Thursday, January 4
We made it. It is already the fourth day into our 6 months in Portugal.
Our 22-hour trip overseas all seems a blur to me right now. It began at 9:00 in the morning at the State College airport where Rod, Beth, Griffin and Meredith met us, helped us with the kids, the 450 lbs of luggage and embraced us in our moments of uncertainty as we faced the leap into another life. The trip itself was graciously uneventful – aside from the wonderful massage I treated myself to in the Dulles airport during our 6 hour layover. At 11:30am on New Year’s Day in Portugal we arrived to Duarte’s father’s welcoming arms. The luggage, bikes and kids all fit perfectly in, on and around the Land Rover. At last I was able to breathe a sigh of relief.
We have been settling into our little home in a small village called Sao Lourenco near the top of the mountain above Chaves. We restored this 14th century home a few years ago and we are only now staying in it for the first time. It is perfect. To get to the house, we drive through narrow, granite, block streets avoiding wandering chickens, dogs and/or burro drawn carts. The house opens onto a small porch which opens onto the street where there are few cars. Inside, we have a microscopic kitchen – which I am enjoying because it is impossible for us to cook here. Instead we enjoy homegrown food, prepared with hands more capable than mine, that is unreservedly indulgent at Duarte’s family’s home. The bedrooms are downstairs and they are very unique. The house was built into the stone on which it sits – therefore our walls are sloped with the actual rocks protruding into the rooms. Marcos loves this as it provides an excellent rocky setting for his monster trucks.
The church in Sao Lourenco is a mere 35 yards from our home. It has electronic bells which play every 15 minutes. I thought they would be unsettling or that they would keep me awake at night but I was wrong. Sleeping downstairs where we are buffered by the earth and rock the bells are mutedly audible and even somewhat pleasant. Sleeping is not a strength of mine, and I have kind of appreciated that I can count the chimes and know what time it is in the wee hours of the night.
Duarte’s parents acquired a puppy recently and decided to keep him for Marcos. It’s a mutt and not at all cute – but Marcos is in love. I know that kids and dogs are supposed to go hand in hand and now I have proof. At 4 years of age, Marcos has a tremendous imagination and endlessly desires someone to partake in his games. Jenna is not yet old enough to play and Duarte and I simply can’t be there for him as much as he would like. “Charco” meaning “puddles” in English, is Marcos’ new best friend. They are already enjoying many boy and puppy adventures together as they romp about the farm at Quinta da Mata (Duarte’s parents’ home). Charko is the perfect playmate.
Portugal is old in so many ways and the people who live in the Tras os Montes region where we are living are mountain people. I see those that live here as earthy people who grow their own food, raise their own chickens and despite their healthy lifestyle, tend to display themselves as people who have been punished by life. Their clothing is simple, worn and dark.
The homes and villages are old and have been lived in for generation after generation. Every house has a clothesline with all of the laundry hung out to dry. This is true even in the city where clothes are hanging out of balcony windows. In addition to a laundry line, every house also has a garden. The windows of the houses always look dark. Electricity is expensive here. Even stores are dimly lit or not lit at all and frequently without heat making it difficult for me to discern whether or not they are open.
It is now olive harvesting season. The men beat the branches with a stick while the women gather the fallen olives in a big green tarp that lies upon the ground. Everyone is harvesting olives whether for the family, for commercial use or for their own consumption. We will be traveling to Duarte’s uncle’s farm this weekend where he produces olive oil. I look forward to seeing how the whole production takes place.
Duarte and I were able to get out this afternoon on our mountain bikes. What an experience! It felt so odd to be whizzing through the old villages and the weathered people, enjoying our leisure in our brightly colored spandex and our technical mountain bikes. Instead of riding on recreational trails, we rode upon paths that have been used by flocks of sheep and their shepherds for hundreds of years. There is a roman road near Quinta da Mata which was originally made by roman servants. The road is by no means a road you or I would travel on by vehicle in present times. It is comprised of large stones placed so that the large, wooden wheels of the roman carriages could pass as they traveled through the region. There are still ruts in the stone from the ancient traffic patterns. It must have been difficult for the Romans to navigate such a road as it is certainly not smooth. It was a challenge to ride these roads on bikes. Mostly, I carried my bike down the steep grade. On one point during our outing, I stopped to shed a layer and saw an old cow in a field. The cow looked up and watched us for a long time. I am sure it had never seen the likes of us and I couldn’t help but laugh out loud at it’s puzzled expression.
We made it. It is already the fourth day into our 6 months in Portugal.
Our 22-hour trip overseas all seems a blur to me right now. It began at 9:00 in the morning at the State College airport where Rod, Beth, Griffin and Meredith met us, helped us with the kids, the 450 lbs of luggage and embraced us in our moments of uncertainty as we faced the leap into another life. The trip itself was graciously uneventful – aside from the wonderful massage I treated myself to in the Dulles airport during our 6 hour layover. At 11:30am on New Year’s Day in Portugal we arrived to Duarte’s father’s welcoming arms. The luggage, bikes and kids all fit perfectly in, on and around the Land Rover. At last I was able to breathe a sigh of relief.
We have been settling into our little home in a small village called Sao Lourenco near the top of the mountain above Chaves. We restored this 14th century home a few years ago and we are only now staying in it for the first time. It is perfect. To get to the house, we drive through narrow, granite, block streets avoiding wandering chickens, dogs and/or burro drawn carts. The house opens onto a small porch which opens onto the street where there are few cars. Inside, we have a microscopic kitchen – which I am enjoying because it is impossible for us to cook here. Instead we enjoy homegrown food, prepared with hands more capable than mine, that is unreservedly indulgent at Duarte’s family’s home. The bedrooms are downstairs and they are very unique. The house was built into the stone on which it sits – therefore our walls are sloped with the actual rocks protruding into the rooms. Marcos loves this as it provides an excellent rocky setting for his monster trucks.
The church in Sao Lourenco is a mere 35 yards from our home. It has electronic bells which play every 15 minutes. I thought they would be unsettling or that they would keep me awake at night but I was wrong. Sleeping downstairs where we are buffered by the earth and rock the bells are mutedly audible and even somewhat pleasant. Sleeping is not a strength of mine, and I have kind of appreciated that I can count the chimes and know what time it is in the wee hours of the night.
Duarte’s parents acquired a puppy recently and decided to keep him for Marcos. It’s a mutt and not at all cute – but Marcos is in love. I know that kids and dogs are supposed to go hand in hand and now I have proof. At 4 years of age, Marcos has a tremendous imagination and endlessly desires someone to partake in his games. Jenna is not yet old enough to play and Duarte and I simply can’t be there for him as much as he would like. “Charco” meaning “puddles” in English, is Marcos’ new best friend. They are already enjoying many boy and puppy adventures together as they romp about the farm at Quinta da Mata (Duarte’s parents’ home). Charko is the perfect playmate.
Portugal is old in so many ways and the people who live in the Tras os Montes region where we are living are mountain people. I see those that live here as earthy people who grow their own food, raise their own chickens and despite their healthy lifestyle, tend to display themselves as people who have been punished by life. Their clothing is simple, worn and dark.
The homes and villages are old and have been lived in for generation after generation. Every house has a clothesline with all of the laundry hung out to dry. This is true even in the city where clothes are hanging out of balcony windows. In addition to a laundry line, every house also has a garden. The windows of the houses always look dark. Electricity is expensive here. Even stores are dimly lit or not lit at all and frequently without heat making it difficult for me to discern whether or not they are open.
It is now olive harvesting season. The men beat the branches with a stick while the women gather the fallen olives in a big green tarp that lies upon the ground. Everyone is harvesting olives whether for the family, for commercial use or for their own consumption. We will be traveling to Duarte’s uncle’s farm this weekend where he produces olive oil. I look forward to seeing how the whole production takes place.
Duarte and I were able to get out this afternoon on our mountain bikes. What an experience! It felt so odd to be whizzing through the old villages and the weathered people, enjoying our leisure in our brightly colored spandex and our technical mountain bikes. Instead of riding on recreational trails, we rode upon paths that have been used by flocks of sheep and their shepherds for hundreds of years. There is a roman road near Quinta da Mata which was originally made by roman servants. The road is by no means a road you or I would travel on by vehicle in present times. It is comprised of large stones placed so that the large, wooden wheels of the roman carriages could pass as they traveled through the region. There are still ruts in the stone from the ancient traffic patterns. It must have been difficult for the Romans to navigate such a road as it is certainly not smooth. It was a challenge to ride these roads on bikes. Mostly, I carried my bike down the steep grade. On one point during our outing, I stopped to shed a layer and saw an old cow in a field. The cow looked up and watched us for a long time. I am sure it had never seen the likes of us and I couldn’t help but laugh out loud at it’s puzzled expression.
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