Husband Knows Stuff #3: The Portuguese Language

We've just gotten back via delayed flights and a long stop into the Stavanger Airport "Where-Is-Our-Luggage" office.  

The two weeks in Portugal were lovely and completely eventful.  We tasted gallons of wine, made loads of friends, soaked up hours of sun and drove almost 2000 kilometers.  

It was exactly what we needed.  

Instead of telling all about it right now, I must go and track down our bags, then go and pick up the sweet hunds who will most likely smell like a foot. 

 

But stories and photos will come soon.  

In the meantime, I leave you with this, the latest installment of "Husband Knows Stuff" Episode Three: The Portuguese Language...*

*If I were more savvy, I would know how to flip it around, but unfortunately that particular skill is not one I possess.

We're Off!

Tomorrow we're leaving for Portugal.

I don't think I'll be able to post while we're gone, but check back on June 26th if you'd like to see some of our adventures.

In the meantime, here's where we'll be....



View Larger Map

We're flying in and out of Lisbon, then renting a car to drive up the coast to port wine country with stops in Eirceira, Porto and Pinhão.

Then we'll head back down through Portugal to Lagos for more beach and surfing.

Over the past few weeks, I've been a little-culture shocked. Husband has been a little over-worked, so we're going to recuperate and get our heads back right.

See you soon!

Float On

Cruise ships freak me out.

I've only been on one cruise (AKA the "Giant Floating Bucket of Vomit") in my entire life, but that was enough.

A week or so after we graduated from high school, most of my class joined about 500 other graduates on a Senior Cruise. We left from Miami, headed to the Caribbean and then back.

It was miserable for a variety of reasons.

There is no drinking age (or maybe it's a lowered one...I don't care enough to check) in international waters, so when we were about five miles out, the bar was open.

So mix 600 or so thirsty 18 year olds with rough waves and hence the name "Giant Floating Bucket of Vomit." (Of course, about three days in, all the booze was gone and a helicopter had to come and drop off some more.)

But along with the memories of the smell, along with all the other reasons, I also don't like ships because I cannot get off them.

Passengers are completely stuck.

If the vacation is not going as planned, there's really no way to leave, unless of course you want to hire massively expensive alternative transportation or just throw yourself off the side.

But people, not including me, love cruises. Many of which dock here during the sunny months.

The Stavanger harbor gets packed with giant boats and the biggest one I've seen thus far is the Queen Mary.

Look closely, she's peeking up over downtown, like some nautical Godzilla.



She's so big, that I couldn't even get the entire ship in the frame without standing in the middle of the street.



These are the lifeboats.*



*Every time I see lifeboats, I think of my friend F.

She's been one of my dearest since we were ten or so and was one of the Senior Cruisers.

Our little gang was sticking together and looking out for each other. Not only was it fun, but the notion of watching out for all the drunk, hormoned men was drilled into our heads, pre-boarding.

But one afternoon, F. disappeared. Once we realized that no one had seen her for a while, we split up and started searching.

I poked my head through the door labeled "No Admittance--Staff Only" and started wandering around. It was the emergency deck with all the lifeboats covered and hanging from hooks.

I called her name, while also exploring a bit.

About halfway around, F. popped her head out of one of the lifeboats where she had been lounging with a new friend and confirmed she was just fine.

bikinis and loathing

Here's what I am thinking on today....

1) I love my new (slightly tacky) metallic green H&M $20 bikini more than the (tasteful) green $200 Calvin Klein bikini I saw in a swanky boutique.

and

2) My sun scorching hate for Car has been downgraded to mild loathing.

Sex and the City and happy

I've always thought that a journalist is, boiled down of course, a fairly eloquent detective.

But I think I'm going to have to amend that a bit because if I opened my own detective agency I couldn't hang out a sign saying "Full service."

When my clients came back for the proof, they would have to be satisfied with my reports and the details.

I say this because I am rotten at taking the stealth photos.

Sex and the City Friday night was so much fun. Eight girlfriends and I met for dinner, all dressed in our best finery, which means fun dresses and for one, whose husband dropped her off, fun shoes as well. We had a giant group dinner with drinks, then moved on to dessert and wine, then headed to the theater.

And we weren't the only ones. All over the town, groups of women were doing the exact same thing. It was really charming to see, which below you would, if I were better at taking the stealth photos.



Before the movie, we all loaded up on popcorn.



Then settled into our seats. The entire theater was filled with women (and one slightly uncomfortable gentleman) chattering in English, Norwegian and at least one other language, which I also don't know.

When the lights went down, the auditorium erupted in clapping.

But how was the movie?

Yep, I read all the reviews, too and didn't care a bit.

Sure, there were a few flaws. Lily, Charlotte's daughter, should have had more to do than just sit around as a plot device. And the running gag with Samantha's dog was just distracting. And really the movie didn't need them.

It was just a visit with some friends we haven't seen in a while. We'd been wondering how they were and it's good to know how things turned out. And every bit was fitting.

And as with every really good Sex and the City television episode, minus the puns and the shoes, I was left with a few things to think about.

My favorite quote happened about halfway through.

The four were talking about whether or not they were happy.

When it was Charlotte's turn, she says "Yes, I am happy."

The other three, doubt and then probe and she says something along the lines of,

"I am. Not every single minute of every single day. But at least once every day, I am happy."

And that, I think, is a good standard to hold.

Sex and Stavanger

Tonight is the "Stavanger premiere" of the Sex and the City, which is a big deal because we just don't get the good movies here. There are always multiple showings of the latest Ashton Kutcher blockbuster of "What Happens in Vegas" and "10,000 B.C," but quality flicks (or even quality fluff) are hard to come by, for sure.

I love the movies. Because of my somewhat odd freelance schedule, I usually had a few days free. And whenever I had a chance, usually a few times a month, I would go to the biggest multiplex, buy a giant Diet Coke and box of popcorn. I would meticulously time the showings so I could try to catch two in a row, but the key was to get there before the lights went down.

Then I would choose the best seat in the middle of the second or third row---close enough that the movie was huge and larger than life, but not so close that I ever had to crane my neck---and settle back for some good hours of cinema time.

And then at the end, I don't hurry, I think it's important to read the credits. As a writer, with a byline, I think it is only proper to read other people's bylines, especially if I enjoyed it.

But here, in Stavanger, there are not daily matinees. And I am convinced that our particular theater is where rotten American movies come to re-coup their box office losses. It's really a chicken/egg sort of thing, I've decided. Norwegians (and other foreign audiences, I suspect) will buy movie tickets, any movie tickets, so have them buy the ones that need the dough back in the bank. They would probably buy tickets to the good movies, too, but those already make money in other markets, so the movie makers send their rotten ones for our viewing pleasure.

They also like to tease me with the movie posters. The people who run the movies here must put everything up on the wall, just because they get it in the shipments. Or maybe it's just a giant shipment of "here's what you can't have, suckas!"

So tonight is "Sex and the City." And yes, it's been panned by critics worldwide, but my friends who are fans say it's good fun. So a group of girlfriends here are getting together for dinner and cocktails and then we're going to see the movie.

I've always had a complicated relationship with Sex and the City. I lived in New York for a decade and my friends and heard about Sex and the City, but we were all young and poor and while we could afford shoes, booze and rent, HBO was not a part of any of our budgets, at least not until well through Season Three or Four. But we would gather on occasion to watch it at our more fortunate friends, the ones in finance who did have cable in their budgets.

Then, when cable became something I could write off on taxes (I was a pop culture reporter, after all) I would spend entire days watching the back-log of shows. It was pretty much the only television I watched because I was always out, working or well, doing things.

And now, when people talk about their devotion to the show, I always want to explain that my devotion is a little different. Many love it for the sexiness and the New York glamour, but my friends and I loved it for how it captured life there---Not necessarialy the shiny nights or the pretty shoes, but the actual kind of person who lives there. A little bit brave and resourceful and ultimately hopeful, all tinged with a bit of cynicism.

Also, the writers, especially in the middle seasons, didn't separate each one of the characters into types that are wholly one thing or another, the writers gave them types that are facets of every woman.

I think neurotic neat-freak when I think of Monica Geller, but when i think of Carrie, I think cautiously hopeful, clumsy, not so practical, kindhearted, funny. Samantha is powerful, straightforward and a great business woman. Charlotte is optimistic, slightly naive and traditional. Miranda is cynical, slightly acerbic and independent. but not one of them is any one way all the time.

And over the seasons, each one of them evolved. I'll bet that while there are certainly some women that think they are the embodiment of one of the four, I'll also wager that there are varying degrees of each of them in most women and the degrees probably vary at any give time.

Anyway, there are loads of thoughts I have about the show, that it was really a family drama in the sense that cities create their own little urban family groups and that it made it okay to talk about the real things happening. And that if one show showed Magnolia Bakery, you could be sure that the throngs of tourists would show up the very next day.

But in any case, whether or not the movie wins loads of critical award which seems wholly uncertain, I'm going to take my friend Nan's advice, "Ignore the haters. If you love the show, you'll love the movie. It's like going to visit some old friends. Old friends who dress way the hell better than you."

Not That Far Away

My sister Claudia is my favorite (non-Husband) person in the world.



She is eight years younger and lives in Gainesvegas, Georgia, which is what I call it because it's not.

This is her ridiculously gorgeous and sweet natured son Jack. He likes to babble and stuff random things into her purse.



We haven't always liked each other.

When she was about nine months old, I hid her in a dirty clothes basket and tried to convince my mother Claudia ran away from home, but it was no big deal. She still had my brother and me.

The Big D did not buy it and eventually Claudia woke up, cried and Mom tracked her down. (Seriously she was fine and asleep on soft towel. No harm done.)

Claudia, for a variety of reasons, was my miniature companion for years.

My mom was dating at about the same time I was, so if there was a choice on who was going to babysit, I usually was on duty.

So instead of canceling my date, when the gentleman in question showed up, I'd just hide her behind the door for a minute and grab both our coats.

Then sweetly inform him that we were so excited to go to a movie, but surely he would understand that it needed to be PG tonight. Amazingly enough, they were always good sports about it. (I used to call it "The Boy Test," if they couldn't be a good sport about the occasional sister tag-along, they didn't last long.)

So Claudia, dressed in her best overalls and pigtails, would head out with us.

Later on, when I was in college Claudia would spend the long January weekend with me in Athens, doing whatever I was doing on those days. We'd go to class, visit beaus, shop, go to Waffle House late night, even fraternity parties.

I always had good friends there who would keep an eye on her, plus she never left my sight. And early on, we practiced what to do if someone offered her a beer or a cigarette..."No thanks I'm trying to quit." Which was hilarious and ridiculous and kept any pressure at bay.

We have several unbreakable family traditions like sneaking away from family gatherings for a pre-Christmas dinner bloody Mary and the annual Santa-Stops-By-the-7/11 break.

She lived with me for a while during the New York years and there has rarely been a time when we haven't talked every single day.

Until now. And both of us were freaking out a little bit about it before Husband and I moved here. We're six hours away and it's often hard to connect.

People even pulled Husband aside and would whisper, "You know, it would be really good if you could figure out a way for the two of them to talk as often as possible."

So he did of course.

We have skype and he gives me his international cell phone whenever I need it. And he hasn't said one word about my occasional international use of my own norwegian phone.

But no system is perfect, so it's the second best thing to know that somewhere on the other side of the world is a green star just like my red one.

In Which I Do Not Appreciate Nature (Enough)

I believe I've mentioned in the past that Husband and I are very bad tourists.

Overall, we don't plan very well.

And the reason is not that we cannot plan well, it's just that in our leisure time, often, we don't want to...*

Which is why we took a cab part of the way to Preikestolen.

This is the view from the back seat of the cab


Preikestolen is one of the major tourist attractions in Norway.

It's a giant cliff about 2000 feet above Lysefjorden, our local fjord, located about an hour or so outside of Stavanger.

In English, Preikestolen means "Pulpit Rock." Some people think it's because it is a flat protrusion out into the fjord, so perhaps it is similar to a kind of stage for a minister.

But at least one source suggested that it's called Pulpit Rock because that is where the ancient people used to sacrifice their offerings to the gods.

It takes about two hours to hike to the top and another two to hike back down. Along the way, it is possible to attract loads of flies. (Just a warning and it was not just us. I promise. The liked everyone. These are equal opportunity flies. I did not know about them before we left home.)

About 100,000 people make the hike every year.

Along the way, we passed group of Asian tourists, geared up, holding parasols and chattering away.

We passed Americans with the very best in North Face-wear.

We passed young kids in sundresses.

There were even some couples, one half of which were well into their third trimester of pregnancy.

It was so hot that women were just shucking off their tops, displaying bikinis as well as lacy Victoria Secret-esque wear.

There were even a few that looked like they were just shopping around town and on a whim decided to hike on up the trail. These were dressed in jeans, cute sandals and frilly tops.

We decided that we would take the ferry, then the bus, which would let up off right at the trail. (I love adventures like this. While I don't want to be with all the peoples all the time. It's fun on occasion.)

But on this day, we neglected to check the bus times. So when we got to the other side of the fjord from Stavanger, we happened to hit the time of day when the buses took an hour break. So the bus dropped us off in a parking lot in a little town about half way there.

So we sat, ate our sandwiches and waited for a cab.

This is the beginning of the trail. I am starting to think that hiking is a better idea in theory than practice.



Which to be clear: I am not lazy and I like nature. I especially enjoy urban hiking, perhaps measured in blocks, as opposed to kilometers straight up.

And I am absolutely pro-nature, especially from a distance.

This is the first third of the trail.



The rocks are of varying sizes and stability. I'm okay with this until I start slipping and hanging onto trees.

(Also, to the people hurrying behind us: You are show-offs. If we were in cars, you would be following too close and I would be tempted to slam on my brakes, especially if I was certain that I could get the car restarted if I stalled. I moved aside once I noticed your hot breath on my neck. Also, you are sweaty and gross.)

I fear that missed some key scenery because I was staring at my feet, hoping to stay upright.



At one point I made Husband promise that he would hack off my foot with a borrowed penknife if I got stuck, instead of leaving me overnight for the wolves and nature things to eat me. He promised, but said that it would not be necessary because, not to worry, he would yank me out with brute force.

This is one of the first open views. I made sure he got me below the brat sign




There are lots of different sceneries along the trail. Some are giant rocks and forests overlooking mountains. Others are wood-y vistas and others are lakes and valleys in open spaces. This is one of those in the middle part of the hike.

Groups of people had stopped to swim or picnic or just sit close (and most likely make out once the hikers were out of eyeshot.)



We're starting to get pretty high up. The views here are lovely, but I am starting to get nervous. I am not sure if it is because I realize we're only about halfway there or because I am about natured-up.

It also could be the flies. Also, we're pretty high up. Seriously. People could fall. (And by people, I mean me. Husband is sure-footed and not clumsy.)



We walked on this little ledge. I gripped the chains with a death grip until we got to the next vista.



Then felt slightly light headed when Husband casually mentioned that the chains are fairly new. Apparently there were no chains the first time he walked up in 2004.

We stayed pretty close to the wall of the mountain until we got to this part.



There were no chains here. Right around the corner is a narrow ledge. The only way across is to wedge a hand in the rock, then wiggle or shuffle across.

I started getting slightly nervous about this. So Husband went across first and reached back and offered his hand.

After surveying the situation close up, I hissed "Move away from me. And shhhhhhhh, be very quiet. I'll be there in a minute."

Not understanding and feeling a bit hurt, Husband stepped back and waited for me to get across. Then I had to explain to him that if I accidentally fell over (and there was a fair chance of that happening, given my general balance issues coupled with the width of the ledge), I intended to go alone.

That he would be safer if he just stayed a good distance back until I made it across.

This of course horrified him.

But really, I love him and, on most days, want him to live. And also, we we needed to be logical. Who would take care of our pack if we both fell over the edge?

He did not see it that way.

This is Husband at the closest point to the edge either of us was allowed.



But don't be fooled into thinking it's at the highest point. This spot was carefully chosen based on the fact that if there was slippage, the rescue could most likely be somewhat easily managed.



And then we turned a corner and there it is.



Okay, I am not meaning to be unappreciative of the natural world, but my first thought was "Is that is?"

I even asked Husband, who confirmed that we had indeed reached Preikestolen.

It's not that big. Seriously.

Really it reminded me of the first time I saw the Statue of Liberty up close and the Mona Lisa.

In all three cases, I was mildly disappointed.

This does not in fact mean that I went all the way to the edge. I did get on my hands and knees and peak over the side a little bit. (And my little bit I mean I crawled over, stopping about five feet from the edge, then craned my neck a little bit. Then rolled back toward the middle.)

This is the view down the fjord.



This is the view of us.



Then we headed back down....




*Okay, to be really really truthful, I kind of want to plan everything, but Husband doesn't. So we compromise. He plans just enough to make me happy and I let some of the details go. Often this is much much fun.