Life: Idiotropic

Our last afternoon in Portugal, we walked leisurely along the banks of Vila Nova de Gaia, across the steely blue bridge spanning the Duoro, and down along the waterfront of Porto.  The sun warmed our shoulders and cast a magical glow on this day where we drug our feet a bit regretting that we’d ever have to leave.  This week has been absolute magic and that’s not just the port talking.

We walked slowly along the path between the river and an endless line of restaurants.  You know where one ends and another begins only by the change in umbrellas and chair back colors at these little places where there is more seating outside than in.  I stopped at each placard to read the menu seeing if there might be something appealing for everyone in our group of eight and when we did, we found ourselves at Chez Lapin, a local icon for over 70 years.

Our waiter brought bread to our table accompanied by a delicious white bean vegetable salad and a garlic tuna “pate.”  At this the table became silent except for “mmmm,” and “we need to get more of this.”  The tuna was light and creamy almost like the stuff I put on sandwiches as a kid, but it had a more complex taste.  Olive oil, a hint of garlic?  It was so delicious that we did order another plate and my 5 year old ate that for her meal.

French onion soup, good salads, beef dishes, pasta - everything that came to our table was good, but my meal?  Exquisite.  I thought that rabbit at Chez Lapin ought to be good, after all, it’s the namesake, so I ordered the Coelho Chez Lapin (rabbit cooked in a port wine sauce) and proved myself right.  Tender, flavorful, complex.  The sauce took on the body of the port wine without any excess sweetness and the rabbit practically fell off the bones. 

This was one of those food moments when you find yourself in such love with your meal that you try to ignore the pleading looks from your companions.  “If I don’t look up, may be I won’t have to be polite and offer a bite.”  To spare one bite of this is truly a gift.

The plates emptied and table cleared, it was time to take my little ones to the WC.  We followed the signs through an old stone gate and into the narrow alleyway facing the cozy indoor portion of Chez Lapin where a vast array of oddities covered the walls and ceiling.  There sat two stacked rabbit hutches.  The top one was empty.  The bottom held a very fat, very cute white rabbit.  A brief flash of my succulent lunch went through my mind.  Five minutes later we returned to our table looking back as we walked by.  The top hutch now held a long-haired grey rabbit and the white rabbit was gone.

Well, at least I know my lunch was fresh.

I have this thing for markets.  Crowded with tourists and locals alike, among stalls of what not and chickens, you can find treasure, not just in the things set neatly on tables, but in the people themselves - those sweet local vendors who often make their living on what they'll take home today.  The heart of a place, the pulse, the culture.  It's all here, tossed gently into an old woven basket, at the local market.

Barcelos is no exception, although it is exceptional.  I felt more alive here than in most other markets I've been - more like I was seeing, smelling, and hearing Portugal.  As if the air itself in Barcelos is actually infused with all that is inherently Portuguese.  It's one of those places that you breath deeply in so as not to lose it.  One of those places I wanted so much to embrace... if only I could embrace each and every person there.

The people.  So beautiful.  Most of the vendors are old - 70's, 80's... may be older.  They are small and wrinkled wearing layers and layers on a day that I felt warm in a light jacket.  Simple shoes, wooly socks, skirts, sweaters, aprons, scarves around their heads, bright, animated eyes, laughter and smiles.  The ladies look like a storybook nonna.  Nothing modern, nothing frivolous, yet life in their eyes that implies an interesting story or a shrewd bit of wisdom.

We began near one of just a handful of tables selling cheeses, cured ham, and large brown breads stacked on top of each other.  There wasn't much of this in contrast to the markets of northern Europe.  No fresh meat, very few cheeses, not much bread or pastry.  The produce comes next under the protection of awnings to keep it cool in the hot sun.  The Portuguese say they have "nine months of winter and three months of hell."

To the left we found terra cotta pottery with simple traditional white designs: flowers, roosters, fish.  Some had sayings I couldn't understand.  All pretty and very inexpensive, the weight and my limited cash kept me from going crazy.

A few stands sold the "Barcelos Cock," a renown symbol of Portugal that originates here in Barcelos.  One day, long ago, a pilgrim was on his way to Santiago de Compostela when he was accused of thievery.  He protested claiming he was innocent, so the magistrate gave him one chance to prove his innocence.  He said that if he was innocent, the rooster (cooked upon the magistrate's plate) would crow.  The rooster crowed (as we found they often do in Portugal), and the pilgrim was freed.  Another version replaces the pilgrim with a guest a banquet given by a rich landowner.  The cock that crowed for him was not cooked, but alive in a nearby basket (a more likely version?).  This rooster is printed on the many linens sold at the market and depicted in the pottery as well.

Clothing, cattle bells, rope, wooden bowls, tools, baskets, toys...  the immense Campo da República is alive each Thursday at Portugal’s largest weekly market.   A chef’s paradise, walk the simple stalls of tarps and lawn chairs to find inspiration among neatly placed vegetables with  roots still covered in the soil they called home, plucked just before their trip to the market.  Choose your chicken, duck, or rabbit sitting unaware in a bucket or cardboard box, clucking, twitching noses, looking around with no attempt to fly or hop.

An old lady dressed in black sat under a black umbrella escaping the warming sun.  Her vegetables neatly lined the tarp at her feet.  A black plastic bucket was filled with eggs.  Another woman laughed with a friend at her larger vegetable stand.  Her eyes bright blue against her black attire.  A man sat by his broken cardboard box with three chickens sitting quietly inside.  He waved for me to take a photo.  Lovely chickens, ready for a soup, I’m sure. 

Choose your variety of chick or duckling and watch as the ladies push aside the large wire cages to uncover the crates of babies below.  Hundreds of crated chicks stacked on top of each other in dark crates.  Exotic birds are here as well - love birds, peacocks, parrots, macaws.

Exotic cut flowers.

The egg seller sat playing with her rosary beads.  She was pale compared to her friends, her face slightly pink and her hair light and curly.  She filled her egg crates from a small wicker basket that sat near her feet.  She didn’t want her picture taken, holding up a magazine in front of her just after the shutter clicked. 

Two ladies sold roasted chestnuts just feet away from each other their fingers black with soot from the charred chestnut skins.  They smiled and talked to others walking by.

On one side of the Campo is old town and the Bon Jesus.  Two young Gypsy girls dressed in red stood at the door of the church asking parishioners for money as they entered or exited.  Two large roosters stood apart in the open plaza there, symbols of their city and country alike.  The old buildings touched each other - tall structures with balconies and colorful tile facades.  Everything was clean and bright. 
We crossed the immaculately kept gardens to find a small cafe.  A tiny woman walked by with her market bag balanced perfectly on her head.

There, we soaked up the sun at the outdoor seating where we could satisfy our hunger and watch the people.  I had a delicious steak sandwich and the best french fries I’ve had outside of Belgium.
We stopped and got fruit before leaving.  I got roosters for the girls - the metal ones labelled “unbreakable.”  Got a few linens from a lady who kept rattling the prices over and over again - just 2 Euros, she’d say as if to imply that since they were so cheap, why walk away with just one.  I should have listened.  Kicking myself now I didn’t get just a couple more.

Before reaching our home in Felgueiras, we stopped at a local grocery store for some milk.   I perused the bakery asking the young man who worked there (in Spanish) about the desserts in the bakery window.  I took pictures.  He talked - a lot.  Animated and eager to talk to Americans, Kristi got him talking about American movies.  Apparently he owns over 300.

I wandered towards the cheeses looking for one in particular.  Not finding it, I turned and took a quick photo of the stacks of dry, salty bacaloa filling several tables in the fish department.  Bakery boy didn’t care that I was taking pictures.  Fish ladies didn’t seem happy.  A minute later I was standing nose to nose with a grumpy young security kid who sternly told me that photos were absolutely prohibited, then proceded to stalk me from a distance peeking from behind the ends of the grocery aisles until I left.  Strange.  I don’t understand why photography isn’t allowed in a grocery store.  Am pretty sure the fish don’t care.

Another beautiful day in Portugal.  A pity the trip is almost over.

More Photos:  http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=213684&id=674507268&l=44fcc646ff

Two hours driving from Felgueiras.  It hardly seemed worth it at first.  After all we'd tasted port just yesterday in Porto.  But this was different.  Today we were heading to a Quinta on the river Douro, the place where Port happens, the real thing.

The winding road braves the steep descent near Peso dá Régua where the river Douro makes its first appearance of the day.   It almost didn't matter how long we were driving once we reached that beautiful river - the views along those tranquil waters making any length drive pleasant.

A landslide on the south side forced us to turn around and follow the detour back across the bridge, around a small rivulet, and up the other side of the river to the dam, then across again. 

Here the Douro winds slowly around the steep terraced hills, ancient stone walls holding back the earth that feeds rows upon rows of grape vines.  The vines are just beginning to bud now, fuzzy lime green leaves brightening the thick brown stalks that will weigh heavy with grapes in just a few months.

In some places the river is so calm that it becomes a perfect mirror for the hills above it, the white buildings of the quintas shining in the water like jewels.  A painter would find endless inspiration here with water and vines, rustic buildings, olive trees, and the people working the earth the way they've done it for hundreds of years.

We made a sharp turn to the right and wound our way up to the small lot at Quinta do Tedo, our destination today.  We stood at the edge admiring the scenery.  You couldn't find a more perfect spot, the tasting room looking towards the valley of vine covered hills rising up from a smaller river, the Rio Tedo.  It pools wide in this place, calm, more lake-like than river.  A man walked behind a horse on the hill working the earth the old fashioned way.  Behind us was the great River Douro, the view from the back side of the tasting room and the "cellars" below it.


We were greeted warmly by Vincent and Kay Bouchard, the owners of this place, people with their own remarkable story and background that makes this place stand out.  Greetings, and our tour began.

A room of port stained barrels, piles upon piles of baskets still used for harvesting those precious grapes all by hand, and the tub used for the traditional lagar.  No, stomping grapes isn't just a tourist's treat or a tradition done for the sake of ceremony.  It's real, current, and vital.  Through the tireless stomping over hours, the grape skins will be crushed and broken to release the color, flavor, and nutrients into the juice.  Port production along the Douro is steeped in tradition and this Quinta is  no exception.

There's something special about walking into a room of barrels.  We left the room where the lagar is done and went to the Douro side to see the rooms of port where the juice from the lagar is drained into huge tanks and some ports are stored in beautiful barrels.  Standing here is such a privilege, the sensation akin to an invitation to see the king's treasury.  I think the boys thought that, the gasps of awe upon seeing the rows upon rows of bottled 2007 vintage.  A very good year.

The tasting room is small and simple,  a refreshing change from the stuffier appearance of many of Vila Nova's tasting rooms.  Vincent poured our glasses generously while Kay gave us a bucket to "spit in" or pour out the extra.  Sensible.  Who wants to taste these amazing ports with reduced faculties?  But then again... who would pour out such delicious ports and wines?  Not me.  This was the painful part because everything was good and Kay and Vincent's warmth just made it even better.  How do you decide what to buy when you like everything?  Even the olive oil is good.  This little quinta is going places.  We'll have to come back for the harvest and to walk along the river Tedo.  I may come back to sit and paint.  


The girls were happy picking lemons.  I brought home about 20 of them.  Delicious.  Hungry stomachs again pried us away from someplace we would have liked to stay.  Just to look and linger a bit longer...

Lunch in the nearby town.  I had a traditional "duck rice" that was quite good.  We then went to see what is known to be the "most beautiful train station in Portugal" which was different and pretty, but not quite comparable to my own "little" train station in Valencia, Spain. 

The blue and white ceramic depictions of the growth, harvest, and production of port are special though as is the casual way that a passenger can stroll across the wooden plank paths across the tracks to get to the other side.  No tunnels.  Just look both ways and run.

In Peso dá Régua we found some old baskets exactly like the ones used for harvest at Tedo and many other quintas.  Beautiful souvenirs of our time at a place that captured our hearts and made us yearn for more time and may be just a small chunk of land on that river.  To see that daily would be a gift.


More Photos:  http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=211650&id=674507268&l=5d2bbcc2e0

Quinta do Tedo's Website:  http://www.quintadotedo.com

Today was spent in "Porto", or, more specifically, in Vila Nova de Gaia, the mirror of Porto from where you can appreciate the grace and beauty of this Portuguese city more than from within the city itself.

Like Buda and Pest smiling at each other over the wide expanse of the Danube, Porto looks lovingly across to its little known friend, a treasure whose name is lost in Porto's fame, yet holds within her cellars, liquid gold.

Her name is appropriate.  Gaia, the goddess of Earth.  This hillside village overlooking the Douro River, the "new home of Gaia," is where Port lovers will find cool dirt-floored cellars and tasting rooms serving up Earth's blood, Port wine, the sweet liquid that blurs judgment when facing French oak barrels of finest reserve.  The tiny streets are difficult if not impossible to navigate, tiny, winding lanes with stone walls on either side allowing no room for driver error, so a larger car will boast "battle scars" from a trip well taken.  Better to park below and walk.  It took us a few tries to get to Graham's today, one of many Port producers whose tasting rooms and cellars are nearly stacked on top of each other all over the steep hills of the town.


Grahams is owned and run by the Symington family, and is, according to our tour-guide, the only family run Port producer in Portugal.  Tomorrows trip will prove them wrong, but ok, it's still nice to be among family and I do have a soft spot in my wallet for a family run business.

In contrast to our well wine-traveled friends, I had never actually been inside a wine cave before.  Tasting in fancy tasting rooms, yes, but exploring dank cellars, not at all, so it was a real treat to walk among the stacks of barrels laid out on their side marked with white chalk the type and the year and to look up in awe at the large casks that nearly reached the ceiling where the port sat and waited to be ready for the bottle.

We walked through the family's private collection, thousands of bottles of reserve ports dating back to the early 20th century.  Ports from the 1920's.  Truly liquid gold, it may be worth more per ounce.

The tasting.  Dangerous.  I really like this stuff.  Wine is nice and sensible.  It's elegant and sophisticated.  It goes well with a myriad of foods.  But port.  Intense, bold, dangerous, yet debonair, suave, illustrious.  It's an intensely flavored wine mixed with brandy.  20% alcohol, a burst of complex flavor that will knock your socks off.  I love that.  It's a sipping wine.  Sit, relax, breathe it in.  Take slow calculated sips.  Let it linger so that you really get that full flavor of each drop.   Just a couple ounces is enough.  I love that a bottle of port will last a bit longer - that it takes more than 2 friends and a good dinner to "kill it."   Just swirling it in the glass and watching it pane is beautifully hypnotic.

Yes, we got a few bottles here.  Reserves to save for another 10-15 years.  Special ports we'll open when each of our girls gets married. 

And yes, the girls were with us and it was wonderful.  I don't know that we'd get quite this response in the stuffier wine tastings along the west coast.  Oregon wine rooms are beautiful, but carry a bit more snobbery, I think, where I wouldn't dream of taking children.  Here, in Portugal, we didn't have the luxury of leaving the girls behind and the staff didn't even hint that they wouldn't be welcome.  Children were free to tour.  The staff brought them their own little plate of crackers while we sampled the ports and gave each of them a poster of the vineyards.  It was so nice.  They were included.    Tiara, too.  Here, in Europe, she's treated as an adult.  Some restaurants will automatically serve her an aperatif before a meal.  At the port tastings, the ladies encouraged her to try them too.

From Grahams we looped in endless circles up and down and up and down and up and around and down again getting lost and turned around and back tracking until we found Taylor's where we tasted a little and sat down at the restaurant there for an absolutely delicious lunch outside on the patio with a view of both Porto and Vila Nova de Gaia and the beautiful river running between.  I had duck in port sauce with a delicious spinach and garbanzo bean puree (Magret de Pato con molho de frutas vermelhos e Vinho do Porto, quenelles de grao de bico e espinafe).  Really flavorful and delicious.

Stuffed from lunch, we all enjoyed a walk on the waterfront looking across at Porto.  The view is intoxicating, even more than the wine,  the river's edge on Gaia's side lined with traditional dark wood boats used to haul barrels of port from the Quinta's upriver here where it meets the Atlantic.  Every view is like a painting, full of life and color and depth.  We saw one wine boat full of barrels actually coming in to dock where we stood.  All the other boats sat docked already with flags from their port makers - advertisements more than utilitarian devices. 

The girls played at a playground near the river while Tiara and Kristi visited there.  I walked up the narrow roads to narrower ones and down a steep flight of stairs between old homes with tattered lace curtains.  Most of the buildings here have the signs of port makers on them.  Warre's, Burmester, Cockburns, Sandeman.  The Quintas where the grapes are grown can be hours up the river - a week by boat years ago, but the tasting rooms are here, many cellars.  Here, not at the quintas, is where much of the port is made.

Such a beautiful day.  The drive home was nice.  It had been a full day of sights, smells, and flavors.  We all wanted to go back.  There is too much there to see... and taste.

PHOTOS:  http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=208141&id=674507268&l=5101711f04

There isn't much to say about this day at the beach not because it was dull, but because beaches aren't about idle chatter.  They are about exploring, collecting, walking, listening to the crashing Atlantic waves, breathing in the salty air, and just thinking about whatever thoughts come into your consciousness.

So today, at least for the first bit, we did just that.  We drove to the coast about 50 kilometers north of Porto through simple beach towns where fireworks still sounded from churches and homes, to Esposende, a fishing village where the river Cavado meets the Atlantic ocean in a peaceful exchange of swirling waters.

The sand was soft and deep.  A pile of huge granite boulders sat on the left side.  Tiara rested, Elise teased the waves with her toes,  and Luci and Arianna explored the caves created by the rocky pile finding forts and secret rooms to call their own, at least for a while.  I walked along the narrow stretch of sand where the river and sea meet.   This is where the sand glittered with silvery slivers of shale and bright orange stones that remind me of the sugared egg yolks enjoyed here in Portugal.

Hunger brought us to the packed restaurant that sat high on the dune on our same beach where the food was a lot better than other beach-side restaurants we've tried.  The pizzas and milkshakes were delicious.  My fish was, well, the most interesting, and the least impressive.  "A" for effort, I suppose.  We'd seen it come to nearby tables as we sat reading our menu.  It was a large fish, headless, sitting on a plate covered with sauteed onions.  The smell was strong, but delicious, and we all thought it taste just the same, but it was fishy and we quickly tired of the onion flavor.  Blech.  The potatoes were good.

The town appears small and unassuming, but there is class and culture hidden along the narrow streets within.  We bought dish towels with hand-embroidered edges from a lady there and in my walk near the church I discovered a bakery/chocolate shop where I bought some nice chocolate covered oranges and a nice little cafe with a cake made from some dark green vegetable and fabulous looking gourmet foods.  We left with a bottle of olive oil and a morbid curiosity about this dark green cake colored only naturally from a vegetable with no available English translation.

The girls were playing on a huge playground near the water surrounded by grass.  Families with soccer balls covered the lawn.  Everyone was outside on another sunny day.  They all seemed content, relaxed - spending time together without a worry in the world.

We walked along the boardwalk back to the car slowly.  No rush to get back to Felgueiras.  It's beautiful here.

I've grown accustomed to the reality of Sundays in Europe, that enforced "day of rest" since anything and everything will undoubtedly be closed.  The blessing of that both in Germany and Spain is that in your search for something open you rediscover the beauty of the outdoors (when weather permits) and you find yourself smiling and nodding with so many happy strangers strolling through a German forest or along a Spanish beach.  It's pleasant, healthy, and somehow renews you in a way that shopping or running errands just can't.  No surprise there.  It's a truth that nature feeds the soul and these days in all too busy lives, most of us are quite malnourished.

We hadn't a clue what to expect of Portugal, but assumed it would be like all other places we'd been where Sunday is concerned especially on Easter.  After all, we were near Braga, the Easter capital of Portugal where religion is taken more serious than in the southern parts of the country.  It ought to be quiet, right?

Apparently resting on Easter isn't what the Portuguese had in mind.  I awoke at 7am to the sound of roosters and fireworks that didn't stop the entire day.  Clearly, Jesus is risen and it's time to make some noise!  The otherwise blue morning sky turned to thick smoky haze with each boom and crackle.  I thought they came from one of the churches, but throughout the day the fireworks continued from different areas - even at the house next door where a baby was being Christened.  Perhaps the Portuguese are like the Valencians using fireworks to announce and celebrate everything.


Kristi and Tiara stayed back to rest and play Easter bunny when it was time.  The rest of us went to Braga.  I thought if there was anything going on, it would be there.

Portugal surprised me within three minutes.  It was near noon on Easter Sunday and shops were open.  Groceries and cafes, small local stores.  A large group of casually dressed men stood outside a pizzeria talking with each other.  It was a sunny day and everyone was outside together.  Families in their gardens, friends meeting on street corners.  Everyone outside soaking up the sun after a bad winter and enjoying the holiday.  They were alive.  And of course, they should be, but I've been more accustomed to the silence of holidays in Germany when the towns seem "dead."  Not a car on the road nor a person in sight.


We made our way to Braga, then up an unusually narrow, curvy cobblestone road (apparently the back way) to Bon Jesus, a Catholic pilgrimage site built high on the hills above Braga.   Breathtaking.  I've become desensitized to beautiful churches.  Really, it's sad, but Europe has so many of them that on trips with the girls, I often hear, "no, please, not another church!"  And sometimes I feel the same, snapping a few photos of the outside and walking on.  But this one.  If you were to take it and plant in among the congested antiquity of a European city center, it would be "just another church," but here on this hill surrounded by meticulously landscaped gardens and a fairy tale staircase, it becomes a church my kids can really get excited about.  They did, in fact, get excited, and never did step inside the church.

Just below the church and its gardens is this staircase - a series of platforms with stairs on both the right and the left sides.  Each platform has a different fountain in the center and three different statues on top.  They tell stories though I couldn't decipher all, but here, it's not just latin sayings or imperial quotes, but actual scripture verses carved into the stone.  It's all very grounded and real without so much of the mysticism that can creep into religion.  Simple green buildings sit on either side of the staircase on several levels.  They are drab and run down with iron bars on the windows, a wax covered grate with red and white candles sitting on it and a blue sign with a coin slot that says, "esmolas," offerings.  Inside each one is a different scene from Christ's life.

We walked all the way down the stairs, then all the way back up.  Kirk and the girls took the little water powered tram down the hill and back while Jeff and I looked inside the church.

The place was buzzing.   Old couples sat on the moss covered stones with picnic lunches.  Children ran around.  It wasn't quiet or solemn, but happy and full of life.  The cafe was packed with families drinking coca cola and eating ice cream.  We went through a strange man made cave with stalactites, then up to the gazebo on top following the path even higher to find a small lake with boats behind the church.   An older balding man in a slacks and a sweater vest took our money - 1.20/person for the 30 minute ride.  Kirk paddled mostly.  Arianna and Luci took a turn together.  I took pictures from shore.

Such a lovely place.  History and beauty brought to life by the flow of people there, the families, the couples, the tourists... probably more touristy in the summer, but today, just perfect.

Hungry tummies took us to Braga where a men were walking around "helping people park" for tips, I'm sure.  We finally gave in, were directed by a man on foot to a perfect, free parking spot, or, at least free until I tipped him for his help.  It was helpful, after all.

At first, Braga was exactly what I expected to see on Easter.  It was silent.  An older couple walked by us arm in arm.  A few teenagers sat on a bench by an empty square.  We walked by 4 old churches and inside a 5th without seeing many people at all.  We were ready to turn around and leave thinking food would be impossible to find and then we found the main street, with shops closed, but cafes open and a steady flow of people walking by.  It led to the main square, a large fountain, a popcorn vendor, and most of Braga.  They were all there.  So many people.  Not uncomfortably crowded, but with that perfect balance of people that it seems celebratory and invokes a feeling of camaraderie.  It must have been magical because I let my girls get McDonalds burgers and sundaes - something they have done only one other time in the last 5 years.

A leisurely walk back to our car.  Kristi and Tiara would be hopping around the yard with baskets of eggs about now and we didn't want those chocolates to melt in the sun.


More Photos:  http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=207341&id=674507268&l=1170f2d356

3.5 hours to Portugal... may be more, may be less.  It could be construed as wise to update your GPS maps before taking an out-of-country trip.  I didn't.

The "updated maps" on the GPS of our travel companions was almost as "blond" as ours.  Brand new beautiful highways cutting through the Portuguese valleys and we were driving completely off the map.  Thank goodness for the GPS function of my iPhone.


Portugal is extraordinary.  Rugged, mountainous, beautiful.  Old farm houses on terraced slopes, green fields of sheep, a small herd of goats on a twisty 2-lane road barely big enough for one blocking traffic.  I love this place.  The highway views themselves were amazing and then we ended up on an hour long stretch of twisty-turny, stomach-churning narrowness that made me want to stake my claim and camp out there forever.   Rustic quaintness embodied.  The stretch along the river Douro encouraged a collective "Wow" from all of us.  We'd had no idea how extraordinarily beautiful Portugal would be.


We arrived at 4:30 - or was it 3:30?  Portugal is one hour behind Spain.  We spent our next week asking each other, "Spanish time or Portuguese time?"

Quinta da Nora, our modern, 4-bedroom home on a small kiwi farm was absolutely perfect.  We were greeted by a young "suave" guy with a stubbled face and big sun glasses, very reminisent of Don Johnson's Miami Vice look and a sweet middle-aged gardener who explained everything to me patiently in Portuguese.  Daniela, the 80's throw-back as we'd discover is most of Portuguese fashion, spoke English and seemed friendly, but had little patience for the rambling of the older gardener.    The gardener understood my Spanish and with a bit of repitition, we were able to communicate quite decently - my Spanish to his Portuguese.  He lives in a small home on the property and takes care of the place.

At midnight as we were ready to say good-night, the fireworks began.  And shortly afterwards, the rooster?

More Photos:  http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=207329&id=674507268&l=be27dd4ea9