Festas All Around

The passing seasons continue to witness the maddening frustration of dealing with Portugal’s Neck-Bone Bureaucracies in their many forms and after only three years of relentless effort I now have my moto license plates and my boat is registered (In Great Britain).  Of course I’m still not allowed to get in the boat as its operator, having not found any Portuguese reliable enough to give the required and expensive rowboat operation lessons.  But I’m determined; stay tuned.

The process of building TAPAS was palliative, even delightful and it too stretched over three years and one month.  My steady little worker, Pippa, and my friends, Nuno, JP and Yuri, as well as my son Sheffield helped enormously in her construction and my wife got a little epoxy on her as well.  Without this cheerful crew, TAPAS would still be a glued up mess . . . Thank you, Gang!   

We launched her at the Viana Sailing Club in the straps of a big dockside crane a couple of weeks ago and the sailing club immediately became a source of joy.  TAPAS will live on her trailer on the hard at the club, amidst the bubbling fun of the little sailors.  There is a big OPTIMIST CLASS regatta taking place there right now with hoards of fearless young sailors no taller than a dining table bashing out into the roaring ocean in eight foot boats with glee and abandon.  Back ashore they chase each other and throw water balloons.  They will remember these days all their lives . . .  it is the stuff of life and I love seeing it.  

Our village this morning is finally remanded to the church bells, roosters, collared doves and normal village serenity.  For the last few days, the unending Portuguese Scouts Drumming Corps (Berlin 1938) and the low-fi high-vol chunka-chunka canned music from the community speakers at the bandstand a block away have made Barroselas an unending party that only the most desperate would ever attend voluntarily.  The worst part of these dopey deals are the fireworks that go off in two minute frenzies up until about 2:30 AM. The enigmatic Portuguese do love their flash-bombs  …my poor dog, Trixie, not so much.

We are susceptible to another sort of festa however.  Yesterday we drove the 50 minutes to A Guarda, Spain to their FESTA do LANGOSTA.  True, they also had loopy costumed folk dancing, but at least to live music.  The main event is a Barnum & Bailey-sized tent right on the breakwater that is filled with fragrant vendor booths and long tables where hundreds of people enjoy delicious lobster dishes.  Lobster pie, lobster paella, lobster soup, grilled lobster, baked lobster, lobster omelet, lobster tacos and non-lobster delights such as grilled octopus and scallops, fried squid, ceviche and beer!   The day was gorgeous in all regards.

Except for the old woman.  And the cats. The tent was packed and Trixie had just settled next to my feet when a sour looking old woman came by in a daze and stepped on Trixie’s tail.  Trix bit her on the ankle, quick as a snake!  Go Trix! The woman glared at me and I glared at her and we both examined her ankle which did not even have a mark on it and then we glared some more and she left in a cloud of high pique.  And then after lunch we waited in the shade of a pastry vendor’s umbrella for Linda to generously retrieve our car.   After standing there for a moment, we moved to deeper shade closer to the vendor’s table and instantly a double handful of tiny furious kittens exploded from underneath his table and came spitting out with every hair standing straight up and backs arched!  They disappeared, but Mamma stayed underneath the table on high alert about a foot from Trixie’s nose!  She was a smallish cat herself, but she made constant, much larger werewolf songs and Trix was content to hold a face-off instead of a dustup. 

As we drove along the rocky ocean shore and across the big Minho River into the scented Portuguese mountains, there was the realization that we had survived the bureaucracies at least for now, and that life was good.  Perhaps very good.