Sudafed? Anyone?

Sudafed? January 29, 2007

My own difficulty transitioning to this life in Portugal came to a head when I acquired a very bad cold. My throat was inflamed, glands swollen…even breathing hurt. The pressure of the congestion affected my ears so intensely that I feared my eardrums would burst. My eyes were were weepy, red and swollen. I was miserable and I needed a good strong decongestant. This proved to be more difficult than I every would have anticipated.

The cold began on Wednesday. On Thursday, I made my surrender and sought drugs. We stopped at a pharmacy in a nearby town on our way to buy wine for the weekend. In Portugal, drugs of any kind can only be purchased at a pharmacy and only with the help of a pharmacist. It isn’t possible to peruse the shelves and look at the boxes to match the medication with the symptoms. And so we gave the pharmacist a rundown of my symptoms. He asked a number of questions….Are you pregnant? Do you have any other symptoms? Are you taking any other medications? Are you nursing? Duarte, my interpreter, answered “yes” to only the question about nursing as Jenna is in her final days of being breastfed. Well, that was the end of our time in that pharmacy. Because I was nursing, the pharmacist would not give me any drug aside from a saline nasal spray for fear of transferring the medication to the baby. Through the thick mucous build up in my ears, Duarte explained to me that I could not have a decongestant. I had to go through another day without medication. What I wouldn’t give for ten minutes in Target!!

On Friday, I couldn’t even make myself get out of bed. The sinus pressure was incredible. I sent Duarte to a different pharmacy with specifics about my symptoms and a promise not to mention anything about nursing or that I even had a baby. Off he went to the pharmacy in Chaves with his father. While he was away, I did my best to sleep – feeling relieved that this time I would get the drugs I needed to help me feel human again. When Duarte arrived he was confident about the results the medications he found would produce. I looked at the unfamiliar white boxes with black lettering and asked him to read to me the specifics about the medications. The first was a small bottle of eardrops. Duarte remembered using these drops as a child and was certain this would do the trick. The insert in the box, said that these drops were for clearing earwax. The second was a package of white lozenges. The purpose of these lozenges was to help relieve a sore throat and clear mucous from the throat. Okay…so now I had earwax cleaner and throat lozenges! I nearly cried. What happened to Sudafed? Nyquil? A decongestant of any sort? Again, I longed for Target. I called my mom and told her to put together a box full of every medication we could possibly need. I knew they wouldn’t arrive in time for this cold – but maybe for the next one.

Another day passed without relief…but my ears were now clear of wax. We traveled to Porto for the weekend with Duarte’s brother Lipe and his wife Susana. I had another sleepless night as I could only breathe from my mouth. My ears and throat were screaming for attention.

On Saturday, while driving to the city park, we stopped at yet another pharmacy. I wasn’t feeling very optimistic but decided it would be worthwhile to give it one more try. We huddled in the car before going in to make a plan. I informed both Lipe and Susana of all of my symptoms. I made it clear that I did not want earwax removal drops, nor lozenges, nor saline nose drops. They were not to mention nursing. I wanted a strong decongestant that wouldn’t make me sleepy for the daytime and a strong decongestant that would make me sleepy for the nighttime. All three of us went in…

Lipe did the talking but Susana was there for backup. Any details that Lipe miscommunicated or forgot, Susana mentioned or corrected. The pharmacist listened carefully. He turned his back to us and pulled off the shelf yet another unfamiliar white box with black lettering. My heart sank. I was sick and I just wanted something I knew. There is much comfort in control and trust and the things you have always counted on. I had none of that in this unfamiliar country. . In the past four weeks, I had endured stares everywhere I went; I hadn’t had a conversation with anyone other than my husband; I was eating unfamiliar foods, watching tv in a language I didn’t understand; living in a totally different culture where I had absolutely no autonomy. I couldn’t even buy the most basic medication that could be found in every grocery store in America. Now I just wanted something that I knew. I stared long and hard at the white box and who knows what was conveyed in my expression but the word Sudafed escaped from my mouth somehow…perhaps the longing just couldn’t suppress itself any longer. Hearing me, the pharmacist perked up. He turned around and pulled an orange box off the shelf. When he put it on the counter I nearly did a back flip. It was Sudafed!!!! Rejoice! I had found my precious Sudafed. I would survive. I could stay in this country after all.

The Kids - January 26

The Kids

There have been so many changes in our lives since moving to Portugal most of them have been for the better but a few of these changes have been difficult. To live abroad for 6 months with a four year old and a 12 month old certainly has its challenges. Overall, we are doing really well. Jenna has had the least difficulty transitioning. I think Marcos feels that changes more than anyone.

Jenna has it so good over here. A day in the life of Jenna begins at 6:00am. No matter what time she goes to bed, she will wake up at this time. She is our own personal rooster. For better or for worse.

We take Marcos to his school around 9:15am and then Jenna gets dropped off at Quinta da Mata. This is a house full of love for our little girl. Her grandmother greets us at the door every morning, anxiously waiting to take Jenna from us. Jenna loves the attention. Her grandfather warmly embraces her as well and the fun begins. It’s impossible to walk into Quinta da Mata without eating, so Jenna is quickly taken to her high chair where she enjoys a breakfast of yogurt, bread and cheese.

Duarte and I work in the mornings, so Jenna stays with her grandparents. Through the morning, Jenna takes walks outside to see the animals. She knows all of the animal sounds now and loves to point and say “bah, meow, arf arf, or ee-aw" depending on the animal she has encountered. Because she spends so much time at Quinta da Mata, I think she understands Portuguese better than English which makes me feel a little awkward because I'm how to speak to her.

When we arrive at lunchtime, Jenna is taking a nap in her bedroom. She wakes up just before lunch is over. She will eat a nice, hearty soup and a few bites of whatever it is we are eating. She is a good eater – much to her grandmother’s delight. Her tummy is growing and her “fabulous thighs” are becoming even more fabulous.

Duarte and I exercise in the afternoons – taking off for about three hours at a time. While we are away, Jenna reads books with her grandparents, rides her little tricycle, plays with her toys and gets much love and attention. When we leave, I feel little guilt, because I know she is happy and well cared for. Her grandparents are delighted to spend the time with her and they are full of stories about her day when we arrive. It’s wonderful for everyone.

When we take Jenna out in public, it’s an experience. The Portuguese are crazy over babies. They kiss their faces, hold their hands, touch their lips, speak baby talk close to their faces. (It’s no wonder Jenna and the rest of us have colds now). When we carry Jenna in the backpack, people are unreserved with their amazement of such a contraption; commenting enthusiastically about what a good idea it is. I cannot believe the commotion that backpack creates every single time we go out with it. The other issue is that babies just don’t go outside when it is cold. When she is out, everyone tells us that she is cold. Of course she isn’t cold, we know how to dress a baby for inclement weather; we’re from Pennsylvania.

Our evenings are playtime. We spend time with the kids and play together until dinner. This is a nice time for us. Because dinner is served so late here, we typically arrive home at 10:30 or 11:00pm – Jenna does well with the late hours but falls asleep quickly once she is in her cozy bed.

Marcos had a difficult first month but he is doing much better now. His frustration with all of the change, a routine he couldn’t on, and a language he didn’t understand was evident with his irrational displays of violence. Marcos was hitting everyone who came within 2 feet of him and fiercely yelling at everyone else. His transition was hard on us all.

Eating is another problem for Marcos when he is under stress or really all of the time but more so with change. Therefore, our move to Portugal has brought about his own self-induced hunger strike. The eating battles begin at breakfast. Marcos refuses to eat anything – even if it’s leftover chocolate cake from the night before. We convince him to drink a yogurt and then we head down the mountain to his school in Vilar de Nantes. He complains the whole way to school that he doesn’t want to go. When we get there, we stop and talk about the morning with him and he then bravely walks into school. I admire him for the ability to do this. In his pre-school, the kids wear blue checked smocks to keep their clothes clean from their art projects. Marcos looks so cute wearing his and carrying his little backpack containing a mid-morning snack. Once he is in the school, he is fine, for the most part.

The little school in which he attends is nice. We send him there in hopes that he will learn Portuguese and enjoy time playing with other kids his age. There are 8 kids in the class – 5 girls and 3 boys, ages 3-5. The morning is unstructured. The kids enjoy playtime until circle time, which is at 10:30. This is Marcos’ least favorite part of his day. He doesn’t know the words to the songs they sing and there is a little train game they play each morning and Marcos is always picked last and therefore the caboose. This makes him really mad. However, he likes Wednesdays when they have gymnastics day. Once a month, there is swim lesson day. He loves to play in the little kitchen. There is a computer in the classroom and he likes to play games on it. Unfortunately, Marcos has had a few confrontations at school where he has hit another little boy or even the teachers. The teachers think this is because of his frustration of not being able to express himself. We are working on this and the problems seem to be decreasing. In fact, today Marcos sang the American alphabet song for his class and now all of the kids are interested in learning it.

At 12:00, Marcos is picked up by his grandfather and his school day is over. After school Marcos has about an hour of time to play before the lunch battle begins. He likes to ride the tractor with his grandfather or dig in the dirt or ride his bike. There are always new animals being born each day on the farm and that is fun to see as well. We force feed Marcos at lunchtime and then he goes off to play some more.

He has a room at Quinta da Mata where he takes naps each day. He needs his naps desperately as he is affected by the fewer hours of sleep we get each night.

Sometimes we take Marcos into town with us in the evenings while we run an errand or go to the library. Marcos is really affected by all of the stares we receive everywhere we go. He cries, he yells, he gets so mad. He really wants Duarte to teach him how to say “Stop Staring at Me!” in Portuguese but Duarte won’t tell him.

Marcos’ quick comprehension of Portuguese has amazed everyone. He is like a sponge. He has surpassed my language ability already (which isn’t saying much). His accent is perfect. I am certain by the end of the 6 months he will be fluent… if not sooner… and then he really will tell people to stop staring at him. We’re in trouble.

Marcos adores his Uncle Lipe and his Aunt Susana. Yesterday, Marcos said to me… “Let’s go back to State College, I’m ready. Tell Lipe and Susana they can come too.” It’s hard to explain to him that we are going to be here until summer. He would be delighted to go back home to his familiar life and leave his sister behind. He hasn’t been nice to Jenna at all. I suspect this is because of all the attention she receives.

Overall, Marcos is happy. He is busy with all kinds of new adventures each day. The first 3 weeks were really difficult with him and just when we thought we couldn’t take it anymore, his behavior has improved. Thank goodness. It may be because he is learning to speak more Portuguese. I know that this life is good for him as he has lots of time with his family, lots of time to play outside and time to learn another culture and language. It really is a more simple life.

Six months in the development of a child is a long time. This experience will enrich both Marcos’ life and Jenna’s life in many ways, though Jenna won’t remember the time here. I am proud of them for being able to do this at all. It is a big change. A good one.

Sao Sebastio – (a festival to honor Saint Sebastian)

The annual festival to celebrate the Sao Sebastio (the saint of this region) would held on Saturday, January 20 in a small village near Chaves. People from all over Portugal would come to this village in celebration. Not surprisingly, the saint would be honored with food. This was to be an eating festival.

Duarte and I were curious about the village and the festival. Duarte thought this might be an interesting research study, so we headed to the village to check it out a few days in advance. A few wrong turns led us into a river valley with mountain pastures on either side. We encountered a few shepherds walking their cows through the valley. The views were incredible.

Driving into the tiny village, we were both wondering how hundreds of people would be able to attend a celebration here. We stopped in front of the only café and walked around while Marcos rode his bike. As always, we captured the attention of many of the locals and some of them came out to talk with us. It was interesting to get an inside perspective on the weekend’s upcoming events.

One of the locals invited into the building adjacent to the café. We learned that this building is where all of the food would be prepared and ultimately blessed by the priest for the festival. A group of men were pulling weeds, cleaning the floor and carrying tables outside. Duarte asked where we could buy bread. Inside a small room in the back corner of the building were shelves upon shelves of large, round loaves of bread - 1400 in total. One of the men, with his dirty, working hands, grabbed a loaf of bread and cut large chunks of bread for us with a sharp knife. The bread was hearty and heavy. The townspeople had been baking for 4 days and 4 nights so they would be able to feed the festival attendees. We bought a heavy round of bread (I bet it weighed over 5 pounds). Then the men were curious about us. When they learned of our curiosity about the festival – they were eager to show us around and include us in their efforts for preparing for the many visitors soon to come.

In large baskets outside of the bread room, were large chunks of cured meat. This is traditional food of the Tras-os-Montes region and the reason people come to this festival. In addition there were large caldrons where the rice was to be cooked. There were baskets loaded with wooden plates for serving the bread, rice and meat. All of this was being prepared only for the celebration – not for monetary gain – as the festival attendees would not pay for the food. Outside, the women were carrying long, thin tables for serving the food. These tables would be lined up from one end of town to the other. Visitors would bring their own table cloths and find a place at the table to eat. I was thinking that this was a Portuguese version of tailgating.

On Saturday, the day of the festival, we returned to a very different scene. Busloads of people were pouring into this tiny village. What was, only days before, a sleepy little village that noticed strangers, was now a bustling party busting at the seams with visitors. Filling the main street and surrounding the long table where all of the food would be served were people from urban areas – wearing their chic, high heal boots, flashy sunglasses, perfect hair and all carrying cameras. They had come to eat and to enjoy a little bit of the mountain life. It was an incongruent scene. Interspersed throughout all of glitzy visitors were the true inhabitants of the village. In their worn clothes, they weren’t hard to pick out. We were already familiar to them, so we received warm smiles and welcomes as we walked down the street.

The priest blessed the food and people kissed the statue of the saint that was carried past the table. The eating began. The saint was honored.

Misadventure on the Tamega River

It seems that we have our biggest adventures on the river. Duarte and I spent the afternoon kayaking on a section of the Tamega river. Our afternoon began with an hour long drive from Chaves to a small village where the put in for the river sits at the end of a road with a few houses and a field full of cows. Duarte’s father Filinto accompanied us so that we would have a ride at the end of the river. We dressed in our paddling clothes beside the cows, while a woman from the neighboring house watched us. No doubt wondering what we were doing with the small, plastic boats on her river. We shoved off with a wave goodbye and our adventure began.

Duarte had orchestrated the afternoon of paddling. He had studied the guidebook, arranged a shuttle with his father and prepared our gear and the boats. I was dragging my feet and reluctantly agreed to the outing. We were late leaving Chaves and even later getting on the river. By our estimates from the map and guidebook, we figured that if we moved quickly we could complete the 9 Kilometers in about an hour and a half – which would get us off the river around 5:00 or 5:30 just before dark. Filinto would meet us at the end to take us home.

The river started off wide. It was mostly flat water aside from a few rapids here and there. In my boat, I let my foul mood slip away – remembering the many days on the water Duarte and I had before kids…a whole lifetime ago. The banks of the river were green. Sheep were grazing in the grass. They stopped to watch us pass. The river hadn’t had much recreational traffic. It seemed odd to be passing through landscapes few had seen before.

The difficulty of the river progressed from flat water to class 2 rapids and then to class 3 rapids as the walls of the canyon became more narrow as the water picked up speed. After years away from kayaking, I was feeling surprisingly confident in the boat. It felt so good to feel the rush of the waves beneath me, the splash of cold water on my face, the excitement of what was to come. Duarte and I eased back into our partnership on the river.

As the guidebook promised, a class 5 rapid appeared around a bend in the river. Stopping to scout the rapid, we climbed upon large, wet, granite boulders that were slippery with the moisture. Every movement needed to be precisely planned to keep from falling into the ugly rapid below. Sharp thorns grew in between the monstrous rocks grabbing at our clothing. The rapid was navigable for Duarte but too difficult for me so I needed to portage it. Carrying the boat over the slippery surface of the rocks proved to be quite challenging. Duarte helped me with the portage and then jumped in his own boat to run the rapid. He did so with incredible finesse…no trouble at all. We both breathed a sigh of relief as this was to be the last big rapid on the river according to the guidebook. The portage was hard work and neither of us wanted to do anything like that again.

Just around the next curve of the river was another long, choppy rapid. We agreed to scout this one. Climbing atop of yet another wet, slippery boulder we looked down through the long succession of rapids. This one was to be portaged by both of us. With even more effort than the previous rapid, we lugged our boats up an over the rocks and though the thorns. This portage took nearly 30 minutes. The sun was already disappearing behind the canyon walls. We needed to hurry. Duarte voiced his concern about the impending dark and the misinformation from the guidebook. Should we hike out? Should we keep on going? We decided to paddle on and see what was ahead.

The next series of rapids were long and choppy and very close together. We opted not to scout them and just go, in the interest of time. Paddling through the swirling water with large waves splashing my face, tossing my boat, I paddled hard – determined to punch through the rapid and be closer to the end. Duarte was staying close, keeping an eye on me as the difficulty was increasing. We had almost made it through the third rapid when my boat was jostled by the tumultuous water. Over I went, my effort for a brace, rejected. The water was cold and it was moving fast. I eased out of my boat and kept my mind focused on getting my boat, my paddle and myself to the side of the river. I did this swiftly but once on the side of the river, the water was moving in a circular direction catching me and my boat in a cycle which was difficult to get out of. After a round or two in the current, I finally released the boat which allowed me the use of my hands to swim free. Unfortunately the boat was no longer within reach. Around the whirlpool it went and then it bumped a rock and off it went down the river. Duarte jumped into his kayak quickly and paddled madly after my boat. He caught up to the nearly sunken boat about a ¼ mile down the river. We met along side the river a little ways down. It was time to make a decision.

The sky now had little light. The river ahead of us wasn’t trustworthy. The very next rapid was another long succession of waves, curves and rocks. I wasn’t feeling very optimistic about my paddling skills any longer and worried that another swim would do me in. Looking up at the steep slopes of the canyon, I noticed an old stone wall ascending the mountain. We had a way out. If we didn’t hike out, we might be faced with more ugly, slippery portages or a dark run down this unknown river. Duarte decided to run the rapid to see what lie ahead while I paddled towards the side of the river where the wall rose above us.

I dragged my kayak up as high as I could on the slippery rocks. Duarte joined me. He said the next rapid looked big. As we made the decision to hike out, we switched into survival mode. We had on our capilene, our brightly colored spray jackets, our pfd’s, booties and our helmets…enough to keep us warm for a little while. We stashed our kayaks up high behind some rocks knowing that we wouldn’t get far with them as the climb would be steep. Darkness was setting in. It was hard to tell which direction to go. After one path led to a dead end, we turned the other way, quickly moving up the steep slope. Along the way, we found an orange tree and grabbed a few oranges– both of us thinking this would be survival food for what was sure to be a long night. Within 15 minutes, to our great surprise, we came upon a dilapidated house. A dog barked at us as we approached. Duarte decided to knock on the door to ask for help. I was thinking that to the people living in this remote home we may as well be aliens dressed as we were. An old lady answered the door and was obviously scared. Duarte explained the situation a number of times before the woman reluctantly allowed him into her home to use a phone. We called Filinto who had been waiting at the take-out very worried. He was relieved to have heard from us and agreed to meet us on the road as soon as he could get to us. Duarte asked the lady how far we were to the nearest road, thinking we must be miles from civilization. The woman pointed to a light about 50 meters from her home indicating that that was a well traveled road.

Duarte and I laughed as we walked out to the road to wait for Filinto. Only minutes before we were ready to stay the night in the wilderness, we were ready to survive. On the road, we were being rescued and we would be home in our cozy house with our children in the hour to come. Ha.

Waiting for Filinto under a street light, the cool night air started to chill us. Few cars passed. Then we heard the Land Rover’s diesel engine speeding up the mountain. At the very moment Filinto rounded the corner to where we waited, a large truck passed between us and him. Filinto sped on past us leaving us wondering what we would do next. We stood there in disbelief for a full 30 seconds before speaking. Finally, we started to walk up the mountain road toward the next village. Realizing this would take a long time and that it was unlikely Filinto would turn around, Duarte decided to approach yet another dilapidated house to ask to use the phone. Once again the river alien walked into an unsuspecting home to explain our dilemma. Fortunately, they too welcomed us in to use their phone. 10 minutes later, Filinto came more slowly down the mountain to rescue us from the dark, cold night.

We decided to leave our kayaks until we could return in daylight to get them. On Sunday, we went back to get our kayaks. We stopped at the house of the first lady we encountered that night to ask permission to cross her land for our boats. She was happy to let us hike down to the river. She confided to us in the daylight that she was really scared that night. She thought we were bad people who had come to hurt her.

In daylight our decisions from our kayaking day were validated. It was a steep slope down and evidently the only cultivated land in the gorge. Had we not hiked out at this point – we would not have had the opportunity to hike out anywhere else. Looking down at the river from up high we could see the rapids we ran and the rapids that were ahead. Had we opted to paddle further that day, we would have had a long, difficult night ahead of us. The very next rapid would have been impossible for me as it was long, narrow, steep, and rocky… we would have had yet another difficult portage certainly leaving us in the river for the night.

It was good to look down at that incredible river that we paddled and think about the choices we made. We did the right thing, we were challenged and we had a good time.

Duarte can’t wait to get back to the river… I can.

Food

Food is the heart of the Portuguese culture.

The eating begins at breakfast. We typically sit down to a table set with a table cloth, plates and utensils. In the center of the table sits a basket of bread…a heavy dark bread, cut in thick slices and light, fresh, crusty rolls. To accompany the bread there are slices of local cheese, homemade preserves made from pumpkin, pear, or strawberries. Homemade marmalade is also customarily on the table. Sometimes there are freshly baked pastries, which I adore. For protein, there is presunto (salted and dried ham), cut in thin slices. Fresh eggs from the chickens are scrambled and also offered for the meal. A dark, strong coffee is served with warm milk.

The kids usually eat a small yogurt and some bread. The varieties of yogurts that are sold here are endless. Drinkable yogurt, yogurt for children, for adults, for sports, for digestion, for dessert… the list goes on and on.

Lunchtime divides the day. In Portugal all businesses and schools close from 12:30-2:00 allowing workers and students to go home to have a meal with their family. Lunch is not a light affair. The family sits down together to enjoy first a bowl of soup - which is usually made of a few vegetables blended into a chicken broth. The meal is hearty and different each day. It consists of fish, chicken, pork, lamb, rabbit or beef. The main dish is served with rice or potatoes. A salad or green is served. Salads are simple and light – usually including lettuce from the garden, sliced onions and tomato. Instead of salad dressing, a touch of olive oil and salt is sprinkled on the greens. There are always olives on the table. One glass of wine or a “fino” accompanies the meal. A “fino” is a half pint of beer – very light in color and in taste. A dessert of fresh cut fruit follows the meal. For one last kick to start off the afternoon, a small cup of espresso.

At 5:00pm, more food is set upon the table. This “snacktime” is a called “Lunche.” Lunche is similar to breakfast… bread, cheese, marmalade, a bite of cake all served with either tea or coffee. Duarte and I try to resist this meal if we can so that we have a large appetite for dinner. But if there is cake on the table, I am usually persuaded to sit down to eat. Duarte’s mother is very particular about food and wants to be sure that everyone has had enough. She is always pushing food toward us encouraging us to have a little more.

8:00pm is dinner time. Because this meal is late, the day seems to last so much longer. Dinner is also a formal gathering. Appetizers kick off the meal. Fried codfish cakes, shrimp/potato pockets, crab claws fried in a potato dough… yum. Next comes a soup. Dinner is only different from lunch because more wine is served and a more substantial dessert follows. The desserts are beautiful and rich and different each day. Last night we had an apple tart, the day before we had an egg white cake. We’ve also had apple cake, flan, pineapple cake, cinnamon cake, chocolate cake… and more.

Duarte and I typically complicate the planning of meals because we choose only to eat white meat. The Portuguese believe that each meal must have a protein such as beef or pork – to be strong. They say “a fish isn’t strong enough to pull the cart.”
The quantity of food served is mind boggling. There are always leftovers. Instead of one shrimp rice platter, there are two. It’s like this every meal. It would be impossible to go hungry at the Morais home. The leftovers are eaten by the staff at Quinta da Mata or by the dogs. It’s good to be a dog here.

Food and drink are integral to the dynamics of family and to the schedule for the day. We plan everything around mealtimes…which has taken some getting used to after living in the US my entire life. In State College, we often eat our meals sitting at a computer during work or even standing up in the kitchen doing something else. Mealtime in Portugal allows us time to relax and to sit and talk with family members.

The wine served at lunch or dinner is always of Portuguese origin. The grapes that grow in the different regions around the country produce a wide variety of wines. Each region is known for a specific kind of wine including vinho verde, vinho tinto, port, etc. This is also true of the cheeses. Each region produces a few varieties of cheeses. In a country as small as the state of Michigan, the great variety of foods and wines and their different qualities is truly amazing.

The Portuguese people love their food, their recipes and their drinks. Food and drink are relatively inexpensive here when eating out. A sit down dinner with appetizers, soup, a large meal, a bottle or wine and dessert typically costs no more than $7.00 per person. Unfortunately, because the Portuguese take so much pride in their cooking, there is not much diversity in the kind of food to be consumed. It isn’t possible to eat Italian, Indian, Thai, or Chinese here. I crave different foods but try to be thankful for the wonderful food we are eating. This is so very different than our veggie burger meals we eat too often at home.

Throughout the many visits to Portugal I have had in the past, I have always anticipated gaining a few extra pounds from the large quantities of food consumed. However, when I step upon the scale to see the damage, I am always amazed to find that I have not gained weight but I have lost weight. I still don’t know why this is.

The meals are abundant and wonderful here. I am thankful that I am able to have this opportunity to enjoy the flavors of food and most importantly the unrushed time that I am able to spend talking and laughing with my family….even if I do feel like I will explode by the end of each meal.

Gotta run - it’s time to eat…again…

Rafting the River Paiva

Oh, what a weekend! We enjoyed a beautiful drive, lots of family time and an intense rafting experience.. .read on….

We left Chaves on Thursday afternoon to travel to Castelo da Paiva a small rural town near the river Paiva. We have some friends that own a hotel there as well as a rafting company. The rafting company was hosting a whitewater rafting race and kayak race on Saturday.

The drive to Castelo da Paiva was the most amazing trip I have ever taken by car. We traveled up, over and around the Douro river where the grapes for many Portuguese wines and Port wines are grown. The Douro river flows through a deep valley beneath 1500 meter peaks. The mountains from top to bottom are covered in grape vines. The vines grow in rows that are upon steps excavated in increments ascending all the way up the mountain. The steep slopes allow a top to bottom view of the magnificence of the valley.

After passing through the Douro region we climbed to the top of another set of mountains while the sun was setting. Looking down into the valley the small villages were lit with amber lights looking like glowing pots of gold at different altitudes within the mountains. Above us, was a sky full of stars. The road was narrow, curvy and very exposed. Many times while traveling there was nothing separating us from the steep cliffs below us as there was no guard rail in place. My dad would call this an “oh shit” road as he doesn’t like heights at all. Duarte in awe with the scenery called it an “oh wow!” road and because I was in the passenger seat enjoying the views but also concerned for the safety of our family I called it a “watch the road, Duarte!” road. The drive was beautiful but hard. Duarte carefully maneuvered the roads while I entertained the kids. Jenna was not happy...so we somehow survived the serpentine ride with every goofy children’s song I could come up with.

We made it to the only hotel in Castelo da Paiva around 7:00pm. We enjoyed a traditional Portuguese meal at the adjoining restaurant. The chef invited Marcos into the kitchen to play with his son and Jenna wandered around the restaurant while we ate our dinner and drank our wine.

Duarte ran a beautiful section of the Paiva river in his kayak with a group of Portuguese paddlers. Jenna, Marcos and I watched them paddle while standing on top of a Roman bridge. The river was crystal clear. We drove the Land Rover to the take out and waited for Duarte to end his run. While we were at the take out, a flock of sheep stopped to graze on the grass at the edge of the river. Jenna learned to talk sheep while they were there as she “meeehhed” in response their greetings.

On Saturday, I was invited to participate in the whitewater rafting race with the only female team. I accepted the invitation apprehensively – not fully knowing what I would be getting myself into. The team changed into wetsuits in the locker room at the edge of a soccer field above the river. While I was getting ready, I listened to the women joking with one another wondering what they were talking about… wondering how I would fit into this team. We all walked out of the small room together and walked towards the shuttle that would take us down the long, steep slope to the start of the race. Duarte stopped me to take a picture and to say good bye to the kids… I was 1 minute from the group and ran to catch up – only to see them loading into the truck and leaving for the put in without me.

Being an American in a culture with very little diversity has proven to be so difficult for me. I endure stares and comments everywhere I go, no matter what I am doing. This is uncomfortable for me as I tend to not enjoy attention by nature. I am learning to take a deep breath, not make eye contact and go for it. But when the team left me behind I started to feel it. I felt like I was in 5th grade and didn’t get picked for the kickball team.

Fighting tears, I set my mind to enjoy the walk down to the river. And so I went. After a long conflicting walk down the steep mountain road, wearing only neoprene booties, I arrived to the large crowd of paddlers wearing wetsuits, pfd’s and helmets just as I was. I thought…well, at least I’ll blend in…if only for a short period of time.

I found my team and saw that they were preparing to get into the raft with their paddles. I asked the team leader where I could find a paddle. She seemed preoccupied and acknowledged my question but quickly got distracted. I turned around to ask someone else about the paddle only to find that a tv camera had found me. I guess a distraught American female makes interesting video footage and the cameraman followed me through a very frustrating search for a paddle. The next person I asked was a teammate, as soon as she heard my English, I saw her defenses rise and she immediately claimed not to speak English. Unbelievable…fighting tears and the urge to tell everyone to go to hell (with that damn camera following me) I continued to search for someone who would help me. It seemed that my English was making people so uncomfortable that they would just say “there are no paddles.” Finally, I found someone I knew who speaks English. Within minutes a paddle was secured and that damn camera finally left me alone.

The race began. Being the only female raft in a large rafting race, in a male dominated society was an interesting glimpse into the social dynamics of the Portuguese culture. We were called “meninhas” by everyone. Meninhas means “little girls.” My teammates didn’t seem to mind or even notice…but I did and found the comment so telling. We were lined up last in the order of the race by the race organizers. Every mistake that was made was because “we didn’t have enough strength.”

All said, I had a good time. I learned some Portuguese, met some pretty cool women and truly felt every emotion that I could feel during that experience. I was so nervous going into the race. I was sad and frustrated when my team left me. Angry and exposed when I couldn’t find a paddle and that damn camera was following me. Happy to be a part of the team while we were on the river. Despite being different, I felt competent and capable in the raft. The river was beautiful and the women excellent for being so brave to show up and take part in this man’s race.

It was a good day. I lived this experience. It was as real and edgy as anything I have ever done.

An interview with Marcos

Thursday, January 11

An interview with Marcos…. 1/12/06


Are you having a good time in Portugal? Yes

What do like the most about being here? Driving the tractor with VoVo and Papa

What do you like the least about being here? Um…I don’t like that the movies are Portuguese. I want them in English.


What’s your favorite food in Portugal? Bread and olives, , peixes (little fish)

What do you like to do? I like to play. All kinds of playing….riding my bike, digging holes, making castles, playing in my room because I can play with my cars in there. Like playing with Charko and playing at Quinta da Mata.


What do you think of your new “play group?” I like it. Cuz it’s good

Are the kids nice? Yes. My friend is David. He’s funny

Are the professoras nice? Yes. She’s great. She helped me on the computer today.But I donºt like her voice. Why? because she speaks Portuguese.

What do you miss about the United States? I miss my bike. I miss my friends and Miss Carrie and Miss Shelley too. I miss Ja Ja. I miss Chili too.

Feira

Wednesday, January 11

Wednesdays in Chaves are Feira days. Feira is the day when all of the farmers come into town with their cows, sheep, goats, bulls, horses, chickens, rabbits, and ducks. Women set up booths filled with kiwi, oranges, cabbage, brussel sprouts, parsley, collard greens, nuts and olives. Gypsies call out to the customers behind tables piled high with impostor, name brand clothing. And people from all of the nearby villages arrive ready to make their purchases.

I love Feira day…the smells, the people, the sounds, the energy. The part of Feira that I like the best is the area where the large animals are being sold. This takes place in a big grassy, fenced-in field. The field is sectioned off for the various animals. Just outside of the fence are the large trucks that either brought in the animals or that are ready to take the animals away. Working this section of feira are men and only men. Feira is as much a time to be social as it is a time for business. The men are standing together in pairs or small groups discussing livestock, the health of the animals, and bartering, I suppose.

We always visit the animal area with the kids as this is the most interesting part of feira for them. We enter the fenced in field with our camera, kelty child carrier, backpack, bright yellow and red jackets and behave as if we were visiting a zoo. I wonder what those men think of us?

Today’s visit to Feira included only Geninha, Jenna and myself. (Marcos and Duarte where with his “play group.”) We walked through the vegetable market first where Geninha bought a few fresh vegetables for our dinner. I stood back and watched the people. I am always wondering about their lives…where do they live? Can they really make a living selling a few vegetables, nuts, chickens? While I was waiting for Geninha to finish her purchase, I was watching a woman selling olives. She was tall in comparison to the typically smaller stature of the Portuguese. Her dark hair was held back loosely with a barrett. Her face, like her clothes, was smudged with oil and dirt. Her eyes were tired and red.

The olives were soaking in a large, salty barrel. In addition to olives she was also selling “tremosos.” Tremosos are a small, yellow bean that the Portuguese like to eat similar to the way in which Americans eat peanuts. To eat them, you put one into your mouth, squeeze it out of its clear, yellow casing and then eat the cold, salty, bean. It doesn’t have much taste – but the salt makes them surprisingly delectable. The booth had three barrels: dark olives, tremosos and green olives. Geninha saw me watching the woman and decided that I must really be craving some tremosos, so she asked the lady for a bag full. I watched as the lady reached into the barrel with bare hands to scoop up the tremosos and then put them into the bag. She topped the space off with a handful of olives. To rinse her hands, she dipped them into the barrel of olives. I lost my appetite.

In the gypsy area, we pushed our way through the crowds. With Jenna in the backpack, I didn’t have much clearance and frequently bumped into people. Many people stopped to look – commenting on how strange the backpack was – but also what a good idea it was. Somewhere along the way Jenna lost a shoe. A woman passing noticed and informed us of the lost shoe. We were only 3 steps from where it was lost. Jenna was impatient and wouldn’t allow us to put the shoe back on. For the remainder of our time at Feira, woman after woman warned us of the missing shoe. It’s good to know that we won’t be losing any shoes while we are here.

We left Feira with fresh vegetables, gypsy socks, a couple of very poorly, pirated movies, a knock off Tommy Hilfiger shirt and of course the dirty tremosos. It was a nice morning.

Olives

Monday, January 8, 2007

Olives…

Saturday morning started off with a pastry and “gallou” in Cbaves. Duarte’s brother Lipe and Lipe’s wife Susana were there as well as Duarte’s parents. Everything we do seems to turn into an event. Since the Morais’s have lived in Chaves for 40+ years they know everyone…and it is the custom here to exchange two kisses and share a little bit about their lives and families. Since we were all there, we exchanged many kisses with many people. Geninha (Duarte’s mother) was SO proud. She held Jenna and boasting her many talents.

Our mission for the day was to travel up to Fonte Merce the village where Geninha and her siblings grew up. The village is now mostly abandoned as the inhabitants have moved to the cities closer to work and other amenities. But Duarte’s uncle…called “padrinho” still lives there. He has 800 hectares of land where he grows cherries, almonds, grapes for wine and olives. Lots and lots of olives.

The land is incredible. Driving in our Land Rover up and down steep rocky roads, it was like driving through a tapestry. Even with the cloudy sky, the land has color and texture that exhilarates the senses. We met Padrinho at the crest of a hill. In every direction, for what seemed like miles there were olive trees. Working in the orchard for 30 euros per day, were a small group of people including six quiet men, wearing jeans, worn woolen sweaters and wool hats. The four women were also wearing jeans and sweaters with an apron to protect their clothing, spoke with high-pitched voices. When they weren’t talking, they were singing. The songs were a blend of silly children’s songs that I know because they are often sung for Marcos when we visit and other songs with more depth and history. Always close to the workers was a large jug of wine in lieu of water. I suppose the alcohol encourages the women to sing louder and the men to endure the tedium.

We all jumped out of the Land Rover and approached the trees and the workers. The process of harvesting the olives seems impossibly slow when considering the acres of trees to be tended to. The women’s job was to lay a large, green, screen tarp under the olive tree. The men with their long sticks, beat the branches causing the olives to fall onto the tarp. In the process, olive branches also fall, so one person went around with a smaller stick to pick out the branches. Another woman’s job was to pick up the olives that didn’t land on the tarp. Once this was accomplished, the olives were placed in a large trailer attached to a tractor ready to go, once full, to the cooperative. Padrinho said that only 20% of the weight of the olive would become olive oil. It is apparent to me now, why olive oil is so expensive.

Because Padrinho has so many trees, he has a special machine which more efficiently harvests olives from trees. He demonstrated this to us during our visit. Attached to the front of a giant tractor is a large “grabber.” The grabber carefully clamps the trunk of the tree below the branches. Then a large upside down umbrella opens up under the tree ready to capture the olives that will fall. Once all of this is in place, Padrinho pushed a lever and suddenly the tree shook so violently that the olives fell like heavy raindrops pouring into the umbrella. The olives that were remaining were later beaten off the branches with a stick.

Marcos was awed by the experience and played his part by helping to gather the fallen olives. I’m glad that Marcos is learning about the origin of food. In Portugal people live more closely to the food that they eat than Americans do. The chickens, ducks, geese and rabbits that are living in cages close to the house are the ingredients to the rich meals that we eat for lunch and dinner each day.

So, American friends, remember the love, the labor the wine and the music the next time you put a tablespoon of olive oil into your meal. Can you taste it?

This is going to take some getting used to....

Friday morning, January 5: We took Marcos to visit his “play group” in Nantes this morning. It is the same school that Duarte went to as a child and it sits outside of the church where Duarte and I were married. It is a small granite building undoubtedly hundreds of years in age. Inside, the room is filled with color, arts supplies, six Portuguese children dressed in blue smocks, a miniature kitchen, miniature couches, miniature everything. The walls are covered in pictures and paintings by the young artists.

Marcos was really nervous when we entered the little school. He clung to me as he faced his new reality. The children spoke Portuguese welcoming him but even this was uncomfortable for Marcos. His new professora was delightful. She spoke her language rapidly and I understood enough to know that she was excited for Marcos to begin school. She had a wrapped present waiting for him which she claimed Santa left on Christmas. Marcos was thrilled. After opening the remote control bulldozer, he then decided he would explore the different play areas in the room. He settled in the play kitchen area. He and a little boy named David played in the kitchen for a long while. When I asked Marcos if he was ready to go he said he was not. I think that was a good sign. We’ll try for a full morning next week. I think it will be okay.

Friday afternoon: Today the sun broke through the thick fog we have been living in for the last 5 days. The sun always inspires me to get outside and so that’s just what we did. After putting the kids down for a nap at Quinta da Mata, Duarte and I went into Chaves to exercise. My plan was to go for a short run. Duarte donned his kayaking gear to play a little bit in the river that runs through town.

And so there we were enjoying the first rays of sun that we have seen in days and with the sunlight came warmth. I decided to wear shorts and a t-shirt for my jaunt about town. Two minutes into the run I became more visible than I have ever been in my entire life. There were a few things that drew the attention of EVERYONE to me… First, it is rare or unusual to see a female exercising in Chaves. Second, it is rare or unusual for anyone to wear shorts anytime, any place in Chaves – much less in January. Third, I was wearing vivid colors begging for attention in this subtly dressed community. As I ran through the park I felt hyperaware of myself among those around me. Every person that I passed stopped and held a gaze similar to that cow we saw yesterday. Old women chirped at me everywhere I went. Men made hearty, jovial comments. (none of which I understood). Cars stopped, horns were honking, fingers pointing. I was all too ready to finish up my run and join Duarte at the river. When I finally made the last turn toward the river, I smiled to myself seeing him in the river in his bright orange kayak and colorful river gear attracting his own curious audience.

This is going to take some getting used to.

We made it!!

Thursday, January 4

We made it. It is already the fourth day into our 6 months in Portugal.

Our 22-hour trip overseas all seems a blur to me right now. It began at 9:00 in the morning at the State College airport where Rod, Beth, Griffin and Meredith met us, helped us with the kids, the 450 lbs of luggage and embraced us in our moments of uncertainty as we faced the leap into another life. The trip itself was graciously uneventful – aside from the wonderful massage I treated myself to in the Dulles airport during our 6 hour layover. At 11:30am on New Year’s Day in Portugal we arrived to Duarte’s father’s welcoming arms. The luggage, bikes and kids all fit perfectly in, on and around the Land Rover. At last I was able to breathe a sigh of relief.

We have been settling into our little home in a small village called Sao Lourenco near the top of the mountain above Chaves. We restored this 14th century home a few years ago and we are only now staying in it for the first time. It is perfect. To get to the house, we drive through narrow, granite, block streets avoiding wandering chickens, dogs and/or burro drawn carts. The house opens onto a small porch which opens onto the street where there are few cars. Inside, we have a microscopic kitchen – which I am enjoying because it is impossible for us to cook here. Instead we enjoy homegrown food, prepared with hands more capable than mine, that is unreservedly indulgent at Duarte’s family’s home. The bedrooms are downstairs and they are very unique. The house was built into the stone on which it sits – therefore our walls are sloped with the actual rocks protruding into the rooms. Marcos loves this as it provides an excellent rocky setting for his monster trucks.

The church in Sao Lourenco is a mere 35 yards from our home. It has electronic bells which play every 15 minutes. I thought they would be unsettling or that they would keep me awake at night but I was wrong. Sleeping downstairs where we are buffered by the earth and rock the bells are mutedly audible and even somewhat pleasant. Sleeping is not a strength of mine, and I have kind of appreciated that I can count the chimes and know what time it is in the wee hours of the night.

Duarte’s parents acquired a puppy recently and decided to keep him for Marcos. It’s a mutt and not at all cute – but Marcos is in love. I know that kids and dogs are supposed to go hand in hand and now I have proof. At 4 years of age, Marcos has a tremendous imagination and endlessly desires someone to partake in his games. Jenna is not yet old enough to play and Duarte and I simply can’t be there for him as much as he would like. “Charco” meaning “puddles” in English, is Marcos’ new best friend. They are already enjoying many boy and puppy adventures together as they romp about the farm at Quinta da Mata (Duarte’s parents’ home). Charko is the perfect playmate.

Portugal is old in so many ways and the people who live in the Tras os Montes region where we are living are mountain people. I see those that live here as earthy people who grow their own food, raise their own chickens and despite their healthy lifestyle, tend to display themselves as people who have been punished by life. Their clothing is simple, worn and dark.

The homes and villages are old and have been lived in for generation after generation. Every house has a clothesline with all of the laundry hung out to dry. This is true even in the city where clothes are hanging out of balcony windows. In addition to a laundry line, every house also has a garden. The windows of the houses always look dark. Electricity is expensive here. Even stores are dimly lit or not lit at all and frequently without heat making it difficult for me to discern whether or not they are open.

It is now olive harvesting season. The men beat the branches with a stick while the women gather the fallen olives in a big green tarp that lies upon the ground. Everyone is harvesting olives whether for the family, for commercial use or for their own consumption. We will be traveling to Duarte’s uncle’s farm this weekend where he produces olive oil. I look forward to seeing how the whole production takes place.

Duarte and I were able to get out this afternoon on our mountain bikes. What an experience! It felt so odd to be whizzing through the old villages and the weathered people, enjoying our leisure in our brightly colored spandex and our technical mountain bikes. Instead of riding on recreational trails, we rode upon paths that have been used by flocks of sheep and their shepherds for hundreds of years. There is a roman road near Quinta da Mata which was originally made by roman servants. The road is by no means a road you or I would travel on by vehicle in present times. It is comprised of large stones placed so that the large, wooden wheels of the roman carriages could pass as they traveled through the region. There are still ruts in the stone from the ancient traffic patterns. It must have been difficult for the Romans to navigate such a road as it is certainly not smooth. It was a challenge to ride these roads on bikes. Mostly, I carried my bike down the steep grade. On one point during our outing, I stopped to shed a layer and saw an old cow in a field. The cow looked up and watched us for a long time. I am sure it had never seen the likes of us and I couldn’t help but laugh out loud at it’s puzzled expression.