In the Shadow of Fado

The Big Slow Down is upon me. The less I do the less I want to do. Getting up from poolside to trudge into the house to get another beer feels like a lot of work. But I did and I see the iPad is partly charged so maybe it's a good time to hide from the sun, let the skin cool and tell you what we've been up to.

I woke up to an email this morning from Airbnb informing me that they had provided all my personal details regarding our listing on their service to the State of Vancouver and my listing was inaccessible and unalterable. Hmmm. At first I thought it was something to do with the bedbug situation; the guest that alerted me to the bug's presence was unhappy with the refund I offered her and has lodged a formal complaint with Mother Airbnb. But no, Ami in Bombay informed me via chat service that the info was requested by the Vancouver and they were obligated to comply. Fortunately, I had taken out a license to do what we're doing and he sent me a screen shot of our listing showing the license number.  So I guess I'm good. There's a new guest in our home and if the exterminator has done a good job I won't be getting an itchy email telling me they want their money back too.

So...Porto. We've been here a week and I haven't shared any of what we've been up to other than the impressive digs. As planned, we were picked up at our boat at 6:15am last Sunday and the large taxi took us and our mountain of luggage to the train station in Beziers. The train took us to Toulouse. A plane took us to Lisbon where we waited for 5 hours for another plane to take us to Porto. There was no taxi large enough for us and our luggage so guys in one, girls in the other. The girls had the address so it was written on a scrap of paper for us with instructions to pick up groceries en route. The taxi driver couldn't read the handwriting on the scrap of paper but he could read the phone number so he called the hostess who was able talk him in, not unlike an air traffic controller. The addresses here are kinda random so even the GPS's have trouble as we discovered several times with the rented car's GPS. And there's lots of 'Rua da Igreja' (Church street) in the small towns surrounding Porto. We thought we were in Maia, we're actually in Muro so the return to the house from the rental agency (at the airport where we started out) took an extra hour or two.

But we made it and the next day decided to check out Espeniho. It's another small town, south of Porto but on the ocean and it was market day. With a couple of souvenirs and some chorizo in our bags it was time to look at the ocean. It was big, choppy, cold and windy; a dramatic change from the canal that had held us in its narrow grip for two weeks. A beachside cafe agreed to let us in at the unheard of hour of 5:30. Many restaurants don't open until 8pm and dinner goes to midnite but I grabbed a table, held up 6 fingers and they saw the value in the early business. Food was brought out before we ordered as is their custom. Bread, prawns, melon with prosciutto were laid out with the idea being if eat them you pay for them. We pushed it aside, found things on the menu we thought we'd prefer and enjoyed a pretty average meal in an above average location.

Miss me? After that last paragraph I returned to poolside to resume baking. I had hidden for a few moments in the cool of the interior to escape the blazing exterior and heck, it was my birthday so felt entitled to come and go as I pleased.

I had skipped the 2nd car rental day to write and float in a vat of silence as my 5 travelling companions piled in for a tour of Porto. I finished my last post mentioning my first Uber ride and a 'wish me luck' but neither me nor the driver heard you. Like us, he got lost, took an extra hour to find me but managed to get me to the restaurant in Porto for a reunion of the balcony people and an evening of Fado. Now this was something. The restaurant sat 32 people (I counted) so it was an intimate environment to hear folk opera or Portuguese blues or Country without the twang. It's a unique musical experience that began with a blend of Portuguese classical guitar (lute-like with 12 steel strings) overlaid on the rhythm laid down by an acoustic guitar. I swayed to the gentle rhythm and the more vinho verde I drank, the more I swayed. There were several beautiful instrumentals - then the singing began.

The young man that had just brought my wine and appetizer took a position between the two guitars and composed himself. Hands clasped together, he lowered his gaze, took several slow, deep breaths and opened his mouth to let the sadness out. He sang of the pain of wanting something he could never have, of lost love, of suffering and the depth of his sorrow mingled with mine. He touched a place I thought I'd buried so deep only I could touch and gave it a voice. I cried and I couldn't understand a word he said. And he was just the appetizer. 

He was followed by a young woman whose voice soared as she paced the room and looked hard into our faces, accusing us of infidelity, of stealing her children. Powerful stuff, no? Then the main attraction slowly made his way to the centre of the restaurant, his jacket hung over his shoulders Hollywood style circa 1950. His grey-haired composure exuded confidence as he smiled gently, gazing around the room and nodding at the smiles. He started slow and low forcing his listeners to listen hard. He drew us in like an angler jiggling his bait and just as you go to chomp down he lifted his head, his arms, his voice leaving us slack-jawed, wide-eyed and looking up. He sang a number of numbers with the liveliness increasing as he went. Soon we were clapping and tapping and so happy to be following the Pied Fado as he led us down his musical trail. 

The last day of the rental car was used to get us back into Porto to check out its namesake - Port. On the south shore of the Douro river that divides Porto are the wine caves and I was expecting caves; you know, damp, dark and cool. They're not, they're warehouses, lots of them, that feature wine tasting rooms with staff that know their stuff. We tried tawny and ruby and 30 yr old stuff and agreed it was much better than the ten year old rubbish. We got snobbish real fast and even bought a bottle which we enjoyed at my birthday dinner which I'll have to tell you about later because tonight Deb and I are cooking and she's already started, tapping her toe in the kitchen and wondering where I am (I'm hiding in the bedroom). I'll tell you we're now in Estoril (outside Lisbon) and enjoyed a few 'wow' moments enroute. But more later.