2009-2010: Permission to Enter

I love traveling. Just when you think you've begun to understand how things work you end up someplace where everything is different.

We pull into Gouveia at exactly 8:20. Right on time. The information desk is closed, so I walk over to the bar and use my broken Portuspanglish to ask the bartender if he knows where we might obtain a map of the town.

"At the hotel," he says in slow, careful Portuguese, "in the center."

Ah, but if I knew how to get to the center I wouldn't need the map. The easiest thing to do in this situation is just pick a random direction, point, and allow the person to correct you. "Alli?" I ask, pointing out the door and to the left.

"Si," he says and motions for me to follow him.

"Where ya goin, Patti?" Trish calls out from across the waiting room. Hobbled by her pack, she can't jump into action quickly enough to follow.

"Not sure," I call back to her.

"Alright." She stays put.

The bartender walks me outside to make sure I see the correct fork in the road. He snakes his hand through the air as he talks. That way, past the light, over a hill, bear right, then bear left.

More or less. It's close enough. We won't end up in the forest, at least.

"How many minutes?" I ask.

"Ten minutes."

"OK, that way, pass the light, over a hill, bear right, then bear left, ten minutes. Thank you very much... I'll go tell my friend."

"Let's take a taxi," Trish says.

The taxi had just pulled out. I saw it leave. Our bartender friend has a brief discussion with one of his buddies hanging out at the bar with him. "They have an address," he assures the guy, then turns to us. "He will take you."

"Really? Thank you... how much shall we give him for that?"

"No, no," he says with a horizontal wave of his hand. And it was true. The man did not accept even a few euros from us for the ride. How that works in the local economy of the Gouveia bus station I don't know. Maybe the people of Gouveia are just really nice, but in any case we decided to buy the guy a drink on our way out.

Gouveia is a small town. We're able to scope out the entire center during a 20 minute walk after settling into the Monteneve Residencial. Having done that, we sit down in a cozy looking bar\cafe on the central square. A glass of red wine on a blustery night in the mountains sounds great.

"No," the bartender says.

"No?"

"No."

"No what?" Trish asks. No red wine?

"I think that's what he means, but it doesn't seem possible."

"No, it can't be," she says. "People drink wine on a daily basis here... with lunch, with dinner... how can they not have red wine?"

I must have asked him wrong, or understood him wrong. The bar is lined with bottles - gin, vodka, whiskey, beer, all kinds of stuff. It just doesn't make sense. I try again, but get the same results. We stand there for a moment not knowing what to do.

"Well," Trish says, "I'll have a whiskey."

"I guess I'll have a beer," I add. But it's just not the same. Cold beer on a blustery night in the mountains.

Later, we pass by a restaurant with the most amazing looking tarts or creme caramels in dishes on a marble counter top. We peer down and try to walk past, but the temptation is too much. We change course and try to find the door.

Where is the door?

We look at every door of the building. None is open. One has a marquis on top and a small sign, mostly in Portuguese, that has hours on it. At the bottom, in English, it says, "Ring the bell."

We look at it for a moment. We can see the dining area through the window. It is close enough that this could be the door to the restaurant, but ringing a bell to get in? We're not sure. But the tarts really did look scrumptious. We decide to go for it. I push the bell.

"RING!!!"

A stout lady answers and looks us up and down, head to toe, then back again, appraising. Are we worthy to eat here? She doesn't seem so sure.

"Are we late?" I ask in Portuspanglish, not knowing what else to say. The silence was uncomfortable.

"Eh?"

"Uh, we just want a tart," I add. "Dulce." Pause. "Dessert?"

"Do you speak English?" she says.

"Oh yes, we do. You speak English... that's great. We just wanted to try those delicious looking tarts we saw through the window."

Silence.

"... if it's not too late."

"Only dessert?" she finally asks.

"Yes, only dessert.... And maybe some red wine."

"OK."

Yay! We are worthy!

We order a creme caramel and a corn pudding that looks just like rice pudding. Both are wonderful. The wine is served in a terracotta pot that could pass for a Mayan artifact like you would see in a museum. We are in food heaven. When we see the last table of diners getting ready to pay, Trish and I decide it's time to get out. No way we want to be the last ones here... that would break our contract. Before leaving, though, we make a reservation for dinner for the following night. Now that we have passed inspection, we want to milk it for all we can.

One of the many, many... many ways the Portuguese prepare cod. From our Night 2 meal at O Julio.

Night 2 dessert... a slab of local sheep cheese and pumpkin marmalade. Delicious!