Not having my Religious Holidays Pocket Calendar handy, I blasted across the bridge into Viana do Castelo a few mornings ago to our new favorite branch of Millennium Bank to do a little biz and it was shut up tight as a drum. Today is a religious holiday. They seem to occur throughout the year about every nine days. I believe this one celebrates the Miraculous Appearance of Our Lady of Pedestrian Bouquets. Yep, it’s that one. For the last several days there has been a makeshift flower market in town that seems to be selling only huge bunches of Chrysanthemums, and people, mostly older people, have been lined up right out into the street.
Turns out it’s actually Day of The Dead, when Portugal, or Catholics (same same) honor their dead. And sure enough the streets were clogged to a stand-still for blocks on every road leading to the ubiquitous little cemeteries sprinkled around the hills and valleys, and those same people who lined up to buy Chrysanthemums, now lined up to place them tenderly on an ancient’s grave. It is a touching ritual.
Much more touching than the ritual of trying to buy real estate. We had decided to buy a certain house and excitedly went in to see Pedro the real estate professional to write up a contract, but Pedro told us he had just found out the house was no longer for sale. Pedro is exactly as efficient and straightforward, well organized and professional as you can imagine. And now he’s howling, ”Ees not my fault. Yes but ees not my fault.” Ees his fault.
And here in Portugal they gang up on you…from three different agencies we’ve been treated to three different sets of Larrys, Moes and Curlys. There’s always one guy who found the house, one guy who is licensed to sell it and one guy who speaks a little English. Sometimes there’s also a guy who lives in France, but is here to offer assistance to his partner. All five, six or seven of us troop through the houses and then we stand around at the front gate with the owner and maybe his family while the realtors confer among themselves, smoking cigarettes right down to the filter and speaking a language, all at once, that makes them sound like a gargling trio….this goes on for about a minute while we look from one to the next like children who expect to be punished and finally, the one who looks Dr. Mengele sneers, “They say maybe,” and the realtors turn away and resume gargling. After a second cigarette, Mengele turns back to us with an ice cold stare and says, “They say no. You call you need anything.” And they go crashing down the cobblestones in their worn out Mercedes, cigarette smoke pouring out of all windows.
To offset some if not all of our realtor experiences, today we stopped for lunch at a tiny cafe in a little village not so far from here. We already had sampled this little gem two days ago, tasting their offerings of different meats. Today, though l/we went for the full meal deal. Or more accurately we just sat down outside the restaurant without speaking and food stated arriving. First steaming bowls of outrageously good cream-of-vegetable soup, then a bowl of olives and two big, soft rolls, with a pitcher of wine of course. Just as I was getting ready to leave, it became apparent that the lull after the olives was just that.
Our main course arrived! A heaping platter of braised pork, seasoned rice, sliced fresh tomatoes, roasted potatoes and a salad. And finally a tiny cup of God’s own coffee and the bill. It translated to $18.22. With tip.
Two days from now we will drive to Golega for the ten-day-long Portuguese National Horse Fair and drink in those flashy, muscular Lusitanos being ridden just for us. And then down to Lisbon to pick up our winter clothes that have arrived in huge steamer trunks, then back north, steeled against the next round of real estate rigamarole. Bring em on!
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