Blog

Today’s post is not about Portugal because my thoughts are on home. That’s Dayton, Ohio to be specific. A week ago, the greater Dayton area endured a hellish night during which 15 tornadoes tormented residents in a three-county area. One of those twisters was a category F4, which stayed on the ground for 30 minutes and cut a swath of destruction 19 miles long.

I’m grateful that our children and our friends all escaped injury and serious damage to their homes. It is a miracle to all but one family in the region that only one person was killed by these monster storms. Still, as the stories from home continue to make their way to us, I’m heartsick. The neighborhoods of my youth are forever changed. Some  may never be rebuilt. Hundreds of people are displaced. Thousands remain without power or safe water supplies.

Like me, everyone I talk to from home is driven to help in some meaningful way. The regional food bank took in donations of 500,000 bottles of water in just three days. Money is pouring in from every corner of the nation – and I might add – at least one corner of Portugal. Our eldest daughter, currently between jobs, was trying to figure out how to put her limited resources to the best use. She decided to  go to the dollar store and stock up on moist towelettes, hand sanitizer, deodorant, and other products that will allow someone to at least feel clean for awhile. My sister and her husband joined over 1,000 other volunteers in a clean-up effort in  the small community of Trotwood.

In a cruel slap, much of the havoc was wrought in moderate to low income areas where many residents had little to spare that might buy them some safety or comfort. One of the large apartment complexes that was destroyed was torn down yesterday, less than a week after the storms. The displaced residents were distraught that there were no trailers or rental trucks available to help them salvage their belongings before the bulldozers began to roll.

I’ve never felt so far from where I want to be. Every day in Portugal has been a gift to me for the nearly seven months we’ve lived here. Our lives are comfortable, easy, joyful. Indeed, it has become our home. Still, my heart feels the pull of another home. We’ll be returning to Dayton for a visit in the fall. I’m told there will still be clean-up work to  be done, and I hope I’ll be able to find a place I can pour my love, care, and pride for my fellow Daytonians to help in the recovery efforts. Until then, I’ll maintain my modest gifts to the American Red Cross and The FoodBank, and pray for easier times ahead for my devastated neighbors.

Keep strong, Dayton!

Portugal has a lot of holidays. National holidays, regional holidays, holy holidays. I guess when you’ve been a country for so long, and there’s no prohibition against mingling church and state, you have a great deal to commemorate.

This week hosted two such days of celebration – one national, and the other religious. I want to tell you about both.

Unlike many countries, the Portuguese like to observe their holidays on the actual date of when something happened. The only exception is when that date falls on a Sunday, in which case the holiday is celebrated the following day. June 10 is Portugal National Day. It began as one thing, but over the centuries has evolved into a much bigger thing. So, here’s what I know about PND. It was created to celebrate the life of Luis De Camoes. Since no one knows the date of his birth, the holiday is observed on the date of his death which occurred in 1580. Camoes was an adventurer and a poet. He wrote what is considered to be the greatest epic poem in Portuguese literature, depicting the fantastic feats of Portuguese explorers during the Age of Discoveries. Later, the day became a celebration of the Portuguese language, and after the Carnation Revolution in 1974, it became a way for Portuguese people living in communities around the world to remember and celebrate their heritage. In modern times, the President of Portugal names a different city or town each year to host the national celebration. There, the day is filled with parades, fireworks, speeches, food festivals, and other typical summer activities. Like many holidays, there is specific food associated with it, including the traditional bacalhau. This is salted cod, first invented by early sailors as a way to preserve fish for a long journey. On this holiday, most restaurants offer a version of bacalhau a bras, which is the fish mixed with eggs, potatoes, onions, garlic, and olives.

Because we don’t live in the city that hosted the celebrations this year, the only observance we noted was the closure of banks, postal service, and Portuguese restaurants. Still, it was fun to learn about it.

June 13 brought the annual celebration of Lisbon’s favorite religious holiday, The Festival of the Popular Saints. (Even in the rarefied world of saints, the popular ones have all the fun.) This holiday allows the good people of Lisbon and its surrounding towns to party in the name of the cities’ patron saints. In Lisbon, it is St. Antonio; Cascais celebrates St. Peter, and in Estoril, St. John claims the attention. The tradition I found most interesting is the Lisbon practice of choosing 16 women to be the Brides of St. Antonio. These are actual engaged women who, along with their intended grooms, apply for this very special honor. Couples must have a compelling story that wows the judges. Perhaps a tale of meeting in a most unusual way, or one of overcoming impossible odds in an age-old story of love conquering all. However they are chosen, all of the couples are married in a huge ceremony (a massive mass?) in the Church of Saint Antonio on June 13. All the chosen couples are feted and honored with lots of media coverage, a huge communal reception, and, through corporate sponsorship, lots of loot. Couples may receive furniture or major appliances, cash, free wedding rings, or any manner of riches.

Is it cynical of me to note on this romantic day of weddings that St. Antonio is the saint of lost causes?

Anyway, aside from the super-hype of the Brides, the rest of the local population celebrates with fish. Specifically sardines. These fish – a particular favorite of the Portuguese people – are only permitted to be fished in the months of June, July, and August. Because the season is short, the Portuguese waste no time in making the most of it. I’ve learned from books, videos, and local lore, that nearly every restaurant and private home in Lisbon has a charcoal grill set up by their front door for the sole purpose of grilling sardines to sell to the public. Hordes of tourists roam the streets, buying the culinary treats from whichever vendor happens to be within reach. I’ve also been told that since the fish are grilled whole and intact, there’s a special skill required to eat them whereby the flavorful flesh doesn’t become entangled with… fish guts. I had one thought when I heard these stories. “Wow! Walking up steep hills paved in stone, being bumped and jostled by millions of hot and hungry tourists while dissecting a hot, oily fish on a paper plate! Nope!”

Our friend Melodie had planned a cookout on her terrace this week to pay homage to the saints and the sardines. She’d planned the event so that her local friends could meet her parents who are visiting from France. The best day for all turned out to be Tuesday, June 11. Sadly, the local fish market was closed on Monday for Portugal National Day, so Melodie was unable to buy sardines. I must confess, I can’t image I would have enjoyed them as much as I did the delicious tapas she served instead.

With all I’ve learned about the Festival of the Popular Saints, I’m already making plans for next year – to stay far away from Lisbon!

About a week ago, we received a message from Helena on Sunday morning. It was our favorite kind of message because she asked if we wanted to go on a little adventure. Of course! Spending the day with Mike and Helena is always fun, but getting to see another part of Portugal with Helena as our personal guide puts a nice, juicy cherry on top.

When they picked us up about an hour later, they told us we were going to Évora, about an hour west of Setúbal, in the interior of Portugal. Now, Portugal is approximately the size and shape of the state of Indiana in the US. A person could drive the length and breadth of the Hoosier State – as I have done – and not see much variation in topography, climate, or crops. The same cannot be said of Portugal. Just a few minutes outside the city, I could tell we were entering an agricultural zone. Évora is the capital (think county seat) of a district of the same name – Évora. The Évora district is part of the Alentejo, which is sort of the bread basket of this country. The highway traversed beautiful country of rolling hills covered in long, golden grasses. Sprinkled as far as we could see on either side were meandering groves of cork oaks, which are rugged-looking leafy trees whose combined harvest makes Portugal the leading supplier of cork in the world. Grazing among the trees were small herds of copper-brown cows, living their idyllic lives. The acres of vineyards added to the impression that we had been transported to Napa Valley, California in the 1950s.

One of the most amazing sights on our trip to Évora was an odd juxtaposition of nature and industry. We drove through an area that contained miles of those tall steel towers that support high voltage electrical lines. As a young child, I liked to imagine they were an army of giant, broad-shouldered robots who were setting off across the country to bring technology and civilization to the unsettled parts of the US. At first, I thought nothing of seeing them here, but then something caught my eye. I noticed what appeared to be a HUGE nest high atop one of those towers. The next tower we passed confirmed that I had, indeed, seen a HUGE nest, because this one had a giant stork standing on the edge of a similar nest. The further we got into the region, the more storks we saw standing sentry over these mammoth nests, balanced among the supports of the electrical towers. Soon, we were seeing multiple nests on a single tower until we finally reached a pinnacle. There was one tower just a few hundred feet from the highway that provided perches for 15 giant stork nests! Every nest we saw was occupied by at least one giant bird. I wish there’d been a safe way to pull off the road and snap a photo, but you’ll just have to take my word for it. I recall driving through a small German village in the Black Forest whose residents built large platforms on their rooftops in order to attract nesting pairs of storks. It was considered great luck if your home was selected to host a family of stork chicks for the season. That little village will have to go some distance to top the accommodations the storks have found in Portugal!

When we got to Évora, just as Helena had predicted, we found we’d left the cool ocean breezes of Setúbal behind us. This small city is known for very hot summers and cold, damp winters. In spite of this meteorological disadvantage, Évora has been a thriving community since medieval times. Complete with Roman ruins of the Temple of Diana, this walled city is a UNESCO World Heritage site, known as a living museum. The architecture there spans the time of Julius Caesar to the mid 18th century. The Roman Temple was built in the 1st or 2nd century AD and withstood the devastating earthquake of 1755. Perhaps the most interesting, and absolutely the most ghoulish site is the Chapel of Bones. This tiny 16th-century church is made largely of human skulls and other bones. It’s said to have been constructed to remind passes-by of the temporary nature of life.

We wandered around this lovely historic city, lingered over a delicious lunch in a small local restaurant, and enjoyed ice cream at a sunny table in the middle of a pedestrian street. Nearly every structure within the walls is painted brilliant white, which Helena said is to reflect the intense summer sun away from the interiors. Many of the houses had door and window frames painted in a kind of mustard yellow. I thought it was curious that everyone used the same color of paint and Helena explained that the pigment was made from a mineral extracted from a particular kind of local stone. In times when paint was expensive, and colored paint was prohibitive, the locals made due with what their natural world provided for free. The practice became a tradition, and the tradition endures today.

As we left this ancient, yet lively place, I vowed we’d come back when we could visit more of the architectural treasures preserved within the walls. We returned to Setúbal, happy and tired. I’m so grateful to Mike and Helena for showing us some of the middle section of the country, and I’m grateful we returned home to our beautiful coastal home.

Tomorrow, I’ll write about a field trip Helena and I had with a friendly group of women.

.

This past week brought the second monthly gathering of Serendipity – a social group of women from all over our region of Portugal. This month’s activity was held outside the nearby town of Palmela, at a small ceramics workshop/factory. Helena and I arrived early and had a chance to drink in the charm of our surroundings. This little place called Fortuna was a small cluster of buildings that included the workshop where tiles and other ceramics are made, a showroom of their products, a painting room, the little restaurant, and a tranquil picnic grove. there was a splendid bougainvillea tree overhanging a stone terrace that included a quaint turtle pond. It was set in such a remote location that when we closed our mouths and our eyes, all we could hear were the gentle sounds of nature.

Naturally, that all changed when 10 women gathered! We had a tour of the workshop, given by Margarita, one of the handful of long-time employees of the business. Her English was slightly better than my Portuguese, so she spoke mostly in her native tongue while Helena and Cori translated. She showed us the various kinds of local clay they use, and demonstrated how various pieces were made. She mostly works with molded pieces like pitchers, cups, and the like. The rear section of the workshop is where the ceramic tiles are manufactured. It’s all done by one man using his own two hands and some ingenious tools. Most of the tiles they produce here are custom orders. This is one of the few places that will reproduce tile designs for folks who are restoring an old structure and want to replace broken or missing tiles with exact matches. The process for doing that is difficult and time consuming, but the results are magnificent!

After learning about the manufacturing process and watching the experts hand paint exquisite detailed pictures on some mural tiles, we were invited to paint a blank tile of our own design. The work table was filled with brushes and glazes of different colors, so all we needed was our imagination and a great deal of skill. Sadly, I came up short on the latter, but had fun anyway. We adjourned to the restaurant for a delicious meal of local specialties.

This outing gave us plenty of opportunity to visit with each other and get to know each other a little better. I was happy to become reacquainted with Angela, Carolyn, and Terrel, whom I’d met last month. I also got to talk with Tanika, from South Africa, as well as Kim and Gina from the US. All these women have such interesting stories of how they came to live in Portugal. The fact that we all ended up here by whatever means gives us a foundation of understanding and sympathy. One of the things I miss most about “back home” is my friendships with strong, smart, funny women. It takes a long time to grow and old friend, but I’m happy to see that potential among these women I’ve just met.

It will take a few days for our tiles to be fired and ready to go. Cori plans to collect them and distribute them to all of us when she has the chance. I predict mine will spend its life in a bottom drawer where I will discover it at infrequent intervals and remember this very pleasant day with fondness.

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

Last week brought a visit to nearby Sesimbra, courtesy of our generous and thoughtful friends, Helena and Mike. I had heard this coastal town was a beautiful place, favored by tourists and expats, and I was interested in seeing it’s old fort and the 12th century castle.

About a 40-minute drive from Setubal, Sesimbra was once a bustling fishing village. Even now, with the Portuguese fishing industry a shadow of what it once was, a few fishermen still ply their trade in the traditional methods. I enjoyed hearing Helena share her memories of watching teams of fishermen bringing their boats ashore and then lugging the huge, heavy nets further up the beach to auction off the daily catch. The nets were laden with all manner of fish – sardines, cod, sea bass, swordfish, and others. I learned recently that when Portugal joined the European Union, they were obliged to give up their vibrant fishing industry in favor of Spain. Apparently, the EU tries to assure that each member country has the means to support itself, and Spain needed the fishing industry more than Portugal did. After a period of time, when Portuguese fish canneries had closed by the dozens and hundreds of families lost their livelihood, the EU granted permission to begin commercial fishing again in small ways. The fish caught today may only be sold to a small domestic market, so as not to compete with Spain. A guide book told me that Sesimbra has also developed a reputation as a great spot for game fishing.

After a light lunch at a sidewalk snack bar across the street from the pristine beach, we walked to the 17th century fortress built at the water’s edge. This imposing structure was used to dissuade pirates from attacking the village in bygone days. Now, its high walls offer panoramic views of the crystal waters of the harbor, beautiful beach, and the commanding hills that rise dramatically from the village. Atop the highest hill sits the ruin of the castle. built in the 1100s. A short drive to the ruin gave us spectacular views of the white stucco town below. I felt as though I’d been magically transported to an elaborate model railroad layout with the miniature streets, boats, and houses far below.

After our delightful trip to Sesimbra, Tim and I, along with Mike and Helena met another couple for dinner at our favorite restaurant. The other couple, Claude and Bea, are Belgian, although they both grew up in Africa in what was then known as the Belgian Congo. As they near retirement, they’ve decided to settle in Portugal. We met them back in March when we were fellow passengers on the dolphin-watching voyage. They’d returned to Setubal this week to buy a plot of land on which to build a house. What a fun couple they are! As is often our experience here, we were both grateful that they were happy to speak English with us. Throughout the evening, we received gracious service from the hostess/owner. Julie is a beautiful young woman who grew up in France and is married to a Frenchman. I think she has a Portuguese mother. Her husband is the chef at this charming little place. With our table of six, she switched gracefully from English to French to Portuguese, to a combination of all three. As always when I find myself in such situations, I was delighted to be witnessing this phenomenon, yet humbled that I am woefully mono-linguistic. With minimal memories of the German I once knew, and a growing, yet weak knowledge of Portuguese, I fear I’ll never overcome this handicap. Anyway, the evening was lots of fun, filled with stories, laughter, and great food. We look forward to future times with Claude and Bea.

And suddenly, it’s July. Next week we will have been here seven months. Late in the month, we look forward to a fabulous week in Switzerland with our Swiss family. Not long after that, we head to the States for a nice long visit with family and friends. Time is flowing like a river, and we are so lucky to be riding this particular current!

As the plane lifted off the runway at the Zurich airport, I vowed to return the following summer, and every year thereafter. But sometimes, promises made by 17-year old girls must be broken. Education, jobs, marriage and children, financial circumstances command that new promises be made – and kept.

But 49 years later the girl returned to Switzerland. Was it worth the wait? No. I would rather have kept that vow many times in the intervening years, but now is certainly better than never!

Tim and I just returned from a marvelous 10-day visit with my Swiss family. In this case, the family began when Marianne came to Dayton in 1968 as an exchange student. Our sisterhood was forged that year, and we have shared our families of origin ever since. I was thrilled to spend so much time with Marianne and her husband, Pierre; to get to know her children and and their families better. Daughter Nathalie, with Andres and their little girl Nayra were able to spend much of the time with us. Son Jonas treated us to a delightful sail in his boat, followed by a beach picnic with the whole gang. Jonas’ son Caetano, age five, also joined us for most of a week.

Switzerland is as beautiful as you probably imagine. Picturesque mountains provided a dramatic backdrop everywhere we went. Cool lakes invited us to rest our eyes and refresh our bodies in their sparkling, crystal waters. Pristine cities and villages offered all manner of entertainment, from scenic dining to fascinating museums; from ancient castles to modern fireworks celebrating Swiss independence day.

It was great to be back. We had the privilege to stay a couple of days in an ancient chalet owned by Marianne’s cousins. Ancient is a word that might easily be overused in this country, but I think it’s a fair description of a wooden house built in 1594. The place, nestled in the alpine village of Brienzwiler, was spacious and comfortable (as long as you ducked under the low beams). On the eve of the big national holiday, the village hosted a community dinner, which our family attended en masse. Delicious homemade soup was offered free of charge, with hearty bread smothered in gooey melted cheese available for a fee. The festivities included a concert by a very good local band playing lively marches and folk tunes. Our evening culminated in a parade of children carrying lanterns, and adults with torches, marching through the village and back to the park for a spectacular bonfire. All of this was made more fun by the Swiss history lessons our hosts interspersed with great pride.

We spent hours in a fantastic museum dedicated to Swiss watchmakers and the concept of time. We toured the castle in Neuchatel, parts of which date from Roman times more than 1,000 years ago. We enjoyed a classical cello concert, performed on ancient instruments, in the cloister of a church built in the 12th century. Boat rides on mountain lakes, family meals in pleasant gardens, and evenings spent reminiscing were icing on the cake. I’m so grateful for the generosity of our charming hosts.

The time between my Swiss visits turned out to be a speck, when compared to the age of the buildings, cities, and mountains in this magnificent country. Still, it represents a majority of my life span. I will certainly not let 49 years pass again before returning. That is a promise I intend to keep!

It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything. Today is the day I’ve set aside to get caught up. It’s been a busy time, with a lot to report.

A couple of weeks ago, our friends Mike and Helena had a rare Saturday with no one checking in or out of their B&B. They were booked solid for several days and felt they could spend the day on much needed leisure activities. They invited us to ride with them on the ferry to the nearby peninsula of Troia. I may have mentioned Troia before. It’s a long sandy stretch of land that separates Setubal Bay on the Sado River from the Atlantic Ocean, and creates the longest beach in Europe at 43 kilometers.

We’d had close brushes with Troia before – once when we took the sightseeing boat out to see our local family of dolphins, and again every time we look to the left out our kitchen window.

The ferry offered a smooth, easy approach to the sandy shores of Troia, and in no time, we were driving off the boat and onto the peninsula. First, we parked at the developed end and saw up close the tall buildings we can see from our home. This area is the resort end, with pricey hotels, a casino, and nice shops and restaurants. It was a hot day, but the brisk breezes off the water kept us comfortable as we strolled around for a few minutes. We walked back to the car and drove a short distance up the peninsula, past a beautiful golf course and some gated communities of vacation rentals. Soon, we turned onto a sandy road that headed toward our ultimate destination of the ancient Roman ruins.

I’ve seen a few Roman ruins in my brief travels in Europe. They often consist of a few broken columns or the remnant of an arch. But these ruins were extensive. Our little group followed the long boardwalk that meandered through the remains of a significant community, built in the first century. We learned about this major fish processing community which had been the largest such outpost in the Roman world for five hundred years. Through signage and drawings mounted near the various structures, we learned about the importance of preserving fish which were then transported all over the Roman empire to feed the population. We saw what was left of the public baths used daily by the landowners, slaves, and visitors alike. We saw the crematorium and learned how this community had buried its dead. And we saw the remains of a large family home, situated with beautiful views of both the ocean and the massive estuary of the Sado River that attracts so many species of birds. We learned that a large expanse of additional ruins is being excavated and documented, with plans to open it to the public in the future.

I took a completely unearned sense of hometown pride in the important role Setubal has played throughout its history. This little area has been a hotbed of productivity and industry since the early days of civilization. I’m humbled to remember that I’d never heard of this place until just before arriving here less than nine months ago.

About a week later, Tim and I had our own little excursion. In an effort to become less dependent on the kindness and availability of our friends with cars, we decided to challenge ourselves with a trip to IKEA in Lisbon. We had a short list of small items we wanted for our apartment. We researched train/bus connections, and armed with a large tote to carry our booty home, we set off to prove we could still be self-sufficient adults. In less than an hour, we were walking into the mammoth marvel that is IKEA! It was a fun little outing, and I felt as pleased with myself as a kid whose training wheels had finally been removed.

We spent a good deal of time preparing for the visit of two sets of friends coming from the US. The first couple, Joan and Bart, decided to make us their first stop on a two-month tour of Europe. More on that visit later. I’ll just say we’ve had a good time shopping for a few little tidbits that make our apartment a little more inviting and entertaining a little easier.

Just before Joan and Bart arrived, we joined a crowd of our local friends for a cookout at the home of Milu and Dave. They recently moved to a lovely condo community about 15 minutes outside of Setubal. A group of 20 or more, including young children, gathered under a large pergola covered with lush grapevines that provided welcome shade over two long tables. The guys fired up the two big brick grills so everyone could cook their own meat or fish. The tables were practically sagging under the weight of salads, desserts, and beverages. (That’s saying a lot, because the tables were concrete!) We passed several delightful hours of camaraderie under the brilliant, Portuguese sky. Conversation was free-ranging from US politics to language lessons, book recommendations,and recent visits to local points of interest. Through it all ran the thread of our mutual love for this precious country. New friendships were forged and older ones were strengthened. What an amazing, perfectly enjoyable day!

Throughout the week that followed, we have had the pleasure of a nice visit with Joan and Bart. Sometimes we strolled with them through our favorite parts of the city. Other times, they explored on their own. We enjoyed fabulous meals in every cafe or restaurant we tried. We passed hours under the shade of an umbrella or tree, sipping cool drinks, and solving a majority of the world’s problems.

Tim and I decided that since we had spent so much time getting our home “company ready,” we should throw a party. With only a day’s notice, we invited several folks over for Happy Hour to meet Joan and Bart. With 15 people sitting, standing, eating, and talking, we learned that the capacity of our place is probably about 16 people. Although, if everyone were as compatible as this group, we may be able to squeeze in 20 or more. We had enough food and beverages to last about an hour, but the gang hung out for more than four hours! What an honor to have had such a charming group grace our little place for an evening. We’ll definitely do that again!

Bart and Joan left early today, headed for Brussels, Venice, and the coast of Croatia. I can’t wait to hear all about their travels. For now, Tim and I are feeling bereft. But, as always in this astounding life we lead, there are new delights just around the corner. Mario and TR arrive in eight days!

This title could refer to either the immediate past, during which I’ve completely neglected this blog, or to our immediate future, when we’ll be heading to the US and Ireland for a total of 4 weeks.

We’ve been pleasantly occupied in recent weeks with the the visits from two sets of friends. Joan and Bart were here in August, with Mario and TR arriving in early September. We had a great time catching up on their news and showing off our European home town. I can report that all our visitors were either charmed by the same things about Setubal that we are, or they are all very convincing fibbers. Our pride in showing off our favorite sights, sounds, and flavors only increases our appreciation of this terrific place.

With the visit from our friends came the knowledge that I’ve never spelled the name of our city phonetically in this space. I know this because both parties pronounced it the same as each other, but quite different from the official way. The city’s name is pronounced seh TOO bahl, unless you were born and raised here. The true natives say SHTOO bahl. Now that we have that cleared up, I trust my readers will be saying it correctly when they come for a visit!

Our calendar continues to be filled with social opportunities: trivia nights, carry-in dinners, lunches and dinners with various friends, movies, some sight-seeing, trips to Lisbon, and shopping for small tokens we’ll be taking with us to the US. Oh, and we’re also still plugging away at our Portuguese lessons.

A few weeks ago, between visits from our American friends, Tim and I joined a mini-tour of the area just across the river from Lisbon. We’ve crossed the river many times when we go into the city via train or car, but our eyes are always on the north bank. This time, we took a combination of train, tram, and bus to meet up with a small group at a marina on the south side of the Tagus River. First, our guide took us on a tour of the last sailing war ship of the Portuguese navy which was retired in 1874. As we approached Dom Fernando II, she looked stately, but mot large enough to have been too intimidating on the high seas. When we were told she generally sailed with a full crew of between 600 and 650 men, none of us could imagine where all those people would have fit. But as we clamored throughout four decks, she seemed to stretch before our eyes. What a beautiful ship she was! Every surface of wood, glass, and brass were polished to a fine patina. The officers’ dining room was lovely and refined, equipped with dainty bone china and elegant silver service. Mannequins modeled the crisp formal uniforms of the day. Below we saw the holds for supplies, the efficient kitchen, a tiny boiler room providing hot water for the officers, the infirmary, and the wooden posts where insubordinate or lazy sailors were shackled for a few days as punishment for their transgressions. We even saw a cramped suite for passengers who may have accompanied the crew. I trust most of these would have been the family of the captain or other VIPs.

Surrounded by this backdrop, my mind tried to imagine what a voyage on that ship must have been like in heavy weather. I’m always agreeable to a zippy sail on an inland lake, not even objecting if passengers are called upon to heel out over the open water as the boat tips high into the air. But riding this beast into a stormy sea would not be my idea of a joy ride! I’ll have to ask my brother, a US Coast Guard-licensed captain, if staffing a ship like this one is something he’d ever want to try. I thought about my dad, a WWII navy veteran, a lot during this outing. How far the technology had advanced in the 70 years between the voyages of this ship and the one on which Dad served!

After touring the ship, our little group took a bus to a high point of the south bank, on which perches the gigantic statue Cristo Rei. This is a slightly smaller replica of the colossal statue that overlooks Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. We took an elevator most of the way up the tall pedestal of the statue. (They must have run out of money for an elevator that went all the way up to the top!) Those of us wanting to ascend to the observation deck at the foot of the statue had to shimmy past the horde of people coming down on the 18-inch wide winding steps made of slippery marble. The ascent was made even more challenging by the steamy temperature in the airless stairwell. Let’s just say that when my ample ass had to squeeze past another woman’s bountiful bust, we become very well acquainted! Just as I was deciding that I would leap off the 15-story observation deck rather than slither down those horrid stairs, I emerged out of the stifling gloom, into the fresh breeze and phenomenal views below! We spent quite some time on the deck with the statue towering some 150 feet above us. After our eyes had absorbed the sights of beautiful Lisbon and her surrounds, after our brains had recorded the memory of those views, after our lungs had sucked in a good supply of clean, fresh air, we reluctantly began our uneventful descent. It was well worth the time and effort, but would I eagerly go again? No, I would not.

Now I turn my attention to our trip to Ohio. We are both eager to see beloved friends and family, visit favorite haunts back home, and purchase some items not readily available here. Still, we are sad to pull ourselves away from our life here. We’re looking forward to a fabulous month away, and are eagerly awaiting our return to Portugal.

My dear, sunny Portugal,

From my first glimpse of your wide-open spaces, dotted with gnarled olive trees and humble ruins of abandoned homesteads, I was smitten.

I’d seen other perfectly charming parts of the European continent.;Switzerland, with her pristine mountain villages filled with story book chalets and quaint mountain inns. I’d walked down the wide manicured streets of grand, haughty Vienna. I’d strolled the banks of the Seine in Paris, admiring the city’s fabled light and imposing architecture. But you, Portugal, you were different.

Like the Velveteen Rabbit who lived in my childhood bookshelves, you were real. Worn and a little shabby in places, you were approachable, genuine. I knew from the start that you and I were well-matched.

After months of reveling in the warmth of your ever-present sunshine, admiring the endless, cloudless canopy of brilliant skies, I was truly at home. I thought I knew you as well as any person could know a place they weren’t born in. Following your unpretentious example, I could be totally myself, allow any superfluous affects of my previous character to fall gently away. You and I together – simple, easy-going, and, hopefully kind.

Now as so often happens with newfound love, the passage of time reveals additional traits in the object of one’s affection, and so it is with us. In recent days, you have shown me your darker, moodier side. You are now Portugal who rains. Slow, steady, unrelenting grayness has enveloped you, and by extension, me. Your gentle hills and the silver sliver of sea you revealed through my kitchen window are draped in a misty veil. Dreary day melts unnoticed into sodden night, your sunsets hidden behind a curtain of fog and gloom.

Friends told me this would happen. I didn’t doubt them, but I was unable to envision that which I’d never seen. Now, it is hard to picture the halcyon months we shared. But, never failing to recall the ways those months felt, I hold fast to the belief that they will return. When you emerge from this depression, as warm and fun-filled as before, I will be here to welcome you.

But, my darling Portugal, I must say if this rain continues very much longer, I will surely need counseling.

A couple of weeks ago, I was literally “living the dream.” By that, I mean I was engaged in one of the activities I’d always dreamed of doing when I imagined living overseas. I was sharing a leisurely meal with a group of friends at an umbrella-shaded sidewalk cafe. We’d finished a simple, tasty late lunch and were involved in meandering conversation and people-watching. It was the first sunny day in over two weeks, so the streets were filled with people. Young families, couples, and small groups were strolling Setubal’s waterfront, taking full advantage of the national holiday that had closed schools, banks, and most businesses.

All of a sudden, we noticed something unusual in the port. Entering the Sado River from the Atlantic was a large white ship! Now, the Setubal harbor is a fairly busy port. Mammoth cargo ships from around the globe come and go several times a day, year round. Large naval vessels dock here for repair and maintenance. But this was different. Was this new phenomenon a huge private yacht? Was it a very small cruise ship? Had it made a wrong turn or mistaken our port for the much larger one in Lisbon?

Crowds began to gather and gawk at this novelty, especially when it became clear that the ship was preparing to dock near the fisherman’s end of the bay! As it drew closer and we could begin to read the name and identify her flag, smart phones came out of pockets at our table. Within minutes, Professor Google had given us the full scuttlebutt on the ship in question. She was, indeed, a passenger ship, flying under the French flag, and preparing to carry 250 passengers and 130 crew to Uruguay! Once there, she would spend the southern hemisphere summer shuttling tourists to and from Antarctica. On the day we saw her, she was devoid of passengers, but after loading provisions in Setubal, the passengers would board the next day and head out to sea.

We have been reading a lot of news stories about how the cruise industry is ruining some proud and ancient cities of Europe. These monolithic floating cities will engorge upwards of 5,000 passengers into places like Venice, Amsterdam, and other Old World gems. The hoards will infiltrate coastal areas looking for bargains and iconic views before departing to make room for the next ship. They leave litter and pollution in their wake, and demand thousands of law-wage workers to serve them during their brief foray. Reading these reports, I had always been grateful that Setubal had escaped the notice of cruise lines. Apparently, I was wrong.

The president of the regional port authority said she was looking forward to welcoming more such ships as part of Setubal’s burgeoning tourism market. Although our port is probably not big enough for those enormous mega-liners, I’m a little sad to see the dawning of mass tourism arrive in our corner of the world. I recognize the selfishness of that notion, but I am reluctant nonetheless. I guess we glimpsed the future on that chilly, sunny day in November.

Early last week our friend Melodie suggested that Tim and I should join her for dinner. She had researched a typical Portuguese restaurant near us that she wanted to check out. Unfortunately, our plans were thwarted when we found the place closed. As we stood outside the locked iron gate that sealed the charming courtyard, the owner emerged. She explained in Portuguese that she had closed for the night so that she could clean up after a large event she’d hosted there the previous day. She emphatically encouraged us to try come back. Melodie returned the following day, but the place was filled for a private event. Again the owner apologized and told Melodie that she would like to fix a special private dinner for her and her friends.

We received notice from Melodie that four of us were invited to join her for lunch on Saturday. The owner wanted to know in advance whether we wanted fish or meat, because she would buy our food Saturday morning. At the appointed hour, Melodie, Ken, Jo and Tim and I met at the cozy hole-in-the-wall. For the next three hours we enjoyed plate after delicious plate of local specialties. As is typical of Portuguese restaurants, the table was pre-set with delicious olives, bread, and locally produced sheep cheese. This made way for a salad of vine juicy tomatoes and dewy fresh lettuce. Roasted sweet potatoes were followed by two platters of fish. One was baked, and covered with a shrimp sauce; the other piled with crisp, delicious grilled fish. All the while, beautiful music played in the background, blending with the old musical instruments that were displayed on the walls. After the fish had been cleared away, a plate of tiny dishes arrived, filled with heavenly homemade tangerine and toasted almond sorbet o cleanse our pallets for the dessert course. We were all wondering how we could possibly squeeze another morsel down our gullets when the lady returned with mini servings of three different kinds of mousse! Certainly no bigger than a couple of tablespoons each, these perfect little treasures were the stuff of dreams! The first was what the Portuguese fondly call “camel’s drool,” although that derisive name in no way captures it’s essence. It is a blend of caramel, sweetened condensed milk and other magical ingredients that, through the marvel of alchemy, becomes a slightly sweet confection of clouds, warm breezes, and the freshness of nature. The second dish contained a concoction of light custard, nuts, spices and some unknowable elements. If possible, I’d say it was even better than the first sample. Finally came the chocolate mousse. What more needs to be said?

All of this culinary magic was provided with warm and charming service by Jacinta. This diminutive lady with sparkling eyes and world-class dimples has been running the solo operation for 50 years. She is the owner, hostess, shopper, chef, server and custodian. In addition to serving lunch and dinner every day, her place is the site of many special events like birthday celebrations, weddings and family reunions. Next time you’re in Setubal, be sure to stop by Saribas restaurant and talk with Jacinta. With luck, she’ll be able to find a seat for you at her bountiful table.