Calculating Route…

How do you say goodbye in French?  Nah, JK, I know it. It’s just hard to express it at this moment, although it is one of a pocketful of French words and phrases I did actually manage to master during my magical stay in Port-Vendres, France. Saying goodbye has always been a difficult thing for me. I’m not good with transitions: I will famously linger at a party and say goodbye to everyone twice just to keep from leaving. That’s me right now. I’m saying goodbye to this little town and an entire country! 

I just want to preface this post with the following: I was alone in France, with Coco, for three weeks while Steve and I made preparations for me and our poodle to return home to Portland and also while we were waiting for Finn to be out of the hospital. Steve was keeping an eye on Finn and I spoke to him daily.  We can fill you in on those family matters apart from this space.  For now, I will tell you about the beauty of the Pyrénées-Orientales (not sure why they’re called that — the other side is the Pyrenees Atlantique. 

My amazing brother, Tim Slattery, flew from London to meet me in Valencia, Spain after Steve left.  It was a fantastic effort on his part and we had a couple of fun days together in Valencia before we took the drive north to France to our next Airbnb.  I was so grateful to have his assistance and company and what a delight it was. We toured around our cool, old Valencia fisherman’s neighborhood called Cabanyal, walked the long beach and wide paseo with Coco, ate tapas at perhaps our best sit-at-the-bar-bring-us-what-you-recommend dining experience ever, toured the beautiful modern complex called City of Arts and Sciences, and generally enjoyed ourselves, considering the circumstances back home!  I had already been in Valencia for some days, with Steve and then alone, so I kinda got my groove on there as it was not my first time in the city.  I also had a chance to see not one, but two of my darling cousins: Martha Schum has lived there for decades and her sister Sarah Schum happened to be visiting so it was a two-for-one Schum especial!  After all that, Tim and I hit the road, heading north to the Spanish border and drove for hours, hugging the Mediterranean, talking shit, and marveling at the landscape, but not without a proper European picnic lunch en route at the remains of a Roman arena right by the sea in ——. While we ate, Tim confessed that he, too, often thinks about the Romans. (If you, or anyone you know, also needs to talk about the Romans there is probably a 1-800# or meet-up groups in your area you can consult! Good luck!) 

We arrived at our destination, the small town of Port-Vendres in the evening, so we really did not have a grasp on where we were until the following day, but the accommodations were splendid. Steve and I had already booked and paid for this place for a month — and what a place!  A beautiful, stylishly-appointed, three-bedroom house on a quiet street, a mere one-minute walk from the center of the small port town, as well as bakery, cafes, the farmers market, and anything one might need. It was ideal to say the least — btw, please don’t mention this part to Steve. 

Port-Vendres is one of a string of beautiful seaside towns along this stretch of rugged coast north of the Spanish border and at the foot of the Pyrenees. Think Big Sur meets Santa Barbara.  It’s called the French Catalan and every sign posted is in French and Catalan!  It’s the best of the two cultures, mixed into a blend that is entirely unique in France. For the wine fans, it’s the Roussillon AOC — not to be confused with the town of Roussillon in Provence, which we also visited last April, and the winemaking is about a blend of the grapes that naturally grow here, and they are planted right down to the sea in terraced vineyards on old, head-trained vines. There’s a similar mash-up at the border on the western side, near Biarritz, but it’s different as that’s Basque country.  So, it’s all very specific and regional and delightful in that way. It’s not a famous district outside of France, but it’s more than drinkable, believe me. 

This is a working port and the main business of the day is the catch. Boats come in, big and small, and the larger fish are processed at the main plant on the south side of the port.  The rest are left to the smaller fishmongers (been waiting a year to get that word in this blog) that do an every day business and this all happens early in small metal huts lining the Quay where the catch of the day is set out on ice. I can’t even begin to describe the variety but it’s immense!  Early in the morning, older women with traditional woven baskets or market strollers come down to buy for their lunch or dinner and merchants arrive, most likely to buy for their restaurants or shops elsewhere. Once it’s gone it’s gone: the tin hut shuts and Viola! Fin! 

The Saturday market was a delightful experience and I did visit it several times. It all happens in a square overlooking the port that features a stunning obelisk built in honor of many things French, but most notably it marks the ground zero for the metric system: the guy who came up with the whole decimal thing had to peg it to a place and Port-Vendres was, apparently, the most strategic point in France. True story! I loved shopping for my potatoes, cheese, and fresh greens under the shadow of the imposing Obelisk.  Napoleon divided all the regions in France by number, and if you ask me Department 66 is the bomb! I may just have to start a men’s underwear line called that! lol! 

A lot of artists came through here and painted the land and seascape. Matisse and all his fauvists pals made this a great escape. Spend two shakes here and you’ll see why: the color palette is unreal. Collioure, the next town over, and reached via a windy, steep cliff road, is where Matisse was based and created many pieces.  The town is not ignorant about this and, of course, they have plastic laminated posters of those paintings on view in the exact spot the artists painted. But honestly, IMHO, it could be anywhere along this stretch of the Mediterranean.  I mean, these people were not exactly focused on the details.  They were capturing color, light, feelings, and mood.

Now, here in Port-Vendres, at the very same time, the Scottish painter Charles Rennie Mackintosh and his wife Maud were also working. Mackintosh painted the port as he saw it, with the skill of a draftsman, an architect, but with just enough detail to leave plenty to the imagination. It turns out that Mackintosh wanted nothing to do with those other artists over in Collioure and he was thus viewed as a bit of an outcast. He also had a serious drinking problem that his wife was desperate to help him with. So, yeah, maybe time apart from the other artists of the day was a good idea. Anyway, there is a beautiful collection of his watercolor work from Port-Vendres as well as his wife’s work in the style of art nouveau, all preserved in the tiny little Macintosh Interpretation Center in Port-Vendres.  

During my stay in Port-Vendres, Coco and I took a bunch of beautiful hikes along the coastal routes. Sometimes it got a bit edgy and I had to buckle her back into her leash, but the trails were super exciting.  Of course,  not good if you lost footing — or a poodle!  Overall, it was excellent exercise and the views were always splendid and dramatic. 

Everything about this place just checked so many boxes for me. It’s ironic, after having traveled for a year with Steve, that I could possibly, realistically, finally see us staying put in Port-Vendres. It’s not touristy at all, just a simple place but it can get busy in the summer even though the town does not cater to tourists for the most part — there’s no beach. I will say, however, that I noticed there are a LOT of old people here, retirees, and not expats, just old French peeps!  Also, I will say that trying to learn French after spending a couple of years trying to learn Spanish feels exhausting! No lie! 

I know we have talked about this before on this blog, but I can’t say enough about this type of travel:  staying in one place for a long  period of time, usually a month in our case.  In my time in P-V I came to know my local baker, the people at my local cafe, the vendors at the Saturday market, the guy who runs the local movie theater, the people at the tourist office (natch) and everyone who nods knowingly at me in between.  I even happened to discover the local maker space for kids and had a wonderful meeting there with the director!  It was so nice to feel like I could belong. But perhaps it was just Coco that they wanted to see every day! Hard to know! 

Speaking of whom, everywhere we go on this trip, Coco is always the star. She makes friends and attracts people to her like a magnet.  They swoon over this pretty dog…no matter what country and, as a result, I end up having wonderful interactions with lots of people. Even if I don’t speak the language, everyone at least speaks dog (chien)  as far as I can tell.  Coco is also a supremely curious creature and loves to go places and see new things.  She is the best strolling / walking/ trail / hiking partner you can have! Besides Steve of course! 

If it’s possible to live in a bubble then P-V is the place you want to be.  And I don’t mean that in a bad way, because one can always tune into the world.  But I mean that P-V is such a simple place, where there are no pressing concerns and village life is very real. I felt that, despite the fact that Finn was in the hospital in Portland, and Steve was really stretched to manage things. It was such a conflict of emotions. And yet I felt like, as long as Coco and I could get out and about to take a hike or take a look at the sea, we would be OK.  And that proved to be so.
Just so you know, I’m going to be upgrading to a real camera soon, thanks to my brother Patrick, but until then …enjoy the mediocre, medium-resolution pics from my iPhone!

Well, that concludes our thirteen-months of blogging about our explorations in Europe. We had an amazing time and highly recommend a similar trip for those with the time and means to make it work. Even if you don’t hold an EU passport, with a little bit of attention paid to the Schengen Zone , you too can spend an extended period traveling in Europe. As we’ve mentioned many times, the cost of living — at least outside the biggest tourist areas in southern Europe — is very low compared to much of the United States and the UK. We paid extra for the added convenience of Airbnbs and splurged on a car lease — still cheaper than a rental — but otherwise we stayed within our budget and lived like locals just about everywhere we went. Having Coco along added a level of complexity that necessitated the car but, if she were just a little smaller, we could have gotten away with public transportation with just a bit more effort.

We are settled back into our Portland routine now, and Finn is slowly improving, but we talk frequently about getting back to Europe as soon as things have stabilized here. Realistically, it probably won’t be until 2026, but, as you can guess by Denise’s post above, we’ve pretty much settled on southeast France — Department 66 — to restart our plan and, as they say, “happy wife, happy life.” One thing we researched as we traveled was the complicated tax laws of the various EU countries, and how they deal with retired expats. As it turns out, even though we would be happy in either France or Spain, France has a much more lenient tax treaty with the US than any other place we stayed. In fact, a non-working US citizen on a visa will really only pay whatever they owe to the I.R.S., while the French take a very small percentage to cover healthcare costs. Contrast that with Spain, where they tax Social Security and all your IRA withdrawals at a pretty high rate, and you can see why we might prefer that system!

We really did fall in love with France however, low taxes or no, and our fondest memories are of our springtime in Provence, walking the vineyards in the little town of Chateauneuf-de-Gadagne and visiting Avignon, Roussillon, Arles, and taking a side trip to Nice. We also enjoyed our month in Ajaccio on the island of Corsica, where the natural beauty helps you forget the slightly tattered cities and the omnipresent anti-French grafitti. After our month in Italy, delightful as it was, we found ourselves looking forward to getting back to the culture of baguettes, pain au chocolat, and the friendly French people. Like many Americans, we were initally intimidated by the reputation of the Gauls as rude and impatient with outsiders but, to be honest, they couldn’t have been nicer or more welcoming. We loved the polite formality of the “bon jour” greeting that you get in most stores and from every passerby. By the time we finished our month in Pierrefitte in the Pyrenees, we were both leaning France. On top of all of that, by 2024, we were ready to settle down for a while and spend a year or more in one place after the hectic pace of our travels.

Spain was enchanting and the language barrier there was much easier hurdle but we also had a lot of tumult there, with Finn’s illness and Denise’s trip back to the States to help him out, perhaps clouding our impression. Our month in Córdoba was magical, to be sure, and we urge anyone planning on visiting Europe not to overlook the grand cities of Andalucia: Málaga, Seville, Granada, and Córdoba have more beauty and history than you’ll find in most of the rest of Europe, and they’re all connected to Madrid and each other by the Renfe trains. We’re happy to give any guidance for fellow travelers so don’t hesitate to ask. Just follow the advice of the locals and stay away during the hottest part of the summer!

We thank you all for reading and commenting and hope that we will be able to resume our travels relatively soon!

Hello again! As Denise, Coco, and I get settled back into life in these United States, we wanted, as completists, to fill you in on the last months of our trip. Córdoba, Valencia, and Port-Vendres were so special that we didn’t want to forget a single minute! We’ll pick up the action where we left off: just after Christmas in Córdoba.

We squeezed a lot of adventures into our last month in that great city, so it’s probably better that we focus on the pictures and let the captions do most of the work. However, we would like to mention a couple of cultural items that stood out for us. During the Christmas season back home, the stores and radio stations generally stop playing holiday-themed music after the big day, but not so in Spain. Here, the celebrations continue until the Epiphany on January 6th. This is actually the big gift-exchanging day for the Spanish and everything is closed down — of course. So if you love Christmas songs, come to Spain in December (and January)!

We watched some Spanish-language TV but couldn’t resist the pull of the D-Max channel, which broadcasts “reality” shows from the US, UK, and Canada in English. Our late afternoons became about catching up with Gold Rush, a Discovery Channel show that features awful people doing awful things to the planet, all in search of the ‘lil yellow nugget. That was followed by Homestead Rescue, featuring the rough-edged Rainey family from Alaska, who swoop in and save families who have bit off more than they can chew in an attempt to live off the grid. It’s worth noting that almost all of the families revealed that the reason they are living this challenging life is because they lost everything in the housing crash of 2008-2009. The Raineys set them straight, however, with some good, old-fashioned ‘Merican ingenuity and miraculously save the homestead just before the seven-day deadlines comes around. We workshopped our own show, called Expat Rescue, in which we help struggling Americans who have decided to live overseas by showing them how to transfer money via Wise card and navigate the seemingly endless aisles of Carrefour. Coco, of course, would play a big role in helping their pets adapt to the unfamiliar continental dog parks. Talks with Discovery Channel are ongoing. The third show was Wheeler Dealers, in which two British guys team up to buy, refurbish, and then sell classic cars. They are both very charming in their own Brit way and somehow always manage to buy low and sell high!

Alright, let’s get into the heart of the post: the pictures, every one of which, as Sir Rod Stewart reminds us, tells a story, don’t it?

WE INTERRRUPT THIS BLOG POST ABOUT CORDOBA, SPAIN FOR BRIEF LOOK AT THE SIDE TRIP DENISE TOOK TO MADRID TO SEE FRIENDS ANDREA, ERIC, AND COLOMA….

THAT CONCLUDES OUR TOUR OF MADRID. WE NOW RETURN TO YOUR REGULARLY PLANNED BLOG EXPERIENCE HIGHLIGHTING CORDOBA, SPAIN.

Off to Valencia, Spain, where we spent a week seeing Denise’s family, some old friends, and this lovely Mediterranean city.

These next few pictures are from Ciutat de las Arts i les Ciénces, a park area in Valencia, built in the 1990s.

Denise will pick up the story from here and will soon post about her last few days in Valencia, where she was joined by her brother Tim, and her last few weeks in France, staying in Port-Vendres, near the Spanish border.

Hey all! We’re sorry for the long delay between blog posts, but you’ll understand why when I tell you the news. Our youngest son is having some health issues that require more intense management than we can provide from 8000 kilometers away and so we’re going to place our European adventure on hold for awhile and tend to our boy.  As you might know, parenting doesn’t end with high school graduation — despite what the pamplets led me to believe — and it’s more important that we be close by him for however long it takes to get him back to his baseline health.

I plan on writing a final — for now, anyway — blog post about our time in Córdoba and Valencia, two of the best places we visited, but I need to deal with some more pressing issues here before I can wrap my head around that project.

I flew home a couple of weeks ago to be with Finn while Denise stayed behind with Coco in Valencia, and eventually moved on to Port-Vendres, France, where we had a place booked for the month of February. She is currently making plans to return to Portland as well, but getting the dog back here means she just can’t hop on a plane and go. Ironically, Denise reported to me that Port-Vendres would be an ideal place for us to settle down, so at least we have a place in mind for when we are able to return. It’s a small port town on the Mediterranean near Perpignan, and it’s also located in the foothills of the Pyrenees, which run all the way to the sea. I’ll ask her to write a post about that town so you don’t miss out on any details.

Thank you all for your support of our adventure and the kind comments. Hopefully, we can get Finn back to good health and resume our trip in the not-too distant future. Or, maybe he will agree to come back to France with us! 

Love, Steve, Denise, and Coco

As of this writing, it will be nearly one year since Steve, Coco and I pulled up stakes and headed overseas. It’s hard to believe this much time has passed. We certainly have a lot of photos to show for it and, of course, this blog (mostly by Steve) which has faithfully tracked our whereabouts over the past 11+ months. So, with that, I thought I’d take a beat and tell you what living in Europe is really like… just kidding!  Steve has been telling it like it is just wonderfully but it occurred to me that sometimes, some things are less than ideal. Can I fill in the blanks now? I’ll try.

Keeping a schedule of sorts is important and thanks to Coco we have that covered. Days pretty much revolve around getting her walks in and of course that means getting us out the door, too. And we have gone on some stellar walks; hikes that I try hard to make sure are not too strenuous for any of us but do provide a certain amount of a challenge. Sometimes, the walks can be utterly mundane — just boring around-the-block stuff — but even then it’s an opportunity to see the neighbors every day and the best result of that are hand signals and knowing glances that come from people who recognize us from the neighborhood.I really like that a lot. 

The best days for me are when we get out into natural surroundings and some stays have delivered better than others. The grind of traffic noise or the clamor of noisy neighbors in apartments can be a real drag.  The motorcycles in Corsica were terribly annoying; the lady in the apartment above us here in Cordoba wears clickety-clackety heels at all hours.  Walking Coco around Novi Ligure meant braving the seriously scary barking guard dogs behind almost every fence.  But then you can balance that with gazing at the moonlit Pyrenees from our bedroom window in France, strolling merely five minutes to blissfully beautiful vineyards in Provence, or bundling up against a brisk wind on our local Morriscastle beach in Ireland.  Of course I thrive in the latter of those experiences and have learned to make do with the former, 

Friends have gingerly asked me if I miss home and of course I do!  But then again, I don’t. I mean, I miss my boys immensely. Crazily. I miss the regular rhythm of my neighborhood and the few dear friends I managed to make in Portland.  I miss the family that newly arrived in Portland just as we were leaving and I miss all my friends.  On the other hand, I probably talk to everyone — family and close friends alike — nearly the same amount as I did when we were living in Portland, thanks to WhatsApp. It’s not a huge change – but yet it IS. It’s awkward and weird to have an eight or nine hour time difference on every call. People are on different cycles of their day and it shows up in conversations when I’d rather it didn’t.  Plus, it usually requires making arrangements to connect with people which I really dislike.  Spontaneous chats are not the easiest things to pull off from Europe. 

I skimmed over Finn and Reilly and that won’t do: it occurred to me that they occupy a tremendous amount of my brain time right now, probably unnaturally so. I mean yes, they should be in my thoughts but this is a lot.  And I’m just sharing this because I think it’s entirely natural to have this yearning for them given the distance and their ages and their places in life.  Of course we all speak frequently and shoot texts. but there is still a distance that drives me a bit crazy. Will this change? Probably. Time goes by and you get used to things. But therein lies the rub…time going by. I can’t ever get that back. 

During this stay in Cordoba I have become acquainted with Seneca and his stoic philosophy. (He was born here and is beloved by the Spaniards but really he was a Roman philosopher who tutored a young Nero.)  I guess I feel like I’m leaning into his teachings a bit. Some of his writings make sense:  essentially they boil down to being happy with what you have, and not pining for what’s not possible. Take what you have been given and live a life with that. I mean it sounds a bit bleak on the surface (stoic?) but it’s also sort of zen and about respecting the moment, so I’m thinking about that nowadays.  I’m trying to balance those thoughts with what I actually physically have — between us we have four suitcases — and what I think I want (a big house with lots of comfort and family close by?). 

If you can spot a thread in this wandering post it’s probably the but-then-againisms. That’s how it goes: I don’t have the responsibility of looking after a household — I have not touched a vacuum cleaner in a year! — and I’m not doing onerous loads of laundry.  But then again, I don’t get the satisfaction of putting up a new piece of art or fixing an annoying hinge. It’s a million but-then-againisms. I don’t make a Sunday dinner for my boys but then again I can talk to them for a bit once a week. It’s good. No, really-I’m not talking myself into it. I’m just sharing the reality. 

Finally, I thought I would make an exercise to find one pic from each month that speaks to some point of inspiration for me… not travel-wise but just something that hit a nerve for me personally.  The pics won’t do it justice — we definitely need to get a real camera— but hopefully you can find a bit of what I try to discover during this journey: random beauty; humor; a little chaos. 

Love. D

Well, the tourists are returning to the Algarve for the holidays, so that must mean it’s time for us to leave. The other day, I went to the grocery store and was shocked to discover that the normally empty parking lot was full of caravans, all laying in provisions for their winter break. After six weeks here, we’re both ready to go and start the next adventure but I think Coco will miss it here: she’s had the run of the Monte da Lagoa compound with her doggie friends Kalya and Luna as well as daily ball-throwing sessions on the endless beach. It’s also great being able to let her out in the morning to do her business in the field so we can enjoy our coffee in bed a while longer. Our place in Spain will be a lot more urban, so there goes our second morning cup of java. 

We’re doing lots of pictures this time with less text. You’re welcome.

Recently, the weather has improved and we’ve been taking advantage of the sun and relatively warm temperatures — 15°C (or 60°F for the gringos) and above — to get in some exploring. We spent a day in the Alentejo city of Mértola, just north of here, and did a little shopping at the Thursday market, a giant, mobile mercado where you can buy just about anything you could need to wear or to furnish your house, not unlike the one that we had in Novi Ligure in Italy. We walked up to the centuries-old castle that overlooks the town and had a picnic lunch in the courtyard. You could walk along the 10-foot-high stone castle walls with no pesky guardrails or nagging warning signs like you might see in the States — I guess the EU doesn’t enjoy the same liability laws that we enjoy back home. By the time we made it back to the car, the market had packed up and disappeared without a trace, like the circus, heading to the next town.

On Friday, we took a relatively flat seven-mile hike around the nearby rural town of Cacela, crossing through small towns and farmland, and across the railroad tracks. Before the hike, we stopped to get some food to go at a restaurant but the owner told me that they didn’t do takeaway and we’d have to go to the restaurant next door. I nodded and made my way down the sidewalk to the takeout counter, only to have the same guy appear behind the counter. The Monty Python effect only increased when I went back for a plastic fork to eat our rice and beans and he turned me down flat(ware), telling me that they only had those for the eat-in customers. I was tempted to run back to the other restaurant and ask for a fork but he didn’t look like he was as amused by the situation as I.

The next day, we hiked through old-town Ayamonte, the first town you come to after crossing the Spanish border. Saturday lunch there is a big deal and we grabbed one of the last seats at a place near the harbor and ordered the paella — with no seafood, of course — our first time enjoying the famous rice dish since arriving on the Iberian peninsula. There’s not a lot to Ayamonte beyond the bustling waterfront full of restaurants and shops but our new friends Olaf and Lorraine clued us in to the fact that it’s the hometown of the famous Spanish singers Pitingo and Maria Isabel. We hadn’t heard of Pitingo either but, apparently, he’s huge in Spain, mostly from a cover of “Killing Me Softly with His Song,” and he recently did a big concert there, giving away free tickets to anyone with an Ayamonte address — very classy. Maria is, of course, best known as the winner of the Junior Eurovision contest in 2004. 

As I mentioned last time, our compound was filling up and so we decided to have a drinks party to get everyone together. Five countries and four languages were represented — a mini Tower of Babel — and much wine was consumed. It was good getting to know them all a little better and Pilar, our hostess, even made a rare social appearance. We learned that she lost her husband a few years ago and is still grieving, but that managing the property has helped to keep her busy. 

The next day, despite our mild hangover, we took a long, somewhat arduous hike around Odeleite, a village that we had visited earlier in the month. We didn’t get a lot of nature or arduous exercise in Porto so it’s nice to be playing ourselves back into shape. Surprisingly, over the seven miles on the trail, we only saw three other hikers! I guess a lot of the visitors to the Algarve stay in their RVs on the beach. After another day of much-needed rest, we explored the ancient city of Alcoutim, hard by the Guadiana River, and then took a one-hour-and-one-minute ferry ride — that’s including the one-hour time zone change — across the river to Sanlúcar in Spain and did a beautiful, if hilly, two-hour loop walk along the river and back to the ferry. There’s a lot of history between the two border towns, going back centuries, but the bond was broken during the Spanish Civil War when, in 1936, Franco shut down all river traffic between the two municipalities. Since they had come to rely on each other so heavily, a network of smugglers kept the trade going on the sly. Legal traffic resumed in 1973 but the legacy of the contrabandos is still celebrated on both sides of the river.  Alcoutim has it all: a fort, a castle, windmills, boats, a river, a ferry, British expats drinking in cafes, multiple churches, cobblestones, and two countries in close proximity. Highly recommended.

Quickly running out of time here in the Algarve, we took the long drive out past the city of Sagres to Ponta de Sagres and Cabo da Roca, the westernmost tip of Portugal — and mainland Europe, for that matter. With Africa to the south, nothing except 3,000 miles of deep blue Atlantic Ocean (well, and the Azores) between you and North America, and all of Europe over your shoulder, it’s an awe-inspiring site. There’s an old fort, a lighthouse, and an easy walking path out on the promontory that takes you past fishermen casting their lines from the cliffs to the ocean, about 200 feet below — not that you can’t buy fresh fish at a dozen markets in the nearby town. 

We’d now covered the whole southern coast of Portugal, from the western tip to the border of Spain, and on the long drive home we agreed that our work here was done. We’ll pack up on Sunday and hit the road early Monday morning.  We enjoyed our stay in Portugal but both agreed that we haven’t yet been sold on living here. Show us what you’ve got, Spain! 

P.S. Just so you know that we are not just sitting around on beaches or hiking, we are actually both working on different book projects. Steve is reworking and rewriting his LP-based project from his 2022 Facebook posts, all with the help of his friend Michael Azerrad. (Btw, check out Michael’s new book, The Amplified Come as You Are: The Story of Nirvana — makes a good stocking-stuffer!) Meanwhile, across the room, Denise is working on a book project for Tinker Camp, the STEM education group that she was involved with back in Portland. There’s also another secret art/book project she has been developing as well as the ongoing work she’s always drumming up with Therese Randall, her long-time partner in brand communication projects. Coco, for her part, is preparing a memoir about her travels across Europe, to be published next year by Random Doghouse. Does anyone have any ideas for titles? 

Greetings from Altura, a small town in the Algarve, the southernmost region of Portugal, renowned for its sandy beaches and year-round sunny weather, which is why we chose to come here in November. In summer, it’s packed with tourists from all over Europe and the UK but right now, it’s virtually empty. We’re staying about a 15-minute walk to the beach, known as the Praia de Altura, which goes for miles in either direction. To the east, you can walk to the Guadiana River that divides Portugal and Spain in the southern part of the country. To the west, the beaches stretch for miles to Faro, the biggest town in the Algarve. Our Airbnb is run by the charming Pilar, whose hospitality immediately made us feel like a part of her family. Her place is a cluster of darling whitewashed bungalows that was once a large farmstead and is situated on a hill, providing a beautiful view of the sparkling sea.  She has a few tenants who come here every year to escape the rain and cold of the northern climes and there’s a very friendly vibe between all the residents, but we pretty much have the place to ourselves.  But before we get into this place, here’s a few leftover pictures from Porto.

On the drive down from Porto, we stopped off in the seaside town of Nazare, formerly just a remote fishing village but now a worldwide surfing mecca, boasting some of the highest waves in the world. That particular day happened to be the official start of the big wave season, and with a hurricane storming in off the Atlantic and high wave warnings in effect, the tiny town was inundated with tourists hoping to get a glimpse of the surfers riding the giant swells. After a few circuits through the narrow, winding street of the old town (complete with a bullring at the top), I gave up on parking and just dropped Denise and Coco near a trail to the lighthouse while I improvised a legal spot a half-mile away.  On her return, Denise told me about the gale-force winds knocking her and Coco around, thus making it impossible to reach the lighthouse where the best viewing takes place. But it was no matter, as the huge winds made it unsafe for even the most daring riders to try to catch a wave. Still, people packed the trail down to the lighthouse just to get a feel for what it might be like to actually see a 100-foot wave barrelling down the coastline.  For a safer viewing experience check out the documentary 100 Foot Wave on HBO.com.

After a night near the charming town of Melides, we explored the nearby beach area that we fell in love with when we stayed in 2019. We had read that, shortly after we left, members of the British Royal Family had moved in to develop the area so we expected the previously sedate area to be overrun by luxury hotels and Michelin-starred restaurants but, much to our delight, the place was even shabbier in some ways than when we left it. There was a small cluster of luxury homes being built but the beachside restaurants we dined in both looked permanently shuttered. We explored the gorgeous beach and revisited the memory of when Denise almost drowned while I read my book under the sun umbrella, oblivious to the dramatic rescue by the handsome lifeguards. After a nice drive through the beautiful Alentejo district, we arrived at Monte da Lagoa, Altura, our home for the next six weeks. 

When we told Pilar that we were expecting our oldest son Reilly to join us for a week, she immediately upgraded us to a larger cottage for no extra charge. We met our neighbor Astrid, a friendly German digital nomad, and her two little dogs, who made fast friends with Coco. Our cottage is a sunny, cozy place that feels like a beach house and, for the first time in a while, has a comfortable bed — at least by my firmness standards. The best part is the sunny patio where you can see the ocean in the near distance. We visited the nearby Aldi supermarket — it’s a German company, and it’s right next door to the French-run Intermarche grocery and the Portuguese-owned Pingo Doce market, all catering to the tourists — to stock up on provisions. We found the usual inexpensive foodstuffs, along with an excellent German dark chocolate by Moser-Roth (one euro, 59 per bar) and nice Alentejo red wine by Reguengos (two euros, 59).

The next morning, we headed to the beach, discovering that the water is accessible only by an elaborate network of raised wooden boardwalks opened a couple of years ago, stretching for miles across the dunes, all designed to protect the habitat of the indigenous common chameleon. It’s a really cool thing to have and it makes getting to the beach a breeze. We haven’t seen any chameleons yet but hey, that’s their gig, right? Coco loves the beach, and it’s always great to see her come alive in the sand, prancing and zooming through the surf — although she refuses to go in the ocean above her paws, in open defiance of her breed traits.

After a couple of days of exploring the area, including a nice nature hike from the town of Azinhal, we headed to Faro airport to pick up Reilly. He’d been traveling for many hours, including an eight-hour layover at Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport, and he was hungry for some authentic Portuguese food. Unfortunately, all the well-reviewed places we wanted to go to were either closed — it was a Monday night — or couldn’t accommodate the dog, and so we ended up enjoying a nice Italian meal on an osteria patio instead.

The next day, we took a long walk on the beach and then headed to the town of Castro Marim to visit the old castle and fort. The lady at the ticket counter strongly encouraged us not to miss the torture museum and I’m still having nightmares about it — I’ve never seen such a visceral depiction of the cruelties that the Spanish Inquisition inflicted upon the Jews, whom the crown feared were corrupting their precious Catholic Church. In case the exhibits weren’t enough to turn your stomach, the accompanying descriptions would certainly put any reasonable person off their feed. And I thought the nuns at St. John’s Elementary School were bad!

The next day, Reilly and I let Denise stay in bed and recover from a head cold while we left to explore Faro, the capital of the Algarve. It’s not much to see, I have to admit, and, outside of the old town, I wouldn’t recommend it — it’s pretty trafficky and run-down. The highlight for me was when we were walking back to the car and came across an obviously inebriated guy on the waterfront, playing the bombastic Celtic death metal anthem ”Valhalla Calling” at ear-splitting volume on his boombox. The next day, with Denise feeling a little better, we all traveled to nearby Tavira — unlike Faro, it has retained much of its charm and we found it much prettier and more hospitable. On Thursday, with Denise fully recovered, we did an incredible Reilly-led hike on the Seven Hanging Valleys trail. I don’t think we made it to all seven valleys — they’re more like rock formations but from the sea — but we enjoyed what we saw. Highly recommended if you’re in the area.

All of this local tourism was just a lead-up to our big adventure in Seville, Spain, about 90 minutes east of our town in Portugal. Reilly had come to Europe determined to attend a major professional soccer game and we spent a couple of days trying to find the proper match to attend. We looked into some local matches on the Algarve and then at the big Sporting v. Benfica match up in Lisboa but decided that the six-hour round-trip drive was too much. Instead, we decided to attend the Seville FC match against their crosstown rivals Real Betis, not really knowing what we were getting in the bargain. First things first, however, as we had to get a tapas lunch. No one can find great restaurants like Reilly and we had a delicious lunch at La Bartola, sitting on stools on the sidewalk while the waiter brought us one delicious plate after another. It’s a great way to eat — each plate giving you a taste before you move on — and, at only two or three euros per serving, a great value.

Our next stop was the Cathedral of Seville, certainly one of the largest and most ornate churches I’ve ever seen. I have to admit, however, I still had a sour taste in my mouth from the wretched crimes of the Church depicted in that torture museum, and I had a hard time enjoying the ostentatious wealth on display in the gilded altars and statuary. On the plus side, they did have the tomb of Christopher Columbus, my old nemesis from Genoa, and it was good to see that he was still dead. I got to make my “Genoa-cide” joke to myself and that made me happy. We made the ill-advised decision to climb the 35 ramps to the top of the bell tower, or Giralda, a total of 343 feet above the Cathedral. The view is impressive but, by the time we made it back down to earth, my knees were barking. Reilly wanted to get to the stadium early to see the festivities before the match, so we left Denise to wander the charming old streets of the Barrio Santa Cruz on her own and started following the crowds over to the game.

As we got closer to the stadium, we passed bar after bar filled with Seville FC fans pre-gaming — alcohol is not served in the stadium — and decided we’d better join them. As we enjoyed our drinks outside the bar, we started to hear a commotion approaching. Suddenly, there were helicopters overhead and mounted police everywhere on the street, pushing the sidewalk drinkers back with batons. All of this was because a few hundred fans of the rival Betis team were doing the traditional pre-game parade from their stadium a mile away to the Seville FC stadium. As they passed, the green-and-white-clad Betis fans in the street traded jeers and projectiles with the red-adorned Seville FC fans on the sidewalks. (The scene was very chaotic and violent, reminding me of the time I got caught up in a riot while waiting to get into a concert by the Clash in Times Square — here I ducked into a nearby subway entrance to get away from the cops and their horses and watched through the glass until the worst of the craziness passed.) Reilly, of course, was thrilled to be in the middle of it all, and he made a nice video of the excitement. What really struck me was the sheer hatred that the fans from opposite sides of the aisle had for each other. The Seville and Real Betis rivalry used to be more along class lines, but now it was apparently just passed down through families. It occurred to me that these people were neighbors, co-workers, maybe even married couples but, twice a year — the parade was repeated with the teams and stadiums switched later in each season — they summoned up more vitriol than I’ve seen even between Red Sox and Yankees fans. 

Sometime after all this, chaos, there was a game, and the abuse between the rival fans continued, this time with the visitors protected by plexiglass and hordes of police in their open-air prison. Our seats were on the upper level, with almost no legroom and yet cost more than I think I’ve ever paid for a sporting event. Still, it was fun, and I was glad that Reilly got his chance to see a La Liga game. By chance, we were seated next to an English soccer fan who had traveled from London for the match — his 197th of the year by his count, mostly in the UK, where he follows West Bromwich. He was actually rooting for Real Betis in this game but was smart enough not to show that in a sea of red-clad fans. The game ended in a 1-1 draw — of course — with both goals coming late in the game. Afterwards, Reilly and I met up with Denise for another round of tapas and some beverages before heading back to the hotel. I should mention at this point that Coco was back in Altura, staying with Astrid, who had kindly offered to dog-sit, and her puppies. As much as we missed Coco, we were able to fully enjoy Seville since I’m pretty sure they don’t allow dogs in the cathedral or any restaurants.

The next day, we were up early for our tour of the Real Alcázar de Seville, originally a Moorish palace but eventually taken over by the Christians in the 1300s. It’s a fascinating building, with a mix of Islamic and Western decor called Mudéjar.  The Royal Family still stays there on occasion, and even though Seville is one of the hottest places on the Iberian Peninsula, they’d be wise to come in the summer, due to the clever design which keeps the palace cool even on the hottest days. As striking as the interior is, the surrounding gardens are just as impressive. You have to pay a fee to enter the complex — and wait in a long line despite your timed ticket — but the gardens are free for residents of the city. After a walk around Maria Luisa Park, Denise headed back to the Airbnb for a Zoom meeting and Reilly and I spent the afternoon walking around Seville, eventually ending up with a self-guided tour of the Maestranza Bullring. For ten euros, you get to wander around the museum, the ring itself, and the brick stands. I enjoyed seeing the chapel that the matadors pray in before they meet their bull. I think that scenario would make me religious too. It was the bullfighting offseason so there was nothing happening but it would have been interesting to see if the bulls were treated any better than the Real Betis fans.

On our last day there, we spent some time walking around the beguiling neighborhoods of Seville. James Michener, who spent a lot of time here and wrote a novel based in the city, said that “Seville doesn’t have ambiance, Seville is ambiance,” and I’d have to agree: even though there are many, many tourists here, the city’s personality is never dimmed by the crowds, which I sometimes felt happened in Porto. It’s truly a grand city of Europe, with wide boulevards, sprawling parks, and incredible architecture. It was our first visit to the city and we can’t wait to go back. I’m sure we only scratched the surface in our two days there.

Back in Altura, we laid low until it was time to take Reilly to the airport. He had a grueling 24-hour trip back to Portland ahead of him, including an overnight at Schiphol, and we didn’t want to say goodbye. It seemed like he had just arrived. I think he was ready to go back to his real life and get away from his crazy parents but we would have loved for him to stay another week.  Still, we were glad that he’d be back with his brother, who can use the moral support. Speaking of Finn, he’s doing great and even has a new T-shirt for sale that he designed. It makes a great holiday gift for the hipster in your life.

We said our tearful goodbye at the Faro airport, with Reilly saving his last hug for Coco. 

Denise is back! She arrived last week, much to the delight of Coco and me: the pack is back together. It was an arduous 30-hour journey for her, from Portland, Oregon to Porto, Portugal, with stops in Los Angeles, Paris, and Madrid before finally touching down here late Tuesday night. With an itinerary like that, it would take her a few days to get reacquainted with Portuguese time but she was up on Wednesday morning, ready to start exploring Porto, despite the jetlag. 

Before moving on to present day highlights, we should say that Finn is back in Portland and doing great: he’s moved into our basement apartment and got his old job back at Settlemiers, working on the design team, doing collaborations with Nike. Denise wants to name check some of the many family and friends who helped her and Finn in small and big ways during her time in the States, and are continuing to help in so many ways! Big cheers and thanks to Nora and Ken Ross, Reilly, Sarah Whistler, Marianne Mullen and Chris Cirillo, Connie Hendrix and Todd Freeman, Sean and Izumi Mullen, Joe and Becca Mullen, Bridget Stolee, Ann and Sean Mullen, Karen and John from next door, Eileen and Richard Stolee, Holly Haber, Greg Perrin and Gail Butensky, Pat and Tim, Pat Slattery, Therese Randall, Vicki and Rosie Amorose, Blake Swensen, Katie Boucher, Chuck and Karen Michener, Maureen and Louie Melchor, Mark and Elaine Israel, and Ginni Harriman. All stand and take a bow. Now it’s back to Porto!

Naturally, the first place I had to show her was Coco’s dog park, where she had learned some new tricks. With Denise gone for seven weeks, I took over as Coco’s alpha human by default, much to Dee’s chagrin, so she’s working on regaining her “top-dog” status. After that, it was off to the Ribeira, or riverfront, where we had fallen in love with Porto in 2019, pausing for some glamor shots on the Dom Luîs I Bridge. The next few days, we did more of the same, exploring parts of the city that I had uncovered in her absence. It was fun seeing the places through Denise’s eyes and she pointed out a lot of things that I had missed. 

Unfortunately, we then lost a few days to a bout of Covid that Denise caught either in Portland or in her travels. Luckily, thanks to my nursing training, I managed to avoid contagion. In addition, her arrival coincided with the rainy season here and so our wanderings are generally timed to avoid the worst of the downpours. We are from the Pacific Northwest so, naturally, we have good rain gear — the Tripeiros seem to prefer the umbrella as the first line of defense against the moisture — but it’s still a lot less fun to walk around when it’s raining. Sometimes, we get lucky and make it home before the downpours, and other times we arrive drenched. What can you do? I should mention that Coco hates the rain and will often flat out refuse to walk when it’s more than drizzling. We’ve gotten our steps in when possible but we’ve also received numerous warnings from the Portugal Emergency Notification Service via text about “coastal events” and “heavy rain, localized flooding, and high winds.” My advice to tourists planning on visiting northern Portugal on the Atlantic Ocean would be to get out by mid-October at the latest. 

We are leaving here next week, heading south to the drier, warmer, and, hopefully, sunnier Algarve district of Portugal, staying in Altura, a small, rural town hard by the Atlantic. After seven weeks in the big city, I’m ready for some small town energy. Today, I purposefully stepped in front of a speeding BMW — always the German cars —  that was barreling down the small alley near our house at a dangerous speed. This same guy had nearly hit Coco the other day as I struggled to get her out of the way so I was ready for him this time. After he stopped, I gave him some helpful tips on his driving style and he let me know what he thought of my mother. I think it’s time I got to a remote area with fewer cars and fewer people. The best part of our next stop is that our oldest son Reilly is going to join us for a week or so. He found a cheap airfare from Portland and is looking forward to spending a week with us on the beach, his happy place. We are getting another car from the French leasing scheme before we head down that way so we’ll be able to explore the Algarve and parts of Andalucia in Spain. We were planning a trip with Reilly to Morocco but their recent earthquake put an end to that adventure. 

I feel like I’ve covered Porto pretty well in previous editions so, for the rest of the story, we’ll let the photos and the captions (mis)lead you.

Okay, that’s enough of that! We’ll report in from the Algarve soon!

I’m still waiting for Denise to return but trying to stay busy with frequent walks around the charming, if grimy, city of Porto. The names have been changed to protect the innocent.

I got “Franced” again today. It’s been a while and I had become complacent, even after being “Franced” in Spain once or twice. I’m referring to our nickname for the phenomenon of waking up to what you assume will be a normal day, only to find out that everything is closed due to some national or religious holiday that we knew nothing about. For example, we both grew up in the Catholic Church, but neither of us had paid much attention to Ascension Day since grade school, when the nuns made us go to church to honor the Virgin Mary’s one-way trip to heaven — sorry, Sister Mary Joseph!

Today, it is “Republic Day” here in Portugal — or “the Implantation of the Republic,” which sounds a bit medical, frankly — celebrating the day in 1910 when the Portuguese threw off the chains of monarchy in a bloodless coup and became a fully constitutional republic. My first hint something was different was when Coco and I stepped outside for our morning walk and the sidewalks were virtually empty. Maybe the tourists have left? I wondered. But no, they were still there, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to consult their phones as usual, oblivious to the pedestrian traffic gumming up behind them. No, it was the Portuguese themselves who were missing, sleeping in and pondering whether or not they were better off with or without Manuel II.

Unfortunately, that first Republic didn’t really take, and a military coup in 1926 eventually led to the authoritarian reign of Antonio Salazar, who ruled until he fell into a coma in 1968. Like his neighbor Francisco Franco in Spain, Salazar was a bastard who used censorship and his secret police to maintain order, imprisoning and torturing anyone who would challenge him. There’s really no way to defend Salazar, except by comparing him to the thuggish Franco: at least he wasn’t a fascist, and he had some interesting ideas on government. He kept Portugal neutral during WWII, while siding with the Allies in all matters outside of actually sending troops to fight.  I don’t think anyone here looks back on his reign favorably.

A few days afterwards, fully recovered from our Republic Day celebrations, Coco and I set off on a long walk in the general direction of the Campahnå train station, a part of town we hadn’t yet visited. We started out at Cemiterio Prado do Repouso in the working-class Bonfim neighborhood, where we soon discovered a community of stray cats who, no doubt, find ample hunting among the tombstones and crypts. Just on the other side of the south wall, I could see in the near-distance a large art deco-style sign spelling out F-O-R-D (though with no similarity to the automobile manufacturer logo). As a collector of photos of cool signs and cool typography, I felt compelled to get closer and so we left the grounds and headed in that general direction. Unfortunately, the structure was behind a solid row of apartments on one side and encircled by the Porto Water Works on the other. I asked the guard at their gate for access but he told me it was “restricted.” I took a roundabout perimeter walk in hopes of finding a clear shot but alas, I failed. I just wanted you to know that I tried my best and that, if you’re a fan of good conspiracy theories, my guess is that this area is probably where they are keeping the alien bodies recovered from the UAPs. 

Once I found the underwhelming Campahnå station, a quick check of the map told me that I wasn’t too far from the Porto city soccer stadium, so I headed up the hill to see Estádio do Dragão — Stadium of the Dragon, the Porto mascot — an imposing, modern, steel and concrete stadium with a retractable roof and a seating capacity of 50,000. I passed the ticket office and popped in, mostly to give Coco a break from the sun, and asked the lady behind the counter if there were any upcoming fixtures (gotta know your futebol lingo). She said that there was indeed: Portimonense FC were in town from the Algarve to play the hometown team that very night at six p.m. Quickly checking my social calendar and finding it blank, I bought the cheapest ticket available — 17 euros — and told Coco that she’d have to eat dinner on her own that night. 

I headed back to the stadium that evening and found my place among the blue-and-white clad Porto FC supporters. My end-zone seat, despite the low price, gave me an excellent view of the field and the seat was spacious with good legroom — I’m looking at you, Fenway Park. Before the match began, everyone stood and sang the Porto FC fight song, a catchy ditty that, to my ears, bore more than a passing resemblance to the Jaca anthem that Denise and I had heard so many times during the folklore festival there. The only word in the song that I could figure out was “Porto,” so I sang that loudly when that part of the lyrics came up on the scoreboard. With play underway, Porto scored a goal at the nine-minute mark, turning the rest of the game essentially into an 80-plus-minute session of “keep the ball away from Portimonense.”  It was fun just seeing the game, however, my first European soccer experience, but the fans weren’t as crazy as I expected. For comparison, it wasn’t any nuttier than the Portland Timbers games I had experienced back home: the fans in the other end zone were singing and waving flags right from the beginning and everyone booed the referees loud and long anytime the calls went against Porto, but otherwise, it was fairly calm. The relatively subdued nature of the crowd might have something to do with the prohibition on alcohol sales at the game. The teams’ main sponsor is Super Bock beer — they seem to sponsor everything here — but the only product of theirs for sale at the stadium was their alcohol-free version. That early goal held up and Porto won 1-0, moving up to — if you’re keeping track — third place in the Primeira Liga. It was a great experience and I’m really happy I stumbled upon the opportunity. 

I’d like to write about the local cuisine but, truth be told, I haven’t had much of it. There’s a reason why, unlike Italian, French, or Spanish eateries, you don’t see many Portuguese restaurants outside of Portugal: the food is not that interesting. Sure, it’s hearty and fresh, but it’s also a simple cuisine, I’m guessing because of the generally low standard of living here, and it’s mostly fish, pork, and organ meats — tripe is big here — served with rice, potatoes, and some salad greens for decoration. Admittedly, we aren’t the best judges because we aren’t big seafood eaters but, when I asked my expat friend Meredith for restaurant recommendations, she suggested a pizza place, a burger joint and a middle Eastern restaurant, admitting that she wasn’t that fond of the local food either. I did have an appetizer of cod fritters at a local bar and they were good, but that’s as close to authentic Portuguese cooking as I’ve gotten. Desserts are big here, of course, and I’ve eaten my share of Pastel de Natas, the national pastry.  I’ve got my eye on some small, authentic Portuguese places for when Denise returns, so I’ll get back to you.

The wine is generally good, with the reds from the Douro Valley reminding me of big California reds, such as the Napa Cabernets,  while the Alentejo wines are more rustic, European-seeming, and, to me, more interesting. They are versatile food wines and pair well with pastas or meat dishes. I haven’t tried any top-shelf white wines, preferring to stick with the simple boxed branca wines for the sake of my budget. I did buy a bottle of a tawny port for after dinner purposes but I’m not a big fan of those wines, I’m sorry to say, being in Porto and all. I was much more intrigued by the Portuguese national liquor, Beirão, a digestif originally produced to calm the stomach. The mixture of herbs and plants is a secret closely held by the manufacturer but I’d say it’s not dissimilar to Pimm’s, Amaro, or Chartreuse. If you’re a fan of those types of liqueurs, I’d recommend it. 

I’m warming a little to the Portuguese language — or at least I’m starting to see the similarities to Spanish in the written form. When it’s spoken, however, I am completely lost. In the other countries that we visited, I took pride in learning the basics and enjoyed seeing how far into a conversation I could get, but here, I go right for my Fala Inglés? I heard a street performer singing in Portuguese the other day and wondered how the language could sound so beautiful when sung and so harsh when spoken. If we move here, I’ll definitely put the work into learning as best I can but I can tell it won’t be easy.

And now, here are some random photos from my walks:

Back in Portland, Denise is doing great work getting our son settled and she’s planning on returning early next week. I’m excited to show her the unique parts of Porto that I’ve discovered while she was gone. Of course, the rainy season will start soon, so we’ll have to wear our raincoats, but at least the bulk of the tourists will be driven away, clearing the sidewalks for our explorations. Until then, bom dia!