments get priority service in public places; the first positions in long queues at banks, guaranteed seating on crowded buses, quick service in a busy restaurant. No one grumbles or fusses when someone steps forward to claim their priority status.

This selflessness and ability to see beyond one’s own immediate wants or needs in favor of someone else is a very appealing character trait. I can even see it demonstrated in certain governmental responses. I’ve mentioned it before, but when the EU tried to force Portugal into extreme economic measures to repair their teetering economy a few years back, the government declined. They believed austerity was not the answer to long-term financial health, so they launched innovative programs to bring more cash into the country, and spent it on programs that would directly improve the quality of life for the Portuguese people. Consequently, the Portuguese economy is on the rise. Even our local government has taken the long view for improving the economic climate of this blue-collar town. While doing windespread marketing about the tourism opportunities here, they are also investing in initiatives that directly effect the quality of life for ordinary residents of Setubal. On any weekday, in every quadrant of the city, you can see two-person crews sweeping and cleaning the streets and sidewalks. The urban parks in this small city are some of the most delightful and inviting I’ve seen anywhere. Little neighborhood playgrounds for young children are popping up, and compact, efficient recycling stations are readily available all over the city. And, as I’ve mentioned a lot on these pages, public art abounds in the bustling commercial district and in neighborhoods. All of these efforts make Setubal a vibrant, happy place to be.

Is it any wonder we love it so much?

Scarcely a day passes when Tim and I don’t comment about how vacation-like our daily lives are. Maybe this is the normal state-of-mind for most retirees. Maybe it’s Portugal. Whatever the reason, we feel perpetual gratitude and joy for waking up each day to this life.

So, exactly what do we do with our days? Below are a few snapshots of how we fill our time.

Laundry. We do quite a lot of laundry, in part because our washing machine is rather diminutive compared to the industrial-size machine we had in Dayton. Also because one of us drips some kind of food onto our clothing at least once a day. When a load comes out of the washer, we hang it on a rack on one of our balconies. Although we have a clothesline attached to our building outside the kitchen window, we rarely use it. First, I get a little squeamish when I have to lean way out of the window to reach the full length of the line. Second, I dread the thought of some item of intimate clothing flapping itself off the line, requiring one of us to go down nine flights to retrieve it from the sidewalk. And third, pigeons.

Our folding laundry racks can hold a full load of wet clothes. When they’re placed to take advantage of the sunny side of the apartment, and if there’s a slight breeze, the clothes usually dry in a half hour or so. Protected from pigeons by the overhang of the balcony, they don’t need to be washed again after drying. Today, I’ve done three loads, moving with the sun from the eastern balcony to the western one. I feel like some sort of pioneer woman as I fold the fresh-smelling garments, knowing my carbon footprint for clean clothes is pretty small.

A favorite pastime has become lingering on the east balcony after the laundry is done to watch the progress on the park construction a couple of blocks from our place. I think I’ve mentioned that Setubal is creating what will be one of the largest urban parks in the country, right here in our neighborhood. It’s surprising how fascinating it is to watch the heavy equipment moving dirt, carving trenches, and piling up rocks. We are enthralled by the intricate bulldozer ballet we witness every day. This week, the crew began lining long and winding trenches with the ubiquitous white stone that also paves every sidewalk in Portugal. We think we’re watching the creation of the network of ponds and streams that will eventually lace their way through the park. We posit lots of theories about the layout of the park as we sit in the shade, sipping our cool beverages. Will the remnant of that aqueduct be preserved as an architectural feature, or will it be submerged in the lake? Where are the amphitheater and the observation tower going to be? Will the exquisite purple-bloomed jacaranda trees be preserved? We are in awe of the incredible skills demonstrated by the equipment operators, and the intense physical labor that goes into creating this amazing park. We imagine the generations of people who will still be enjoying it 100 years from now. Can you see how contented we are to pass a lazy afternoon overseeing the construction?

This week, we learned about Setubal’s summer culture programs at the municipal auditorium. From May through August, they feature dozens of arts events that are free or nearly free; offerings vary from children’s theater to opera, jazz, contemporary dance, and classic film series. We took advantage of the latter when we joined Ken and Jo for the free Monday night screening of Absence of Malice with Paul Newman and Sally Field. It was part of what they call “Masterclass in the History of Cinema.” This year, the theme is world-class actors. We’ve marked our calendars for the upcoming screenings of films like The Shawshank Redemption, The Name of the Rose, Dead Poets Society, Witness, and others. These evenings will not only help quench our thirst for good English-language cinema, but will provide the opportunity for pre-film dinners and post-film drinks and discussions with friends. How perfect to combine three of my favorite things in one evening! Dinner, movie, and conversation with friends.

Our latest of what we’ve come to think of as “administrative” tasks is to traverse the gauntlet of registering for the public health system. Through our medical insurance, we’ve had access to the private system since the day we arrived, but by the end of this week, we hope to also be included in the excellent public system. We’re also ready to open a savings account here where we can put the surplus we seem to run at the end of each month.

Speaking of surplus, we have found a way to ensure it won’t ever get too big. We’ve booked another travel adventure! For those keeping score at home, we currently have scheduled: a week in Switzerland in August, a visit to the US in September/October, and a tour of Morocco in November. This week, at the invitation of my college roommate and her husband, we added 10 days in Spain for next March! I’m not sure which delights me more -seeing the beautiful cities of Spain, or traveling with such dear friends Joyce and Mark after a forty-year drought. Raising families and building careers sure takes a chunk of time in our lives, doesn’t it! How thankful I am that through the decades of separation, our friendship has remained strong enough to assure an easy companionship throughout the trip.

The remainder of our day-to-day life is filled with managing our social engagements, keeping tabs on personal and political developments at home, video-chatting with friends and family, reading, and grinning at each other as we realize we’ve just logged another day in paradise.