In Norway, it's pretty customary to take four or so weeks off at a time in the summer. And it's usually the entire month of July. People take off for their cabins or go abroad or sometimes just stay at home for a while working on their house.
This year, we decided to head to Portugal for a few weeks and we left in June. It was an amazing two weeks and when we got back, Husband had a practically silent office so when everyone else is gone, he'll get lots of things done.
We began early in the morning the the Stavanger airport, expecting to hop on a flight at 6:30 am, stop over in Frankfurt and be in Lisbon by 11am, local time.
When we got the news that not only that our flight was canceled, but that now we would be going to Oslo, then Frankfurt, then Lisbon and we'd arriving at 4:30pm or so, we did the only thing that normal, rational vacationers would: We had a beer.
It was 7:30am. Which, if you don't account for time differences, it was the earliest beer either of us have ever had. If you do account for time differences, it was only 1:30am in both New York and Atlanta. In our previous lives, that is still amateur hour.
The second earliest time I have ever had a beer was when I was a student at UGA. Some guys I knew had The Home Game 9:49 Club. Every home game (and most of the away games as well), no matter the kick-off time, the first sip of the day's drink quota would be sipped at precisely 9:49am. That was almost two decades ago.
Eighteen years later, witness the first meeting of the Norwegian chapter of the "Dang It The Plane is Canceled and It's 7:30 in the Morning" Club. (Klubben om "Faen, flyen gar ikkje og det er 07:30" )
Finally after leaving, running through the Oslo airport and an even wilder run through the Frankfurt airport, canceled tickets and call to the gate to hold the plane, we were cruising over Lisbon. Good thing we had the beers. They gave us strength.
We took a little nap, settled in and headed out into the town. It was the Feast and Celebration of Saint Anthony, who happens to be Lisbon's patron saint. (This is not the same Anthony, but it was the best I could do on short notice.)
This was also the night that we noticed that the Portuguese are short. As we were standing watching the parade go by, Husband said, "Is this the first time you've ever seen over a crowd?"
And he was exactly right. I wasn't standing on tiptoes or even craning my neck. The Portuguese are short people. I loved it.
While I am not a midget by any means, I never quite hit the height that I aspired to be.
For years and years, I put 5'6" on my driver's license, because that is what I meant to be one day.
When I was about 26 or so, my wallet was stolen in Boston.
A few days later, I went to the NYS DMV on 34th Street to get a new driver's license and handed over the documents from the State of Georgia DMV. The woman behind the counter studied them intently, then she leaned over the counter to look at me from head to toe.
After the kind of stare only found in those sorts of places, she wagged her finger at me and said "Girl, you are NOT 5'6"."
Finally she let me settle on 5'4," but even that took some negotiating.
So when I say the Portuguese are short, not only is it true from a scientific perspective (studies say the average Portuguese man is about 170cm, which is 5'6"), it's true from a certified not-tall person.
This is what I could see.
The next day we went to a museum, wandered about and stopped for an authentic Portuguese lunch, which consisted of salad, four grilled sardines and a glass of red wine.
This was my first experience with grilled sardines, though I grew up on canned sardines.
(I lament the day when the sardine makers changed the opener to a pop top, replacing the old school method of a loose key that would have to slipped over a slot, then carefully turned until the topped rolled back revealing the sardines inside. Occasionally Big D would let me do the honors, but it was a tricky situation, though. If the key or the tab broke, watch out. Big D loves some sardine and that is for sure.)
It wasn't until a few nights later when we were at dinner that I learned to the correct way to eat grilled sardines. A nice Lisboan woman sitting next to us struck up a conversation and she schooled me.
Pretend it's a corn cob and eat it all. Crunch through the bones, but leave the spine. Skip the tail and the head, but pick the brain.
But on this first day, I carefully picked off all the fish meat from the bones and delicately ate it. It was a pain, but mighty tasty.
Then we wandered back to our hotel, looking at the statues and public art.
The next day, we took off to drive up to Ericeira. Along the way, I wanted to stop at Boca do Inferno (Mouth of Hell) which is located on the way, a few kilometers outside of Cascais.
It's a point where the pounding waves have created caves and jagged rock. Loads of creepy things are supposed to have happened here, but now, it's a great place for fishing.
Can you see The Mouth of Hell?
This is one of the fishermen. He was super proud of his catch and is going to eat it for dinner.
This is another sign we saw on the drive: Gotta love the sardines if you come to Portugal.
Portuguese are also supposed to be the worst drivers in Europe, if you base it on statistics such as highest frequency of accident, speedy violations and general insurance rates. The tailgating, especially on wind-y roads high on cliffs made me nervous. I was not driving, of course. I was the navigator and chief helper.
When we arrived at
Vila Gale, in Ericeira, the staff had this for us in our room. It was almost our
month-aversary, after all. (Not that is not some odd granola/raisin combo. It an assortment of nuts, which really is only appropriate.)
So we spent the next few days lounging by the pool and the beach.
This stretch of coast was jagged and rocky, but just what we needed. You can see our hotel on the far left. It was lovely and just the right mix of old-school genteelness with a touch of slightly-stylish.
Over our two weeks of travels, we visited every section of the country and got a strong flavor of each section. Ericeira was a small town, with a community of surfers, small cafes and a few beaches. The local food was the best seafood I've ever eaten.
Our first night in town we ate there, but ordered things wrong and while dinner was good, it wasn't fantastic. But next to us, a man and his young daughter were eating something gorgeous and mouthwatering. So when we returned a few night later, we described what it was and asked if we could have it too. That's what is in that silver dish--a combination of all sort of fresh seafood in a broth. It is the single best thing I may have ever eaten (and that's counting key lime pie.) Husband liked it, too.
The seafood here is GIANT.
This is Miguel. He is one of the owners. We were friendly and I explained about all of you.
So he let me show you just how giant the seafood is. (I think he got a little nervous that I was holding thousands of Euros worth of his merchandise and swooped in immediately after the flash went off to save his crab.)
We spent most evenings at the Jazz and Blues sitting outside and listening the music. To, the owner, had a special affinity for Eric Clapton.
When we weren't sitting outside, we were discussing music and the state of Portugal with To and his partner, Mary.
Then we headed to Porto. I would have photos of the drive into the city, but it's hard to take photos when you're laughing and trying to read a map while the car is careening down steep wind-y streets. But we got there and checked into Room Three of
the worst hotel in the entire world. I am not kidding. It was horrible. More on that later. But it was only one night, so we went out into the city.
And happened onto a square with a screen showing a game of the Euro2008 match.
(We watched lots of football on this trip. We watched the Portugal/Swiss match at a little table in the middle of Ericeira outside of a cafe. The cafe owner went into his apartment above the cafe and brought down his own television with a cord snaked around the corner and propped it onto a table.)
See me? I'm in the middle of the shot. Look for my red scarf and black skirt. I'm also wearing my glasses.
This from the other angle.
Sit down, Husband. Let's watch it a while.
So we did.
The next morning we wandered around and stopped in the market.
I love markets.
They are always full of orderly piles and rows of colorful things like beans and olives.
And chickens. Would you to take care of it?
Or should we?
(This photo reminds me of something my sister once said, when someone commented that she collected chicken sorts of things. She said, "Oh yeah, I love chickens. I especially love them on my plate." Me too, Claud, me too.)
We happened upon Cafe Santiago, which according to
VEJA Porto magazine has the best traditional Porto sandwich. We didn't plan it that way, but decided we should try it anyway.
What is it you wonder?
It's called a francesinhas.
Take a slice of bread, pile some flavored pork and sausage on it, add a slice of bread. Repeat. Then take a slice of cheese and melt it over top. Then cover it with a spicy red sauce. Then put it on top of pile of fries. Serve, usually with a salad (which will not in fact cut down on the calories). Mmmmm.
As we drove through the country, I would read from the guidebooks about where we were going, what we were passing or the history of the area. This is the on the way to the Douro region of Portugal, where Port wine is made.
In the Douro region of the Portugal, there are very very few places to stay. We picked the
Casa do Visconde de Chanceleiros, partially on a whim. It was the best decision of the entire trip. Seriously. In no way does the website do it justice. At. All.
When we walked in, the manager checked up in and gave us Room Three, which was the room number of the hotel room from the night before, so we were a little bit worried. There was no need.
Imagine that you had family friends who owned an estate in the wine country region of Portugal. Imagine that these friends are close enough that they welcomed you and showed you all around the grounds, but weren't so close that they wanted to hang out. Also, this estate is super nice, but the kind of super nice that you can relax in. That is this place. Seriously.
There was a carafe of port in our room, but we brought our own snacks. On the left is a bean sort of thing that a woman in the Porto market insisted we take from her stall. Think Portuguese edamame, but cured in vinegar. She said "take them with beer."
Then the olives, then cherries. Good stuff.
On the left is the open air kitchen where we would get after dinner refreshments. We'd leave a note saying what we took from the refrigerator before going and sitting underneath the stars. On the right is the porch to our room.
This is what we would see from our porch.
This the back of the porch of the main house.
Each night after a day of going by vineyards and sitting by the pool, we'd go and have a lovely home cooked dinner of local fare like juicy chicken and vegetables or a steak with potatoes. And of course, wine.
This is Molly and Husband. Molly has the run of the grounds and often can be found sitting and contemplating her lot in life. So can Husband.
This is what they are looking at while contemplating.
In the afternoons, we toured a few vineyards. This one was rigged up with iPods and a map of points to go and stand next to while the iPod talked in my ear. I kept hitting the wrong button, resetting and just generally messing it all up. No fun.
But it was pretty. And amazing to see the angles of the rows.
This is Husband with Jorge, the vineyard manager of
Quinta do Tedo. Jorge gave us a fantastic tour of the winery. He's very tall and had to stoop to go through some of the doors where the barrels were kept. I said something about bumping heads and he said, "Portuguese used to be very short, the shortest people in all of Europe. Now they are taller."
And after thrilling my heart by confirming what I knew to be true about the diminutive height, he told us all the details of port wine production. He even patiently answered my questions about cleanliness of feet, which are used to stomp the port wine grapes.
(If you are wondering, before any person gets to jump into the pools to stomp the grapes, they must soak their feet in rubbing alcohol. The 21% alcohol content of the wine itself kills the rest of the germs.)
And all the wines were good, too.
This is where Husband attempted to murder me.
He's pointing to the place where it all happened, which is completely straight down several hundred feet. We checked out and were on our way south for the final leg of the great Portuguese adventure, driving along the curvy road, when he hit the brakes and leapt out of the car.
He says that a bug flew in the window and was stinging him.
I don't know about that.
I do know that the car continued to roll toward the edge. I yelped and he hopped back in and we put on the parking brake, which is why the car is not in motion right now.
When we got to Lagos, we would sit in the sun. When it got to be too much, we go to play Scrabble. Guess who won this game?
More fish.
Anthony was a little fished-out. He had pasta (and coveted my fish...so I shared a bit.)
Look closely. You'll see at least one reason why I married Husband.
Outdoor cafes are fun.
This is on the way to Cape St. Vincent, which is outside of a town called Sagres, a few kilometers from Lagos. It is a bit desolate and quiet, which is fitting, because Cape St. Vincent is also The End of the World.
These cliffs are the southwestern point of Europe and the last bit of land any sailor saw before heading off in search of the New World.
If I sailor was heading off right now, his last glimpse would be of me.
Look closely at the tiny speck in the middle of the top of the cliff. Husband is on the cliff next to The End of the World. So if a sailor was leaving right now, Husband would be the next to the last thing the sailor saw.
And it's all romantic and a little sad to think of the brave young sailors setting out. But turn and and look a little bit down the road. You'll see an open truck that says, in German "Last Sausage Before the New World."
So really, it wasn't that bad.
On our last day in Lagos, we went sailing.
In the middle of the trip, we all hopped out and got into smaller boats and took a tour of the caves in the cliffs. The guide keep pointing out that each one looked like one thing or another. I only got it about one-half the time.
This the Skull.
This is The Elephant.
Really???
Then we got back on the boat and ate lunch. Then we sailed some more and looked at the cliff views.
Then went back to the hotel and I took in one of my favorite views, which is me lying out while Husband floats in the pool.
On the way to dinner that night, we saw a horse. Just standing on the corner.
As we were heading to the car, a bird pooped on us. Isn't that supposed to be good luck? Or is that something that was made up to make people who get pooped on feel better?
I'm pretty sure it was this bird.
Then we stopped so I could get a piece of pottery.
As usual, our flights were delayed for hours and hours. But also as usual, we played Scrabble. This is what all the tiles look like if you laid them out in alphabetical order.
Finally we're on our way back home.
The end.
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