Accessible Algarve

Goodbye America…How Are You?

Constance Houck

First Published September 11th 2010 by Constance 

In the words of my favorite overdosed blues rocker, Janis Joplin, “Tomorrow man, there ain’t no tomorrow…it’s just all one day…ya know man” then she slurred her way into the epic “Try” and into my personal herstory books.

My “one long day” is rising and setting on the western coast of Portugal.  With three pieces of luggage weighing 70 pounds each, a laptop and my Euros, my passport and fiscal number, my one way ticket in hand, I boarded the one plane a day into Lisbon.  “Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose”, an inspirational earworm singing in my head, thanks Janis and of course Kris.

Now here I am, north of Lisbon, in a tiny village on the Atlantic.  The only U.S. citizen around as far as I can tell. OK by me!  After a month of taking all this in, this is what I have learned and am sharing in case you are thinking of selling everything and fleeing to a new land: 

Obidos Chocolate Festival

Our First Americano Visits

Constance Houck

First Published March 16th 2011 by Constance 

 

After seven months, learning but not really being able to communicate in local lingo and only mixing with local ex-pats about as often as I will eat bacalhau, I haven’t realized how much I have longed to hang out with one of my “people ” until yesterday when one showed up at the casa.

Skype, e-mails, face book, Oovoo, even my little stories help me stay connected to my beloveds back across the big salty swimming pool, we see each other and chat away depending on how the server is behaving. For instance, I know tonight in my ex-littlehometown will be the eight year anniversary protest against the war. At 9pm Portugal time they will be holding their signs on “Peace Corner”. I can picture it in my mind and raise a toast at 10:15pm, about when the protest is over and it’s cocktail time.

The beautiful result!

A very Bad-Calhau Christmas

Constance Houck

First Published December 27th 2010 by Constance

 

Holidays mean food. I know there are religious, political and other cultural reasons, but it all comes down to food really. So we HAD to celebrate the first Christmas in Portugal as Portuguese as we could. And that means Bacalhau, salted cod. Or as we now call it, Bad-calhau.

Bacalhau à Gomes de Sá, is a codfish, potato and onion casserole with eggs and black olives sprinkled on top, loaded with garlic and olive oil.  Very traditional according to our well googled recipe:

 

“One of the most famous Portuguese bacalhau recipes.  …invented by a cook…whose father was a bacalhau trader himself  …worked in a restaurant in Porto.  His innovation was to marinate the cod flakes in warm milk in order to give the fish a softer texture.”

Christmas lights and Cobblestones

Constance Houck

First Published November 29th 2010 by Constance 

snowman

Europe’s antique streets look even more romantic and inviting on a crisp cool evening when the town swithes on the Christmas lights. Chestnuts roasting, cobblestones and walking arm in arm under sparking lights.

The holidays have begun and I am obviously in a very different world than I left. 

A bout of homesickness hit on Thanksgiving, my number one favorite holiday. I love the smell of roasting turkey as the freezing Rockettes high kick in precision in front of Macy’s between the Snoopy balloon and the McDonalds All American Marching Band. I longed to get my hands into the traditional family stuffing recipe and fill that big organic bird with yummy-ness, set the table and have the collection of mis-matched chairs with the odd collection of family and friends that always end up in my home on the fourth Thursday in November. 

Finding my new Molly

Constance Houck

First Published Oct 24th 2010 by Constance

Meet Alda, my new "Molly"

How can you ever replace your most trusted person in your life when you move to a new country. Yes, I am talking about Molly, the only woman I have trusted with my feet and eyebrows for fours years. Something I never thought about before I dove into this!

 I need a Portuguese Molly!

Every day I have a “gosh, I am living here” bomb hit me, but still the everyday and not so everyday realities of picking up and living in another country can be, well, overwhelming. 

Not being able to speak Portuguese for instance. It was OK at first, but now it is getting to be a problem. And I just have to face the fact; I am bad at learning languages, at least this one. Somehow I thought I would absorb it into my skin like my organic skin cream. And my pronunciation, I was speaking (or trying) to a friend one night and she begged me to please speak in English. My deadly attempt at her language was so painful she just could not handle it, and that was a friend! Imagine the people trying to understand which type of bread I want when there is a line of customers behind me. So, I come home with weird stuff that I didn’t want. Yep, it’s not soaking in, I guess I just have to study…..damn. 

Also, finding your special “people”. After two months without one, I am desperate for a pedicure. And my eyebrows (plus the upper lip) are out of control. Now that may sound trite to most of you, but for the pedicure addicts, and people who have had the great luck of knowing a person who you trust with your feet and eyebrows, and then, being adrift without them….it’s horrible! I just don’t know what to do without my Molly! So I have been on a quest to find my Portuguese “Molly”. 

I Love Recumbent Trikes and Devon

Constance Houck

First Published July 17, 2017 by Constance

 

For nine days in May I lived in a Constable painting…and got to ride two recumbent trikes.

Even if you don’t know what a recumbent trike is, you have probably seen one. It has 3 wheels, is low to the ground. The rider sits in a type of recliner seat. You can pedal with your feet in front of you, or if you can’t pedal with your legs, you can pedal with your hands. I decided I wanted one a few months ago but never ridden on a “bent”. Getting around on a mobility scooter is like using the Popemobile, you just sit there. It does the job but scooters are really boring.

I Forgot Where I Was

Constance Houck

First Published March 10, 2013 by Constance

Finally I am back in Portugal!

Kevin 12 String was at work entertaining the tourists under a full moon. I was sitting on the couch listening to the festa happening at the community center below.  Another MasterChef Australia was about to start on cable.  It hit me like a ton of bricks, “What the hell was I doing watching television when I could be in Portugal?

Threw on a demure summer dress that covered everything that needed covering and grabbed a few euros.  Blend in Constance (I told myself) park your feminista at the gate just this once.  Wrote a quick note to the rock star and skipped down to join my neighbors for some mad accordion and a cup of vinho verde.

Under the paper flowers and white twinkle lights I found my Portugal, again. I could feel a smile as big as the Tagus light up my face.  Couples of all ages circled the floor; tables were filled with generations of families and friends.  Bottles, beers, bifanas (Portuguese sliders) all going down easy.

Winding my way through giddy children I found a nice corner to watch the festa.  Occasion?  It was Wednesday, National Tequila Day in the States, but in Portugal the drink of choice is Beirão, a licorice tasting knock you on your ass before you know it beverage.  Every Fadista I know swears by the stuff.  Maybe just a hump day celebration?

From my corner I see familiar faces of people I recognize from the bus I ride most days, people I think of as my “bus amigos and amigas”.  They have become my imaginary friends since we haven’t really met.   I held up my   plastic cup in a toast, they smiled a warm welcome and I relax, they are real now.

Then I spot my landlord, this was not good.  He had just popped by the house earlier in the evening and said (in Portuguese which I don’t understand very well yet) something about doing work on the house. He “pops” in every day, he thinks he still lives here.  I was terribly irritated, went off on him in my “Con-tuguese”.  This has been his home for many years and  I am the outsider, silently I curse my genetic mood swings and hope for the best.

He was trying to decide if he should make eye contact.  Brave man, he took the high road, bought me a drink and we took a couple of spins on the dance floor.  I kept encouraging him to lead by saying “forte, forte”, which means strong, strong. We danced, we laughed and I think we are OK now. Nods and smiles followed me back to my corner.  I suppose it’s a Chinicato version of a condo board approval.

My brave landlord buys me a drink, bless his heart.

Since summer began, each Sunday the sound of music and laughter  floats up and I have stayed inside my own private America.  What have I been thinking?  I never gave Chinicato a chance.  Hey, it’s only the end of July, I still have August to party like I’m living here.  I did not change my life to stay the same! Even now, after three years as an expat I feel like I am still bungee jumping off bridges. It is still that scary.

As a child, I loved the view from the top of a bridge, a couch is comfy but the view is very limited.  Adventure stops when limits begin…and so I begin, again.

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