Melissa Wanderlust

Foodie Adventures: DC's Sorta-Secret Secret Supper Club

2012-01-29T09:37:00.000-08:00

I'm sure there are super-secret supper clubs around DC that you have to be extra cool to know about, but I am not that cool so I discovered this one by chance. A group of GWU students had created a mini-documentary called "HUSH" about a Jain woman who operates a supper club out of her home. I happened to come across it at school, so I signed myself, Seth, and our friend Leslie up for a meal. Four days later, we were standing on the doorstep of a Spanish colonial-style house in the U Street area, trying to remember the password required for entrance.

The host, who goes by Geeta, graciously welcomed us along with 9 other guests. We sat in her living room sipping saffron cocktails and gazing into the large terrarium on the coffee table.

Geeta snapping photos of guests. You can see the terrariums in the background.

Geeta was slightly flustered because the server had broken her foot and had to leave, meaning she was a one woman show for the night. To exacerbate the situation, there was a New York Times writer in attendance who would be writing an article about the experience.

Although HUSH is technically secret, it has received coverage in the Washington Post already, along with a couple other places. Geeta left the World Bank to start her supper club, and has palpable business savvy. Later, she would explain that Jains are known for being good businesspeople in India.

The meal that followed easily outdid any Indian or vegetarian restaurant I have ever experienced. The food did not stop coming and I was so full I could barely stand. I forgot to take pictures of the food, but I do have a picture of the mess we made (notice the Times writer scribbling furiously to the side).

But what makes HUSH special is not just the food (although it's amazing), but the experience. Geeta describes her cultural roots and explains the special spices used in her cooking - some of which are unique to Jain cuisine. The convergence of strangers into one home reminded me very much of couch surfing. There are breaks between each course where we'd all retire to the living room and stretch out like overfed cats until our stomachs settled.

I believe that it's important to seek out unique and memorable experiences on a regular basis. HUSH is certainly a different way to spend an evening, and despite being not-so-secret, it still feels like an adventure.

Geeta closed the evening with hugs and jars of chutney. She laughed at the small foibles of the evening and irony of losing her server on the night the Times were in town. The other guests - reticent at the beginning of the evening - were giving each other rides home by the end. We waddled back to our car after 5 hours of feasting and immediately passed out once home.

The price is donation based but is suggested at $75 (I know - it's expensive). The menu we had is below. It changes every week.

Austin Part I: Oh, Crappy Days

2012-01-13T07:32:00.000-08:00

Thus far Austin has taught me that poor judgement leads to repercussions. I have spent the entirety of my 2nd full day in Austin waiting around the house for a plumber, and the situation totally stinks. Literally.

After a day of traveling and a night of delicious diner food at 24 Diner, I decided to make my first day in Texas an active one. My friend Gio and I went to Mellow Johnny's, Lance Armstrong's bike shop, to rent bicycles and cruise around the city. The weather was glorious. We even thought about buying swimsuits and taking a dip in Barton Springs.

Turtles!

The only food source we had consumed that day was coffee, and by the time we finished a round of miniature golf, we were ravenous. We started at Torchy's Tacos with queso dip, chips, and brisket jalapeno and fried chicken tacos. This was where the trouble began.

We washed down the tacos with a chocolate cake milkshake - that's fresh slices of cake blended with ice cream - and a Witch Doctor soda (Dr. Pepper, Fruit Punch, coconut, & cream). After walking around a creepy antique store and candy shop, we cycled our full bellies back to the house, where cold beers were waiting.

The real trouble came when the six of us staying at Gio's place decided to make a special trip to the food truck Gourdoughs. Their website speaks for itself. Fried to order doughnuts with cake batter filling, cream cheese and brown sugar frosting, and grilled bananas. That's what I had.

We may have still been able to avert disaster were it not for the stop at the P. Terry's burger drive through on the way home.

The next morning, after we had all had our coffee, the toilet began to panic. Before we knew it, poop was shooting out of the shower drain and flushing was a bygone memory. Even the plumber was scared. Apparently the shower and toilet shared a drain pipe that was so hopelessly clogged that anything that went in the toilet came back up through the bath tub drain. The plumber moved the toilet to the hallway and spent an hour and a half snaking the pipes.

So take this as a cautionary tale for any and all who visit Austin: the food here is awesome, but it may come back to haunt you (especially if you have 6 foodies sharing one bathroom).

5-star Vagrancy in Charlotte, NC

2012-01-09T14:32:00.000-08:00

the Sparkle Demon

Let me tell you about the best job I ever had. My employment lasted only 3 days and I didn't make a dime, but the working conditions were exquisite.

Last month I read an article in USA Today that claimed MegaBus.com was giving away 200,000 free bus tickets with the code GOFREE. On Seth and I's last trip to NYC I swore off MegaBus due to their human trafficking-esque conditions - sweaty, smelly, crammed seats with infinite delays and people loudly blabbing on cell phones - but my mother raised me to be a deal hound and I couldn't refuse a free ticket. I booked an overnight round-trip ticket to Charlotte for January 4-7, and 2 round-trip tickets for me and Seth in February.

At Sunday dinner the following week I was discussing the deal with Seth's mother, who coincidentally had a voucher for a free 2-night stay at the Ballantyne Hotel in Charlotte, including 2 spa treatments, breakfast, and dinner, which was about to expire. The planets aligned and next thing I knew, I was the unofficial intern at her office - off to scope out a luxurious resort. No interview, no application. That's how I landed the most awesome job ever.

The Ballantyne is located a ways out of town, but the massage, "organic journey" facial, and southern food made it worth the grueling 8-hr overnight MegaBus from DC. Traveling alone felt a bit more solitary than I like, but I did meet some awesome people and have some great times in the Queen City.

When I first arrived at 7:00AM at the Charlotte Transportation Center, the only place open nearby was the Not Just Coffee Shop at the 7th St market. I hung out with the owner for the next two hours, eating breakfast sandwiches and drinking intense cups of pour-over coffee that had me wired for the rest of the day. The owner was a young man named James who's parents were hippies. They traveled all around the world, which gave James a permanent travel bug. He told me about his most recent adventures in Peru working with an NGO that builds schools, and was also nice enough to give me a list of Charlotte to-dos that guided much of my trip.

Pour-over coffe at the Not Just Coffee shop

On that list was the new mummy exhibit at the Discovery Center. I spent the next portion of the morning perusing dead bodies and playing on a pressurized rocket chair that raises you up into the air when you press a button. When the hordes of children arrived and seized all of the fun equipment, I moved onto the Modern Art Museum. It wasn't nearly as cool.

Bechtler Musem of Modern Art

Disheveled and slumping around with pillow strapped to my backpack, I stopped for some fried chicken at Price's Chicken Coop, then hopped on the light rail headed south. As I was waiting for the connecting bus to the resort, a homeless guy mistook me for one of his people and asked me how long I'd been living on the streets. I made a mental note to shower as soon as I got to the hotel.

Price's chicken & hush puppies

Later I went to see Moneyball at the local theater - which serves beer - and was the only one there. I sat in the "luxury" leather seats at the top and played on my cell phone without having to worry about offending fellow movie-goers.

The next night I met a CouchSurfing friend, Princess, and her brother Tim for dinner. Tim, who is about to be deployed to Afghanistan, is 15 years older than his sister and seems to have lived several lives already. He regaled us with stories from his time as a homicide detective and then motivational speaker, followed by his service in the Marines all over the world. After everything that he's faced, the only thing that still scares him is his feisty mother.

I spent my last day in the NoDa artsy, microbrew neighborhood of northern Charlotte. To highlight how hipster this area is, Occupy Charlotters were strategizing at the table next to me at Revolution Pizza. I sat drinking awesome NoDa beer samples and reading The Social Animal (which is pretty awesome too).

Revolution Pizza & Ale House

While I can't see myself ever living in Charlotte, I can understand why I hear so many good things about it. The people are great, and so is the beer.

Graffitti by the NoDa bus stop

Delicious bbq from Mert's Heart & Soul

Tune in next time for Austin, TX!

Sweet Views & Sour Beers on a Portland Holiday

2011-12-23T10:27:00.000-08:00

Every once in a blue moon a beer comes along that makes me think: I could drink only this for the rest of my life. Hair of the Dog's 2007 oak-aged Fred, a belgian style blonde, is one of those beers. It costs $15 per 12 oz - a wallet-lightener for sure - and you can only drink it at the brewery in Portland. The smooth maple-vanilla awesomeness make it worth the splurge, like a once-in-a-lifetime experience (though we may be back tomorrow).

Seth and I have done a lot of wallet-lightening at craft breweries in the 24 hours since our arrival. We've conquered Cascade sour beers, Full Sail dubbels, and all sorts of fantastic nosh. But what are the holidays for if not stimulating the economy with wild spending? Here are some highlights from our first day of Pacific Northwestern fun:

Blueberry sour on the right - not overly sweet, actually a little malty - and the Sang Noir aged in Pinto Noir and bourbon barrels

Seth photographing graffiti near Hair of the Dog brewery

Adam & Fred

The amazing 2007 Fred

Mt. Hood from the Japanese Gardens

The marketplace by the river

Seth pretending to fall into the zen garden

Voodoo donuts. Oh yes.

Turkish Power - Abbreviated Adventures in Istanbul

2011-07-13T11:22:00.000-07:00

Dervish whirling underground in Turkish ruins

A person could live in Istanbul for centuries without knowing the secrets hidden beneath their front steps. This bubbling metropolis sits upon a strata of ruins erected by extinct cultures, like the rings off a tree trunk, counting back the years.

One year ago, Seth and I arrived in Istanbul for a quick 5-day trip. We were couchsurfing, as always, but had no idea what was in store for us. The experience was, to say the least, enchanting.

The serene waters of the Bosphorous separate the city into two parts: the Asian and the European. I was somewhat reminded of the river Styx, separating the living and the dead - though the halves of Istanbul are certainly not so extreme in their differences. But I felt many untold stories brush up against me, like a spectral mist, sending goosebumps up my arms. An adrenaline churns through the city, with undertones of fear and intrigue, and great density of human life, both past and present.

It probably didn't help that I had just finished reading Orhan Pamuk's "My Name Is Red' - a murder mystery set in Istanbul. A gifted miniaturist is brutally slain by one of his contemporaries and his spirit promises vengeance. So, when our host came to pick us up from Taksim Square, I couldn't help but wonder, "Will this be the time couchsurfing goes sour and I end up in pieces at the bottom of a well?" Luckily, I couldn't have been more wrong.

Our host, Turkish Power (as his friends call him), wholeheartedly offered us not only his hospitality, but a friendship that felt more like family. He is nicknamed after his hometown of 1,000 residents, which is literally called Turkish Power. We were his first surfers, and he completely exhausted himself to ensure that Turkey was more memorable than anywhere else we traveled to. I have to say, it may have worked.

Turkish flag in Taksim Square

It began with a Turkish band filming a music video on the streets of Taksim. The musicians sat atop camels while hammering drums and strumming guitars. They smiled bright white smiles and laughed and wiggled their torsos to the beat. Locals continued on their way unfazed, as we snapped photos and munched Turkish delight like the hopeless tourists we were.

Turkish Power scooped us up in his car and navigated through the steep and winding streets to a beautiful monument on a high hill. The building was made of marble and decked in ornate columns, with a large outdoor patio where patrons were dining. This was the first of many epic meals in Turkey.

We sat on the edge of the patio overlooking the city. It was dark outside but we were glowing in warm yellow light. Giant insects buzzed and occasionally flew across our table. The lights of the city and bridge across the Bosphorus were enchanting. We ate many things, which I don't remember because I was too absorbed in the environment, and then went back to his apartment and tucked in for the night.

The next morning began with fresh fruit and thick coffee at an equally beautiful and precariously perched cafe. The view was worth the drive, but the rapid twists and turns had my stomach lurching.

Over the next day or two, we wandered the crowded markets, cycled to the top of an island, and admired the many mosques, but the one thing that I could not seem to draw my eyes from was the bright blue Bosphorus. The color was hypnotic. Usually bodies of water have a green tinge to them, but not her. She shone like a crown jewel at Topkapı Palace.

The following Sunday was Father's Day, so Turkish Power took us to his namesake hometown to meet all of his immediate and extended family. The kindness and generosity was overwhelming. Only Turkish Power and his brother-in-law spoke any English, but that didn't keep the rest of his relatives from trying to talk to us. They filled our arms with gifts of fruit and homemade wine, and filled our bellies with fresh watermelon and sunflower seeds from their farm. We ate course after course of food at a table set-up outdoors. One of his grandmothers, a tiny 93-year-old Bulgarian immigrant, persisted in chatting with us, even though the only phrase we knew in Turkish was "thank you," teşekkür ederim (Teh-sheck-you-la), which we repeated again and again.

After the huge meal, Seth rubbed his satisfied belly and complained of its growth over recent months. Our host's brother-in-law laughed and said, "Here we call that Turkish muscle! It's a good thing!"

We finished with Turkish coffee and Turkish Power's mother offered to read our grounds. We set the saucers on top of our small coffee cups and flipped them over quickly. After a minute, his mother took a look inside. She spoke in Turkish and our host translated. Pointing to streaks of grounds lining the sides of the cup she said, "You have many long journeys ahead." I smiled to myself. If they are as incredible as this one, then nothing would make me happier. Honestly, I could go on for ages about all of the incredible experiences we had in Turkey, but, as always, the most important factor was the people.

Playing Catch-up

2010-07-27T14:06:00.000-07:00

Nine days ago Seth and I were eating Açorda at a beach side restaurant with three new Australian friends, Pebbles & Bam-Bam and their photog friend, Pic. We had been camping in the incredibly dusty compound of the Super Bock Super Rock music festival, and the Aussies were our neighbors. Seth, employing his natural Seth-ish charm, had immediately befriended everyone in the general area of our tent, but we had special group chemistry with the Aussies that inspired several adventures and lot of bad jokes. Ex: Have you heard the news about corduroy pillows? They're making head lines!

Aside from the head lines, the festival was an amazing success for us on the fun-o-meter. We had sushi in Lisbon with friends to celebrate our last night, and then we were off. Vamos embora. Our epic trip had come to an end.

I stayed with Seth's family for five days - trying to spend as much time with his adorable niece as possible - and then left for Chicago sans Seth to see my cosmic twin, Melissa H, with whom I share a name and birthday. For the sake of simplicity, I am dubbing her TOM (The Other Melissa). If this was her blog, then I would be TOM, but since it is mine, I get to be the primary Melissa.

TOM is an uber-minimalist and does not have Internet yet, so I am writing this entry from an exceptionally cute and atmospheric Internet cafe near her apartment. She lives off a $40/ week food budget, finds all of her surprisingly nice furniture abandoned in alley ways or the Salvation Army, and has worn the same pair of black pants to work (at a futures trading firm) every day for the past six months. Now that I am back in the real world, I'm going to try to absorb her budget-friendly habits while I hunt for a job. A girl's gotta pinch pennies when she doesn't have a paycheck! I am predicting that in a couple months I'll be missing those grant euros, but for now, let the adventure continue!

Updates on past adventures in Europe to come...

Super Bock Super Rock!

2010-07-16T10:04:00.000-07:00

A sea of colorful tents, communal showers, endless sand....The Super Bock music festival is turning out to be just as we'd imagined it. The first act starts in a few minutes and I thought I'd pop into the makeshift internet trailer to write a quick post, hoping to redeem myself for my extended absense from writing. Seth is at the beach with some new friends. I'm supposed to be resting up for the late night, but with the heat and the commotion, that just isn't happening. I'm going to be kicked off the computer in about 30 seconds so I gotta roll, but so far our final four days are rockin'!

.....

2010-07-15T03:06:00.000-07:00

I'm two months behind on my blogging and still have yet to add pictures to my previous post. At this point, it almost seems futile to try to catch up, especially since Seth is doing such an exceptional job of keeping up his blog. I don't know where he's found the time to post between seven visitors, moving out of two apartments in two different cities, traveling to three different countries, camping, couchsurfing, and only having internet access for about half of all this madness, but clearly he is the better blogger. I promise to try and catch up, but it won't be for about another week because we are going to the Super Bock Super Rock music festival and will be sans internet until the night before we return to the US of A, July 20th. So I'll be catching up on by blogs back home, which kind of defeats the purpose of a travel blog. I'm pretty sure that at this point no one is reading my blog but me anyway because I have fallen sooooo far behind, making this more of an Internet diary than anything else, but at least I'll have documentation of my memories, even if they are a bit tardy in being recorded!

When the Tide Goes Out

2010-05-30T17:48:00.000-07:00

The three of us, me, Seth, and our couchsurfing host, J, were walking on the southern boardwalk of the Thames River. The sun was shining, but the air was cool and dry.

"Most people don't know this," J said, "but you can walk on the beach along the river when the tide goes out." He unhitched a gate atop a set of stairs, and we followed him downward. He was right. Most people clearly don't know that you can walk along the beach because, in contrast to the crowded boardwalk, the beach was totally empty, save one woman walking her dog. It was so beautiful, strolling beneath the great bridges of London with the water glistening beside us. I felt like we were hiding in the open - hiding in the heart of one of the world's greatest metropolises.

J is a definite London insider. He is a native Brit who has lived in London for 8 years, South East London to be exact, inside a fantastical bohemian flat above a fried chicken joint. The walls are bedecked in books and knickknacks, and various vegetable plants cover a rickety deck extending from the kitchen. J is a set designer who worked on the Harry Potter 1 & 2 movies, but is currently taking a hiatus to complete his PhD in Sci-Fi Apocalyptic something or other, or as he refers to it, "self-indulgent, mental masturbation." When he needs cash, he turns into a caterer for private parties thrown by artists. Seth and I had the honor of being his very first couch surfers.

J's wild orange hair and beard lit up like fire in the sun reflecting off the water. We walked until we reached a white bridge that looked like it was made of sails, and then crossed it into the city center of London. We were on our way to a party at an art gallery for a GPS artist. A GPS artist is, apparently, someone who tracks their movement by wearing a GPS device for an extended period of time, sometimes years, and creates a digital image from their tracks. This artist created the world's largest pentagram by wearing the GPS as he flew from several major cities across Europe. The gallery, Tenderpixel, was quite small, but the free wine was plentiful, so we drank and chatted and waited for a fellow couch surfer to meet us.

The couch surfer in question is a half-Japanese, Australian Mathematician/ Geneticist/ multi-lingual Adventurer/ Salsa dancer who I shall call Mr. Perfect. Not perfect for me, of course, I have my own Mr. Perfect already, but, in my opinion, perfect for my sister, Lindy. He's handsome, athletic, sharply dressed, adventurous, honest, and a truly nice guy. Oh, and he's crazy smart. He's a gene researcher/ Math professor at only 24 years old. Mr. Perfect is the first guy I've met who I think could hold my sister's attention for more than a week. Unfortunately, he lives in London.

We all went to a fantastic microbrewery, the name of which I can't remember because the beer was a little too good, and had chips for dinner because the kitchen had already closed. Our lack of dinner turned out to be a good thing the next day because J took us to Borough Market, a place packed with food stalls of all imaginable delicious things, from the richest brownies you'll ever taste to perfectly grilled blue cheese and bacon burgers. By the time we left, my stomach was so full it felt like it was crushing my lungs.

Afterwords, we were on our way to meet a childhood friend of Seth's, Becks. J escorted us to the meeting point, the Aquarium, and just as he was leaving it hit me that we had forgotten our theater tickets back at his flat. "No problem," he said, and handed me his keys. "We'll meet up later." And everything was fine. It seemed fine. The sun was shining like the day before, but this time the tide was in and we all knew each other a little better, those were the only differences.

We met with Becks, and 15 minutes later J called me, sounding frantic. "My father was just in a massive car accident and I don't know what's going on. He's going into surgery. I'm on my way to the hospital so I guess just hold onto the keys for now."

I tried to reassure him and tell him everything would be alright, but my heart had dropped halfway through my gut. We went back to his flat and got the tickets, trying to think optimistically and keep conversation light. But as we sat on the bus headed back towards the city, my phone rang again. This time it was J's roommate, who we had yet to meet. Tragically, J's father had died. Sometimes death just shows up out of nowhere and slaps you in the face like that. No warning at all. It reminds you that instead of J's father it could have been any one of your loved ones, or even you. It's like each day we survive we dodge the bullet of the unexpected, the unpreventable. Our thoughts were and still are with J. The strange and sad circumstances of our visit are something we are very sorry for, but we are not sorry for the time we spent with J. He is a unique and wonderful person, and I hope that someday, under happier circumstances, we are able to meet again.

We stayed with Becks our last night in London, and left the next day back to Lisbon. There were a lot of other things we did in London. We spent time with some great friends, saw some great shows, and tried to fit in as much of the city as possible, but the last two days are the most vividly etched in my mind. Whenever I think of London I'll think of those moments, both happy and sad. Especially the river, and J's biting wit, as the three of us walked along the water, hiding in the light.

The Magic Road

2010-05-22T15:09:00.000-07:00

Ireland, the land of my ancestry, the place Seth and I were almost unable to visit due to the stupidvolcanowithanametoohardtopronounceorwrite. But the luck o' the Irish was definitely with us on this trip. Our first stroke of luck was that we were able to go at all. We landed safely in Dublin on April 24th for our quick 4-day tour of my genetic homeland. The second stroke of luck came in human form, as our lovely couchsurfing friends, Ginny and Brew, and their super genius mate, Bird, who were kind enough to pick us up from the airport (just the beginning of their extreme generosity).

We spent the night in Dublin, sucking down egregious amounts of Guinness and stumbling from pub to pub - my favorite being a microbrewery called The Porterhouse. Half-way through the night, when we were all sufficiently schnackered, Ginnny and Brew introduced us to the oh-so-wonderful "shaky face". The way the shaky face works is this: Step 1) Get out your camera. Step 2) Find a friend to take a picture. Step 3) Relax your face as much as possible. Step 4) Violently shake your face back and forth so that you lips and nose go all over the place while the friend snaps a couple pics. The result should look something like this:

Practice makes the perfect shaky face.

The next morning our amazing hosts cooked us an amazing Irish "fry" for breakfast, which consists of two types of sausage, bacon, eggs, beans, pancakes, potato bread, and soda bread. In Portugal, no one really eats breakfast, so we had been craving a meal like this for months. We stuffed ourselves to a disgusting level and those who were hung over began drinking again to stave off their headaches, and by those I mean Seth.

Later, Seth, Ginny, Brew, and I piled into the car to drive to their hometown of Rathfriland, Northern Ireland, where they use pounds instead of euros and stones instead of lbs. If that's not confusing enough, they also have a road that defies the laws of gravity. When you get to the bottom of the small hill the road is on and put your car in neutral, the car rolls backwards UP the hill! Non-believers claim it is an optical illusion, but those of us with souls know that the road has been enchanted by leprechauns.

Here is a picture of the magic road:

The same day Ginny and Brew took us to the beautiful coastline where we walked for hours. Seth and I were enjoying our stroll so much that we lost track of time, and it was getting late. Seth had promised to make Mexican food for Ginny's family - the first Mexican food her parents have ever had - and all the grocery stores were closing. But once again luck was on our side, and not only did we find an open store, but they had Old El Paso taco seasoning and torillas! We arrived at Ginny's family home, which is where we were staying for the night, and Seth got to work in the kitchen. Soon the scent of cumin and roasting ground beef filled the house, and we sipped an aperitif of beer while conversing with Ginny's parents and aunt. The table was laden with bowls and platters: enchilada rice, guacamole, sour cream, cheese, salad, taco meat, refried beans - it was all a great success. I can always rely on Seth for a fantastic meal, and I am pretty sure everyone else there would agree with me, even if he did have a bit of help from Old El Paso.

Ginny's home and family were absolutely wonderful. The house was warmly decorated with memorabilia from all eleven of the family members and impeccably kept. The large kitchen opened into the dining area, which included a wood burning stove, and overlooked the green hills of the countryside. The experience convinced me further that 5 star hotels have nothing on couchsurfing - the people you meet and the things they show you and the memories you create together are far more valuable to me than a suite with a bowling alley and a personal masseur. Though a personal masseur would be awesome...

Anyway, the next day we drove up to Belfast and enjoyed a couple pints and lunch with Ginny and Brew before catching the bus back to Dublin, where we were all set to couchsurf for our last two nights. Our hosts were a couple I'll call Popeye and Olive, who share a modern flat near the city center. We were too pooped to go out or anything, so after a bit of chatting and an episode of South Park, we passed out on their surprisingly comfortable living room floor. Olive happens to be a professional coffee roaster, so the following morning Seth and I were treated to the most amazing cup of coffee ever. Both Olive and Popeye had plans for the day, so Seth and I, peppy with caffeine, set out to seize our only full day in Dublin. We went to St. Stephen's Green, The James Joyce Center, The Porterhouse (once again), and, finally, the epic Guinness Brewery.

I think a little bit of magic rubbed off on us from the magic road, because the whole trip was so smooth and serendipitous, and our luck has continued ever since. So to all you non-believers out there, give magic a chance!

Stop My Wine-ing!

2010-05-08T04:06:00.000-07:00

UPDATE: The winner was Herdade Coelheiros, and it was amazing!

HELP! My parents are coming to visit in a week, and I can't decide which vineyard to take them to! There are too many choices! I have rounded the options down to the three most promising places, which are posted below, and I need your help choosing the right one. Visit their websites, maybe look for online reviews, and let me know which you think is best via the comments section. I need to make a decision by Monday, so please tell me what you think asap! Obrigada!

"Herdade do Pinheiro"

1 hr 48 min drive, some of the best wine I have ever had.
The tour is to see the entire wine making process, from the grape to the wine. We will visit the vineyard, the winery, the bottling line, and the Caves. The tour ends at our store. Included in the tasting is: white, red, and rose wines, plus Reserves, as well as Alentejan sheep and goat cheeses, sausages (black pig), extra virgin olive oils, and jams (all from Herdade do Pinheiro), bread and toast. (15 euros a person) Bicycles may be available but they were not mentioned in the email.

"Adega das Mouras"

1.5 hr drive, don’t think I’ve ever tried their wine.

Has a huge number of ½ day courses available, such as “sommelier”, for around 40 euros a person. Has bikes available for rent, but I do not know how much. Tours are 3.50/ person and include the full grape to bottle deal plus one glass of wine, but a class about notes and flavors with multiple wines and snacks (cheese, sausage) is 15 euros/ person.

"Herdade Coelheiros"

1hr 30min drive, I’ve only tried their lowest-grade airport wine, and it was okay.A Visit to Production (6 euros/ person) is done on foot, lastsapproximately 45 minutes and consists of a guided tour of the various productsthat the estate of Coelheiros produces: Walnut orchard, olive trees, vineyardsand cork, with a brief explanation of the various states of production. The Tour the winery, lasts approximately 30minutes, and if it makes the explanation of the process of wine production, fromthe grape into the wine cellar until it is bottled. Wine Tasting (w/ tour 14 euros each) - Consists of the second trialof Red Wines and White Production Coelheiros. We can rent bikes (6 euros/ hr) to ride around the property too. Tour of Cheese-making (probably 6 euros/ person)

Évora

2010-05-05T06:20:00.000-07:00

Évora is a small city of about 45,000 inhabitants in the Alentejo region of Portugal. It is also an UNESCO World Heritage Site. I am down to my last 10 weeks in Portugal, and I have been feeling like there is a lot I still need to do and see, so I have created a mental list: tour an adega, explore the alentejo, visit Porto, visit Tavira, go to a concert, experience fado, go to Coimbra, go hiking in the Serra da Estrela, visit Nazare...The list goes on. Évora was on that list, so I decided yesterday to simply hop on a bus and go. Unfortunately, I forgot my camera.

So I got on a Rede Expressos bus at 10:30AM and arrived in Évora around noon. The scenery along the way was gorgeous. I had bought an Ida e Volta (round trip) ticket, which gave me six hours until my return bus left. I had no itinerary, just my Lonely Planet, my Morocan leather bag, my computer (which I ended up not using at all), my journal, and my wallet. Seth had classes to teach, thus I was a lone ranger for this adventure. It was a breezy but sunny day and the air smelled of wild flowers. With my belongings slung over my shoulder, I marched the walls of the fortified city of Évora.
I marched to the Plaça do Giraldo - the city center which played host to public burnings during the Inquisition, but is now a lovely, touristy square - and whipped out my guidebook to memorize the map within. My first stop was the Rota dos Vinhos do Alentejo. My parents are coming to visit in 10 days, and so I figured together we could check the adega tour off my list. I collected lots of great info about vineyards, which I read over a lunch of stuffed squid at the Restaurante A Choupana. I'll need y'all's help rounding down the list of tours, so I'll soon be posting a list of my favorites for you to vote on.

As I sat at the long bar packed with old Portuguese men (that's how you know it is truly a local institution), I pondered ideas for a story I could write for an upcoming online contest. But when my beer was finished, so was I. I went in search of the mercado. Seth had requested that I bring back some Alentejan cheese and sausage as a memento of my trip, and I was glad to oblige. I even added a bottle of wine to the deal, which I bought at an underground cellar next to the market. Behind the mercado there was an enormous church. I was sure trusty ole Lonely Planet would have some info on it, so once I fulfilled my obligation, I sat on a bench in the shade of a tree to look it up. The church turned out to be the Igreja de São Francisco. "Évora's best known church," the book said, "is a tall and huge Manueline-Gothic structure completed around 1510...What really draws the crowds, though, is the mesmerizing Capela dos Ossos 'Chapel of Bones.' A small room behind the altar has walls and columns lined with carefully arranged bones and skulls of some 5,000 people."

Hmmm...I thought. A room made of dead people. Interesting. Morbid, but interesting. I paid the 1.50 euro entrance fee and followed the line of fanny-packed tourists into what looked like the feature piece of a haunted house. I expected myself to be a lot more creeped out by 5,000 empty eye sockets staring at me, but oddly the bones seemed so harmless. A poem about mortality was posted on a podium inside. It said we must reflect on our lives because we will one day end up just like these bones. Any one of us could be pasted to these walls. Life is short. Especially when you slaughter people for having different religious beliefs, I thought to myself.

But truly, life is short, as we all know. Which is why I went to Évora, and why I made my Portugal bucket list. Time here has flown and will soon run out, but I intend to make the best of it. After I left the chapel, I visited a few more sights and then stopped at a cafe for a snack. I still had an hour left, so I sat down and wrote that story.

A Second Look at Covilhã

2010-04-21T11:14:00.000-07:00

I spend most of my time in Lisbon these days. Covilha has become a memory of a different phase of life, where Seth and I lived together in a small apartment, going to the market every day and spending all of our time alone together. That phase was nice, but we got bored. Seth found a part-time teaching job in Lisbon, and so, on February 1st, we moved into a light-filled apartment in the Santos neighborhood with four of our friends. Now I see Covilha as the place I work, not the place I live. I commute there for one day a week of teaching. The train ride is four hours each way and I usually spend it grading papers or watching episodes of random television shows - the scenery has become too familiar now to while the hours away by gazing out the window.

Lisbon is a fantastic city: the warm spring weather, the river, the cafes and nightlife... I am always sad to leave it - even if we are going to Rome or another new, exciting place. But the last 24 hours that I spent in Covilha reminded me of something that I am missing by living in a modern city instead of a traditional town. In Covilha, people recognize me. They may not know my name, but all I have to do is walk into a restaurant or shop once and the people there remember me forever. There is a lovely restaurant near the university, on the top floor of a mall, that overlooks the green valley through a wall of windows and over a large stone patio. The same waiter is there every time and he always works alone, no matter how busy the restaurant is, and manages to provide impeccable four-star service to every guest. He walks with a linen napkin over his arm, speaks softly but clearly when reciting the daily specials, and bows as he walks away. The food and wine are great too. Sometimes I go there for lunch between classes, which only costs 7 euros.

Last week I waited for my train inside a bar near the station. I had been there twice before. Five elderly gentlemen in corduroy jackets and berets - the seemingly required uniform of a Portuguese man over 40 - stood at the counter joking and drinking espresso. I approached the bar and could tell that the bartender recognized me. He smiled warmly and asked me what I would like. "Um Super Bock," I said. "Super?" he repeated. I nodded and he walked away. A moment later he returned and asked me how I would like it served. I was confused so I repsonded, "Na garrafa (gah-haf-fuh)." "Ah!" he exclaimed, "Soo-pear Ba-hock!"

"Soo-pear Ba-hock!" I repeated, trying to imitate his intonation. "Soo-pear Ba-hock!" he said again, pointing upwards with his finger to demonstrate stress on a vowel. We both laughed, he handed me the beer and I sat down to read the The Time Traveler's Wife, which a friend recently lent me. Minutes later, one of the five old men starting shaking the hands of all his comrades in farewell, and though we had never spoken a word to each other, he held out his hand for me to shake as well, which I did.

Moments like this do not occur in Lisbon. In Lisbon there is a great divide between the over and under forties, in other words those who were raised pre-revolution, during the dictatorship, and those who were raised post-revolution. In Lisbon the young clearly dominate, and so the old stick to the winding back-alleys, sipping tea and coffee and munching pasteis in nearly identical outfits day after day. They do not seem to interested in the youth or foreigners. They work to preserve a way of life that is nearly extinct in the rest of the Western World. If you walk down the main streets of Lisbon you will see mostly the young, with their trendy outfits and haughty attitudes, and the foreigners, whether struggling immigrant or doughy tourist. But if you step into an alley, you will find old ladies hanging laundry and singing fado, and they will either ignore you or eye you inquisitively as you walk by.

I am glad that my teaching forces me to leave the comfort and convenience of Lisbon, and to pay regular visits to a "more authentic" part of the country. When I leave Portugal I don't think Lisbon will remember me, but I know a small mountain town that will.

Merra-Cats!

2010-04-02T08:35:00.000-07:00

A wiry calico cat sat atop the table next to ours, staring at my lamb tangine and flicking its tale, unblinking. I smacked the table to scare it off, but it didn't budge. Then a fluffy orange Garfield look-alike slipped beneath our tablecloth and brushed against my leg. I stomped my foot, and Garfield scampered away, but the calico was inching closer and closer. Seth and I were sitting in a plush Moroccan restaurant on the rooftop of a large riad. It was pouring rain outside, and the restaurant was enclosed in a heavy purple tent with vaulted ceilings and poor lighting. The benches were upholstered in red and gold silk and covered in large, soft pillows of the same coloring. The restaurant workers gave no notice to the many feral cats sauntering around the pricey, prime-real estate eatery, but I found them difficult to ignore when they were closing in on my 90 dirham tangine. Seth leaned forward and hissed at the calico. I pounded the table with my fist and barked like a dog. The cat finally gave in and ran away, and I thought to myself, At least we don't have to worry about rats and mice in the kitchen...

I realize that in the past few months I have only been writing posts about the places we've been visiting outside of Portugal, and I intend to fix this in the very near future, but before I focus on Portugal once more, I have to tell you about our 4 days in Marrakesh, Morocco. Marrakesh was my 30th birthday gift to Seth. I intended it to be a surprise, but unfortunately I am the world's worst liar, so he deduced my secret almost instantly after I bought the tickets in January. For the next month and a half Seth would swoop up behind me at an unexpected moment and enigmatically whisper Af-ri-kah... in my ear. The frequency of these whispers increased as the date of our trip grew closer, until we were on the plane and every few seconds I would hear Africa, Africa, Africa... The 6:30AM flight didn't deter him.

We hopped off the bus at the Djemaa El Fna market at 8:30 in the morning, while the city was desolate and grubby looking. Being a compulsive planner, I had three maps for us to navigate the notoriously confusing medina, where our riad was hidden down an obscure alleyway. We were both exhausted and carrying our luggage on our backs, so we decided to plunge right into the depths of the medina and seek out our hotel. Along the way we came across a woman with one sightless gray eye and one bright hazel, dressed in the traditional abaya robe and headscarf, grilling what appeared to be Moroccan style crepes on a tiny, hot stove. She would beat and stretch the oily dough, fold it over to create a pocket, douse it in honey and throw it on the stove. When it was nearly done, she sliced open the pocket and cracked an egg inside, allowing it to fry, then handed it to a boy who wrapped it in paper and gave it to a customer. The process moved at a pace that can only be achieved by very practiced hands. We ordered two, along with glasses of what we later learned to be Moroccan Death Tea (a sweet, gingerbread flavored tea made of spices that can potentially kill you if not brewed correctly). The crepes were delightfully crunchy, chewy, sweet, and salty - all my favorite textures and tastes. Unfortunately, the surprising and delicious breakfast would be our last joy for the next 3 & 1/2 hours.

We ventured further into the medina, trying to follow the complicated, curving path to our riad. Within twenty minutes it became painfully apparent that we were completely lost. All the twisty narrow roads looked exactly the same, and if we weren't careful, we got clipped by mule-drawn carts and dusty motorbikes. We asked several people for directions, and they all gave different instructions. Gradually tensions rose - we weren't circling, we were spiraling way off course, and it wasn't until 3 1/2 hours later that we finally reached out destination. This was the first of several occasions of us becoming hopelessly lost in Marrakesh, so to avoid sounding like a broken record, I will censor the rest.

Riad lobby...Our room was the one with lady on the balcony...And our Moroccan breakfast at the riad.

Ceiling in riad tea room

Later that evening, we slowly navigated the way to our much-needed spa appointment, where we soaked in warm oiled baths of rose petals while a Moroccan girl in all white massaged our scalps, necks, and faces. Afterwords we enjoyed one hour full-body massages with the famous Moroccan argan oil, and emerged from the spa refreshed and relaxed, for only 1000 dirham total. This is when I started noticing all the cats. They were everywhere, and I could tell they were far more streetwise than me, with the scars to prove it, so I felt wary of them. Pairs of shining gold cat eyes hovered in dark alleys and peered down like snipers from rooftops, always present like patient little demons waiting for prey in the shadows. The locals generally ignored the cats, but occasionally we caught vendors sneaking cheese and other treats to them outside their shops.

We returned to the market just as dusk was settling in and the Djemaa was taking life - date, juice, and tea stands, makeshift outdoor restaurants with steaming meats, snake charmers, and, of course, vendors haggling goods. Generally I prefer to stick to window shopping, but that's not allowed in Morocco. If you are interested enough to look at something, you must make an offer. At first I found this intimidating, but my penny-pinching nature led me to simply walk away if a vendor would not accept my price, and I discovered that if you walk away, the vendor will chase after you and offer a considerable discount. On one occasion, I still said no and the vendor pretended to walk away but then came after me a second time with an even more appealing offer, which is how I ended up with my beautiful, new handmade leather bag for 200 dirham. Sometimes, if a vendor is a jerk, he will block your way so you cannot leave his shop and try to bully you into buying his goods. The best way to deal with this situation is to sweetly tell him to get the hell out of your way and not buy a thing from him no matter how low the prices are that he shouts at your turned back.

Our second day in Marrakesh included a culinary course in traditional Moroccan dishes, taught by little Moroccan ladies who speak no English and will throw tomato chunks at you if you fail to skin them correctly. I learned this the hard way. We first toured the souks (all the ramshackle shops and stands piled into the medina) with an Australian guide who showed us the best places to buy goods and took us to a place where you get to choose the live chicken you want slaughtered for lunch. We cooked and sipped mint tea in the large white kitchen on the base floor of a private riad. In the end, our dishes were deemed satisfactory by the little Moroccan chef and we were able to consume the fruits of our labors, which included a chicken tangine with preserved lemons, a Moroccan salad, sweetly spiced carrots, a flavorful eggplant dip, a kind of samosa, and shortbread cinnamon cookies.

Moroccan pharmacy and the chef...

The results

The third day was another trip to the spa for a hammam, after which we met the infamous calico and Garfield for dinner, and the fourth day we had to pack up and head for the airport. The whole experience was a true culture shock in the best of ways. It's like stepping back in time to the Arabian nights, but with internet - toothless old men in robes and pointed slippers trying to swindle you into spending your last dirham on a lamp that is clearly genie-less, the dark round-faced women kept very separate and below the men (who stare icily at western women who dare to show the line of their collarbone or travel without a husband), and the sad, filthy mules dragging the burden of heavy carts up and down the narrow streets all day long. The lifestyle in Morocco is very different and unquestionably with much greater challenges than any I had ever witnessed, yet the core of the people are the same - their sense of humor, desire for friendship, and willingness to do whatever it takes to get by - and these are things that I fear become glossed over when a place becomes a tourist destination marketed for the unique culture of the oppressed people. We go to witness how different and interesting these people are, when really they are not so different and are suffering, though they smile with the resilience that fuels the human race. I felt guilty that we could hop on a plane and go wherever we like when the likelihood of a Moroccan woman of my age to have similar opportunity is essentially non-existent. These thoughts didn't sour the trip, but did give me an essential reminder about life outside my own little world.

By our last walk from our riad to the market, we were expert navigators, and made it to the bus stop in fifteen minutes. Along the way we saw a man giving a fluffy white kitten a bowl of water. Seth pointed and I awwwed, causing the man to look up and say "Queres? Queres?" (Spanish for "You want it?"), because even in Africa everyone thinks Seth is Spanish. Like I said, if you show interest in something, you're expected to make an offer, but this time we refused.

While we were waiting in line to check-in at the airport, preparing our bags to be stuffed into the tiny easyjet box that, if we failed, would result in a 40 euro fee, the flick of a tail caught my eye. I looked up to see a calico cat slip around the corner, stopping to throw a mischievous over her shoulder before sneaking past security. At an American airport this would definitely cause a scene, but, in Marrakesh, no one seemed to notice her but me.

The Eluthive Ethpadrilles of Barthelona*

2010-03-25T12:15:00.000-07:00

* The Elusive Espadrilles of Barcelona written in a Spanish accent

My trip to Barcelona began and ended with an excruciatingly early morning. In DC I was used to getting up around 5:30 to 6:30 AM, but as a gallivanting Fulbrighter I am more likely to go to bed around those times. Lucky for me, the panic of waking up late is a fantastic motivator, so instead of shlumping to the airport in slow-motion, I think I broke the speed of sound on my way out the door.

I had two days to spend with my Aunt J. I would have gladly spent weeks with her touring Europe, but since we were on a tight time budget, were both determined to make our two days memorable, and that we did. We had no itinerary and didn't want one, but there was one thing on the to-do list: buy handmade espadrilles from the famous La Manual Alpargatera. This goal turned out to be quite an adventure.

When I stepped out of the Barcelona airport I was greeted by warm, glowing rays of unexpected sunshine. After weeks of rain and clouds, I felt like a flower blossoming in the first sunny hint of spring. Aunt J had finagled a sweet room at the posh, new W Hotel - a tsunami wave of shiny windows that towers above the sea on a man-made peninsula - and as my cab pulled up I was immediately drawn to an expanse of stairs adjacent to the hotel that led to a beautiful, enormous stone patio jutting into the sea like a great curved claw, growing narrow at the tip. It was the perfect place to catch some rays. I clearly was not the only person who felt this way, since dozens of tourists and locals were lounging along the patio like lazy house cats.

I knew Aunt J was held up in a meeting, so not apt to leave the sunshine, I took my time making my way inside the hotel. I casually strolled through the sliding wall of glass doors with my black day-pack and scroungy youth-hostel-appropriate get-up into the exclusive, dark atmosphere of a private club. Suits were everywhere. Sitting at the bar, hovering by the elevators, eating lunch on the hotel's second patio, next to bar with a view of the beach. Even the bellhops were exceptionally tailored. The non-business types who wandered the lobby were clearly Europeans of "status" or celebrity association. The place was sheer luxury, without a doubt, and I must have looked like a bull walking into a china shop.

It was fun not fitting in. I was clearly an imposter - the curious (though not unwelcoming) looks from staff and guests alike made that obvious - but, imperturbable, I alighted to the second patio, whipped out The Collected Stories of Katherine Ann Porter, and ordered a glass of wine.

Over the next half hour, I managed to blend and become inconspicuous, with my high-brow literature in one hand and Spanish vino in the other, until the breeze caught the web of a nearby spider and sent it airborne towards my face like a parachute, arachnid and all. I thrashed my book in the air and screamed "Jesus!" which caught the attention of two groups of nearby businessmen, one English and one German. Fortunately, the book thrashing created a draft that diverted the spider's path from my face and sent it further up into the air towards the Germans. As it zoomed overhead, one of them exclaimed, "Ah! Spin-ne!" I chuckled and glanced around, not really embarrassed but coming down from the flying-spider adrenaline, and then returned to my reading.

When Aunt J came through door, the fun began. We talked for two days, non-stop - catching up on the two years that had passed since we'd last seen each other. She was confident, successful, and beautiful, as always, and I was finally coming into my own. This meeting was different, too. Never before had it been just us hanging out, and this time we were in Barcelona, a city that was completely new to the both of us. It is a wonderful experience to see a place you've never been before with a person you've known you're whole life, even if for only two days. So we chatted our way along the beach during a long walk, confided over Michelin Star paella and Spanish Rioja wine, gabbed in our cushy hotel room, laughed along La Rambla, and reminisced in the breathtaking Parc Güell. It was the perfect girls' getaway (though not in a cheesy Lifetime movie way).

Between eating and wandering, we searched for the espadrille shop. Unfortunately, we didn't know its name and had left the guidebook back at the hotel during day one, so we had to resort to asking locals in broken Spanish, which led only to further confusion. On day two we somehow managed to forget the guidebook again, and by the time we got back to the hotel we were so tired that we considered calling it night. Even the concierge seemed to have no clue what we were talking about when we brought up espadrilles. But somehow we couldn't forget about the espadrilles, and neither me nor my Aunt J are the type to give up easily, so we rallied - guidebook in finally in hand - and took one last cab ride into the city.

The cabbie took us as far as he could down a dangerously narrow alley, until he came to a stop and pointed in the direction that would supposedly take us to the espadrille shop. It was raining fairly hard and Aunt J and I no longer had much confidence in the directions people gave us, so moral was low. We almost had the cabbie turn around and take us right back to the hotel. According to the guidebook, La Manual Alpargatera was closing in twenty minutes, so if we did not find the shop before then, it would have been a wasted journey. But, once again, we ventured out, and this time we found what we were searching for.

Walls and walls of espadrilles! Every color and cut, and the artists were right there, hand sewing the shoes in a workshop behind the shopping area. A small woman brought us stacks of shoes to try on, from which I chose a pair of red polka-dot peep-toed sandals with a pink ribbon bow, for only 25 euros. Aunt J found a pair of high-heeled peach espadrilles with a large beaded flower on the toe and a matching ribbon around the ankle. The sweet taste of success wet our appetites, so we trudged through the rain to a tapas bar and said cheers to the end of our adventure. It had been a great time, we had traveled a long way, and our two days were up.

We said our farewells at the cruel hour of 5:00AM. I had a plane to catch at 7:00 and it was a half-hour cab ride to the airport. I descended the elevator, walked out the glass sliding doors, and came face to face with the realization that my trip might not end as expected: there were no cabs in sight and about ten people waiting with luggage. The only working concierge was frantic. One guy started to lose it. "I called last night and this morning to request a cab and I was told it would be no problem! I have to get to the airport! I'm going to miss my flight!" I ran down the street and back, hoping to cross paths with a cab, but the hotel was too remote. Half an hour later, when I was really starting to worry, a cab finally pulled up. I knew the guy who was freaking out was determined to lay claim to it, so without hesitation I asked him, "Would you like to share a cab?" Weighing the options of half an hour in a car with an angry stranger or missing my plane, I chose the angry stranger, and my bet paid off because the man was quite pleasant once on our way. He apologized for losing his temper and even charged the 44 euro cab ride to his expense account. As I thanked him and hopped out onto the airport sidewalk, my espadrilles fell out of my bag onto the car seat. The man picked them up and handed them to me. "Can't forget those," he said. "No, you're right, I can't," I replied, and carried the sandals safely under my arm for the last twenty steps of my trip to Barcelona.

Part 2: Greece

2010-02-13T10:53:00.000-08:00

Souvlaki. Often it is called by other names: kebab, doner, gyro. But the only true name for this epic street food - composed solely of pita, tomato, onion, grilled pork, and yogurt sauce - is souvlaki. The moment we arrived at Jazz's house in Athens, another couch surfing arrangement, he ordered us some souvlaki via delivery, which we ate on the plush L-shaped couch of his grey-and-orange plaid painted living room. At only 2 euros a pop - versus the 10 euros any other form of sustenance will cost you in Greece, including beer - we happily survived off souvlaki for the entire trip, with the exception of a waterside meal in the small port town of Ermioni and our final night in Greece, at which time we went all out on an amazing feast with our second round of couch surfing hosts in Athens, Firecracker and Cateyes.

As a result, I tie the memory of each unique and slightly different souvlaki experience with the different places we visited on our Grecian road trip.

Day 1 - souvlaki on the streets of Athens with couch surfing friends

view of the Acropolis in Athens

Day 2 - souvlaki for lunch on the way to Ermioni, which was a far longer and more harrowing journey than necessary due to our GPS being set to "off-roading" without our knowledge

Ermione

Day 3 - fast-food version souvlaki on the island of Poros after an anticlimactic day trip to Nafplio, the Venetian capital

Poros

Day 4 - the winner for best souvlaki goes to a kooky old man outside of ancient Epidavros (a beautiful stop) who also gave us a bottle of his homemade sap wine, an old family recipe

Epidavros theater

Day 5 - a return to Athens-style souvlaki and the city from whence it came, along with a stunning and windy hike around the Acropolis

roaming the Acropolis

For a country that is said to be facing serious financial troubles, we were certainly not the only well-fed creatures wandering around Greece. Chubby, gregarious stray dogs seem to be treated with the same infinite kindness as us tourists. They are like town mascots. The government recently scooped up all the homeless pups and spayed, neutered, and tagged them, so now they spend all day sunning on the large marble steps of the Acropolis and accepting pats from strangers without a care in the world. At the moment, there are a lot of strays, but that will be changing over the next decade as the cute but impotent doggies gradually reach the end of their days - a much more humane policy, I think, than mass euthanasia.

My new friend in Poros, he followed us everywhere

Besides souvlaki, when I think of Greece, I also see curving green coastline, sapphire blue waters, and olive trees. I took a 30-second video clip through the window of our car so you all could see exactly what I am talking about, but I accidentally deleted it. You will all just have to live vicariously through me for now.

Street Food: Italy and Greece, Part 1

2010-02-02T03:30:00.000-08:00

A lot has happened in the last 6 weeks, but I'll pick up right where I left off: Christmas in Rome.

It wasn't quite what I expected. I was picturing festivities in the streets and warm holiday cheer, but instead we got lots and lots and LOTS of tourists. Nothing was open and it was chilly outside, yet foreigners in frumpy clothes - touting giant cameras that they don't really know how to use - packed the city, their shutters clicking incessantly like a plague of locusts. Of course, Seth and I were two among the herds of frumpy tourists, we simply didn't appreciate all the competition.

We were quite disappointed that we had missed the Pope attack at the Christmas Eve mass the night before, but due to a 7 hour flight delay we arrived in Rome at midnight on Christmas Eve. No buses, no trains, only extremely overpriced taxis. 50 euros later, we were finally at our bed & breakfast.

This little bed & breakfast, called 4you, was definitely a highlight of our trip. A very small, simple operation of four rooms - each with their own bathroom - a shared kitchen and dining area. The owner, Mauro, waited up for us on Christmas Eve without complaint and even sat us down to share all his favorite "secret" places to go in Rome. Afterward, he put his hand on Seth's shoulder and said, "I must tell you, you look like a very famous celebrity..."

"Oh, Adam Sandler," Seth and I said in unison, used to the comparison.

"No, no, no." He replied. "Have you seen the show Lost?"

"Yes..." Seth and I wracked our brains for a Lost look-a-like.

"Sayid!" Maura exclaimed. "You look just like Sayid!"

We about died laughing at this. For those of you who don't know, Sayid is "a former Iraqi Republican Guard torturer." Because Seth had a full beard at the time, there was a bit of a resemblance. This was not the last weird celebrity comparison Seth would get on this trip.

So we spent our first few rainy nights wandering Rome, eating big hunks of focaccia and snapping photos with all the other tourists. But on the third day, we hopped a train to Naples.

Naples - the mafia headquarters, the dirty underbelly of Europe. I must say, though, that I preferred Naples to Rome. There were no tourists but lots of immigrants. The cappuccinos cost 1.5 euros instead of 3, fresh Italian pastries were right around the corner, and the pizza. My dear God, the PIZZA. There is nothing - nothing on the planet - quite like fresh, authentic Neapolitan pizza. The smooth creamy ricotta (or the equally good mozzarella di bufala), the chewy wood-fired dough, and fresh, simple tomato sauce. Nothing can top it. All we did was eat pizza, and there is really nothing more worth saying about Naples.

We figured Rome had to be a great place to celebrate the New Year, so back we went, but this time we were couchsurfing with a Canadian grad student that I shall call Mermaid for her long, flowy strawberry-blond hair. Mermaid was hosting another couchsurfer for the first night we were there, a Malaysian guy named Bob. New Year's Eve was a rainy, miserable night that forced us to stay inside, but the four of us made it fun with large quantities of Asti Spumanti and amiable conversation. At one point, Bob turned to Seth and said, "You look like a really famous Chinese pop star!"

"Huh?" I believe was the all-around general response.

"Yeah! You gotta see this guy, let me pull up a video on Youtube." So he did, and as expected, he showed us a Chinese guy rocking out with a guitar. Apparently Seth is of very ambiguous race because within one week was mistaken for Middle-Eastern and Chinese, which I suppose is a good trait to have when traveling.

We went to the rooftop of Mermaid's apartment complex at midnight - just as the rain finally let up - and craned our necks to watch fireworks displays over the towering cityscape of Rome. It was a new year, and we were in an old place with new friends. And though we were most definitely enjoying ourselves, old friends were thoroughly missed.

The very next day, we left for Greece.

O Mercado Municipal

2009-12-16T03:27:00.000-08:00

In Covilha, from 7am to 1pm each day, people gather in the Mercado Municipal atop a long, steep staircase to buy and sell fresh fruits, vegetables, meats, and cheeses. Since Seth is still searching for work, the market has become his reason for getting up in the morning. Almost every day, no matter what the weather and it is starting to get very cold, he makes the trek down the curving hill, past the university, and up the 153 steps of the long, steep staircase. He climbs one more flight of stairs once inside the Mercado - which resembles a parking garage but with windows - and finally finds himself immersed in an age-old Portuguese tradition, in the day-to-day lives of those who still live a simple farming lifestyle. Piles of wood crates overflow with colorful produce and, occasionally, live rabbits. The butchers' stations line the walls with pig, cow, and less fortunate rabbit carcasses hanging from the ceiling on hooks and the cupboards below are stacked with rounds of cheese.

Unlike farmer's markets in DC, the food here is actually much cheaper than grocery stores and the quality is incomparable. Seth leaves with about 5 lbs of meat and 5 lbs of produce each day, but rarely spends more than 15 euros. Also unlike markets in the U.S., no one in the Mercado Municipal speaks a lick of English. Yet despite the huge language barrier everyone seems to find Seth very personable and have taken a definite liking to him. We get free sausages and mushrooms on a regular basis.

Occasionally I will join Seth on his trek to the market and yesterday was one of those days. He particularly wanted ground lamb and had even gone to the trouble of looking up the words in Portuguese and writing them down. Unfortunately, he then forgot them.

We approached the butcher station of one of Seth's new friends and waited as the short woman in front of us ordered half a pig and some veal. As she walked away with her arms full of meat, the butcher smiled expectantly at us from across the counter and Seth suddenly turned to me and said, "How do I say ground lamb?"

"I don't know." I responded.

"How do I say wooly?"

"I have no idea."

"Then how can I describe it to him?"

By this point the butcher seemed a bit frustrated by our debate in English. What was the point of standing there arguing if we weren't going to order anything?

"You could imitate a sheep," I said, hoping this would cause Seth to give up on the ground lamb.

"Baaaaaaa!Baa!" He said to the butcher.

Now the butcher looked really freaked out. He was shaking his head back and forth to imply that he did not understand and was probably about to start hurling knives at us, when I asked him for some pork ribs simply to change the subject. Seth ordered a rump roast and we all pretended like nothing weird had happened.

"Are you inglaterra?" The butcher asked me in Portuguese.

"Sim," I responded, thinking that he was asking if we were English speakers. We were half way home when I remembered that inglaterra means England. He was asking if we were from England, not if we were English speakers, and now I feel like have to go back explain why I lied to him about being from the United States. I didn't deserve that free cured sausage.

The market is great for all things fresh and once-living, but for milk, cereal, beer and other essential components of the food pyramid, we must hike in the opposite direction towards the bottom of the mountain to a giant Safeway-like place called Continente. Prior to this weekend we have been unknowingly taking the long way - the really long way - but we have found a shortcut that takes us directly down the mountain instead of halfway around it and back again. What was once a 35 minute hike each way is now a 15-20 minute hike each way. The best part is that the shortcut is far more scenic. We even saw a tiny dead porcupine.

We didn't return to Lisbon this weekend, and so we were able to enjoy the slow-paced daily routine of a simpler lifestyle. As a result we have discovered a bit more of Covilha and a small sense of home, or at least home for now. But in 8 days we are off to Italy and Greece, so Boas Festas until next time!

Fountains

2009-12-09T12:24:00.000-08:00

Recently Seth and I have been spending a lot of time on Redes Expressos buses, taking in the terraced hills and grape vines of the Portuguese countryside during our commutes to and from Lisbon. Or at least we would like to be taking in the beautiful countryside, but it is officially fall, which for Portugal means mist as thick as cake batter. The sun is disappearing by 5:00PM and the days are mighty gray. Due to these extenuating circumstances we have taken to watching American TV shows on our computers during the 4 hour bus ride, ex: Gossip Girl, True Blood, This American Life, and Top Chef. Seth tries to make me watch Star Wars: Clone Wars cartoons, which means that at times I prefer to stare into the darkness outside the window.

I often see fountains when the mist momentarily breaks or the bus swirls around them in a roundabout. The bus makes stops in Castelo Branco and Fundao - both of which have beautiful, unique fountains in the town center. I have noticed other such breathtaking fountains all over Portugal. No two are the same, but all are stunning. The fountain in Castelo Branco is made of large, vertical stone slabs with water rushing down like a mini Niagara Falls. In Covilha the fountain looks like the Golden Gate Bridge - if it was silver, cut in half, and water was pouring from it into a deep round pit that shot arcs of water into the air. What is extra cool about this fountain is that a staircase runs beneath the bridge and leads you underground - inside the fountain.

In Martim Moniz square in Lisbon, there are two fountains: a modern, swirling staircase with arcs of water flying everywhere and a castle wall that spurts water from its turrets over a narrow moat.

When I first arrived in Lisbon, Paula told me the legend of Martim Moniz. It goes like this:

In 1147, the first king of Portugal, Afonso Henriques, was making his move to secure the Sao Jorge Castle in Lisbon. Martim Moniz was a knight of noble birth, fighting for the king during the siege. He led an attack on the castle, but the gates were closing quickly, and thus he threw himself beneath the closing door to wedge it open. His fellow soldiers were able to secure the castle due to this heroic move, but Martim was crushed to death.

Aside from the square that is named after Martim Moniz, there is also a Metro station. And inside there are marble figures of soldiers attached to the walls, one of which is meant to simultaneously memorialize Moniz and to warn Metro passengers against jumping between closing doors:

Along with unexpected and beautiful fountains, there are unexpected and fascinating stories just like the legend of Martim Moniz all over Portugal. And even though I wish they were more apparent through the bus window, I enjoy the eerie mist of tiny droplets that float through the air like carbonation bubbles, obscuring the Portuguese countryside.

A Tale of Two Thanksgivings

2009-11-30T10:46:00.000-08:00

A swank, formal affair and a casual potluck of friends - both with their strong points but one unavoidably more enjoyable than the other - were the motivations behind our much anticipated return to Lisbon this past week. Thanksgiving is, of course, not celebrated in Portugal, so while being apart from our families this year it was great to have a taste of home with our turkey.

Fulbright threw the first Thanksgiving on Tuesday. It was all ties, cocktail dresses, and wine - which helped to ease the tension of an event specifically designed for networking. Such events can at times make one feel like a walking résumé, but the Fulbright Alumni and Embassy employees are a diverse and entertaining group, thus creating a more relaxed environment. We sat in assigned seats at white linen tables, speaking a conglomeration of Portuguese and English. We gorged ourselves on a pretty impressive Portuguese interpretation of Thanksgiving dishes: bacon brussel sprouts, roasted turkey (of course), mashed potatoes, yams, pumpkin pie, and a delicious raspberry-cranberry sauce.

There were speeches and introductions, and at one point all the current Fulbrighters were called one by one to stand up and take a bow. In true klutzy Melissa style, I started to take a small bow and the strap of my dress, which is a bit big for me, fell down. No indecent exposure took place but it was all caught on camera for the Fulbright 50th Anniversary DVD, yay!

Mr. & Mrs. Deeds hosted the second Thanksgiving at their amazing apartment in the Alfama district - an ancient part of the city with an unpredictable web of stone roads and narrow staircases, where old women are known to burst into fado songs while hanging their laundry. Each of the 14 guests brought something with them, while Mrs. Deeds nailed her first-ever turkey (which she had to special order). It was moist and simply perfect. The Golden Bear brought BBQ turkey as well, I made a rum cake from scratch - something I have never attempted before, Eyelashes brought completely hand-made pumpkin pie, Tata a scrumptious apple pie, Seth - corn souffle and pineapple sweet potatoes, and the list goes on.

We all ran into the same issue while preparing our dishes: a lack of ingredients. Betty Crocker is not quite the celebrity in Portugal that she is in the U.S. Boxed cake mix? Fat chance. Canned pumpkin? Forget it! There are no shortcuts here, and no pecans - at least not for a quasi affordable price. We went all-out pilgrim style. Which is appropriate, considering our return to the European motherland, from whence our ancestors came.

Though there was only one Portuguese native at the table when we all sat down (Pinecone's lovely girlfriend, Lipgloss) it felt like we really were pilgrims and Indians, pioneers and natives, sitting down together for a feast that we had all poured our blood, sweat, and tears into creating. Call me a big cheeseball, but it was heartwarming.

Food, laughter, wine, football, games, and most importantly wonderful friends comprise the ingredients for a fabulous Thanksgiving. Throw a bit of Skype on top so we can all see our families back home, and it simply can't be beat. We arrived at 7 p.m. and didn't leave until 3 a.m., when even the cab drivers had gone home for the night, which meant a long walk home to work off our bingefest with our arms full of leftovers (and laundry, but that's another story).

This year, I feel that I have more to be thankful for than ever. All my dreams seem to be coming true: I have the perfect guy, I have a Fulbright Grant, I'm living abroad, I have wonderful friends and family, and the future looks bright. I don't know where I'll be next year, but right now, I couldn't be happier.

Thank you to all the amazing people in my life! I would not be here without you.

Sincerely,

Melissa

Fear of Fright

2009-11-16T17:53:00.000-08:00

It's funny how an anxiety that has plagued a person for a decade can disappear in a matter of weeks. I am specifically referring to stage fright, or public speaking, which used to turn me into a shaky, hyperventilating little leaf. You'd have though someone was holding a gun to my head. I couldn't stand in front of a classroom without almost sharting myself, and now it is the most natural thing in the world. My first week of teaching, I bombed. BAD. But since then, I have had zero nerves standing up in front of a peer group and yakking for six hours a day. Necessity breeds invention, so they say, and I have discovered a coping mechanism for public speaking: chalk.

Whenever I lose my train of thought or find myself failing to hold the attention of my class, I turn around and write something on the chalkboard. Generally, it is the most recent and relevant statement that I made, and I am hoping to find some sort of inspiration within it. While I am scrawling, I have a moment to collect my thoughts, and in that moment I come up with a plan of action. I didn't have this resource as a student; it was just me, trapped in front of the class like a cornered animal, and fifty pairs of eyes staring back at me. Now I can avoid the daggers headed in my direction by simply turning around to face the chalkboard.

I think it was the anticipation of public speaking that used to get me, but now it is an inescapable part of my daily routine, like brushing my teeth. I no longer obsess about it, I just do it, and if I could learn to apply this attitude to the rest of my life, I think I would be far better off. (That is if you can be better off than an all-expenses-paid one year trip to Europe. Ahem. Not to brag, of course.)

To infinity, and beyond!

2009-11-11T12:01:00.000-08:00

It is decided that I need to start posting more often, because every time I sit down to write I realize that way too much has happened for me to fit into a neat, readable package. My new goal is twice a week. As warned, my favorite distraction arrived safe and sound in Lisbon - with more luggage than Mariah Carey, mind you - but nonetheless he made it, and that's what matters. Ever since the Air France crash, I have had morbid nightmares about planes exploding in midair over the ocean, which made me a nervous wreck while waiting for him to land. Thus, seeing him walk out of the arrivals gate with a rolling mountain of bags was a huge relief.

I've gotta say, having Seth here is wonderful! It worked out well that I had several weeks to become oriented because I was able to show him all of my favorite places in Lisbon. We went to Belem for pasteis (pastries), took in all the beautiful miradouros (look-out points), had a Halloween bonfire on the beach with the Fulbrighters - who all hit it off with Seth as I knew they would, and ate the city's best Brazilian churrascaria (barbeque) chicken from this hole-in-the-wall restaurant near PM's place.

PM generously let us crash at her sweet pad in Lisbon AND let us take her car back to Covilha, because trying to haul all Seth's paraphernalia to the train station would have been a nightmare. PM has gone underground for the last two weeks to prepare for the Eudora Welty centennial that starts tomorrow. She is presenting a paper that did not exist until about ten days ago - the cause of the aforementioned disappearance - but should resurface for air this weekend. Since she was going to be locked away in a room typing, she did not need her car, which turned out to be a godsend for us.

The trade was that I would cover PM's classes for the next two weeks, totaling in 12 hours each week of me trying to corral fifty rowdy 19 year-olds into a classroom and force-feed them information. Tranquilizer darts would have made my job easier, but it was actually pretty fun. I escaped unscathed, with just a raspy voice from trying to talk over all the private conversations going on in class and a few confiscated magazines. It is really weird to be on the other end of the "private conversations" lecture, which I remember hearing over and over again throughout my education, and I am beginning to understand why so many of my past teachers seemed strung-out and exhausted all the time: teaching is A LOT of work! The hours in the classroom are nothing compared to the hours spent preparing class materials and grading papers, though this is undoubtedly very valuable experience.

Anyway, so there me and Seth were. A car and Europe at our fingertips, how could we possibly entertain ourselves?

We decided on an impromptu trip to Spain - Salamanca to be exact. The Golden City, as they call it, is a short 200 kilometers from Covilha and came highly recommended. All hail Couchsurfing.org! - which had us a free and comfortable place to stay overnight within a couple hours.

The apartment we stayed in was huge, with five bedrooms and five very friendly Spaniards: a brother, three sisters - including one set of identical twins - and the boyfriend of the eldest sister, Jambo - who spoke the best English. We were very close to the city center, so it was very easy to pack-in tons of exploring in a short period of time. But, shortly before we left, we had been given an obscure quest by our friend Clamshell back in the states who had lived in Salamanca for a semester in college.

"You have to find the frog," she said.

"You can count on us, your majesty, we shall find you this mystical frog!" We replied, having no idea what the hell she was talking about.

But, bound by our word, when we arrived in Salamanca we immediately asked our hosts, "Where does the elusive frog reside?"

"The frog?" They said. "It is not the frog you must find, it is the astronaut!"

We were perplexed, but they continued, "The astronaut is at the cathedral. He is about the size of a beer bottle. Go now and seek the astronaut!" And so we did.

We weaved our way through the golden sandstone infrastructure of the city until we finally reached the gates to the cathedral, at which time it became very clear that we were not the only knights sent on this ludicrous quest, as there was a large group of homely white people crowed around the vast doors, pointing at a small stone figure that blended in with the rest of the baroque carvings on the cathedral wall. The figure was a tiny astronaut.

With a sigh of disappointment at our sudden loss of importance, Seth and I went for a wander around the city. It was colder than a polar bear's butt-hole, but thankfully much more beautiful. We ate, we drank, we made merry, and then we were on our way back to Portugal - the Portuguese and Spanish parts of our brains duking it out for territory on the drive back.

This coming weekend we are going to try to hit Porto and Braga - that is if I survive the upcoming 12 hours of student herding - but as Buzz Lightyear and my Dad like to say, "To infinity, and beyond!" Which I take to mean, "Enjoy the action, and keep the ball rolling!"

So the whirlwind continues, there is no time for regrets, but I can't help but wonder: Does the mystical frog really exist? And if so, where is that little hopper hidden!? Hopefully Clamshell doesn't come after us for breaking our word...

*Can you see it?

Next Stop: Munchkinland

2009-10-20T08:44:00.000-07:00

Last night I dined with a few other members of the Fulbright clan, which I feel inclined to introduce.

The Golden Bear was hosting the evening, as his parents and a couple of their close friends were in town visiting, and as usual he was dressed to the nines with his flaxen fur swept up into a new Christiano Ronaldo-inspired do. We were riding the famous and touristy Trolley 28 - an ancient, rattling boxcar that transports its riders not just to their destination of choice, but back in time for a nostalgic peek out a window that Lisboans have gazed through for decades.

The trolley came to a stop near the end of our commute and, serendipitously, another Fulbrighter, Mr. Deeds, and his lovely young wife climbed aboard.

"Oh, hey!" He exclaimed. "And we thought we were running late."

At this point the trolley was full, so the Golden Bear offered his seat to Mrs. Deeds in a gentlemanly gesture, but she politely declined and grabbed onto one of the leather handles hanging from the ceiling.

I was sitting next to a woman with a bag of something that smelled really awful, which kind of isolated me from the pleasantries since I was trying to breath as little as possible. I smiled and waved enthusiastically like a half-wit instead.

We passed the Cathedral and the trolley teetered up a steep hill, finally coming to rest at the top. This was our stop.

On a trolley, you exit from the rear end like a SWAT team bursting through the back doors of a large, unmarked van. Our team of eight - four middle-aged tourists from Kansas, a pair of newlyweds, the Golden Bear, and myself - jumped onto the sidewalk with our stunner rays set to hungry and one goal in mind: FOOD. And beer or wine, depending on the individual.

Shortly after, the Golden Bear's roommate Martini strolled up, looking like a tall drink of vodka in his shiny gym shirt. Martini is a Fulbright in the field of art, and the only one who matches me in age, though he has experienced more in his 22 years than most people ever will, and certainly more than I. He lived in Brazil for a while and returned to the states with two souvenirs: perfect Portuguese and a Brazilian boyfriend. Thus, he was our go-to guy after waiting for our table for over 30 minutes, a table for which we had a reservation, and needing someone to give the maitre'd a talkin' to.

And now I am going to fast-forward a few hours. Dinner is done. We are all full, very satisfied, and about to head our separate ways. Mr. & Mrs. Deeds stroll off towards their apartment, a short walk away. I cross the street to take the trolley in one direction and the rest of party waits on the other side. The trolley schedule proves to be about as easy to decipher as ancient Mayan hieroglyphics, though, so believing that we have missed all the trolleys, the Golden Bear's parents and friends climb into a cab together and the three of us leftover start our trek towards the Metro station, though exactly where that was...

Around this time, martini said, in his infinite wisdom, "Follow the trolley tracks. If in doubt, just follow the trolley tracks." And I had the sudden hallucination of myself dressed as Dorothy from the wizard of Oz, the Golden Bear as the Lion, and Martini as the Tin Man skipping down the cobblestone streets of Lisbon alongside the trolley tracks.

Whoa! I thought to myself. So after all my whining about where to begin, I kind of DO have a yellow brick road! PM is like my Glenda the Good Witch and the Golden Bear is from Kansas, so that kind of ties it all together, right? I think this is the Universe's way of saying shitter get off the pot. I've been in Portugal for a month now. Time to stop playing around in Munchkinland and start making things happen! Time to get serious about my Portuguese AND my writing, especially since I only have eight days left until my favorite distraction arrives...

Where to begin...

2009-10-18T05:35:00.000-07:00

Three weeks have elapsed and in that time I have received my grant money, met all the other Fulbrighters, started teaching, bought tickets to Italy for Christmas, bounced back and forth between Lisbon and Covilha a half dozen times, and now I have a kitten on my lap.

How said kitten came to be on my lap is the result of numerous tiny puncture wounds on my left leg, which is considered by some to be a suitable pillar on which to practice climbing. The kitten in question is named Pouga, a.k.a Flea. For a scruffy, black and grey, spastic little bugger with a penchant for leg mutilation, she's not too bad. She is, of course, PM's kitty, not mine. Those of you who know me well know that I have in the past not been the hugest fan of cats. I don't mind them as a species, but as a pet.... Let's just say that a vicious pandemic of ringworm spread among me and my roommates by a little pest known as Pumpkin was enough to leave me wary.

The story actually goes far back beyond Pumpkin, though, to a childhood friend who was obsessed with cats. Her family had three, and she often dressed up as one and pounced around the house hissing madly. I had no issue with this until she decided to prove to me how sharp her cat claws were by attacking me with them, something her three cats liked to do as well. From that day forward, we were no longer friends, and I decided that cats were weird and mean.

PM's cats, though, I actually like.

You may be wondering at this point why I am writing about cats as opposed to all the adventures I've been having in my three absent weeks from this blog. This is because I don't quite know where to begin. And I tend to get distracted by cute kittens when they are sleeping on my lap.

The question of "Where to begin?" has been haunting me since I've arrived in Portugal.

Where to begin exploring Portugal?

Where to begin in my Portuguese studies?

Where to begin with my English students?

Where to begin my writing?

Where to begin my 4th weekend in Lisbon?

There is so much to do, to learn, to teach and so on that I am a bit overwhelmed, and I find myself waiting for some sort of path to just magically appear before me, like the yellow brick road. But there are no munchkins in Portugal to provide advice in sing-song. I have to find my own way without any sort of map except for the one in my Lonely Planet. Or in my GPS.

Live in the moment! They say, but okay, great. And what exactly am I supposed to be doing at this moment?

The innate planner in me wants an itinerary of some sort for each day over the next ten months. Instead all I have is a kitten on my lap, and she wants me to stay exactly where I am because she's sleeping.

Bar Sant Antonio

2009-09-28T15:57:00.000-07:00

I had walked through the door of my apartment only a moment before the doorbell buzzed. I figured it must be a neighbor, having heard me come home and deciding to say hello. But after grabbing my keys and unlocking the door – you need keys to open doors from the inside here – I was surprised to see a woman in a maid’s uniform holding a basket full of fresh linens. Anxiety rushed through me as I realized I had left all the towels in the wash at PM’s, and this woman was going to think that I stole them. PM had mentioned to me that the linens I was currently using were on loan from the university, and that I needed to turn them in as soon as I bought some of my own. I was sure that this woman had come for the linens, but I had no linens with which to appease her. I braced myself for her wrath.

Without meaning to, I burst into an English explanation, and her face dropped from its friendly, forthright look and instead appeared worried. She spoke no English. I realized my stupid mistake and told her, in broken Portuguese, that the towels were in the wash at my friend’s house. She nodded understanding, and then spoke slowly and gestured animatedly for my benefit, saying that if I left for an hour she would change the linens and clean the apartment for me. She did not care about the towels. I sighed relief and scooped my things back into my purse and headed back out the door. I was glad I had cleaned the apartment the day before, or else I would’ve felt like an ass for having her do my dirty work. No one had told me that I would have maid service, so I was caught off guard. Not that I’m complaining, of course.

I had no idea what to do with myself for an hour. My computer was at PM’s and the last week has basically been a responsibility-free vacation, so my only notion was to wander.

I walked in the opposite direction of the university, up the road instead of down. The sun was blazing and it was a steep uphill climb. The road curved and climbed but I had not gone far when I realized that there was a whole neighborhood right around the corner from me that I had been entirely unaware of. It was a slanted neighborhood; all the houses were built on a steep incline, but therefore had an incredible view of the undulating green hills and red roofs below.

The first house I passed was large and separated into two parts: the living area and the bar, Bar Sant Antonio – the name of the street. Like most houses, colorful laundry hung from wires below the windows on the top floor, flapping gently in the breeze. The entrance to the bar was flanked by two chalkboards advertising drink specials: Super Bock 00,50 Euros! (aka 50 cents, a very good deal) A cold beer on a hot day was tempting, but I decided to wander a bit further and perhaps stop in on my way back.

I had not made it far, though, before I decided I was ready for that beer. The vine terraces and lovely houses were great, but they were not made of ice cold liquid and so they would have to wait another day.

The door handle to the bar was loose and I had some difficulty opening it. Meanwhile the three people inside the bar got to see me make a fool of myself by jiggling the handle and looking around or another door. Like most Portuguese bars, I welcomed by the scent of cigarettes, though no one was smoking. An old, white-haired man was sitting at a table by the window, watching me from the corner of this eye, and a stocky middle-aged man with a heavy brow was polishing glasses behind the bar. The third person was a young girl in a pink outfit, probably about 7 years old, kneeling backwards in a chair and openly smiling at me. I smiled back and approached the man at the bar.

“Boa tarde. Um Super Bock, por favor.”

He nodded and pulled an amber beer bottle from below the counter. The bottle had crystalline beads of water collected all over its surface, and my mouth felt suddenly drier and thirstier. I had been sweating considerably outside and a cool beverage was exactly what I craved.

Then he asked me a question and I had no idea what it was. He asked again. I could feel myself staring at him with my mouth gaping open like a simpleton, but this stupid look must be the worldwide expression of incomprehension because he smiled a little and lifted up a glass.

Duh. He was asking me if I wanted a separate glass. I shook my head no, paid, and retreated through a door that I was pretty sure led to a glass arboretum, where I hope the smoke smell would be less intense.

I was completely alone in the room. A mix of 70’s American music and Irish step was playing, an odd and amusing mix that I found endearing. I am sure I was the only paying customer there, as the old man had to be the bartender’s father and the young girl must have been his daughter. Granted, it was only 3:00PM.

The Super Bock quenched my desiccated mouth; a crisp, bubbly lager with a mild taste. I let my gaze lazily search the scene outside the atrium, but the street was empty and the blue sky could hold my attention for only so long. My eyes floated left and landed on a covered glass bus stop, and I nearly jumped out of my chair in surprise.

In blood red spray paint, a giant swastika had been graffittied onto the glass, not once, but three times – covering each pane.

What the hell is that about? I thought to myself. Who would do such a thing, how long has it been there, and why hasn’t anyone bothered to cover or clean it up?

I have done pretty thorough research on Portugal’s history and the last mention of anti-Semitism is the Spanish Inquisition, so WTF!? And Covilha is only a short distance from Belmonte, the home to a very famous Jewish family that concealed their religion from the Inquisition but secretly carried on its practices for 500 years, creating a small, matrilineal community that proved impenetrable. So impenetrable, in fact, that it took hundreds of years for them to realize it was safe to come out of hiding. The secrets had become so much a part of their tradition that they carried them on long after it had become unnecessary. Or had it…?

Did they perhaps stay in hiding for a reason? Is there some neo-Nazi sect roaming about, painting swastikas on bus stops? Or was it just some dumb college kid trying to cause trouble? My inkling is towards the latter, but I will have to ask PM about this to know for sure.

It would be hugely ironic if there were a neo-Nazi sect in Portugal because nearly all of the inhabitants have Jewish ancestors that were forced to convert to gentiles during the Inquisition. Now everyone is Catholic but they mostly have dark curly hair, brown eyes, and other ethnically Jewish features.

Either way I was offended that the graffiti remained, and if I have to go scrub it off myself I will. First I will talk to PM, though, and see if I can report it to the city.

Had it been a cloudy day, the disturbing image would have shaken me further, but the sun was shining brightly and I could see that the world was still endlessly beautiful, especially from my optimal viewpoint on the side of a mountain. I said goodbye to the nice family inside the bar, there’s no way that was their artwork (I hope), and headed back to my apartment.

…

Wait a second…I just realized something. There is a sign a few yards before the bus stop that says Rua Sant Antonio (San Antonio Street) and above the San Antonio the word Bar has been been written in the same blood red paint. Is it possible that the owners of the bar painted it on there to advertise? Could they then have made a drastic statement by painting the bus stop, to mark that territory too?

This requires further investigation. I’m not ready to pass judgment yet, but I sure hope it’s not true. I can’t imagine that the smiling girl in pink could be the daughter of a neo-Nazi…No way.

Both worlds

2009-09-23T14:10:00.000-07:00

If a snazzy blue genie with the voice of Robin Williams were to explode out of my coffee pot right now and perform some magical theatrics for my entertainment, I would be sure to kindly ask him, once he paused for breath, to grant my first wish: the ability to speak Portuguese. I am sure that four months from now that wish would be redundant, as I will hopefully have gleaned some fluency by then, but at the moment I feel a bit invalid and alienated that the lovely sounds coming from everyone's mouths are about 80% meaningless to me.

Portuguese is really beautiful to listen to. It's very throaty and melodic, like a lounge singer, and I am becoming very familiar with the phonetics if not the words. PM has lent me a TV with four Portuguese stations and I keep it on whenever I am at my cozy apartment in Covilha, listening to cheesy talk shows or children's programs, which are actually quite helpful. And because the internet is down in my complex, it is my one source of comfortable background noise. As a person who has never lived alone, I need this. The quiet in Covilha is incredibly relaxing and I am totally getting my zen on in the gorgeous mountainous environment, but the placidity makes me feel a bit too far apart from the rest of the world.

I don't mean this as a negative thing. Covilha is truly breathtaking and could not be a more conducive environment for writing, but I understand why PM likes to separate her time between here and Lisbon: it is the best of both worlds. Placidity vs. action. Most of us, I think, need that balance.

I am in love, though, with this country that holds many mysteries and challenges for me, especially in terms of language. My high expectations are continually exceeded.

Things I love so far about Portugal

2009-09-19T17:14:00.000-07:00

1) I am pretty sure that Professor M is the nicest human being on the planet.

2) The coffee is delicious and does not give me a stomach ache.

3) Most lights are motion sensor. Very eco-friendly!

4) I understand a bit more Portuguese than I expected, and "s" followed by a vowel is pronounced "esh" which sounds really cool. Example: Portuguesh

5) Superb bottles of wine cost 4 euros.

6) Pasteis de Belem! YUM!!!

7) All the steep hills are giving me firm buttocks.

8) The air is incredibly clean and fresh. The Tejo River and the ocean filter the air, which brings me to the next item on my list...

9) Rio Tejo - so so beautiful and right in the city. The bridges across it are magnificent.

10) Live street music.

11) Lots of antique book stores.

12) Alentejan food! Actually all the food is great, but I had this incredible Alentejan bread stew for dinner last night with fresh prawns, a fantastic blend of spices, and they drop a raw egg on it and mix it in right at the table. The stew is piping hot and thick like oatmeal; the egg cooks right away.

...More to come!

Vou a Lisboa

2009-09-19T04:48:00.000-07:00

I learned two very important lessons during my first day in Lisbon:

1) Watch out for a woman in Barrio Alto (a Lisbon neighborhood) wearing a striped shirt and puffy black vest because she likes to steal things.

2) Port wine will give you the world's nastiest headache, even if you only drink 1 and 1/2 tiny glasses.

After smooth sailing across the Atlantic, I arrived in Portugal at 8:30AM and had no trouble finding Professor M, thanks to the colorful sign she was brandishing. As we attempted to shove my gigantic, over-stuffed duffel bags into the backseat of her microscopic car (European cars are tiny! No pick-up trucks here.) I realized I had over-packed big time. In my head, though, I could justify every item I brought with me with me, which made me wonder: Am I one of those materialistic divas like Mariah Carey who have to carry everything they own with them or else suffer separation anxiety from their closet?

I think I can honestly answer this question with a No. My clothes aren't nice enough to care that much. But I do have the compulsion to always be prepared for any situation that might emerge, though most of them never happen.

Professor M and I then went on a twisty, roller-coaster tour of beautiful Lisbon. The sun was warm, the breeze was cool, the air was fresh, and colorful buildings and people filled the city. We made a detour to the vet to see how Professor M's new kitty was doing. She had rescued the kitten from the middle of a street where it was dying from a horrifying infection in its back leg. The prognosis is still uncertain. It became clear to me that Professor M has a very big heart. She is willing to go to any length for a little pile of black fuzz lying in the road that most people would have ignored.

In another symptom of her generosity, she set me up with a lovely two-bedroom apartment for the weekend in the shopping and nightlife district, Bairro Alto, while the owner of the apartment, Ricardo, was weekending in Porto.

I explored the area a bit on my own and took some time to chillax, but the adventures did not really start until PM returned to the apartment on her new vespa to take me to dinner. We walked the same route I had earlier in the day to meet PM's roommate, Brian, in a bustling square.

We were chatting animatedly as we walked, and I lifted my hand from my camera bag for just a moment to gesticulate about something. Immeditately after I lifted my hand, I felt my bag press very lightly against my back in an unnatural way. I whipped my head around to see a short, middle aged woman with her fingertips dipping inside my bag. She had an, "Oh shit I just caught!" look on her face and quickly withdrew her hand, which I could see was empty, and bolted around the corner into a crowd of people. I quickly went through my bag and saw that everything was still there. She had snuck up behind me and opened the velcro flap, which must have caused the unnatural pressure against my back, then tried to slip her hand in just as I turned around.

It happened so quickly that PM had not noticed. She was one or two steps ahead carrying on our conversation.

"That woman just tried to pick-pocket me!" I exclaimed disbelievingly, interrupting PM.

"What?" She said, turning to look at me.

"I just caught a woman with her hand in my bag!"

"No! Who?"

"She ran around the corner." I was sure this meant we would never see her again.

"That has never happened to me before!" PM said, appalled and flabbergasted.

I realized how stupid I had been to bring the bag with me in the first place. It had my GPS, camera, and 100 euros inside, which was okay during the day, but not at night.

We met Brian moments later and started to walk back the way we came, regaling him with my little encounter. When we reached the corner where the incident had occurred, I saw, standing less than 20 feet away from us, the pick pocket! She was looking around innocently, holding the hand of her younger female companion as they crossed the street.

"That's her!" I cried.

"Where?" Brian and PM's heads were swiveling around on their shoulders as they searched the crowd.

"There, in the striped shirt and black vest!"

We crossed the same street they did but Brian and PM still could not see her among all the wandering people. The two women stopped at the corner and turned around as if they were going to cross again. This made them easier to point out so now we were all three glaring at them from 50 feet away.

"They probably just cross back and forth all day! We should tell a policeman." PM said. But despite all the people, there were no police in sight. The women stared right back at us. They knew we were watching and the one must have recognized me, but seemed entirely unfazed.

Just then the they turned around and started following a couple that had passed them. The couple was young, probably on their honeymoon, walking hand in hand. The new wife had a black bag similar to mine slung around her back. PM started yelling and pointing at the pick pocket, but the couple did not speak Portuguese and just slowed their walk, looking frightened. The pick-pocket did not understand Portuguese either, and she and her companion simply closed in more quickly. I started yelling in English which no one understood either, and PM - with lightening fast reaction time - ran up to the couple, ducked around them, and yanked the pick-pocket's hand out of the young wife's purse.

The couple was still completely bewildered and kept on walking, as PM berated the woman, this time trying Spanish (which did not work either). It was only after they passed us that it dawned on the young wife what had just occurred, and, clutching her purse protectively, she turned and said, "Obrigada" with a heavy accent and a thankful smile.

I was admiring PM's quick thinking as the two women ran off. We knew they would probably pull the same trick on someone 20 feet away, but without a policeman around to help, we did not know what to do. We often lamented this throughout the rest of the night, wishing we had done more to prevent her future thefts, but not letting it spoil our evening. The woman showed no remorse or fear, and did not seem to care that she was caught, which was all the more infuriating.

PM said that the woman had responded to her in some sort of Eastern European language, perhaps Romanian, which meant that she was most likely a gypsy. I don't really understand how the gypsies came to be or why they continue to live like they did 200 years ago, or why they make their living off petty theft, but I find it very fascinating, so I decided to do some thorough research, aka Wikipedia. Here is what I found:

"The term gypsy (or gipsy) has several overlapping meanings. Initially the word was used to refer to the Romani people, who first appeared in England at about the beginning of the 16th century. Although in certain contexts it is still used to describe the Romani, it also describes those in English speaking countries who live a lifestyle similar to that of the Romani, or as a translation of equivalent words in other languages.

The word derives from the word for "Egyptian" in Latin, the same as the Spanish Gitano or the French Gitan. It emerged in Europe, in the 15th century, after their migration into the land of the Romani people (or Roma) in that continent. They received this name from the local people either because they spread in Europe from an area named Little Egypt, in Southern Balkans or because they fitted the European image of dark-skinned Egyptians skilled in witchcraft. As the time elapsed, the notion of Gypsy evolved including other stereotypes, like nomadism, exoticism. John Matthews in The World Atlas of Divination refer to gypsies as 'Wise Women.'

In Central and Western Europe, the Yeniche are known as gypsies (or Zigeuner and other local equivalents of the term) although they are not considered part of the Romani people. The Yeniche, or Jenische, are the third-largest population of nomadic people (or "Travelers") in Europe, living mostly in Germany, Austria, Switzerland, and parts of France. They are some of the most geographically widespread in Western Europe. The term Yeniche generally refers to those living in France and Belgium, while Jenische refers to those in Germany, Austria and Switzerland.

Until the 1970s, the Swiss government had a semi-official policy of institutionalizing Yeniche parents as 'mentally ill' and having their children be adopted by more 'normal' Swiss citizens, in an effort to eliminate Yeniche culture. The name of this program was 'Kinder der Landstraße' ('children of the country road'). 590 children were taken from their parents and institutionalized in orphanages, mental institutions and even prisons."

Wow. So maybe the two women have been persecuted and can only support themselves with what they can steal...but does that really make it okay? Don't they know they are furthering a stereotype that damages the state of their community? They didn't seem to care.

I'm glad I learned my lesson about pick-pocketing the easy way, at least. You won't find me wandering around with anything but my keys and 20 euros from here on out. You will find me wondering, though, how do you distinguish between desperation and conscienceless criminality?

The Countdown

2009-09-04T09:48:00.002-07:00

Two weeks remain until I leave for Portugal to commence my Fulbright experience. I have failed to accomplish any of the things I set out to do beforehand, ex: learn to speak Portuguese, but I have developed a sense of calm in knowing that any attempt is futile at this point.
Ahhh, the sweet bliss of futility. When nothing can be done, there is no point in worrying. Case in point:

"Eeeeek! Giant radioactive cockroaches are taking over the world!"

"Oh no! Is there anything we can do to stop them?"

"No, there's no hope at all."

"Sweet. Let's grab a six pack and watch the show from the roof."

So instead of chasing down the uber-roaches with a Super Soaker full of Raid and ultimately getting sliced to pieces by their machete-like pincers, I am electing to spend my time writing, eating, and hanging out with the love of my life, Seth.

Really, though, I do not feel like I have anything to fear about my upcoming adventure. How could I? This is my dream come true! I suffered over my Fulbright application without ever really thinking I would win; only allowing a glimmer of hope, a what if, to lead me along the way. And here I am, counting down the days until I hop a plane to Lisbon, where I will stay for the weekend with my incredibly kind sponsor, Profesoor M, and then we will embark for Covilha to the University of Beira Interior. There I have free boarding, a food stipend for the university restaurants, and a generous grant to support my life and travels for the next 10 months (not technically a full year but I am going to try to stretch it out).

The other side of my stay in Portugal, besides my writing and exploring, will be comprised of assisting Prof. Mesquita with her English instruction classes. I will be helping out in the lab portions of English I and II - a component of the Political Science and International Studies major - by leading conversation of current world issues and providing activities that will help them improve their English. The labs will total eight hours a week.

The teaching experience will be immensely good for me, I am sure, and the class content sounds like it has the potential to be very entertaining. I just hope I don't have to field too many Sarah Palin questions...

As far as traveling goes, I plan to wander all over Portugal and parts of Spain, journeying to other parts of Europe when I have the time and the funds. But I have a particular goal I would like to accomplish while in Portugal: I want to the follow trail Jose Saramago laid out in his book Journey to Portugal some 30 years ago. I want to document the changes that have taken place since that time, and I can assure you there are many. He made his trip not long after the Carnation Revolution of 1974, a military coup that released Portugal from an oppressive dictatorship and allowed the country to modernize. Small traditional villages are dying out at a rapid rate these days, and I want to capture them before they disappear entirely.

No, it is not giant radioactive roaches that are eliminating the villages; it is the migration of the youth to metropolises like Lisbon and Porto and an economy that is driven by technology, not sheep's wool. I have many questions for this beautiful country with its rich history, and I am very excited to get to know the Portuguese people, who I have heard are the friendliest population in Europe.

So if you care to follow my wanderlust and see what I discover, here is my blog. Please let me know what you think, and I hope I accomplish my goal more successfully than I learned to speak Portuguese.