Life: Idiotropic

One of the blessings of living in another country is that even in the most mundane tasks there is either beauty or oddities.  Amazing things or completely bazaar things that you might not expect.

Today, thanks to a torn down building, I got this glimpse of the backside of the Betera church while heading to the bank.  Not something I'd normally see as churches here are so often completely surrounded by buildings, but a nice view on a pretty day and a bit of beauty that makes standing in line at the bank a tad more tolerable.


Sant Espirit
We took the back roads towards home through orange groves and over little mountains until we reached the monastery in Gilet, Sant Espirit.

This little gem is tucked among the mountains behind my house - probably 10 minutes by car.  From here you can hike all around the hills there.  It's quiet and peaceful.  The monastery itself was closed.  Apparently you have to ring to enter and we didn't.  A little cafe on the side serves small snacks, ice cream, and drinks.  Beer, yes.  White wine, no.  We had cafe con leche and I tried to talk to the old man who worked there, but he was eager to close and not very chatty.

The scenery is lovely and the monastery is obviously still active.  Ancient trees dance around it - really, it looks like they are dancing.  So old are they that this kind of tree has sort of lifted off the ground, a hole between two "legs" of wood at the base, so many of them look like they could just start walking around.  Who knows... may be they do.  ;)

It's a perfect picnic spot with tables and a nice parking area just below and another picnic area behind it.   



I learned of Sant Espirit a few months ago from a British man at a Canet ice cream shop while I was there with a friend and my little girls were exclaiming, "they speak English," then rushing over to practice theirs as if they were starved of it.

He also told me that he lived in Gilet, "a quaint little town with a lovely plaza and good restaurants."  So, after our monastery stroll, we drove into Gilet at lunch time to find just that, lunch.

The vendors at the weekly market were packing up flats of vegetables in the plaza.  We didn't see one restaurant there.  We crossed over and walked around.  Strolled through narrow streets.  Passed a little electronics shop.  We didn't see any restaurants there, but I did like this simple "fish shop" sign.  We were beginning to wonder what the British in Gilet were talking about. 

Our last lap on the other side of the plaza gave us just two choices:  A bar with tapas or an Italian restaurant.  We chose Italian and I learned a valuable lesson.   One word can make a huge difference in a menu item title.  Or, when ordering food at a foreign restaurant, be sure you understand EVERY WORD. 

For example, I understood that for our second course, we basically had the options of lamb, pork, or fish.  Neither wanted fish, pork is quite ordinary, so we both ordered the lamb (which brings me to a second lesson learned: when ordering something unknown and potentially scary, don't both order the same thing).  I heard the "title" of the dish, but she rattled it off quickly and I didn't quite understand all of it.  As the waitress walked off, she said, "pastel." 

And it hit me.  Pastel.  Pastel means pie.  Pie?  Lamb pie?  Huh.  So I'm envisioning a pot pie or may be something layered with nice hunks of grilled lamb and some flaky crust... something delicious.

The plates arrived.  Two plates, sadly, of the same item.  Imagine the shape and size of the average Sara Lee pound cake.  About 1" thick.  The color of old baloney.  The texture, a foamy mousse.  Not creamy, but foamy.  Lots of little holes.  Tastes like lamb.  But the look and the texture?  Ugh.  It sat there all greyish pink on my plate with a decorative squirt of sour cream sitting next to it on a lettuce leaf.  Shudder.

It tasted fine.  Yes, I tasted it.  I ate most of it.  Not proud, just hungry and didn't want to offend the waitress who did ask later as she looked at my non-empty plate if I didn't like it.  I lied.  "No, it was very good.  I'm just full."

Taste isn't everything.  While this spongy pate of sorts might be fine spread on bread or crackers in a very (emphasize very) thin layer, a 1" layer of cold sponginess upon my plate is not what I'm up for.  I've got teeth.  Gimme somethin' I can chew!

The moral:
         1) Comprehension is key, especially in the case of random Italian restaurants in Spain.
         2) When ordering something "unknown" make sure that you order a different "unknown" from your eating partner so that if one is really horrifying than at least you can share the good one and order a bigger dessert.
         3) Don't take restaurant suggestions from the British whose cuisine is almost entirely based on a dare.

Just a couple hours to spare in a day and this is the perfect filler.  Ignore the Norauto and Leroy Merlin, the Alcampo - Spain's Walmart.  Focus on the large colorful apartments, the boat lined aqua blue canals hidden inside, and the small line of smaller shops and restaurants below.

This is worth going to.  Just two hours is enough though you may want more.

A walk on the beach in search for those perfectly worn beach tiles you can only find in Spain, many with the glaze still intact.  A beach where you can find green onions and heads of lettuce - ok, so that's not so nice, but it is amusing and the birds don't seem to mind.

40 minutes left.  We sat on the patio and enjoyed what ended up being the best calamari of my mom's entire trip at a tiny bar along the boardwalk.   Mom saw a big shaggy dog and tried to get his picture.  He barked and turned his head.  Two men sat together talking, laughing at the dog vs. mom saga playing out just a few meters away - locals who knew almost everyone who walked by, who joked and teased and got into a conversation with us about dogs in Spain and how irresponsible it is to own a long-haired animal in such a hot climate. (Mom - I need a photo of that dog.  Please.)

A quick dash home to let in Rosica who help with the house.  Mom paints.  I sit at my computer.  It's quiet and peaceful.  We're both thinking of that delicious calamari and how we must go back... it was too good and why did we share?  We both want our own plate next time.

It is a testimony to the extreme edibility of these bars that there is no photo here.  You see, these bars put this trance over me so that even me, miss snap happy herself, can't think of anything else but grabbing another one.  It's camera amnesia.  Two pans now baked and gone and not a single photo to show for it.  :(

An old favorite.  I've made these for years.  Made them once for a group of Spanish friends in Germany.  They looked at them with curiosity and distrust as they did many things that I made.  It was the group, not the cooking.  Some are more adventurous than others, but I didn't mind.  Friends are friends and food is food.

Yesterday I had a few friends over to lunch on my balcony and enjoy the sun and the view.  We had pasta with pesto and stuffed chicken.  My friends brought things.  Eva made a salad with mango and foie grois.  For dessert, I served strawberries with whipped cream, fresh lemon curd, and these lemon bars that my friends here who are as adventurous as I am, not only tried once, but twice, three times...

With a few left over, I took them over to my favorite little coffee shop today explaining that they always make nice things for us, so that today, I'd like to share something "American" with them.

Watching them survey the little paper plate was like watching children at Christmas time.  This is a food family.  They bake, they cook.  They know and appreciate food.  When the mom heard, "limon," her eyes got wide and she took a bite.  Then she yelled for her other son, the pastry chef, to come from the kitchen to try them too.  So fun to watch.  Her and her two sons.  They ate them slowly and savored each bite.  The baker asked for the recipe.

Yes, I'll share it.  I'll translate it.  And then I'll ask him how to make his chocolate mousse.  ;)

The Recipe:  Lemon Bars
From Cuisine at Home, Feb 2005 issue

1.  Preheat oven to 350; line an 8" square baking pan with foil.

2.  Toast 1/2 cup sliced almonds in a skillet over medium heat until lightly browned, 3-5 minutes.  Set aside 3T. and chop the rest well to mix into the crust.

3.  Whisk together 3/4 cup all-purpose flour, 1/3 cup powdered sugar, 1/2 t. almond extract and 1/4 t. table salt and chopped almonds.

4.  To above flour mixture, cut in 6 T. cold, cubed, unsalted butter until the mixture is dry and crumbly.  Press into the prepared pan.

5.  Sprinkle the crust with the reserved almonds.  Press them into the crust.  Bake until the edges are golden, 20-25 min.

WHILE THE CRUST IS BAKING, prepare the filling below.

1.  Combine 1 cup sugar and 1/4 cup all-purpose flour.

2.  Whisk in 3 eggs.

3.  Add 1/2 cup fresh lemon juice (2-4 lemons depending on size) and 2 t. finely grated lemon zest.


WHEN THE CRUST IS LIGHTLY BROWNED (after the cooking time above) and STILL HOT, remove from oven, pour the lemon filling directly onto the hot crust and dust it with powdered sugar (this will make a nice light crust on top).

Return the crust to the oven and bake 18-20 minutes or until the filling no longer jiggles in the center.  Cool completely on rack.

When the bars are cool, remove from the pan by lifting out the foil by the edges.  Cut into squares and dust with more powdered sugar.

Garnish with lemon slices and mint sprigs.

Can be made ahead and refrigerated.  Best the same day.  Serve at room temperature.


Notes:  For a delicious twist, substitute coconut for the almonds and lime juice and zest for the lemon.  Made these this last week.   YUM!

If you ask me where I'm from I'll say, Portland because for most of you if I say Mulino, you'll give me the deer in headlights stare and have no clue what I'm talking about.  I might as well say Puzol which, at least until last summer, would envoke that same blank stare.

So ask me where I live now and I'll say, Valencia.  No, I don't live in an upscale flat looking down upon something historically interesting where at any given moment something culturally amazing is happening below.  I live in Puzol which is the Mulino to my Portland, a 30 minute train ride to Valencia.  And while there are moments when I think it would be nice to wake up and be in the middle of something happening - what ever happens to be happening that day, it is nice to sit back in the quiet of my neighborhood and watch the fireworks in Valencia from a distance.

However, as nice and quaint as my little village is, when people come to visit, I'm not going to take them to Puzol.  Ok, that's sort of a lie.  I did take my mom to the Puzol market and my favorite coffee shop, but that's not really a tourist thing.  Today was the day for my mom's first visit to Valencia, i.e. my standard whirlwind historical downtown tour:  Plaza del Ayutamiento, Mercado Central, the Cathedral, and a bunch of stuff in between.


Today I learned that as the sun shines brighter, the crowds of obnoxious camera toting tourists grow bigger.  I also learned that Mondays are the absolute worst day to go to the Mercado Central.  There is a huge outdoor market looping around it with cheap shoes and clothing, but at least a third of the vendors take off and the fish market is completely empty.  I asked the guy at the Greek shop and he said that the rich vendors don't work on Mondays.  So, no phyllo dough for me today, but I did get a huge bunch of basil for just a couple euros.

Another new discovery (because there is always something new to discover here) is another location of the infamous, yet Tiffany-untested Parisian bakery.  The owner of this delicious chain lives in my neighborhood and is rumored to bring breads back in the evenings for neighbors who place their "orders" earlier in the day.  She has 3-4 locations downtown, but I didn't realize how convenient.  So across the dug-up road that will be a new Metro stop, we found ourselves sipping Cafe con leche and nibbling one of the best quiche lorraine that I've ever had.  We split a chartreus green pistacio muffin that bordered on too sweet and made mental notes on everything else that we'd like to try if/when we made it back.  Oh, I will definitely make it back!

Our slow zig zag towards the Cathedral brought us by a huge blue ceramic domed church and a nice park with pidgeon topped statues, walls of graffiti both beautiful and strange, and the Plaza Rotunda where we found the velcro we needed and over-priced pottery that we didn't.

Went back to the pottery shop that I discovered on my first trip to Spain in 2007 and made our mental list of everything that we "had to have" when we went back.  Circled the Cathedral to see the Plaza de la Virgen, listened to the choir boys singing in the Basilica de los Desamparados there, then stopped for pinchos at my favorite pinchos bar on our way back to the train station. 

Now all three of my little girls have their own raquets and love tennis.  We played at the club today.  Elise and Luci learned to serve better.  Arianna did too, but was hot and tired when I was taking photos, thus the head in the corner pose.

Tempermental tennis champions?  You bet.  They are amazing.  

If you find yourself at the Valencia International Airport on a sunny Friday afternoon, do beware of scooters and the lotto peddling men who drive them.  Today, while waiting for my mom to arrive, I was nearly killed by two of them, the second one twice.

A large man in a red t-shirt, one hand on the handle bar steering erratically in and out of groups of waiting people and around pillars, the other hand holding up a long strand of lottery tickets that often block his vision.  Zooming up, breaking quickly, "lottery tickets?"  The answer is no and he zooms off nearly running into the next unsuspecting victim before speeding off again.

I wanted SOOO badly to get his picture, but chickened out.  Too many people.  So I got this one when he stopped for a coffee.  He already drives like he's over-caffeinated.  Yeah, let's allow him more.  Sheesh.  So there it is in front of the little dog... the preferred weapon of choice at the Valencia airport.  A drunk snow boarder is less scary.

Last night, just moments after arriving home from school, Elise came into the house holding a tupperware with a wry smile on her dimpled face.

     "Elise?  What is in that tupperware???"
     "A baby snail.  I saved it from the rain."  She gallops off as I ask her to please keep him outside and out of my tupperware. 

For the next hour I see her sitting and dancing outside the living room window.  She brings out a towel.  She sings.  It's beginning to rain a bit more yet she's happy conversing with her snail.

Elise comes in saying something about her snail.  I'd been talking to Tiara and didn't catch the entire thing.

     ".... Saliva..."
     "Elise, what did you say?  What about 'saliva?'"
     "That's her name.  I named my baby snail 'Saliva.'"

Appropriate name for a snail, I suppose.  Blech.

So I'm putting her to bed and want to sit down in the rocking chair and read to the girls.  It's no where to be found.

     "Where's the rocking chair?"
     "Oops."  Wry smile.  "I'll go get it.  I was sitting in it while I was watching Saliva."

While this might not be the most flattering photo of this cake, it does give you a somewhat accurate picture of what I'm up against.

Boston Cream Pie - layers of white cake, chocolate cake, and vanilla custard enrobed in a coffee tinged chocolate ganache.  Heaven in one bite, if you don't mind a few calories.  Hips beware.

I didn't bake this.  Tiara did.  One afternoon she wants something sweet.  Most people would find something quick and easy.  Tiara flips through my Cuisine magazine until she finds this.

"Mom, can I make a Boston Creme pie?"

Is there any other answer, but a resounding, "Yes, please!"

Mmmm.  Delicious.

Lesson learned though:  There IS a dramatic difference in the way that cake flour and all-purpose behave in a cake.  In the absence of cake we used all-purpose which yielded a denser cake.  Will repeat with the proper flour and double the ganache.  I could eat the ganache with a spoon.

Arianna has been begging for a haircut for weeks.  Our schedule hasn't meshed with my friend who does hair nor have I had time to search out an unknown hairdresser and brave the language and cultural jungle of the Spanish beauty shop. 

The begging continued.  The whining increased in intensity and pitch.   I caved.

At 10pm on a school night,  I calmly handed scissors to my 14 year-old daughter who has never cut hair before, then sat at my computer while Tiara took over 3 inches off. 

Arianna's happy, I'm happy (no more whining), and Tiara has a new appreciation for hairdressers.

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.

We left on Friday, spent one night in Salamanca and saw two of the Easter processions there, arrived in Felgueiras, Portugal on Saturday and have fallen in love, once again, with yet another region of Europe - another, "let's retire here, it's beautiful."

Awoke on Easter morning to the sound of fireworks and roosters.  Cooked our Easter ham to the same sounds.

We toured Dom Jesus in Braga, the kids had their hunt. 

This is quaint and modern.  Beautiful... absolutely beautiful.  We love it here. 

So, there will be much to say and many, many photos to look through and to share.  We return on Saturday.  Look for posts and photos next week.

Funny... Easter is over, but the fireworks are still going.  We're heading to the beach to see the west coast Atlantic.

The magic of Easter is that the bunny seems to find us where ever we go.  One year it was a French farmhouse in Normandy, today it’s a modern Portuguese home on a kiwi farm.  I had strict instructions to let the girls in on the side entrance, but from the moment we entered the gate, it was all giggles and screams, pointing, and “I seen a blue one!”  “Look, over there, there are tons of eggs!”

Baskets and smiles and they were off.  Dog inside watching the chaos.  Three little girls running through the grass, peaking in trees and around bushes.  The bunny gets trickier as the girls get older, so this fun was a bit more drawn out than usual as the girls searched for every last egg.  Then they checked out their loot while dinner was ready.  Kristi and Tiara had it under control.  Ham, mashed potatoes, fruit salad, vegetables, green salad.  We served the carrot cake I made last night.  Not bad for a holiday away from home.   Family, friends, sugar-laced littles... not bad at all.

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

6 hours from Valencia to Salamanca... may be a bit more with stops.  One mini-van, 4 kids, a dog, two friends following in their "beast," a Toyota something that makes our van look small.  Kirk drives and I am armed with my anniversary present from him, my new Canon 7D and quite possible my new best friend.  ;)

Spain is beautiful.  And as much as Kirk and I grumble about little things, those little quirky oddities about living here in Valencia, Spain itself is varied and breathtaking as you drive across it.  Once again we marveled at the rolling hills, fields of green, herds of sheep, snow capped mountains, castles, stoney villages, stork nests, and huge boulders... so many landscapes to take in.  Not enough time.  Only fleeting moments with my camera poised at the passenger window - an attempt to capture enough to jog my memory later.

We arrived in Salamanca at 4:30, found our hotel, and began the nightmarish adventure that is parking in a European underground parking garage.  Narrow turns, centimeters to spare, tight spots.  A lot of holding my breath, gripping the door handle, and closing my eyes.  Thankfully, Kirk was driving and my car made that part of the journey without a scratch.  Our friends' "beast" found a friendlier spot near the railroad tracks a 10 minute walk away.

Ready for a walk, we took children and dog to the Plaza Mayor to see the historic center and to find food.  Normally, it is quite easy to find dog-friendly patio seating at all hours, but even in this touristy area, most patios were closed.  We went from restaurant to restaurant looking for a place that was "dog-friendly."  "A smaller dog, yes, but..."  "If it wasn't so crowded, yes, but..."  "On the patio, yes, but, today it's closed..."

Mid-search we hard drums, made our way out of the plaza to the street, and saw a bit of a Holy Week parade through the throngs of people already assembled there.  On tippy toes I could see bits of purple hooded men- these with rounded hoods, not the pointy ones of paintings I've seen.  A few minutes was all I could take.  Without a good view for photos, what's the point?

We finally found a small "bar" just outside the Plaza that served decent (though not spectacular) food and, after some hesitation, allowed our Logan a place under the booth where we sat.  Logan was quite and sweet the entire meal.  I'm sure most fellow diners didn't even realize that our "large dog" was there.  Nothing special though... chicken, salads, pizzas, calamari.  Actually, the calamari was good.  Calamari in Spain is nearly always good.

An easy walk back, time to wear out dog and kids.  Settling in for the night.  Then at 10 our friend, Jeff, and myself, both armed with our new 7Ds, took a walk back towards the Cathedral to see the "big parade," the "most beautiful one" that would begin in the Cathedral at midnight.

At 1045 we ran into the last 20  minutes of what I think was the parade we saw before dinner.  More men in purple carrying large Easter themed floats - no bunnies here - these all depict the last week of Christ's life.  Very serious.


Purple, pink, green, red, white, blue... the robes and hoods came in all colors.  In sections.  Different groups - brotherhoods - wearing different robes.  Some carried crosses and wore thorn crowns.  Some carried metal cylinders swinging them back and forth to distribute the pungent smelling smoke flowing from them.  Men, women, children.  Barefoot and polished dress shoes.  Glasses of all kinds, red frames, wire...  Normal people participating in a very serious event.  People weren't loud, but it wasn't silent either. 

The crowds were reasonable.  It was easy to stand right in front at the edge of slow moving procession where the floats rocked slowly and gently back and forth to the perfect cadence of the bearers as they shuffled slowly by, right foot, left foot...





As soon as the final people went by, we turned towards the cathedral and saw what I think was the beginning of this same parade passing in front of us from our right.  This time green hoods, more floats, children.  Nuns in the window across from us cleaning the black iron rails and watching.



The lady in the hotel explained to me how beautiful the procession of the "Virgen de la Soledad" is each year.  I studied the map in the newspaper.  She told me that the Calle de los Palominos has some of the best views. 

Along the street nearest the cathedral a line of onlookers had already gathered, the line lengthening as we watched.  From all directions people in all shapes and sizes dressed in long black robes approached the cathedral carrying their pointed hoods.  Some stood in circles smoking cigarettes while they waited.  The parade would begin inside the Cathedral, leave out the back side, loop around, then go down the street where we eventually stood.

The crowds weren't thick yet, so we walked.  Found gates set up around the doorway of the Church of San Esteban just a kilometer (or less) away.  Locals there told me that the procession would arrive at 1am when a "virgen" would come out of that church, meet with the procession, and go with it to the Plaza Mayor.  At 2am when the "virgen" arrives, all the lights will go out in the Plaza Major and a song will be sung.

So tempting, but 2am?  We didn't end up waiting.

Instead we waited with the growing crowd along Calle de los Palominos with a view of the Cathedral.  The crowd wasn't noisy, but there was the normal hum of activity that exists when any large number of people are gathered.  Midnight.  The parade should be starting.  We waited.  At 0025 we could see them in the distance.  The crowd immediately hushed.  It was silent.

At 0031 the beginning passed by.  No color.  Just black.  Cloaks and pointed hoods.  Carrying long candles that dripped wax on their black gloves, lanterns, more pungent smoke things...  People walked along towards the beginning of the procession carrying candles.  Everyone was serious.  There wasn't a sound other than the footsteps on pavement.  Moments I held my camera still at my side, feeling the seriousness of the moment and the sternness of the costume.  Some moments it just didn't feel right to take a picture.  The crowd was pushed back to the walls in this stretch and the men in black walked on the outer edges of the street seemingly protecting the participants within those boundaries.  It is hard to read the expression in those eyes staring out of small holes in the black cloth.  The entire vision is a bit intimidating partially because of the image that it conjures to me, the American.  It is scary.  But here in Spain, they are penitent, not prosecutors.  They shouldn't be scary here.

We saw ladies cloaked in black carrying blue candles.  More ladies with black lace veils sitting high on their heads, then trailing behind them.  Children without hoods handed snacks by their mothers.  Children talking together quietly, the only break in the somber mood of the event.

45 minutes of silence and a sea of pointed black hoods.

Two "Pasos."  One smaller one with three angels at the cross, then "la Virgen."  She was last and like the others I'd seen, she rocked back and forth slowly as they walked.  Close to 50 men holding her up keeping cadence for 4 hours in this procession.  She would return to the Cathedral at 4am.

I didn't last that long.  The "once-in-a-lifetime" argument in me lost to the "gotta-get-up-early-and-drive-again-tomorrow" and we walked through the well-lit Plaza Major at 0130 knowing that just 30 minutes later we could see darkness and hear the singing.  Nope.  Sleep beckons. 

No regrets.  Can't photograph darkness anyway.  ;)

MORE PHOTOS:  http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=207313&id=674507268&l=ede1e55519