On my own...

February 20, 2007

On my own….

Living in Portugal without my tour guide and interpreter has been a good reality check. Duarte and his brother left last Friday for an 8-day trip to Morocco – a trip they have been planning for years. He was so excited to have this opportunity to drive down to the south of Spain, catch a ferry to Africa and then let their adventure unravel from there. They packed the Land Rover full with kayaking gear, the paraglider, hiking clothes for a summit and camping gear. Good for them.

Meanwhile I am here in Chaves with the kids. Instead of staying in our house up the mountain, we have taken a room at Quinta da Mata with the benefit of having Duarte’s parents help with the kids and with food, of course. This week has had it’s ups and downs.

My sister in law is my lifeline. She has no idea how much I need her to maintain my sanity. Susana is very special. She is easy-going, smart, funny, interesting and she speaks English. Marcos adores her and she adores him. When Susana shows up, everything is better. She saved me a few times this week with meals, parades, and by just being there.

This week was the week of Carnaval in Portugal. Carnaval involves a whole host of festivities prior to the onset of Lent. Kids were out of school and many people had holidays during this time. The idea behind this festive period is to celebrate, feast, overindulge, tell people truths before the fasting before Lent. Adults and children dress up in costumes, attend parades and have parties. Susana took us to two parades this week. The one in Verin, Spain was terrific. Marcos loved it. The parade lasted over an hour. It was an exuberant celebration with colorful costumes and vibrant people.

Marcos isn’t the easiest child to raise and when his father is gone he is impossible. When Duarte is away and/or when he is really stressed he scrunches up his face in the meanest contortion. Eyebrows knit with fury, eyes blazing with evil, he nearly explodes with aggression. My mom calls him “bat boy” when he is in this mode. Marcos knows how to push my buttons. It is impossible for me to be patient with him when he is in “bat boy” mode. It is also not possible for me to leave him with anyone else for fear that he will hurt someone. Therefore I have had to keep a close watch on him. Fortunately, as the days have passed, his behavior has been improving. I wasn’t sure either of us were going to make it through the week.

Duarte’s parents are very helpful. I am grateful for all that they do for us. Jenna's care is completely covered by her adoring grandmother. Filinto enjoys Marcos and is helpful in his own way but sometimes his judgment is off and his help turns out to further complicate our situation. On Tuesday, it was pouring down rain and we all could see that the day had serious potential for disaster with a cooped up, highly energetic boy. Filinto suggested a drive to Spain for he thought there might be some Carnaval festivities going on. Sounded like a good idea to me. Little did I know, that Filinto is known for his “Sunday drives.” Our trip to Verin, Spain which typically takes me 20 minutes, took us 45 minutes. It was painfully slow. Marcos wanted to get out. He needed to pee. I had stepped in dog poop just before we left – so the whole car smelled, Filinto was listening to Spanish talk radio, and Ceu (Duarte’s foster sister) had a nose bleed. To top it all off, there was nothing going on in Spain, so we turned around and drove back…the long way!!!

Marcos does have his moments, however. In the car the other day, he was leaning across to Jenna’s car seat and I could see he was picking at the crusty boogers on her nose. Thinking this was sure to go bad, I asked him to stop. His reply was. “Well, I’m just picking the barnacles off of her nose.” He cracks me up. I write this story because I haven’t been able to tell anyone else. I don’t think I could manage all of those words in Portuguese.

Because I am mostly without an interpreter, I have been more willing to speak Portuguese. I imagine that it is painful to hear the garble that comes out of my mouth. Regardless, it is working. I am able to communicate my needs for the most part. Other times, there are whole monologues spoken to me and I catch maybe every fifth word. Then I do my best to try to figure out what in the world the person is talking about. Sometimes I am completely wrong with my interpretation and I usually find this out the hard way… like when my nice brown sweater was dyed black or when I thought Filinto was supposed to pick up Marcos from school and he didn’t. Eek.

I do have a few prouds thus far… I am finding my way around town well. I have ordered a coffee and paid for it by myself in a café, I have taken the kids to a park and to a castle and I have asked questions in stores. I am getting by… but it is a whole lot more fun when Duarte is here.

The real struggle that is integral to all of my feelings is language. I never realized how important communication really is. Really. Speaking is self-expression. To share a thought or an insight is to share yourself with another person. Relationships are mostly developed from communication. It’s amazing how much time I think about words here. I listen to every syllable, intonation, word ending, tense, etc. I want so badly to understand the language. Not fully understanding the language makes me feel I am living in this world under a heavy blanket. There is so much that I am not aware of going on around me. The Portuguese lessons are helping a little bit. I enjoy the time with my teacher because we can speak English together.

When I really start feeling out of sorts, I start seeking the familiar. I flip the radio stations through and through until I find an American song I know. Sometimes I surf familiar websites. I don’t know why these websites bring me so much comfort, but they do. Grocery shopping helps too as grocery stores are big and fully lit and oddly familiar. If I can decipher the title of a movie, I’ll rent one because they are typically in English with Portuguese subtitles. When I indulge in one of these familiar activities, I feel a bit more grounded - like standing on a small island in a big ocean.

Duarte has sent a few text messages from Morocco. “Had a great day. Just passed over the Atlas mountains.” Or “Sleeping in the desert. No sounds or lights. Amazing.” “We are having a big adventure, wish you were here.” I wish I was there too. I am happy for his experience and I think later I will be happy for mine. One of the things I hoped to get while living abroad was a new perspective on my American life. I can comfortably say that I am glad that I have the life I have in America. I look forward to the many experiences that lie ahead in the months to come but I think I’ll be happy to get back to my turf. I miss my family, my friends, my job, my language and my country.

I am on my own here in Portugal and I’m doing okay - just a little bit lonely. All of these experiences, for better are for worse, are THE EXPERIENCE.

Tapas

February 18, 2007

Tapas

A taste of Spain is what we were looking for when Duarte and I went away for a night without the kids to a small city in Spain called Ourense. We were celebrating the anniversary of the day Duarte proposed to me – which we have always celebrated and it was also my first night ever away from Jenna.

Ourense is a beautiful city with rivers, incredible bridges and a great shopping area in the center of the city where the streets are closed to cars. We arrived in the evening without a hotel reservation. Duarte stopped at a travel agency to ask about hotels in the city center. A woman working there who was just getting off work offered to walk us to a hotel that she knew of as the directions were a bit confusing. She was so generous, taking time to show us around the area surrounding the hotel and giving us an insiders perspective on the many different places to eat.

Looking to experience a little bit of Spanish culture, we decided to spend our evening hopping from one Tapas bar to another. Tapas are small plates of appetizer-like food which costs about 3 or 4 euros per plate. The first place we stopped had 10 tables, a bar and old, dark wooden beams lining the ceiling. The people inside were professionals dressed in their work clothing – enjoying a bite to eat and a drink before going home. We didn’t really know what we were ordering when we ordered “batatas bravas” and we were surprised when french fries with mayonnaise appeared. They tasted pretty good anyway and we enjoyed a tall glass of the house wine to accompany them for only 1 euro.

Moving on, the next place we stopped (about 2 doors down) was frequented by college students. Once again we ordered without really knowing what we would get. This time it was shrimp and squid. I didn’t mind experimenting with the squid; the experience itself was so unique, that the food was secondary. Stopping at each Tapas place, was like flipping through channels on a television. Each place had its own charisma and the people inside had their own stories. I enjoyed seeing people of a different culture casually interact, speaking Gallego jubilantly. The accented Spanish sounded like a song.

The third place we went was dark and underground. The crowd was mixed but mostly college students. Duarte ordered pimentos pedron. This time we did know what we were ordering because we had had these once before with Lipe and Susana - however, with a very different outcome. Pimentos Pedron are small, green peppers, roasted with salt. The fun part about these tapas is that though all of the peppers look exactly alike, some are spicy hot (muy picante) and others are not. There is impossible to discern the hot peppers from the plain peppers. Each bite is a gamble.

Duarte was really excited about these tapas as he likes spicy food. I too looked forward to the snack as I enjoy the peppers that aren’t spicy. The order arrived on a plate with about 25 peppers scattered around the plate. In the center of the plate was one red pepper. Duarte eagerly claimed the red one first which turned out to be a great mistake. That red pepper was HOT. For someone who usually can handle the hottest of foods, I was amazed by his reaction. His eyes were tearing; his nose was running. Sweat beads were forming on his forehead. He was taking large gulps of his wine. Meanwhile, while laughing at him, I was picking at the green peppers, delighted that thus far I had avoided the spicy ones. And then I found one! The bite was deceptive at first. It tasted just like the mild peppers tasted and then suddenly the heat took over the senses in my mouth. Oh my god it was hot. The whole underside of my tongue was on fire. Quickly, I ordered bread and when it arrived (not soon enough) I tore the bread apart and stuffed the pieces between my teeth and gums and under my tongue. It wasn’t working. Duarte ordered beers for us. When they arrived, we gulped them quickly only to find that the flavor of the peppers mixed with the beer was nauseating. Duarte with his mouth agape and tongue askew was desperate, he was asking me to blow into his mouth in a last stitch effort to cool the fire. Through my own burning misery, I laughed until I nearly fell out of my chair. I wasn’t sure how we were going to survive this but it was so, so funny.
Once we realized that neither bread, nor beer, nor wine, nor blowing was going to cool our smoldering mouths, we decided to leave as quickly as possible and find some ice cream.

We found ice cream in yet another tapas bar along the way. There we met a bar owner from Argentina who interrupted a disagreement Duarte and I were having about desserts. My argument was that though Portuguese desserts are wonderful, they just seem to be missing some of the rich indulgence that American desserts have. The bar owner staked his own claim that dulce-de-leche from Argentina was the best dessert. He then proceeded to pull out his own private stash from the small refrigerator behind the bar to share with us. He was right. It was really good!

The night went on and on like this. We enjoyed food and drink all around the town center of Ourense. It was so refreshing to be in a place where people were simply enjoying the social time. Because tapas are so small and so light, more attention is paid to the people and the conversation rather than the food. The night was flavorful, fun, full of laughter and another great cultural lesson. Best of all, Jenna seemed completely unfazed by our absence. I can’t wait to go back!

Tenerife

February 13, 2007

We just returned from five blissful days on the Spanish island of Tenerife in the Canary Islands. Geninha, Filinto, Lipe, Susana, Duarte, Marcos, Jenna and I all flew on a chartered jet to the island just off the coast of Africa last Wednesday night. Waking the first morning, we had no idea what to expect as all we could see during the drive to our hotel the night before were lights from the stores and streets surrounding us. Pulling back the curtains, we saw a glimpse of what the next 5 days would hold for us. Sunshine poured into the room. Outside was a lush green landscape filled with palm trees, tropical plants and banana trees. In the distance was the snow-covered peak of the volcano “Teide”. To our left, we could see a broad expanse of blue ocean inviting us for a visit before breakfast.

Happy to wear shorts and sandals after months of winter, we walked the short distance for a quick peak at the beach. Because this is a volcanic island, there was a black sand beach, remnants from the volcano that last erupted in 1909. The water was cold and clear. Even in the early morning hours, we could already feel the hot sun touching our pale skin.

It took a couple of days to get into synch with the whole family. Lipe and Susana are young. They like to stay up late and sleep late. Geninha and Filinto are older and they like to go to bed early. We have the kids so everything is more complicated. Even with two youngsters in tow, we were always waiting in the lobby 15-20 minutes after our agreed-upon meeting time because someone was late for some odd reason. Fortunately, we did figure out how to work together and by the third day, we were all meeting for meals at the same time, sharing ideas that worked for everyone and hopping in the van together for a full day of fun.

The places we visited were incredible. Lipe had visited Tenerife two times prior to this visit because he is a paraglider. Tenerife is famous for its strong thermals which are necessary for long flights. Because of Lipe’s easy navigation, we were able to find beautiful places off of the beaten path. We enjoyed two days at a white sand beach (the sand was brought in from the Sahara desert) at the base of the volcano. The beach was protected with a large rock barrier in the ocean that kept the waves from disturbing the swimming area. We had a calm place to swim, lots of sunshine and sand for Marcos and Jenna to dig in and cafés right on the beach for snacks when we were hungry. Each day, we would leave sandy, salty and happy.

Nightlife is excellent in Tenerife. It had been a long time since I had enjoyed any kind of nightlife, so the experience was that much better. Geninha and Filinto were not interested in going out after dinner, so each night they would stay with the kids. Yeah!! In Spain, dinner is served around 9:00pm, so the discos didn’t pick up until around midnight. In the interim time between dinner and dancing, we would frequent a cozy little bar called “Budha Pequena” (small budha). It had comfy couches around coffee tables and lots of candlelit corners for us to enjoy good conversation. Susana and I liked to order mojitos or sangria. Lipe always ordered whiskey. Duarte went for the caiperinhas. After a drink at little budha, we would stroll through the town center, which had a large playground that was crawling with kids even at the late hour of 11:00pm. Lots of live music erupted from the open cafés surrounding the square providing entertainment for the people enjoying the warm night air and a late night coffee or drink. After our walk, we hopped from one bar or disco or salsa dancing place to another throughout the night. We would return to our hotel around 2:00am after an exuberant night of dancing, laughing, drinking and fun. Lipe and Susana usually stayed out later than us because they didn’t have the 6:00am rooster-like child that we had to look forward to each day.

One day we went to the “playa de las Americas” (the beach of the Americas). This beach was as far south on the island as we could go. The drive was curvy and uncomfortable. We had to stop too many times due to carsickness. But once we arrived, we found an incredible beach. It was filled with tourists from everywhere who were also basking in the warm sun with there pale bodies. The mix of people ranged from young, partying college students to elderly couples. This beach was excellent because it had a rock barrier that allowed one big wave to roll into the cove at a time. This was perfect for body surfing – which is just what we did for most of the afternoon.

Marcos’ favorite thing to do on the beach was to make a big monster truck out of sand. With the help of his grandfather, father and uncle they built monster truck seats deep into the sand. The truck had a front seat, a back seat, spare tire, windshield and dashboard. With sand toys they created a steering wheel, gear shift and rearview mirrors. After the truck was completed, we would all jump in while Marcos drove. Lipe would sing while the rest of us leaned to the left and leaned to the right pretending to moving with the places Marcos was taking us. Once again, we attracted a great deal of attention on the beach. It was so much fun.

Tenerife was good for me. Sunshine always makes me feel good but there was something else that I gained from the experience. Being in a touristy location allowed me the opportunity to live as I am accustomed to living. For the first time in 6 weeks, I wasn’t different, nor did I stand out and I was able to speak English to people. Because we were in Spain, a place that was different even for Duarte, I was able to be a part of decisions and plans as we were discovering a new place together. Have a better grasp on life for even a few days gave me perspective on my state of being in Portugal. Though we had been living the dream life in Portugal, I had been feeling irritable and not all together happy. I think I now know why… as someone who values independence and the ability to lead and to make things happen in my life, I had been living in a place so entirely different that I wouldn’t allow my true self to emerge. Through my own coping techniques, I was coasting rather than grounding myself. Now with this new perspective, I am determined to live more deliberately being careful not to let my spirit be caged. I started Portuguese lessons on Tuesday and already I feel like I have more autonomy. It’s exciting! I think this experience will only get better from here.

The boy who rode his bicycle into the river

February 6

This past Saturday was a cold, wet and dreary day in Chaves. It was one of those days when we woke up and thought…”what are we going to do with the kids all day.” And so, we decided to get out of town and head to the meat festival about which I wrote previously. Before the Feira began, we had yet another adventure.

Arriving to Boticas around 11:00am, we found that we were too early for the feira. Jenna was asleep in her car seat. So we decided to stop at the little park edging the river that flows through Boticas. The park had a number of interconnecting, granite walkways passing though it and seemed an excellent place for Marcos to ride his bike.

Marcos put on his helmet and headed for the park. The walkway entering the park was a steep, downhill grade with a sharp left turn just before the river. There were no walls or guardrails between the path and the river. We noticed the sharp turn just as Marcos began his descent and yelled for him to put on his brakes. He did just that but the granite was slick and fast. He tried to put his feet down – but the momentum was too great for him to have any effect. Over the wall he went falling about four feet and then into the river. We ran ahead to see if he was okay. There, standing in the only shallow section of the river, was Marcos soaked from head to toe, shivering with the cold and crying inconsolably. The water had cushioned he and the bicycle’s fall. He was not hurt. Fishing him out of the cold water, we raced Marcos to the truck and stripped him of his clothes. His skin was red. Every bit of clothing was drenched.

Duarte had to go into the river himself to get the bicycle that was heading downstream in the deeper part of the river. Rolling up his pant lets and using the handles from our umbrella stroller as hook to grab the bike he created quite a scene. Cars pulled over to watch and take pictures of this strange man in the river. He was successful. Marcos and the bike were unscathed from their death-defying launch into the river.

In Portugal, all commerce closes at 12:00 on Saturdays. It was 11:45, we had only 15 minutes to find Marcos some dry clothing. Lipe and Susana miraculously arrived just as we were about to scour the stores. They climbed into the car to sit with Marcos and Jenna. Duarte and I took off to the stores frantically searching for inexpensive socks, a shirt and shoes. Boticas is a small town with 10 stores lining the main street. As we explained the situation to the storekeepers, we started a rally with all of the townspeople to get Marcos dry. We wanted to get into the laundromat to dry the clothes, but the owner wasn’t there. A man from the florist shop next door, pointed out her house just down the hill and told us to go there. The Pharmacist from across the street, called the owner of the children’s clothing shop and asked her to open the store for us quickly. The lady from the shoe store allowed us to run up the street to our jeep with a couple of pairs of shoes for Marcos to try on. This was a desperate situation and it was turning out to be hilarious. I felt like we were on Sesame Street.

In the end we found a white cotton shirt from the grocery store, a pair of hideously ugly shoes from the shoe store, socks from the children’s clothing store and the lady with the laundromat allowed us to dry Marcos’ jacket while she went off to get a manicure. In a matter of 20 minutes we met every storeowner in Boticas. For the rest of the day, everywhere we went, folks were saying hello to the family of the boy who rode his bike into the river.

It sure is hard to be anonymous around here.

Meat

Festival of Meat and "Chega de Bois" - February 5, 2007

In the Tras os Montes region there are a number of wintertime, weekend festivals called “feiras” held in various villages celebrating the treasures of this mountain region. These treasures are the chorizos, alheiras, sausages, and presuntos made in the smoky kitchens of the Trasmontanos. People come from all over to sample the salty delicacies. For someone like me, who does not eat pork, it is curious to see booth after booth of meat. Each booth looks exactly the same, adorned with the “U” shaped sausages hanging from hooks and with large chunks of presunto dangling overhead. In some cases the entire head of a pig sits upon the frame of the booth for decoration.

Even at Quinta da Mata, it’s meat season. The season started off with “the killing of the pig” which I opted not to see. Last Wednesday, 5 women arrived to spend the day at Quinta da Mata making alheiras. Loaves upon loaves of heavy, crusty, white bread were broken into pieces and then boiled in large caldrons of water and olive oil. Next paprika, parsley and chunks of chicken and pork were added to the mixture. The women sat in front of the fire throughout the afternoon pressing the combination into a long, thin (pig intestine) casing using a stick. Another woman tied the ends of the alheira with a cotton string. When the hundred or so alheira were all made, they were hung from sticks placed horizontally over the large stone fireplace where they were cured with the smoke from a fire that lasted four days and four nights.

The feiras celebrating the meat offer people the opportunity to sample a variety of flavors and buy their favorites to take home. The feira that we went to this weekend in Boticas also had artesenato goods to buy. These goods included heavy, wool sweaters, wool panchos, wooden carvings of traditional tools or toys and some pottery. Gypsies are attracted to these festivals as it offers them the opportunity to sell their cheap plastic toys, balloons or cell phone chargers. They play their accordions and hustle people for money offering plastic bracelets or bandaids in exchange.

A few other independent vendors line the street in front of the feira tempting the visitors with “churros” (a long stick of fried dough, coated in cinnamon and powdered sugar) and candy colored popcorn. The most interesting of the goods being offered was the wine being sold out of an old, beaten up, pick up truck. In the truck bed were a few large “garafas” of wine. On older man and his wife were selling cups of wine at .50 euros a cup. Instead of offering plastic cups, they were set up with a small table sitting in the bed of the truck, with a tablecloth and a few mugs. Beside the table were two small wash bins – one with soapy water, the other with clear rinse water for washing the cups between customers. Duarte bought a mug of the wine. It tasted young. It hadn’t been aged at all. Perhaps it was made from this couples own small vineyard not long ago.

Dancers and singers from the different regions of Portugal entertained us with their colorful clothing, happy songs and their traditional dances. The dancers moved to the beat of the drums, the tap of two sticks and the cadence of the old, folkloric music sung by the cheerful chorus. It was impossible to stand still with so much rhythm and energy.

The feiras typically have a “chega de bois” scheduled as part of entertainment. This is what I enjoy the most. The “chega de bois” is a bullfight involving two bulls going head to head, horn to horn to determine the more dominant of the two. This is much more humane and entertaining than watching a matador kill a bull as they do in the Spanish bullfights.

The bullfights are pretty informal. There isn’t an arena of any kind. Seldom are there even walls surrounding the field where the bulls will fight. The people gather around the bulls creating the ring. If a bull decides to head in another direction, there is no protection for the spectators. Marcos gets very nervous about the bulls and crouches down behind our legs fearful to even look in their direction. We are careful about our viewing spot and are sure to cover any article of red clothing.

When the bulls arrive in their individual trucks, their power can be sensed as the trucks rock back and forth and side to side with the weight of these great animals. Their snorts and stomps and tremendous size are hidden under the canopy of the truck bed. My senses are hyperaware of the strength modestly contained within the metal gates of their containers.

One bull enters the field first. Arrogantly he parades himself for all to see. He snorts and digs a hole with his front leg; his head down low. The second bull is led from the truck. This bull has a stylish gait which is almost comical as it swaggers proudly onto the fighting turf. Encouraged by their managers holding long sticks, the bulls commence their battle for dominance. Heads down low with long sharp horns, the bulls knock heads and stay locked for long periods of time. The muscles in their large, brown bodies are flexing with the force of their fight. Once in a while, they will unlock and take a step back – gathering up energy for another head blow. The struggle lasts for as little at 10 minutes or for as long as 40 minutes in the fights we have seen. One will finally give up, turn and run. This is when the spectators need to be mindful of the shamed bull and quickly get out of its path. The dominant bull chases the retreating bull ready to head butt the other in the rear end.

The bulls are quickly harnessed with a simple rope looped around their horns by their managers, the loser is led back into the truck. The winner is led to the hole that was dug by the other bull. He stands victoriously on top of the hole pompously bellowing a loud cheer of victory for the other to hear. This braggart reminds me of the pro wrestlers I have seen on American television – yelling out their taunts to the crowd. There is too much testosterone in both cases.

After being outside in the cold mountain air for long periods of time on feira days, we return to our home tired and hungry; ready for a simple, meatless dinner, a warm bath and a long night of sleep.

Mountain Biking

February 1, 2007

The most intimate look at the north of Portugal is best seen by mountain bike. Duarte and I like to start off our rides by turning left just outside the front door of our little house onto the steep and narrow alley that leads below to a green valley where a thin, bubbling, stream passes through. Following the flow of the water, we pass over a rocky bridge that is damp with the morning dew. This bridge has thrown us from our bicycles more than once, so we pass with care. We climb up an old dirt road. As we ascend we pass fields of grape vines, tilled gardens ready for spring, burrows grazing along a stone fence and of course, olive trees. There are trails leading in every direction.

Our destinations vary from day to day. Riding two or three times a week, we have yet to ride the same trail twice. Relying on Duarte’s knowledge of the area, we head for a memory he has from childhood. These memories are magical places. We’ve ridden to an abandoned castle from the 14th century that overlooks all of Chaves and into Spain. We found a land manager’s home that sits on top of a mountain among the forested areas around Chaves. It was abandoned when the dictatorship ended in the 70’s. Other times, we simply ride as far as we can ride with a few euros in our pocket to buy a cold drink and a pastry at one of the villages through which we pass. It’s difficult to pry our selves away from these peaceful places.

Sometimes the trails meander up and down through the rolling landscape. More often, we climb. Though the climbs are long and steep there is much around us to take in and enjoy. I like the rich, musty smells of the fields ready for planting and the smell of smoke from the fireplaces in the villages. The wet, mossy rocks that squish with the weight of our bicycles, make the journey seem mystical at times. I like the sounds of the animals walking through the fields; the loud calls of the women in the villages washing their laundry in the village wash areas and then hanging their clothes to dry. The church bells from the many villages echo throughout the valley. There is a rhythm to this culture that I tune into while my legs move the pedals and I climb higher.

The villages are interspersed between forests, gardens, farmlands, vineyards, and high rocky cliffs. Every turn we make offers a different landscape. We race through shadowy, pine forests feeling cold and damp and then emerging in a bright, open field with the sun warming us enough to shed a layer. We hop off our bikes to climb huge boulders giving us the greatest of vistas. Once when we were riding, Duarte stopped ahead of me saying – “You’ve got to see this.” Up the hill was a stone wall made of chunks of granite stacked about 3 feet tall. Looking over the wall at us was an old man dressed in dark clothing with a button down cap. Beside him, also peering over the wall, was a donkey, a black goat and a white sheep all with the same curious expression.

Exploring the roads, trails and villages of Portugal has been my favorite part of our stay here. While riding, Duarte and I enjoy time together as a couple. We have time to talk, to laugh and time to be quiet together. The rides are physically challenging which allows me to burn the countless calories I eat each day at Quinta da Mata. By bike, I am seeing the heart of this beautiful place…so different from anything I have ever known before.