June 30, 2011
Chaves
The last day in Portugal is always the hardest day for me emotionally. I absorb everyone’s emotions and then of course I have my own to deal with. Marcos is irritable and fragile, Jenna is quiet, Duarte is unsure of where to be and what to do with himself, Geninha cries, Filinto stops everything to play with his grandson, the maids make the kids their favorite meals and stop for frequent hugs. Everyone is affected by our departure.
Duarte’s parents are so kind and so wonderful and so giving. They live for their sons and for their grandchildren. Taking Marcos and Jenna so far away from them hurts me as I ache for their loss. I wish that a full year wouldn’t have to pass before we will see each other again. A year carries much change…another year of growth for our children, another year of aging for the rest of us.
I love Portugal. I love Duarte’s family. I enjoy the food. I am grateful for the mild summer temperature. I like not washing clothes nor cooking. There are many things that I love and enjoy. Portugal is a feast for the eyes and always a lesson of history. I do struggle quite a bit as I search for my place and my purpose while I’m here. Unfortunately, I only truly appreciate it all upon the days leading up to our departure. Such is life.
Some things I’ll take back with me…
1. A nice sun tan
2. A few extra pounds -
3. Amazing memories of Morocco, Algarve, Obidos
4. An improved appreciation of my best friend and life partner. (a second honeymoon was a great idea.)
5. Respect for my children for living with their grandparents for a week without their mama and papa.
6. A few bottles of wine
7. A greater comprehension of the Portuguese language
8. A better understanding of the Muslim culture
9. The ability to sit still for long periods of time (wonder how long that will last?)
10. A beautiful painting from Essaouira, Africa
11. Fun memories with Marcos and Jenna…diving competitions, swimming competitions, exploring castles, riding Flash, mountain biking, cleaning up our house, putting the sheep to bed.
12. And more, I’m sure.
And so I say goodnight to this beautiful place and to this even more beautiful family. We’ll be at home tomorrow night and will begin the first day of a full year until we return again. A te lago.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
The Barber Shop
Our last few hours in Marrakech were brutally hot and uncomfortable. We wandered aimlessly through the souks, ate a less than flavorful tanjine, and fought off the souk sales people. Blah. With an hour remaining before we were to catch a taxi, Duarte decided to get a haircut. Of course, what else? This became the cultural experience of the day.
We entered the obscure salon inside and up the stairs of a strange warehouse type of building. As we entered the barber shop, a Moroccan man joined us. He was older, friendly and he spoke English. How odd. We inquired about a haircut. $5 seemed a bit steep but it was hard to walk away at that point.
Following an apparently powerful and well to do man, who made a point to let Duarte know that this was the best barber in town and typically one should not just walk in without an appointment. Ok – point taken. We’ll call next time.
While Duarte was groomed with a straight razor by a conservative man of Islam, I sat to chat with the English speaking muslim. With time, I found myself wrapped up in a conversation where I was being witnessed to about the truth of one god and that one god was Allah. Not wanting to rock any boats with my opinion about religion, I smiled and nodded my head. Sure. Ok.
Well Duarte felt like rocking the boat – just a little bit. “What about women? Why don’t they have the same rights as men? Why are they scarved and burqa’d?” and away the conversation went. The barber stopped cutting, the haircutting assistant moved closer, the translator moved closer and I sat back to take pictures. Fascinating as the conversation was, I was hot and hungry and a little bit nervous about that naked blade and my husband’s precious neck. Nevertheless, I sat back and watched.
Some interesting discussion points…mostly from their point of view… I have to keep this brief as we are about to board our plane.
1. The Muslim translator lived in England for 12 years. He lived a sinful life drinking alcohol and eventually moved back to Morocco to recover and rediscover the miracle of Allah.
2. A husband should be the only person to see his wife naked. The barber and the translator referred to women showing too much skin as degrading to themselves and to their husbands. Women aren’t required to be burqa’d - only the extreme Islamist do this. The quaran does not condone this. Conservatives have taken this too far.
3. Arabic women are happy and have many rights.
4. George Bush divided the world.
5. Two months after a suicide bombing in Djma ef-fna (2 blocks from them), these men were questioning whether or not September 11 was contrived by George Bush rather than Osama Bin Laden.
6. America knows everything…why did it take so long for them to kill Bin Laden. They knew where he was and then let him live until Bush was out of the way. Why?
7. They feel that Bin Laden may not be dead and if he is why didn’t he receive a proper muslim burial. (what does their news convey to them?}
8. People were doing bad things in the name of Islam but they were not good muslims.
9. Extreme Christianity and Extreme Islam is created by bad people to advance their own respective interests. Good Christians and good muslims have no trouble getting along… but Christians will not go to heaven. There is only one god and that is Allah.
10. He asked Duarte if he was Catholic. He said yes. Then he asked me what I was and I couldn’t answer in a way that he would understand. He questioned this…how could I not be of the same religion as my husband. Then decided that I could make my own decision. I am free but I need to read the Quaran.
Oh my… in the end the Barber, the translator and the young assistant decided that Duarte was a good man. They invited him back to the barber shop next time he visits Morocco…no appointment needed. They also decided that, in fact, he looked a little Arab. Maybe. Maybe not.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Marakech again
Tuesday, June 28 Marrakech
Our return to Marrakech has confirmed my feelings that one can never again have a first impression of a place. This time we are more relaxed, more confident….seasoned even after just one week of travel.
The heat of Marrakech hit us hard the moment we stepped off of the bus from Essaouira. Immediately we found ourselves yearning for shade but more importantly air conditioning. We stopped at the closest hotel only to find the cost of comfort beyond our purse strings. As we departed the cool lobby of the sterile hotel, we were hot and fully loaded with our backpacks. Before any semblance of a plan was constructed, a man from the hotel raced up to us on a moped. He said that he knew of a riad in the medina that would match our budget. He quickly hailed us a taxi (which cost considerably less since he hailed it) and we were zipping through the Marrakech madness to an unknown destination.
We were greeted at the riad by a kindly man who spoke a bit of English. He offered us a warm glass of mint tea…not really what I wanted on this 110 degree day, but ok. We were sold on the riad within seconds of walking into the sparse room during our brief tour… not because of the price, nor because of the very interesting bathroom that doubled as a shower. I was sold when I saw the air conditioning unit on the wall. The best part was that it was not just a fixture for show as it was in our first riad but it was blowing precious cold air. We found our home for the next 24 hours.
Just as I sat down in front of the coveted a/c unit, we heard what sounded like a parade marching down our street. Once again, we found ourselves racing out the door to find out what in the world was going on. We encountered an exuberant group of mostly women, happily singing and dancing and banging drums down the street. The smiles were beautiful and warm and they approached me to dance and join them. Why? With a few inquiries, we learned that the whole Arab world was celebrating because women had gained more rights. I nearly cried with joy. To be mixed in with such an exuberant celebration and then to learn the reason why, oh, how profound. I felt so privileged to be a part of this day.
Since we were out, we ambled our way through the streets and we found ourselves once again in the Djemaa el-Fna (a word I’ll never figure out how to pronounce). This time it seemed different. We knew not to watch the snake charmers as money would be demanded. We knew not the get suckered in by the women painting henna, we knew where to find the best fresh squeezed orange-juice and we knew where the best bread was made. Duarte could defer the hagglers in the souks by saying now in his limited Arabic…”not today, maybe tomorrow, Allah willing.” They liked that response.
Duarte did have one purchase in mind though. We had noticed some hand-made panniers being crafted in the souks. We have seen them on many a moped and bicycle during our time in Morocco and Duarte thought that this would be the treasure he would take home. Amongst all of the scarves, and leathers and metals and wooden crafts, there were four vendors fabricating panniers. It was impossible for me to imagine how they were sewing heavy duty fabrics in such heat and dust and darkness. They apparently enjoyed taking a break to talk with Duarte and I. We eventually emerged with an amazing set of panniers all for the amazing low price of $10. Every souk proprietor stopped to comment on his purchase. Duarte was giddy with pride.
And now our final day in Marrakech…. There is much to do and to experience. Layer upon layer of culture and difference, feed our curiosity. I don’t want to leave the magic and mystique of Morocco, yet I do long for my children. It’s time to go home. I will return again soon - there are many more treasures to be sought.
Our return to Marrakech has confirmed my feelings that one can never again have a first impression of a place. This time we are more relaxed, more confident….seasoned even after just one week of travel.
The heat of Marrakech hit us hard the moment we stepped off of the bus from Essaouira. Immediately we found ourselves yearning for shade but more importantly air conditioning. We stopped at the closest hotel only to find the cost of comfort beyond our purse strings. As we departed the cool lobby of the sterile hotel, we were hot and fully loaded with our backpacks. Before any semblance of a plan was constructed, a man from the hotel raced up to us on a moped. He said that he knew of a riad in the medina that would match our budget. He quickly hailed us a taxi (which cost considerably less since he hailed it) and we were zipping through the Marrakech madness to an unknown destination.
We were greeted at the riad by a kindly man who spoke a bit of English. He offered us a warm glass of mint tea…not really what I wanted on this 110 degree day, but ok. We were sold on the riad within seconds of walking into the sparse room during our brief tour… not because of the price, nor because of the very interesting bathroom that doubled as a shower. I was sold when I saw the air conditioning unit on the wall. The best part was that it was not just a fixture for show as it was in our first riad but it was blowing precious cold air. We found our home for the next 24 hours.
Just as I sat down in front of the coveted a/c unit, we heard what sounded like a parade marching down our street. Once again, we found ourselves racing out the door to find out what in the world was going on. We encountered an exuberant group of mostly women, happily singing and dancing and banging drums down the street. The smiles were beautiful and warm and they approached me to dance and join them. Why? With a few inquiries, we learned that the whole Arab world was celebrating because women had gained more rights. I nearly cried with joy. To be mixed in with such an exuberant celebration and then to learn the reason why, oh, how profound. I felt so privileged to be a part of this day.
Since we were out, we ambled our way through the streets and we found ourselves once again in the Djemaa el-Fna (a word I’ll never figure out how to pronounce). This time it seemed different. We knew not to watch the snake charmers as money would be demanded. We knew not the get suckered in by the women painting henna, we knew where to find the best fresh squeezed orange-juice and we knew where the best bread was made. Duarte could defer the hagglers in the souks by saying now in his limited Arabic…”not today, maybe tomorrow, Allah willing.” They liked that response.
Duarte did have one purchase in mind though. We had noticed some hand-made panniers being crafted in the souks. We have seen them on many a moped and bicycle during our time in Morocco and Duarte thought that this would be the treasure he would take home. Amongst all of the scarves, and leathers and metals and wooden crafts, there were four vendors fabricating panniers. It was impossible for me to imagine how they were sewing heavy duty fabrics in such heat and dust and darkness. They apparently enjoyed taking a break to talk with Duarte and I. We eventually emerged with an amazing set of panniers all for the amazing low price of $10. Every souk proprietor stopped to comment on his purchase. Duarte was giddy with pride.
And now our final day in Marrakech…. There is much to do and to experience. Layer upon layer of culture and difference, feed our curiosity. I don’t want to leave the magic and mystique of Morocco, yet I do long for my children. It’s time to go home. I will return again soon - there are many more treasures to be sought.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Observations
Monday, June 27, 2011
Our final morning in Essaouira.
I sit here in the room looking out at the drab architecture, the dirty, run down streets. There is a cool ocean breeze passing through the room. Outside the flock of seagulls laugh and laugh. The roosters join in on the cacophony and I find myself also laughing. A comedy club with a world of laughter around us.
The most valuable pastime for us in Morocco has been sitting in open cafes, drinking mint tea and watching people. We have spent hours doing this.
Observations….
Men carry their babies and their children. Women (in most cases) appear to be happy, engaged in their families and enjoying the pleasure of an outing.
The beach scene is alive! Groups of men and boys play soccer on full length soccer fields they have drawn in the sand. These games seem to be somewhat serious yet filled with laughter and encouragement.
Soccer, gymnastics, dancing, singing, playing, swimming, running, stretching. The beach is an active place. A lively place. A happy place. It feels more free and active than our beaches do in the United States.
Without alcohol, people find other ways to enjoy time together. Mint tea is consumed by the gallon here. Beginning at breakfast and served until bed time, everyone is drinking mint tea. It is a dark tea – with a strong flavor filled with fresh mint. It is served in a tea pot filled with herbs of all sorts. When poured into small glasses, it is best to have some finesse to add a nice froth on top.
I so enjoy seeing groups of teenagers or young men happily singing and clapping as they walk down the streets. Music is in their souls and it isn’t unusual at all for a group of cool looking kids to start singing and clapping. It takes restraint not to join in, but when we have, we were welcomed with warm smiles.
Men hold hands, put their arms around each other, greet one another with kisses. Women sit in circles and talk.
Children steel french-fries from unassuming tourists’ plates.
Many people where strange, pointy yellow shoes… I just can’t figure this out. In all cases, shoes appear to be a size too small, with the heals hanging out of the back.
Cafes are for locals, restaurants are for tourists. The restaurants are nearly always empty. I can only guess that this is because the Moroccans cannot afford to eat out. Their yearly average income is less than $2000.00 per year.
Every single price is negotiable. Moroccans are extremely good at negotiating. Duarte and I are not. It is exhausting.
Arabic is the language of choice, then French, then Spanish…not English. Duarte speaks very good French. Thank Allah.
The guys selling baked goods on the beach (yum) also sell hash. Geez.
There are many people buying comforters. Why? It’s so hot here.
Animals do not appear to be very well treated in Morocco. I saw a baby donkey yesterday wondering the street all by itself. It seemed that it was off to explore the world. A few moments later it passed by us again heading home and ee-awwing nervously. I really want to take that donkey home with me but I don’t think I could get it through customs and Marrakech is not the place for a donkey! Donkey are worked hard there, with little water in the immense heat.
Oh, I could go on and on. Duarte and I watch and then talk at length about all of the many things we see around us. Trying to make sense of it all is a great part of the adventure. I wonder if we will ever travel to a place so different from any place we have ever seen or known in the future? We’ll certainly return to Morocco but the first visit to such a place is certainly the most profound visit.
We are off to Marrakech…again.
Our final morning in Essaouira.
I sit here in the room looking out at the drab architecture, the dirty, run down streets. There is a cool ocean breeze passing through the room. Outside the flock of seagulls laugh and laugh. The roosters join in on the cacophony and I find myself also laughing. A comedy club with a world of laughter around us.
The most valuable pastime for us in Morocco has been sitting in open cafes, drinking mint tea and watching people. We have spent hours doing this.
Observations….
Men carry their babies and their children. Women (in most cases) appear to be happy, engaged in their families and enjoying the pleasure of an outing.
The beach scene is alive! Groups of men and boys play soccer on full length soccer fields they have drawn in the sand. These games seem to be somewhat serious yet filled with laughter and encouragement.
Soccer, gymnastics, dancing, singing, playing, swimming, running, stretching. The beach is an active place. A lively place. A happy place. It feels more free and active than our beaches do in the United States.
Without alcohol, people find other ways to enjoy time together. Mint tea is consumed by the gallon here. Beginning at breakfast and served until bed time, everyone is drinking mint tea. It is a dark tea – with a strong flavor filled with fresh mint. It is served in a tea pot filled with herbs of all sorts. When poured into small glasses, it is best to have some finesse to add a nice froth on top.
I so enjoy seeing groups of teenagers or young men happily singing and clapping as they walk down the streets. Music is in their souls and it isn’t unusual at all for a group of cool looking kids to start singing and clapping. It takes restraint not to join in, but when we have, we were welcomed with warm smiles.
Men hold hands, put their arms around each other, greet one another with kisses. Women sit in circles and talk.
Children steel french-fries from unassuming tourists’ plates.
Many people where strange, pointy yellow shoes… I just can’t figure this out. In all cases, shoes appear to be a size too small, with the heals hanging out of the back.
Cafes are for locals, restaurants are for tourists. The restaurants are nearly always empty. I can only guess that this is because the Moroccans cannot afford to eat out. Their yearly average income is less than $2000.00 per year.
Every single price is negotiable. Moroccans are extremely good at negotiating. Duarte and I are not. It is exhausting.
Arabic is the language of choice, then French, then Spanish…not English. Duarte speaks very good French. Thank Allah.
The guys selling baked goods on the beach (yum) also sell hash. Geez.
There are many people buying comforters. Why? It’s so hot here.
Animals do not appear to be very well treated in Morocco. I saw a baby donkey yesterday wondering the street all by itself. It seemed that it was off to explore the world. A few moments later it passed by us again heading home and ee-awwing nervously. I really want to take that donkey home with me but I don’t think I could get it through customs and Marrakech is not the place for a donkey! Donkey are worked hard there, with little water in the immense heat.
Oh, I could go on and on. Duarte and I watch and then talk at length about all of the many things we see around us. Trying to make sense of it all is a great part of the adventure. I wonder if we will ever travel to a place so different from any place we have ever seen or known in the future? We’ll certainly return to Morocco but the first visit to such a place is certainly the most profound visit.
We are off to Marrakech…again.
education
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Our days in Morocco are long and full and delightful. I miss our kids terribly and long to share so much of what we are seeing with them. Though we are only 2 hours by plane from them, I feel worlds away. I attempt to reassure myself with the confidence I have in Geninha and Filinto and the great value for Marcos and Jenna to enjoy Portuguese life without their parents. Duarte and I too are noticing that there are many things we are learning about one another. The moment Marcos was born cracked open a world of parenthood and work and negotiation and ultimately less time to tend to a relationship. The hours and hours of travel with Duarte have given us hours and hours to talk, to discover the new world around us, to laugh really hard, to be quiet and to reacquaint ourselves with the older versions of who we were when we stopped doting entirely on one another. Though my heart yearns for my children, I am enjoying this gift of time.
Arriving in Essaouira after a 3-hour ride upon the smelly “Marrakech express” last Thursday, Duarte and I looked around and within minutes thought and said aloud…”I’m not so sure about this place.” Neither of us understood the appeal of a place so ugly, so windy and so vacant. We decided to give it a day and then plan our next move. We have now been here four days and we are still marveling over each new discovery. Essaouira has many hidden charms.
A tradition that Duarte and I started during our honeymoon in Greece is to buy a piece of artwork as a long lasting souvenier to capture our travel. Our quest to find the perfect painting that we both agree upon that best captures our combined experience is part of the adventure we find in traveling together. Yesterday, we found our painting deep within the medina walls. We talked with artist and fell in love with our painting and returned to our hotel room entirely satisfied with our new treasure, the price we paid, the experience of finding it and ultimately the sense of relief that our quest had been fulfilled.
With our treasure found, we decided to enjoy an afternoon on the beach since the wind had calmed a bit. As a western woman, wearing a bathing suit on the beach is a bit uncomfortable – even if it is a more conservative tankini. Arab men swarm the scantily clad women and engage in creative tactics to start up conversation. While Duarte was completely engaged in his book, I spent my time on the beach watching men harass white women.
A western woman sat down on the beach beside us. She was wearing a full length skirt and a long sleeved shirt. Because she was by herself the muslim men on the beach decided she must want some company. Their tactics were interesting but not real convincing. “Hello…Alo…Ola…Bon Jour…” attempting to discern her origin. “Can I bum a cigarette, a drink of water?” For some reason the woman obliged one man’s request and told him he could sit and smoke one cigarette with her. He worked it hard with her while he smoked his cigarette as slowly as possible. To no avail and with cigarette no more, the woman dismissed the eager man. She sat quietly taking in the scene. Man after man swooped in with a variety of tactics. Finally, the woman apparently became fed up and walked away.
I made the mistake of walking more than five feet away from Duarte to take a picture. Within the 4 minutes that I was gone, I received more compliments and assurances of my beauty than can be imagined within such a limited time. I made a note to myself after that to put my shirt and pants on before standing up.
There were many muslim women on the beach. They were up and about playing volley ball with their husbands, chasing their children, swimming in the ocean – but fully clothed. What was striking to me is that many of the men were wearing only their underwear. Really. As I mentioned before, this weekend had attracted millions to attend the international music festival. Many people, I assume, didn’t plan on swimming and thus shed their pants and wore their underwear to sunbathe, to play soccer and to swim.
Duarte and I walked away from the crowd and down the beach, beyond the camels and the horses. There we found a more peaceful Essouira. We encountered a few surfers, kite surfers, and a very joyous exuberant drum circle.
This place is amazing – so colorful – so very different from any other place I have ever been before. Our first impression of Essaouira was entirely wrong. With each hour, with each step we take, we see and learn more and more. Travel is certainly the greatest education of all.
Our days in Morocco are long and full and delightful. I miss our kids terribly and long to share so much of what we are seeing with them. Though we are only 2 hours by plane from them, I feel worlds away. I attempt to reassure myself with the confidence I have in Geninha and Filinto and the great value for Marcos and Jenna to enjoy Portuguese life without their parents. Duarte and I too are noticing that there are many things we are learning about one another. The moment Marcos was born cracked open a world of parenthood and work and negotiation and ultimately less time to tend to a relationship. The hours and hours of travel with Duarte have given us hours and hours to talk, to discover the new world around us, to laugh really hard, to be quiet and to reacquaint ourselves with the older versions of who we were when we stopped doting entirely on one another. Though my heart yearns for my children, I am enjoying this gift of time.
Arriving in Essaouira after a 3-hour ride upon the smelly “Marrakech express” last Thursday, Duarte and I looked around and within minutes thought and said aloud…”I’m not so sure about this place.” Neither of us understood the appeal of a place so ugly, so windy and so vacant. We decided to give it a day and then plan our next move. We have now been here four days and we are still marveling over each new discovery. Essaouira has many hidden charms.
A tradition that Duarte and I started during our honeymoon in Greece is to buy a piece of artwork as a long lasting souvenier to capture our travel. Our quest to find the perfect painting that we both agree upon that best captures our combined experience is part of the adventure we find in traveling together. Yesterday, we found our painting deep within the medina walls. We talked with artist and fell in love with our painting and returned to our hotel room entirely satisfied with our new treasure, the price we paid, the experience of finding it and ultimately the sense of relief that our quest had been fulfilled.
With our treasure found, we decided to enjoy an afternoon on the beach since the wind had calmed a bit. As a western woman, wearing a bathing suit on the beach is a bit uncomfortable – even if it is a more conservative tankini. Arab men swarm the scantily clad women and engage in creative tactics to start up conversation. While Duarte was completely engaged in his book, I spent my time on the beach watching men harass white women.
A western woman sat down on the beach beside us. She was wearing a full length skirt and a long sleeved shirt. Because she was by herself the muslim men on the beach decided she must want some company. Their tactics were interesting but not real convincing. “Hello…Alo…Ola…Bon Jour…” attempting to discern her origin. “Can I bum a cigarette, a drink of water?” For some reason the woman obliged one man’s request and told him he could sit and smoke one cigarette with her. He worked it hard with her while he smoked his cigarette as slowly as possible. To no avail and with cigarette no more, the woman dismissed the eager man. She sat quietly taking in the scene. Man after man swooped in with a variety of tactics. Finally, the woman apparently became fed up and walked away.
I made the mistake of walking more than five feet away from Duarte to take a picture. Within the 4 minutes that I was gone, I received more compliments and assurances of my beauty than can be imagined within such a limited time. I made a note to myself after that to put my shirt and pants on before standing up.
There were many muslim women on the beach. They were up and about playing volley ball with their husbands, chasing their children, swimming in the ocean – but fully clothed. What was striking to me is that many of the men were wearing only their underwear. Really. As I mentioned before, this weekend had attracted millions to attend the international music festival. Many people, I assume, didn’t plan on swimming and thus shed their pants and wore their underwear to sunbathe, to play soccer and to swim.
Duarte and I walked away from the crowd and down the beach, beyond the camels and the horses. There we found a more peaceful Essouira. We encountered a few surfers, kite surfers, and a very joyous exuberant drum circle.
This place is amazing – so colorful – so very different from any other place I have ever been before. Our first impression of Essaouira was entirely wrong. With each hour, with each step we take, we see and learn more and more. Travel is certainly the greatest education of all.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Enchanted
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Essaouira, Morroco
Enchanted.
We left the heat and hustle and overall madness of Marrakech in hopes of finding a seaside town with a cool ocean breeze. We had not a single idea of what to expect.
Nearly every hour…. no, to be more accurate, every hour has held the most incredible surprises. It’s impossible to fathom saying “Wow!” legitimately more than once a day. We have certainly said “Wow” more than once in a day.
A few things.
We arrived to Essaouira and learned that this weekend was the weekend of the international music festival. There are millions of people here gathered to see some of the best world music. One would expect the hotels to be full and the restaurants to be jammed. No. Our hotel is empty and it cost only $35 dollars per night. Restaurants are abundant. For the last two nights, we have been the only ones in the restaurant? Where are all of these people sleeping and eating?
The beach is alive and thriving. Muslim families are here to vacation. There are groups happily playing soccer on the beach. Mothers chase their laughing children. A happy time.
In crowds, large crowds, Duarte and I often find ourselves to be the only white people. We sense no feelings of discrimination or illwill.
Camels walk on the beach at night! Duarte chased after a Berber man and asked if we could have a ride. The kind man happily obliged. Perhaps one of the most beautiful experience of my life. We walked along the water’s edge in the moonlight, listening to the waves and enjoying the gentle cadence of our strolling camels. I rode Jimmie and Duarte rode Blanca. Wow.
We stopped for lunch unknowingly in front of a crowded mosque at noontime yesterday. As we indulged in the most delicious shwarma ever to be tasted, hundreds of men lay down their carpets to pray. The mosque was so full. We had a front seat view. Wow.
In the mornings, men and boys gather on the beach with their Arabian horses. These adroit and swift horses swim, surf waves, and sprint full gallop on the beach. Their owner relaxed and laughing and dressed only in shorts. The horses aren’t wearing saddles. I believe this is the equivalent to our passion for mountain biking. Mornings on the beach with Arabian horses. Wow!
Yesterday, we dragged ourselves back to our hotel after a long day of walking. It was around 3:00 and I was utterly spent and had it in my mind I would rest until dinner. Duarte was going to sit on the veranda and read a bit. Just as I sat down, Duarte came racing in and said (not for the first time)…”You’ve got to see this!” Well, if I had 20 guesses, I couldn’t have dreamed of what we saw… 100’s of Arabian horses on the beach. Of course, we grabbed our camera and run down to the beach for a closer look. What the heck? There we saw upon closer inspection Arabian horses fully dressed in decorated in the most beautiful…I don’t know how to describe this…. Ok, I’ll try… Have you ever ridden the carousel at Walt Disney World? If so, imagine those beautiful horses, with colorful saddles and bridles and eye covering things hopping off the carousel – walking onto an African beach and then racing. That is truly what I thought of when I saw these horses. So, all of these Bedouins (I guess) were adorned in turbans on top of their clad Arabian horses, carrying rifles. Within minutes, groups were racing up the beach at top speed in perfect alignment and then suddenly halting and shooting off loud rifles. What a thrill. We stopped only inches from where the horses were suddenly halted. We enjoyed the adrenaline rush of watching these incredible horses races at us, stop quickly and then the wildness of rifles being shot off. I ducked every time. WOW!!!!
The tastes, the flavors, the smells, the kindness of people, the beauty of a Burka, the ruggedness of the fisherman, the happiness of youth, the apparent pleasure of Muslims so enjoying the ocean, the dusty air, the setting sun, the cool nights, the prayer calls….wow, wow, wow!
I have much to share. We never stop processing and attempting to discern what’s going on around us. It is all….enchanting.
Marakech
Friday, June 24, 2011
Morocco
I’m ashamed that I ever spent any time wondering whether or not it would be wise to travel to an Islamic country. My Christmas gift from Duarte last year was 2 round trip tickets to Marrakech, Morocco. The idea of travel is always exciting, yet within seconds my thoughts went to whether or not I would actually go. As a mother of two, how could I leave my children for a week, travel to a different country, to visit what I believed to be a violent culture who despised Americans? With time and research, I eased myself into the idea of the trip and set my mind on going…yet, admittedly my concerns were vaguely lingering.
Upon arrival to Marrakech, the differences in culture seasoned my every sense. The dry, arid heat drank up all of the moisture from my body. The straight lines of every structure conveyed rigid conformity. Yet the ornate metal with the rolling designs adorning the structures hinted otherwise. The streets were utter chaos…or so it seemed. Zipping past our petit taxi, literally in every direction where ancient mopeds. Upon the mopeds were whole families. The men some of whom wore tunics, others not, had their wives on the back wearing anything from Burkas, scarves or western clothing. An infant often was tucked in between the husband and wife and perhaps an older sibling clung on behind the woman. It wasn’t uncommon to see women driving their own mopeds, often with another woman riding with her on the back. In addition to the taxis and the mopeds were horse drawn carts and donkey pulled carts and tall vans with roof racks and bicycles and of course the regular array of cars that I am more accustomed to seeing.
Our riad was tucked away within a muslim “neighborhood” far away from western hotels and deep within the medina. The narrow streets that couldn’t fit a car were quiet and mysterious to me. Women fully covered from head to toe walked with their casually dressed children through the labyrinth. Above us towered a tall minaret of the closest mosque. Frequently, there were small “stores” that were filled with the essentials…shampoos, diapers, bread, cigarettes, drinks, etc. The one attendant leaned over a counter while the customer stood outside and requested what he/she wanted to purchase.
Our taxi driver led us knowingly through the streets to a heavy wooden door. He knocked twice and the riad was opened by its caretaker. We were welcomed into the interior courtyard of the square-shaped structure. Looking up, I saw the tall courtyard was covered with a peaked canvas. The entire interior was ornate with metal and tile.
Our room was exquisite. Deep greens and reds colored the tiny room. The handmade wooden and straw furniture invited us for a sit. Intricate and elaborate carvings framed the ceiling. All of this for $65 per night.
Out we ventured through the streets of the medina. Without any sense of the people around us or what to expect…we wandered. Cautiously we looked at our map and attempted to navigate our way into the Djemmaa el-Fna – the main market place of the medina. We were unsuccessful initially and decided to sit in the first restaurant we encountered to enjoy our first tanjine of the trip. A tender stew of chicken and vegetables nourished us for the next stage of our exploration.
Asking for directions with limited French, we did get oriented to head into the main square. Aha…this was the magnificent Marrakech, westerners know about. Snake charmers, henna artists, belly dancers, story tellers, men with dancing monkeys, trained pigeons, orange juice stalls…. This and more filled the huge square. I was overwhelmed and thrilled and amazed. The energy in that place, oh, and the spicy smell, and the color and the sounds….would take so much more than words to describe.
Not wanting to be out too late, we found our way back to our Riad. I couldn’t calm my mind enough to sleep. I lay awake all night…my thoughts overflowing with the newness of all that I had observed and with eager anticipation of the next day. At 5:30am, the long and soulful prayer call being beautifully sung from the nearby mosque stirred me to give up any hope of sleep. I was ready to see and feel some more.
Morocco
I’m ashamed that I ever spent any time wondering whether or not it would be wise to travel to an Islamic country. My Christmas gift from Duarte last year was 2 round trip tickets to Marrakech, Morocco. The idea of travel is always exciting, yet within seconds my thoughts went to whether or not I would actually go. As a mother of two, how could I leave my children for a week, travel to a different country, to visit what I believed to be a violent culture who despised Americans? With time and research, I eased myself into the idea of the trip and set my mind on going…yet, admittedly my concerns were vaguely lingering.
Upon arrival to Marrakech, the differences in culture seasoned my every sense. The dry, arid heat drank up all of the moisture from my body. The straight lines of every structure conveyed rigid conformity. Yet the ornate metal with the rolling designs adorning the structures hinted otherwise. The streets were utter chaos…or so it seemed. Zipping past our petit taxi, literally in every direction where ancient mopeds. Upon the mopeds were whole families. The men some of whom wore tunics, others not, had their wives on the back wearing anything from Burkas, scarves or western clothing. An infant often was tucked in between the husband and wife and perhaps an older sibling clung on behind the woman. It wasn’t uncommon to see women driving their own mopeds, often with another woman riding with her on the back. In addition to the taxis and the mopeds were horse drawn carts and donkey pulled carts and tall vans with roof racks and bicycles and of course the regular array of cars that I am more accustomed to seeing.
Our riad was tucked away within a muslim “neighborhood” far away from western hotels and deep within the medina. The narrow streets that couldn’t fit a car were quiet and mysterious to me. Women fully covered from head to toe walked with their casually dressed children through the labyrinth. Above us towered a tall minaret of the closest mosque. Frequently, there were small “stores” that were filled with the essentials…shampoos, diapers, bread, cigarettes, drinks, etc. The one attendant leaned over a counter while the customer stood outside and requested what he/she wanted to purchase.
Our taxi driver led us knowingly through the streets to a heavy wooden door. He knocked twice and the riad was opened by its caretaker. We were welcomed into the interior courtyard of the square-shaped structure. Looking up, I saw the tall courtyard was covered with a peaked canvas. The entire interior was ornate with metal and tile.
Our room was exquisite. Deep greens and reds colored the tiny room. The handmade wooden and straw furniture invited us for a sit. Intricate and elaborate carvings framed the ceiling. All of this for $65 per night.
Out we ventured through the streets of the medina. Without any sense of the people around us or what to expect…we wandered. Cautiously we looked at our map and attempted to navigate our way into the Djemmaa el-Fna – the main market place of the medina. We were unsuccessful initially and decided to sit in the first restaurant we encountered to enjoy our first tanjine of the trip. A tender stew of chicken and vegetables nourished us for the next stage of our exploration.
Asking for directions with limited French, we did get oriented to head into the main square. Aha…this was the magnificent Marrakech, westerners know about. Snake charmers, henna artists, belly dancers, story tellers, men with dancing monkeys, trained pigeons, orange juice stalls…. This and more filled the huge square. I was overwhelmed and thrilled and amazed. The energy in that place, oh, and the spicy smell, and the color and the sounds….would take so much more than words to describe.
Not wanting to be out too late, we found our way back to our Riad. I couldn’t calm my mind enough to sleep. I lay awake all night…my thoughts overflowing with the newness of all that I had observed and with eager anticipation of the next day. At 5:30am, the long and soulful prayer call being beautifully sung from the nearby mosque stirred me to give up any hope of sleep. I was ready to see and feel some more.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Half Birthdays
A festa
We celebrate half birthdays for the kids while we are in Portugal every year since their Portuguese grandparents miss the big events in the United States. The celebration gets a bit better every year.
Geninha had the pastry chef from Quinta da Mata make the kids a castle cake. It was wonderful. A large castle shaped cake detailed with doors and garrisons and individual bricks. On top there was a Roman Soldier and a princess. This was quite a cake. It took a full day to make.
Lipe hosted this year’s party at his new condo with a huge patio behind. The party started when we all entered the building and followed a trail of balloons into the elevator and into the condo. Lipe was busily preparing a family feast in his little kitchen. We all played and danced and talked on the back patio. Soon the kids were ready to open presents. Oh my!
Each present opened was fun and special and somehow evolved into some silliness. I’m not sure if it was the wine we were drinking or if it was just the general excitement. But as each hour passed we all progressed into a rambunctious, hilarious group. There was dancing. There was posing, teasing and lots of silly memories erupted. This was especially evident when Filinto wrapped up as a gift a pair of 1980 sunglasses that Duarte once wore. …see attached photos.
Perhaps the best part of the evening was the closing dance party! Jenna danced though a bit reservedly. Marcos, however, was born with the gift of movement. Man oh man - can that kid dance! He had everyone cheering and clapping and admiring him. Great, great fun.
The kids are now 8 ½ and 5 ½. Measuring their years in increments like this reveals to me how quickly they are growing up. They are nourished in this country with love and history and an abundance of homegrown food. They are beautiful. They are so fortunate.
We celebrate half birthdays for the kids while we are in Portugal every year since their Portuguese grandparents miss the big events in the United States. The celebration gets a bit better every year.
Geninha had the pastry chef from Quinta da Mata make the kids a castle cake. It was wonderful. A large castle shaped cake detailed with doors and garrisons and individual bricks. On top there was a Roman Soldier and a princess. This was quite a cake. It took a full day to make.
Lipe hosted this year’s party at his new condo with a huge patio behind. The party started when we all entered the building and followed a trail of balloons into the elevator and into the condo. Lipe was busily preparing a family feast in his little kitchen. We all played and danced and talked on the back patio. Soon the kids were ready to open presents. Oh my!
Each present opened was fun and special and somehow evolved into some silliness. I’m not sure if it was the wine we were drinking or if it was just the general excitement. But as each hour passed we all progressed into a rambunctious, hilarious group. There was dancing. There was posing, teasing and lots of silly memories erupted. This was especially evident when Filinto wrapped up as a gift a pair of 1980 sunglasses that Duarte once wore. …see attached photos.
Perhaps the best part of the evening was the closing dance party! Jenna danced though a bit reservedly. Marcos, however, was born with the gift of movement. Man oh man - can that kid dance! He had everyone cheering and clapping and admiring him. Great, great fun.
The kids are now 8 ½ and 5 ½. Measuring their years in increments like this reveals to me how quickly they are growing up. They are nourished in this country with love and history and an abundance of homegrown food. They are beautiful. They are so fortunate.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
2 weeks to go
And now with two weeks remaining in Portugal we have found our rhythm. It takes time to adjust to this drastically different way of life and I never remember this.
I’m speaking Portuguese more comfortably and fluently than ever before. Since Duarte has been so busy with family and with work, I have taken it upon myself to get out and do some things on my own.
Yesterday I ran from Quinta da Mata to the city and then back up. On my way, I overcame two aggressively yappy ankle biting dogs; a flock of sheep, 3 sheep herding dogs and a shepherd, a man and his horse and cart working the fields, a number of old men hanging around talking with other old men who gazed at me awkwardly, a mother stork and her 3 juveniles in a tall nest above me, layers and layers of animal poop and my own tentativeness about it all. I will call that success.
Today is Wednesday. Wednesdays are the days when all forms of commerce come to town. There are hordes of gypsies selling everything from underwear, pirated movies and cheap plastic toys, to wallets, sporting goods and electronics. The local farmers bring in their vegetables and fruit and the men with livestock bring in their cattle, their horses, their sheep, goats, donkeys, pigs, you name it. Over the years, I’ve come to dislike the animal section of “feira” as I find the incessant “mehing” of the baby sheep quite stressful. Their cries stir up my motherly instincts and I find myself sad and anxious and yearning to help them.
Jenna walked into the rugged animal feira today wearing her purple crocs, a pink dress, a veil (yes, a veil) and a purse slung around her shoulders. She was like a delicate little flower entering a harsh, aggressive environment. Neither of us enjoyed the scene very much and thus we waited in the car while Marcos and Filinto negotiated a new harness for our burra named “Flash.”
It’s all going so much more smoothly than it did in the first week. D’s parents are now talking to me a bit. We have settled on food we agree upon and I’m finding time to do the things I need to do to feel comfortable. It just takes time to remember that we like each other and that we can communicate and we all desire the same things for our family.
I’m grateful for this time that my children have with their grandparents. I like to think about Marcos visiting Portugal with a girlfriend in the future and sharing his beloved childhood memories from this place. He is in his element here – appropriately stimulated and with each passing year he gains more freedom around the farm. He would be happier with friends around but really it is all so good. I envy his childhood. He has seen so much.
Jenna is the belle of Quinta da Mata…such a tough little girl, yet so feminine. I feel so fortunate the share life with her. Jenna is funny and dynamic. She is introspective, capable and so incredibly smart. Her grandmother adores her. Actually, everyone does. She is quite captivating.
Enough for now. I need to go to bed before the church bell rings twelve.
I’m speaking Portuguese more comfortably and fluently than ever before. Since Duarte has been so busy with family and with work, I have taken it upon myself to get out and do some things on my own.
Yesterday I ran from Quinta da Mata to the city and then back up. On my way, I overcame two aggressively yappy ankle biting dogs; a flock of sheep, 3 sheep herding dogs and a shepherd, a man and his horse and cart working the fields, a number of old men hanging around talking with other old men who gazed at me awkwardly, a mother stork and her 3 juveniles in a tall nest above me, layers and layers of animal poop and my own tentativeness about it all. I will call that success.
Today is Wednesday. Wednesdays are the days when all forms of commerce come to town. There are hordes of gypsies selling everything from underwear, pirated movies and cheap plastic toys, to wallets, sporting goods and electronics. The local farmers bring in their vegetables and fruit and the men with livestock bring in their cattle, their horses, their sheep, goats, donkeys, pigs, you name it. Over the years, I’ve come to dislike the animal section of “feira” as I find the incessant “mehing” of the baby sheep quite stressful. Their cries stir up my motherly instincts and I find myself sad and anxious and yearning to help them.
Jenna walked into the rugged animal feira today wearing her purple crocs, a pink dress, a veil (yes, a veil) and a purse slung around her shoulders. She was like a delicate little flower entering a harsh, aggressive environment. Neither of us enjoyed the scene very much and thus we waited in the car while Marcos and Filinto negotiated a new harness for our burra named “Flash.”
It’s all going so much more smoothly than it did in the first week. D’s parents are now talking to me a bit. We have settled on food we agree upon and I’m finding time to do the things I need to do to feel comfortable. It just takes time to remember that we like each other and that we can communicate and we all desire the same things for our family.
I’m grateful for this time that my children have with their grandparents. I like to think about Marcos visiting Portugal with a girlfriend in the future and sharing his beloved childhood memories from this place. He is in his element here – appropriately stimulated and with each passing year he gains more freedom around the farm. He would be happier with friends around but really it is all so good. I envy his childhood. He has seen so much.
Jenna is the belle of Quinta da Mata…such a tough little girl, yet so feminine. I feel so fortunate the share life with her. Jenna is funny and dynamic. She is introspective, capable and so incredibly smart. Her grandmother adores her. Actually, everyone does. She is quite captivating.
Enough for now. I need to go to bed before the church bell rings twelve.
Friday, June 10, 2011
A visit
A good friend came for a visit. We first met Tyrone while living in State College. He moved to Australia a year and a half ago. Coincidentally, he was in Europe for a wedding and so he decided to “pop over” to Portugal for a few days.
Introducing Tyrone to the Tras-os-Montes region of Portugal was great fun. It provided me with a good dose of perspective as well. His observations were interesting and insightful and helped me see some of the things I sometimes take for granted. It was also good for me to have another person with whom to speak English.
We enjoyed full days of exploration. We traveled to small villages, high mountains, and to castles. We ate tapas in Spain and philosophized the meaning of travel and the privilege to do so. Duarte’s mother provided us with abundant meals as always and the kids enjoyed it all with us.
The weather has changed from chilly to warm. The sun is bright and strong. It seems the best place to escape the afternoon heat is the swimming pool at Quinta da Mata. A plunge in the spring water pool is most refreshing! A cold pitcher of beer and lunch were served while we sunbathed and played in the crystal, clear water.
Duarte has just left with Tyrone to go to the airport in Porto which is an hour and a half away. The kids are playing on the back patio in their swimsuits while I recline in the shade with little to do for the remainder of the afternoon.
Introducing Tyrone to the Tras-os-Montes region of Portugal was great fun. It provided me with a good dose of perspective as well. His observations were interesting and insightful and helped me see some of the things I sometimes take for granted. It was also good for me to have another person with whom to speak English.
We enjoyed full days of exploration. We traveled to small villages, high mountains, and to castles. We ate tapas in Spain and philosophized the meaning of travel and the privilege to do so. Duarte’s mother provided us with abundant meals as always and the kids enjoyed it all with us.
The weather has changed from chilly to warm. The sun is bright and strong. It seems the best place to escape the afternoon heat is the swimming pool at Quinta da Mata. A plunge in the spring water pool is most refreshing! A cold pitcher of beer and lunch were served while we sunbathed and played in the crystal, clear water.
Duarte has just left with Tyrone to go to the airport in Porto which is an hour and a half away. The kids are playing on the back patio in their swimsuits while I recline in the shade with little to do for the remainder of the afternoon.
A Better Day
A better day
Our first mountain biking outing was enough to get me out of my funk. True to form it wasn’t a simple out and back trip. There must be drama and struggle and an element of the unknown if it is to be a good day of mountain biking for Duarte and I.
Nothing can be finer than a breezy morning in full sunlight amidst the open valley of Chaves. A ride back in time…a simpler yet maybe harder time. We followed dusty sheep paths through the base of the valley. Passing old men and women working with their ancient tools in their large fields of wheat, corn, potatoes, etc. We called out “bom dia!” They watched us curiously with their leathery faces that were too surprised to smile or to lift a hand in greeting.
In town we hopped on the “cyclovia.” Five years have certainly brought progress to the city. I can clearly recall running through town during sabbatical a few years ago. I could not have attracted more attention as a woman exercising in town with brightly colored clothes on. Everyone stopped to look. I despised the attention but yearned for a place to exercise. Now the paths are filled with men and women dressed in exercise clothing and exercising. Progress is good.
Off the bike path, across the valley and up the mountain range surrounding Chaves. We climbed and climbed and climbed. Wrong turn after wrong turn on worn sheep paths finally brought us to a stopping point. I decided to consider our long history of getting lost and strongly encouraged my dear husband to trust me.
Three hours later we arrived at Quinta da Mata sore and tired and just in time for a large and delectable meal. Now really, why should I complain?
Our first mountain biking outing was enough to get me out of my funk. True to form it wasn’t a simple out and back trip. There must be drama and struggle and an element of the unknown if it is to be a good day of mountain biking for Duarte and I.
Nothing can be finer than a breezy morning in full sunlight amidst the open valley of Chaves. A ride back in time…a simpler yet maybe harder time. We followed dusty sheep paths through the base of the valley. Passing old men and women working with their ancient tools in their large fields of wheat, corn, potatoes, etc. We called out “bom dia!” They watched us curiously with their leathery faces that were too surprised to smile or to lift a hand in greeting.
In town we hopped on the “cyclovia.” Five years have certainly brought progress to the city. I can clearly recall running through town during sabbatical a few years ago. I could not have attracted more attention as a woman exercising in town with brightly colored clothes on. Everyone stopped to look. I despised the attention but yearned for a place to exercise. Now the paths are filled with men and women dressed in exercise clothing and exercising. Progress is good.
Off the bike path, across the valley and up the mountain range surrounding Chaves. We climbed and climbed and climbed. Wrong turn after wrong turn on worn sheep paths finally brought us to a stopping point. I decided to consider our long history of getting lost and strongly encouraged my dear husband to trust me.
Three hours later we arrived at Quinta da Mata sore and tired and just in time for a large and delectable meal. Now really, why should I complain?
Thursday, June 9, 2011
bored
Bored
There probably aren’t many people who would find themselves bored in another country the way that I do when we are in Chaves. I am so bored.
When we travel I am happy and alive and enjoy exploring places with my husband and with our children. When we are at Duarte’s parents house, I am forgotten. I am a shadow. A body. Someone might remember to speak to me once during a meal – but they may not. I don’t have much to add to a conversation with my limited Portuguese. The family has a year’s worth of catching up to do and they take advantage of every moment together. I love this about them but I’m bored.
I could jump into the giant Land Rover and explore town but I struggle with the traffic rules, the size of the vehicle, the expense of gas. At home I know how to navigate myself. I can visit with friends, go grocery shopping, clean up my house, go for a walk, take the kids somewhere. I feel a great big barrier of uncertainty here that keeps me from my independence. I know…I should have figured this out years ago. Not yet.
Duarte is fully engaged with his parents, his brother, his work. He spends hours at his computer - which he must do to justify being away from the office. This leaves me with the kids for a long portion of the day and so little for us to do. If it is raining, I am doomed! Duarte means well but balancing his work and his family in Portugal isn’t easy. He is happy here. I want to be and can be at times but there are long stretches when I am not.
We travel to Portugal every year with the purpose of exposing Marcos and Jenna to Portugal and the culture. The time here is meant to allow Marcos and Jenna to develop a relationship with their grandparents, with the land, with the language. I see it all happening. It’s wonderful. Duarte wants me to be here for the same reasons. We have traveled here every year since we met and I have learned much about the culture. My Portuguese vocabulary increases with each visit. I appreciate this time for what it is and for how it helps me grow but the tedium of day after day of being an afterthought is agonizing. I need direction!
What is the answer to this dilemma? I would love to know….
I have proposed to Duarte that in the future I come only for a short time – a week or two rather than a month! He is disappointed by this idea. He would like for us to find a way to be here and be happy as a family. This time is important to him.
Another idea is to find a social network, where Duarte isn’t my world. I agree that this would be helpful. However, I have found that many people aren’t comfortable speaking English. My limited Portuguese unfortunately limits me to rather shallow conversation.
Perhaps the solution would be more clear to you as an outsider. I have yet to figure it out. I’m bored and disengaged and ready to not figure it out.
Help!
There probably aren’t many people who would find themselves bored in another country the way that I do when we are in Chaves. I am so bored.
When we travel I am happy and alive and enjoy exploring places with my husband and with our children. When we are at Duarte’s parents house, I am forgotten. I am a shadow. A body. Someone might remember to speak to me once during a meal – but they may not. I don’t have much to add to a conversation with my limited Portuguese. The family has a year’s worth of catching up to do and they take advantage of every moment together. I love this about them but I’m bored.
I could jump into the giant Land Rover and explore town but I struggle with the traffic rules, the size of the vehicle, the expense of gas. At home I know how to navigate myself. I can visit with friends, go grocery shopping, clean up my house, go for a walk, take the kids somewhere. I feel a great big barrier of uncertainty here that keeps me from my independence. I know…I should have figured this out years ago. Not yet.
Duarte is fully engaged with his parents, his brother, his work. He spends hours at his computer - which he must do to justify being away from the office. This leaves me with the kids for a long portion of the day and so little for us to do. If it is raining, I am doomed! Duarte means well but balancing his work and his family in Portugal isn’t easy. He is happy here. I want to be and can be at times but there are long stretches when I am not.
We travel to Portugal every year with the purpose of exposing Marcos and Jenna to Portugal and the culture. The time here is meant to allow Marcos and Jenna to develop a relationship with their grandparents, with the land, with the language. I see it all happening. It’s wonderful. Duarte wants me to be here for the same reasons. We have traveled here every year since we met and I have learned much about the culture. My Portuguese vocabulary increases with each visit. I appreciate this time for what it is and for how it helps me grow but the tedium of day after day of being an afterthought is agonizing. I need direction!
What is the answer to this dilemma? I would love to know….
I have proposed to Duarte that in the future I come only for a short time – a week or two rather than a month! He is disappointed by this idea. He would like for us to find a way to be here and be happy as a family. This time is important to him.
Another idea is to find a social network, where Duarte isn’t my world. I agree that this would be helpful. However, I have found that many people aren’t comfortable speaking English. My limited Portuguese unfortunately limits me to rather shallow conversation.
Perhaps the solution would be more clear to you as an outsider. I have yet to figure it out. I’m bored and disengaged and ready to not figure it out.
Help!
Monday, June 6, 2011
Obidos
Today we explored the great walled city of Obidos. Obidos was originally a Roman settlement dating back to the 5th century. It is located on a hilltop, encircled by a fortified wall. Duarte and I had been there before with Marcos when he was two years old and Jenna was in my belly. Our previous visit was fun but this visit was extraordinary.
Upon entering the walls, Marcos and Jenna’s imaginations exploded. Immediately they were searching for knights and soldiers, kings and queens, unicorns, fairies, enchanted gardens. And you know what, we found evidence of them all.
First we spent a few dollars to encourage their fun. A wooden sword for Marcos and a wooden wand for Jenna along with painted wooden shields for them both was all it took. The fantasy grew from there. They jumped from doorway to doorway seeking enemy invaders. With swords and wands they successfully battled all evil that stood in their way.
We explored back alleyways. We found an enchanted garden and Jenna looked closely on the ground for unicorn footprints. We saw one! It was white and shaped like a small horseshoe print. We saw deer and of course, they were enchanted as well. Jenna decided that they must be the prince and princess transformed into deer by “bad guys.” It was our quest to change them back to their true forms.
More hiking and exploring revealed magnificent purple flowers-which most certainly housed sleeping fairies. We found carvings on the medieval walls as we climbed to great heights to overlook the miles and miles of land surrounding the walled city.
Today was one of those rare days we have as a family where we all enjoyed the fun of fantasy and exploration. I saw the world in my children’s eyes. Marcos is of the age where he knows our stories aren’t real but he’s not ready to release the idea of fantasy just yet. Jenna was fully engaged. The two have become the BEST of friends since arriving to Portugal. As a parent this is wonderful but a bit worrisome as they scheme and tell secrets and have a world of their own just between them.
Beautiful memories today.
Friday, June 3, 2011
guiltless days
I called to check on Marcos and Jenna yesterday who are enjoying time with their grandparents in the north of Portugal. It was hard to track them down. Apparently, they have been quite busy driving the tractor, gathering eggs from the chickens, washing down the horses, building bridges and who knows what else.
When Jenna finally made it to the phone she spoke to me only in Portuguese. I had to remind her that I prefer to speak english. "OK"
"So Jenna do you miss me?" Jenna: "Yes"
"Are you a little bit scared without us?" Jenna "No"
"Are you having fun?" Jenna "Yes"
"Are you eating lots of junk food?" Jenna "Yes"
"I miss you Jenna" Jenna "I miss you more"
Laughing she runs off to something more interesting.
Marcos never did come to the phone.
The kids are fine.
Without any guilt whatsoever, Duarte and I are enjoying a very restful getaway. When all guilt and worry is removed from a mother's life - she becomes...a more familiar, a more peaceful self. Hello Susanne. It has been a long time.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
good work
Duarte's conference with the United Nations World Tourism Organization opened last night with a splendid, evening cocktail party upon an open deck overlooking the harbor of Vila Moura. We watched the sunset while sipping regional wine and enjoying a grand spread of appetizers.
To be among some of the world's great people who strive to make a difference in the world through the implementation of tourism was truly humbling and I said as much to Duarte. Since leaving my job at Penn State, I have felt lost as I have had to re-evaluate my career and even to some degree my life's purpose. I enjoy making a difference in the world and I have yet to find a means to do so in Raleigh. Duarte's work to use tourism to fight poverty and to preserve culture impresses me. I'm proud of the work he does and the difference he has certainly made to countless people's lives.
While discussing this with one another at the party, a man I had noticed earlier joined us at our table. Very quickly, we learned that this man's ambitions through tourism were in great alignment with our own ideals. Earlier we had been commenting on a flyer (the one and only flyer) that was enclosed in the conference bag. Titled "We Can End Poverty" the flyer listed four goals - one of which included selecting one teenager from each major area of conflict in the world, titling them Peace Ambassadors and have them represent their countries at the Olympic Games. Well, this pushed all kinds of buttons for me. I am supportive of working with young people to make a difference - but for what reason? What outcome would come of this to make the kids' lives better? An organization can't just take these kids away from their cultures no matter how horrible they are, drop them in a Marriott, give them a title and hope that their lives improve. And low and behold, the creator of that flyer was the man who had just joined us.
Having an opportunity to challenge the man and his ideals with my reservations, I acted upon it (of course I did). To my great surprise, he responded with such thoughtful, insightful and beautiful ideas. Within minutes, I was captured by this man's passion and his quest. I wanted to be a part of it too.
After an enjoyable conversation, we parted ways so that he could get on with his networking. We exchanged emails. I mentioned to him that I am in search of great work in this world and that I would like to be a part of his effort. He assured me I would hear from him again. I hope that I do.
And so, a series of coincidences led me to at least have hope for my professional future and if not just hope - some new ideas. How exciting.
To be among some of the world's great people who strive to make a difference in the world through the implementation of tourism was truly humbling and I said as much to Duarte. Since leaving my job at Penn State, I have felt lost as I have had to re-evaluate my career and even to some degree my life's purpose. I enjoy making a difference in the world and I have yet to find a means to do so in Raleigh. Duarte's work to use tourism to fight poverty and to preserve culture impresses me. I'm proud of the work he does and the difference he has certainly made to countless people's lives.
While discussing this with one another at the party, a man I had noticed earlier joined us at our table. Very quickly, we learned that this man's ambitions through tourism were in great alignment with our own ideals. Earlier we had been commenting on a flyer (the one and only flyer) that was enclosed in the conference bag. Titled "We Can End Poverty" the flyer listed four goals - one of which included selecting one teenager from each major area of conflict in the world, titling them Peace Ambassadors and have them represent their countries at the Olympic Games. Well, this pushed all kinds of buttons for me. I am supportive of working with young people to make a difference - but for what reason? What outcome would come of this to make the kids' lives better? An organization can't just take these kids away from their cultures no matter how horrible they are, drop them in a Marriott, give them a title and hope that their lives improve. And low and behold, the creator of that flyer was the man who had just joined us.
Having an opportunity to challenge the man and his ideals with my reservations, I acted upon it (of course I did). To my great surprise, he responded with such thoughtful, insightful and beautiful ideas. Within minutes, I was captured by this man's passion and his quest. I wanted to be a part of it too.
After an enjoyable conversation, we parted ways so that he could get on with his networking. We exchanged emails. I mentioned to him that I am in search of great work in this world and that I would like to be a part of his effort. He assured me I would hear from him again. I hope that I do.
And so, a series of coincidences led me to at least have hope for my professional future and if not just hope - some new ideas. How exciting.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Em Portugal
June 1, 2011
Em Portugal…
We crossed the ocean and then crossed the country and now we rest. After two long days of travel, we arrived to the south of Portugal. This is the land of hedonistic tourists – mostly British who look like sunburned piggies with their bright pink skin sprawled upon colored towels all over the beach. The south of Portugal attracts mass tourism, which is never our preference, but really we aren’t complaining. We are here for a conference. This is work.
We met Duarte’s overjoyed parents at the airport in Porto upon our arrival and dropped Marcos and Jenna with them. With hardly an utterance of “goodbye” the Morais family giddily drove North with our children for a few days of most certainly complete and total indulgence.
Duarte and I drove 6 hours south having not slept since 2 nights before. We somehow managed to find our destination and instantly felt revived upon seeing the expanse of the emerald blue ocean just steps from our hotel. Duarte swam and I showered and we enjoyed a quiet dinner in an open café.
Sleep came quickly and deeply and it lasted a very long time.
And now…more rested, we sit near the beach and breathe and ponder our personal and lifestyle changes that have occurred in the past year. When we traveled to Portugal from PA, we were always starving for sun and play and time together as a family. We would dive in head-first and absorb every aspect of it through every pore. Now, almost a year has passed since we moved to Raleigh and Duarte and I both have recognized that we are happier people this time around. We are easing ourselves into the rhythm of our time here. We have a happy and abundant life and it’s gratifying to have the perspective to see it and feel it.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Ra, Ra Raleigh...
And so we moved to Raleigh.
We found our happy place...a place of good spirit, sunshine, chirping birds, children playing outside, delicious restaurants, culture, fun, great neighbors, diverse people...I can go on and on. The transition has been astounding. It was surprisingly easy and our lives are as different as they can be from State College.
a day in the life of us: I will wake up to the "chirpy, chirpy, chirpy, chirp" of a happy bird in our lush backyard. It's easy to roll out of bed when the cool morning air filled with the aromas of a thousand different flowers breezes into our open windows.
I pull on my running clothes and hit the bike trail. No need for music. I'm filled to the brim with the sounds of birds, the spring colors, my neighbors also exercising. I open myself to the day and feel the incredible potential of the hours until I will again sleep.
The kids will be up or at least Marcos will be. He showers and dresses on his own now. Jenna sneaks into our bed quietly in the early morning and snuggles in for some more sleep until I get home to rouse the troops.
Showers, lunches, breakfast and more. The morning rush is on. Duarte and Marcos will hurry out the door to ride their bikes to school. Of the school year, Marcos has ridden in a car to school maybe 15 times. He is proud of his earth friendly commute. So is Duarte as he continues his own commute to campus.
I get Jenna off to pre-school and I roll into work around 9:00. Teaching this year has been a dream. I've enjoyed the feel of the classroom and the content and the students. I feel I am my best self when I step into a classroom and endeavor to teach even the most reluctant minds.
I'm working part time and so I leave early. At 3:00 I pick up Jenna, drive home and arrive to The Circle (the name of our street). There is always a group of almost 10 kids looking longingly at our car...waiting for Jenna and waiting for Marcos who will soon arrive by bike. Marcos is the unofficial leader of the pack. As soon as he is out, the creativity begins. I've seen it all... bike races, obstacle courses, quidditch matches, baseball, petshops, micro-wars and more. I love that our children can enjoy the freedom to play and to imagine and to develop relationships with a group of children.
As for the adults on the street, well that's another story. We also enjoy our time and freedom and creativity. A 5:00 glass of wine, mojito, or beer generally starts the evening cocktail hour. It isn't uncommon for more neighbors to slowly approach with their own bottles and soon we have an impromptu dinner party, wine gathering or social. The cars driving up and down our street have to fend for themselves as there are wild children and happy adults meandering in and out of the traffic areas.
If it is a dinner party evening, then we gather under the majestic beech tree which serves as a sentry for our home and yard and place in the world. I call the tree "Albus" after Albus Dumbledore in Harry Potter. Albus is the tree of life. It's branches are strong and reaching. Life is abundant in it's thick trunk and lush foliage. Food tastes better and wine goes down smoother under it's nurturing branches. Oh, the conversations Albus has absorbed....
Duarte and I, daily, marvel at this new life - so much like a vacation.
We did it, we got it SO right!
We found our happy place...a place of good spirit, sunshine, chirping birds, children playing outside, delicious restaurants, culture, fun, great neighbors, diverse people...I can go on and on. The transition has been astounding. It was surprisingly easy and our lives are as different as they can be from State College.
a day in the life of us: I will wake up to the "chirpy, chirpy, chirpy, chirp" of a happy bird in our lush backyard. It's easy to roll out of bed when the cool morning air filled with the aromas of a thousand different flowers breezes into our open windows.
I pull on my running clothes and hit the bike trail. No need for music. I'm filled to the brim with the sounds of birds, the spring colors, my neighbors also exercising. I open myself to the day and feel the incredible potential of the hours until I will again sleep.
The kids will be up or at least Marcos will be. He showers and dresses on his own now. Jenna sneaks into our bed quietly in the early morning and snuggles in for some more sleep until I get home to rouse the troops.
Showers, lunches, breakfast and more. The morning rush is on. Duarte and Marcos will hurry out the door to ride their bikes to school. Of the school year, Marcos has ridden in a car to school maybe 15 times. He is proud of his earth friendly commute. So is Duarte as he continues his own commute to campus.
I get Jenna off to pre-school and I roll into work around 9:00. Teaching this year has been a dream. I've enjoyed the feel of the classroom and the content and the students. I feel I am my best self when I step into a classroom and endeavor to teach even the most reluctant minds.
I'm working part time and so I leave early. At 3:00 I pick up Jenna, drive home and arrive to The Circle (the name of our street). There is always a group of almost 10 kids looking longingly at our car...waiting for Jenna and waiting for Marcos who will soon arrive by bike. Marcos is the unofficial leader of the pack. As soon as he is out, the creativity begins. I've seen it all... bike races, obstacle courses, quidditch matches, baseball, petshops, micro-wars and more. I love that our children can enjoy the freedom to play and to imagine and to develop relationships with a group of children.
As for the adults on the street, well that's another story. We also enjoy our time and freedom and creativity. A 5:00 glass of wine, mojito, or beer generally starts the evening cocktail hour. It isn't uncommon for more neighbors to slowly approach with their own bottles and soon we have an impromptu dinner party, wine gathering or social. The cars driving up and down our street have to fend for themselves as there are wild children and happy adults meandering in and out of the traffic areas.
If it is a dinner party evening, then we gather under the majestic beech tree which serves as a sentry for our home and yard and place in the world. I call the tree "Albus" after Albus Dumbledore in Harry Potter. Albus is the tree of life. It's branches are strong and reaching. Life is abundant in it's thick trunk and lush foliage. Food tastes better and wine goes down smoother under it's nurturing branches. Oh, the conversations Albus has absorbed....
Duarte and I, daily, marvel at this new life - so much like a vacation.
We did it, we got it SO right!
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