On this trip I have had many fans (made up primarily of people who have to love me like my family and friends). One of these awesome individuals took such an active interest in my travels that he wrote a list of questions which I truly enjoyed thinking about. It has taken me awhile to give them the time they deserve, and I still ended up a little short on a few. However, for whomever is curious, here are some thoughts. Thank you to Michael Gratta for getting some rusty cogs grinding.
Was Josep affected by the dairy strike in Europe?
I meant to ask him about it, but he seemed to be a man with a real love for his life and one who was just clinging on to that sort of existence. His dream was to be able to sell artisenal cheese so that he was not forced into a situation where he would have to switch to more modern methods like hay and corn fed cows. Even now Josep has to sell his milk at a low price to be thrown into a mixed vat and homogenized and superheat treated. Considering the Spanish expertise on meat I would expect better than just the UHT (Ultra Heat Treated = tasteless) milk that I had everywhere outside the farm.
Is everyone freaking out about a recession over there too?
Everyone abroad vacillates between talking about how wealthy we are and how we are undergoing a huge recession and our money is worthless. It's all over the place and seems to affect no one worse than traveling Americans who get hounded for being wealthy and dominant or get ripped off for the dollar. But that's just the self involved perspective. Surprisingly, no one seems to have any desire to travel to the USA (the only ones who do have no capability because of our horribly strict VISA policy).
What are the thoughts about the future of american politics?
American politics are another confusion. People in India seem to be on the Obama train in some places and all about Bush (and therefore I assume McCain) in others. The strangest place was Macedonia where everyone knows perfectly well that they don't like what Bush does, but because he supports Macedonia in front of Greece they are on board with the Republicans. Overall most people know about our economy sinking faster than the Titanic, but they all still claim that we are the superpower of the world. I don't know what to think about it really, but I think the future, hopefully under Obama, will show that we are ready to step back and listen to how the rest of the world thinks we should handle ourselves. By the same token, I do see a need to maintain some influence in the Middle East; there are a lot of ideas out there I would like to keep far away from my hemisphere after having even befriended some of the Muslim world's most amazing people.
What does tumeric come from?
Turmeric is actually native to South Asia and is pervasive in Indian, especially South, cuisine. The yellow powder is widely traded in the south of India along with saffron (a more flavorful and expensive but similarly hued spice). It actually comes from a green leafy plant that reminds me of some houseplants back home; and, like the one I accidentally killed before I left, they require quite a bit of water. The spice is part of the root system and is baked in an oven and ground to a powder to create its household form. In addition, turmeric is often used in Indian ceremonies and worship because of its bright color and has a special place in Hindu tradition.
Did you go to Sintra in Portugal?
Sintra in Portugal was a beautiful place to drive around. Genna and I met some lovely people and gaped out the car window at the hillsides covered in vineyards. I love the steep narrow roads that force everyone to drive reasonably sized vehicles and the small community feel of it all. As we drove up to the northern border with Spain, people and scenery just kept getting friendlier and more beautiful. When we reached the absolutely adorable northernmost wine region of Melgaco, well known for their espumantes or Portuguese champagne, it almost felt like we had reached Zion.
Did you go to Granada?
Sadly, we did not make it to the south of Spain. Would you like to take a trip with me and show me around?
What was working on the farm like?
Working on the farm was one of the most phenomenal experiences of my life. Actually, since I am a rather blessed individual, I should pick a more descriptive adjective.
Working on the farm was not only educational in an agricultural aspect, but was perhaps the luckiest Genna and I have been on this entire trip. Here's why: the WOOFing organization is a little bit of a crap shoot as far as I have heard. While some "farmers" who have paid the fees to be a part of the organization truly are aiming themselves towards complete sustainability, many are said to be more like expatriates who have bought some comparatively cheap land and are looking for a place to hang out and be little hippies until the end of their days. I have no problem with this. Josep, on the other hand, I would imagine had a farm completely unlike most on the WOOFing list.
First of all, he ran one of the last traditional type dairy farms in probably all of Spain. The cows ate fresh grass every day, were talked to like children (albeit unruly ones) and cared for exclusively by Josep for the last 11 years. Genna and I worked our butts off and combined we could still never accomplish half of what this man could in one day. It's only after peeling the last callous off my palms in Macedonia that I truly was able to understand the fortune that Genna and I had to find such a quirky and traditional Catalunyan family to show us what the north of Spain was really about. I'm certain I will never experience anything like it again.
Are you homesick?
You know, there are things I miss about home, like my family and friends, but I love meeting new people and seeing how others get along. I would say my love for home ties with my love for the entire globe, so I'd like to divide my time between the two. Of course the other part about that is that I really have not had a long-term living quarter since I moved from Dirty Jersey (my first love) at age 16. So I guess that makes it all the easier for me to think of the world as my home, which, as corny as it sounds, I truly believe.
Are you going back to colorado?
As it turns out, I am going back to Colorado. I love the state and people of Colorado; it's a place that has a lot to offer when you don't know where you are going or what you are doing. It's a place where there is a laid back peace that I need when I'm not invested in a project. It's also a place where people, beyond all reason, seem to love me. Still, I had hoped to go to New York this September for graduate school and psyched myself up to see the leaves change for the first time in years. I hope to stay out here long enough to figure some things out, but not forever. I do think it's time to move on with my life and start something new somewhere new...anywhere.
What should I do with my life?
Learn. I can't figure any of it out so in the meantime I just think if I can open my eyes and ears and take time to think before I talk and act perhaps things will fall into place by my facilitation not overactive engagement. I guess it's sort of a laissez faire approach to life, but if it's done with the right heart I am hoping it has great potential. We'll see. (Too sappy? Get a tattoo to balance it out.)
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Timeout for the Juvenile Delinquent
I wake up with a large metal pot beside me and overly chipper rays streaming in from the open sun room. Outside I hear Genna arguing with Pavle about the Greeks and Macedonia's right to their name. It's 5 o'clock in the morning.
When I get up to use the bathroom the memory of last night's party rises from my quivering vacant stomach and spreads violently throughout the trashed apartment. I barely make it back to bed before my legs give out. Five hours later I emerge once more to find a dozing Genna in pristine flat. Could it all have been just a dream?
No, my Macedonian friends managed to out "hospitalitate" me in my own space right down to mopping the floor while Genna and I dripped punch-flavored dribble down our dozing chins. Now this is an embarrassment.
It all started when our attempt to introduce the drinking game Quarters (which I am good at) degenerated into a perfidious game of low card (which, if it had any skill involved, I would suck at). Not only do I draw the initial two low cards, but also discover that this means I am to drink double - oh, and I can't leave the table until drinking at least 3. In other words I'm screwed.
It takes little more than an hour for us to run out of beer and vodka and for me to be focusing on people's pupils in a lame attempt to appear sober. This is what I get when I try to combine American and Macedonian party tradition: drunk by midnight with a party that intends to be bumping until 4. By 1 AM I am perched on a pitch black landing 2 floors above and hung over a flower pot and wishing for swift death.
Finally I hear Genna sneak out of the apartment in search of me. I let out a weak murmur, relieved and grateful that she is alone and I can admit my plight. The girl is an angel. After failing in her attempt to teach me how to make myself throw up she navigates me down the stairs, through the bustle of hopefully happy party-goers and into bed. As I try to slow down the merry-go-round that has become Pance's air mattress, a trickle of Macedonians come to sympathize. Despite my mortification, one after another offers a empathetic memories of similar moments of inebriation. For my part, I had made it to 25 without betraying myself so egregiously and figured I was in the clear. Wrong.
And so it seems that all hopes to prove to these people that I could be as nice, as giving, as totally hospitable as seems to be their nature have failed. Instead I find myself ever more grateful for their patience with my flailing American ways. Yet I wonder, was it a good party?
When I get up to use the bathroom the memory of last night's party rises from my quivering vacant stomach and spreads violently throughout the trashed apartment. I barely make it back to bed before my legs give out. Five hours later I emerge once more to find a dozing Genna in pristine flat. Could it all have been just a dream?
No, my Macedonian friends managed to out "hospitalitate" me in my own space right down to mopping the floor while Genna and I dripped punch-flavored dribble down our dozing chins. Now this is an embarrassment.
It all started when our attempt to introduce the drinking game Quarters (which I am good at) degenerated into a perfidious game of low card (which, if it had any skill involved, I would suck at). Not only do I draw the initial two low cards, but also discover that this means I am to drink double - oh, and I can't leave the table until drinking at least 3. In other words I'm screwed.
It takes little more than an hour for us to run out of beer and vodka and for me to be focusing on people's pupils in a lame attempt to appear sober. This is what I get when I try to combine American and Macedonian party tradition: drunk by midnight with a party that intends to be bumping until 4. By 1 AM I am perched on a pitch black landing 2 floors above and hung over a flower pot and wishing for swift death.
Finally I hear Genna sneak out of the apartment in search of me. I let out a weak murmur, relieved and grateful that she is alone and I can admit my plight. The girl is an angel. After failing in her attempt to teach me how to make myself throw up she navigates me down the stairs, through the bustle of hopefully happy party-goers and into bed. As I try to slow down the merry-go-round that has become Pance's air mattress, a trickle of Macedonians come to sympathize. Despite my mortification, one after another offers a empathetic memories of similar moments of inebriation. For my part, I had made it to 25 without betraying myself so egregiously and figured I was in the clear. Wrong.
And so it seems that all hopes to prove to these people that I could be as nice, as giving, as totally hospitable as seems to be their nature have failed. Instead I find myself ever more grateful for their patience with my flailing American ways. Yet I wonder, was it a good party?
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Wind up to NASA's 4th finest
At 3:30 in the afternoon I call Genna from our favorite cafe where I have been cutting and pasting away my afternoon. "She'll be here in 20 minutes if you can make it." I pause for a minute, wondering if there is some feasible way that I can not make it. But the ease of using Skopje's Partizanska buses makes for a timely arrival, leaving me with little legitimate excuse to ditch out.
It's a combination of factors that urges my naughty shoulder devil to forsake Genna for this journey to see a pile of rocks on top of a hill in the farmlands outside of Skopje. At the top of the list is UNESCO and hospitality. That's right. We are in a situation in which UNESCO and hospitality have the potential to ruin our lives. First of all, UNESCO, I don't know if you foresaw this when you set about to indulge the great and lesser nations of this world by throwing your clement little labels willy nilly across the globe, but I beg you: STOP!
We have dropped jaws at Agra and Varanasi; we have creeped the rickety tracks of the toy train in Darjeeling; we have been sexually harassed outside the crumbling Red Fort in Delhi and in the Medina of Marrakech. We have intoxicated ourselves in the Alto Douro Wine Region; we have circumnavigated the Monastary of Batalha; we have stalled the car lost in the hilly cultural landscapes of Sintra and we have blistered our heels in the old cities of Salamanca, Cáceres and Merida. And yes, we have also been lectured about missing the great rock-art sites in the Coa Valley, the historic city of Meknes, Santiago de Compostela and Goa. No, we did NOT make it to Granada or Evora or Fez. And damnit, before we make it home there is a damn good chance that Genna and I will not have been to the one and only Macedonian UNESCO heritage site: Ohrid. So, UNESCO, I beg you, end this plague of pride that you, like some depraved ecumenical Santa, have dispersed helter skelter upon this earth. You are killing me.
Secondly, hospitality, is it possible to have too much of it? Since we would be nowhere without our extensive Macedonian network, that's a big round NO. However, it is possible to have too much of it in too short of time: I call it hospitality saturation. They are amazing. Macedonians are so adept at hosting that a 22 year old (featured in Macedonia's newspaper with a subtitle reading They may look small in number, but these hooligans cause a big mess), is able to arise from an all night bender, stumble down the street, take us two bus rides away to his uncle's bakery where we learn to make burek, and manage to hold off chain smoking in front of his father the whole while. Oh yeah, and at any level of intoxication or sleep deprivation the kid can beat me at backgammon while ensuring that I have a Nescafe in one hand and a lemonade in the other.
Their capability to over-indulge me with host offerings is as epic as their ability to commune. On the day of our trip to the largest waterfall in Macedonia our incredible guests manage to get a borrowed car from Skopje to come pick us up from the bus station, serve us a breakfast of yogurt, fresh apricot juice, water, Turkish coffee and fresh homemade pastry before driving us to the border with Bulgaria. Here, while we overcome the difficulties of a lost and stalled vehicle, we purchase a watermelon, a round of beers, and a delicious fruit I've never seen or tasted before in my life. Our return rewards us with 5 kebaps, a Shopska salad and another round of beers. Then, on the way back towards the city we pause for a look at Stip's oldest church and a hike up to the town's viewing point where the pervasively popular cross at the summit signifies our triumph. Anetta then buys us coffee while she waits for our bus to come pick us up and take us back to the waiting arms of Pance's parents who have dinner prepared to be followed by ice cream and coffee. Saturated I say.
So, after a full week or of these types of interactions (pause for more passive Peace Corps Jerry who just gets me drunk and lets me pass out on his couch), I realize that my base saturation level is far askew from my Eastern European counterparts. This, I tell myself, will be my final endured UNESCO moment and from here on out I will make these kindly Macedonians mete out their hospitality in more reasonable doses, like once a day. And so, let the Kokino adventure begin...
Friday, June 27, 2008
Travelling in Pairs (Part 2)
Today is Genna's turn to make it happen, and perhaps it is because of my excesses that she chooses the way she does. Still, at least until this afternoon, I am bound to her as a loyal travel partner and friend. Along our nightly adventure of finding a place to sleep Genna and I come across one of Portugal's many sport centers. This is something we find remarkable about the country - along with an incredible knowledge about wine and regional pride, each little town seems to have the most well-funded sports complex that I have ever come across. It's a nice change from requiring my first born to afford the overcrowded gyms of Boulder, or worse, joining one of our expansive networks of Megachurches in the US that substitute for community builders in a country that refuses to fund secular wholesome social organizations (yes, I have become a raging liberal thanks to travel and the New Yorker). Anyway, I make the mistake of driving past one such sports complex where Genna, again to my misfortune, notices a large pool inside.
"I know, let's get up and swim laps tomorrow!"
Alright, this girl has got to be joking. I make her drink wine and eat ice cream and she's about to drag me into a pool in the middle of Portugal to swim laps? Does she know that my mother is worried that I will drown someday because I am such a pathetic flailing swimmer? She doesn't, nor does she care.
The morning arrives and I hope the girl has forgotten about this ill-advised bout of motivation. Luck is not with me. Having sacrificed both of our absolutely rockin' pack towels to the travel gods, we are left bringing some stinky laundry into the recreation center housing my chlorinated nemesis. Once inside we are promptly interrogated about whether we possess the required swim caps. Does this lady know that I do not have so much as a bathing suit let alone a swim cap? Well no problem then, she hands over two child size caps for me to tuck my 2 foot mane underneath.
Once in the locker room, beside what is becoming a regular entourage of elementary schoolers, I stuff my rolls into a neon green sports bra bargained down to 20 derham in the harassing markets of Marrakech. The tush gets tucked into a set of men's boxer briefs stolen from a Moroccan surfer on the beaches of Imessouane, and finally the hair bubbles out of the head condom that the Portuguese think will somehow contain me (I'm an extra large like everybody else you know). We do our best to avert our eyes from the mirrors as we pad out to the pool, me meanwhile cursing Genna with every waddled step.
We emerge to a team of aerobicisers in the small pool, a flock of youngin's in swim class readying themselves to belly flop into the lanes, and parents abound in the bleachers above to watch little Johnny, I mean Juan-i, thrash about in the blue-bottomed pit. I have immediate flashbacks of red splotchy bellies and chlorinated lungs. Great.
I make a personal note to ensure that Genna dies a miserable death at some point in the near future as a woman in a very sleek looking one piece speedo approaches us with a confused look on her face. It turns out that this is a one-piece only sort of pool and do we not have speedos with us? Well, wouldn't-ya-know, I do have a speedo right with me I just opted for the far superior armamentarium that is my lime green bra and men's underwear combo. She must have not sensed my urgent telepathy, because to my absolute disappointment the woman allows us to carry on. And so to the stares of every adult in the room and some of my traitor 8 year old compatriots we submerge ourselves in the tepid pools and prepare to stroke.
Since we have also been waved off of the kickboards I will now have to prove my mother wrong by surviving this entire adventure without any flotation device aside from the butt cheeks I've been busy padding over the past 6 months of travel. The still psyched Genna drags me across the pool lap by lap, me constantly pulling up my inferior sports bra for fear that I will flash a crowd of onlookers who are all too busy trying to figure out what the hell we are doing there. After what seems like the longest 45 minutes of my life the girl agrees that it is time to raise ourselves out of this water torture.
I trudge my soppy way to free showers, the silver lining on this madness, and assure myself that the next time I feel our ideas of a "good time" seem like they should be an even trade I will promptly bop Genna over the head with a leg of jamón Iberica.
"I know, let's get up and swim laps tomorrow!"
Alright, this girl has got to be joking. I make her drink wine and eat ice cream and she's about to drag me into a pool in the middle of Portugal to swim laps? Does she know that my mother is worried that I will drown someday because I am such a pathetic flailing swimmer? She doesn't, nor does she care.
The morning arrives and I hope the girl has forgotten about this ill-advised bout of motivation. Luck is not with me. Having sacrificed both of our absolutely rockin' pack towels to the travel gods, we are left bringing some stinky laundry into the recreation center housing my chlorinated nemesis. Once inside we are promptly interrogated about whether we possess the required swim caps. Does this lady know that I do not have so much as a bathing suit let alone a swim cap? Well no problem then, she hands over two child size caps for me to tuck my 2 foot mane underneath.
Once in the locker room, beside what is becoming a regular entourage of elementary schoolers, I stuff my rolls into a neon green sports bra bargained down to 20 derham in the harassing markets of Marrakech. The tush gets tucked into a set of men's boxer briefs stolen from a Moroccan surfer on the beaches of Imessouane, and finally the hair bubbles out of the head condom that the Portuguese think will somehow contain me (I'm an extra large like everybody else you know). We do our best to avert our eyes from the mirrors as we pad out to the pool, me meanwhile cursing Genna with every waddled step.
We emerge to a team of aerobicisers in the small pool, a flock of youngin's in swim class readying themselves to belly flop into the lanes, and parents abound in the bleachers above to watch little Johnny, I mean Juan-i, thrash about in the blue-bottomed pit. I have immediate flashbacks of red splotchy bellies and chlorinated lungs. Great.
I make a personal note to ensure that Genna dies a miserable death at some point in the near future as a woman in a very sleek looking one piece speedo approaches us with a confused look on her face. It turns out that this is a one-piece only sort of pool and do we not have speedos with us? Well, wouldn't-ya-know, I do have a speedo right with me I just opted for the far superior armamentarium that is my lime green bra and men's underwear combo. She must have not sensed my urgent telepathy, because to my absolute disappointment the woman allows us to carry on. And so to the stares of every adult in the room and some of my traitor 8 year old compatriots we submerge ourselves in the tepid pools and prepare to stroke.
Since we have also been waved off of the kickboards I will now have to prove my mother wrong by surviving this entire adventure without any flotation device aside from the butt cheeks I've been busy padding over the past 6 months of travel. The still psyched Genna drags me across the pool lap by lap, me constantly pulling up my inferior sports bra for fear that I will flash a crowd of onlookers who are all too busy trying to figure out what the hell we are doing there. After what seems like the longest 45 minutes of my life the girl agrees that it is time to raise ourselves out of this water torture.
I trudge my soppy way to free showers, the silver lining on this madness, and assure myself that the next time I feel our ideas of a "good time" seem like they should be an even trade I will promptly bop Genna over the head with a leg of jamón Iberica.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Travelling in Pairs (Part 1)
Genna and I travel in a way that involves me dragging Genna into stores of goodies, markets with bounties of fruits and vegetables and any street-side stall that seems to be frying up mystery meats. She is a good sport and chows down brain or the curiously raw tasting sausages that are offered in narrow alleys or along sewage strewn streets. On my side of the bargain I do little but follow Genna into various bookstores or the Erotic Art Museum in Barcelona. The trade-off is more than fair to anyone in my shoes: fried brain vs. books and sex. She’s a good sport.
Occasionally the two of us ante up and commit to finding a monument or some Roman ruins, taking as many pictures as possible to prove to one and all that we are indeed educating ourselves as we eat our way around the world. But this, of course, is a sacrifice on both of our parts.
I don’t realize it until it has happened, but it comes my turn to even the deal somewhere around the middle of our road trip through Portugal. We wake up in the quaint (as if every Portuguese town weren’t the wholesomest damn thing you ever did see) community of Anadia, and I am more excited than ever because today we have a visit to the center wine production facility of Borlido. I am so eager in fact, that I ensure that we arrive to the famed little wine region of Sanghalos several hours early to track down our establishment before getting the usual meia leite de maquina at a cafe nearby. Then, just because we have a little extra time, I also make the girl tag along the journey down the roto do vinho to see if the kind people at the Casa de Saima would let us drop by unannounced. Although luck is not with me at the lush gardens of Saima, I do note an ice cream parlor we simply must stop by after our 2:00 appointment.
The tour through the Quinta is an unrivaled experience. We arrive in the waiting room of a Portuguese mansion that has been restored to house the offices and meeting facilities for the Borlido estate. In the outside courtyard a large fountain provides a relaxing soundtrack beneath the shade of grandiose palms and your usual Portuguese abundance of flowers and foliage. The setting gives no indication of all that goes on in the bowels beyond the creamy yellow paint and traditional blue mural tiles of its outside facade.
A glamorous young woman in silver heels, a glittery silver top and jewelry to match comes to greet us with some of the best English we have come across in Portugal. She leads us through the converted building and down a set of stairs at the bottom of which we are shot out into the shiny processing unit of liquors, liquors and more liquors. It's as though we have entered the world of Willie Wonka: polished pieces of equipment are buzzing and churning and the smell of almond fills the air.
An hour and a half later Genna and I have seen the endless caves (a creeping reminder of Poe's Cask of Amontillado), have learned the tedious process of quarter rotating the yeasty espumantes twice a day and have gotten a personal look at the corking, bottling and labeling lines where strong and proficient women smartly package and ship thousands of bottles a day. We have learned of the Portuguese drink known as the Tango which is a beer flavored with a the popular red grozhela berry and we have engaged our host with the intriguing dialectic over the Doniminacion de Origin Controlada labels that many Portuguese bottles boast to claim their single origin status. I am giddy with new information.
On our way out Genna and I inquire about this young glamorous woman's position at Borlido, as she seems to not only know everything, but is frequently called for questioning throughout our very personal tour. Just as we are about to step out of the wide garage and into the sunlight, as if emerging from a Food Network program tour or one of Mr. Roger's explorations into the zipper factory, we learn that we have been lead on a thorough personal tour by the winemaster and maker herself. Score.
Beaming with our fortune, I "drag" Genna to the ice cream shop down the street. Genna sees the closed blinds and door and waits in the car while I insist on running up to give the handle a turn. Locked. Maybe a knock I think.
A bent and smiley old Portuguese woman in a candy-striped tunic opens the door. Her Hobart mixer churns in the background while a counter chockablock with chocolate. I cannot help but invite myself into what is clearly more a processing facility than a vendor (and beckon Genna to come with). The woman does not speak any English but she can imagine why I am there. Without so much as a word between us she scoops two giant balls of stracciatella and plops them onto a double barreled sugar cone.
By the time Genna arrives I am a schoolgirl licking up my sweet treat as fast as it melts and have promptly made friends with the household hound - a sweet and aged cocker spaniel. The girl shakes her head at my absolute ridiculousness before the woman hands her a double cone of the same. As we sit there between the threshold of the ice cream shop and the interior which is clearly the woman's household kitchen I cede power to Genna for the next morning's activities; today is a day I got exactly what I wanted.
Occasionally the two of us ante up and commit to finding a monument or some Roman ruins, taking as many pictures as possible to prove to one and all that we are indeed educating ourselves as we eat our way around the world. But this, of course, is a sacrifice on both of our parts.
I don’t realize it until it has happened, but it comes my turn to even the deal somewhere around the middle of our road trip through Portugal. We wake up in the quaint (as if every Portuguese town weren’t the wholesomest damn thing you ever did see) community of Anadia, and I am more excited than ever because today we have a visit to the center wine production facility of Borlido. I am so eager in fact, that I ensure that we arrive to the famed little wine region of Sanghalos several hours early to track down our establishment before getting the usual meia leite de maquina at a cafe nearby. Then, just because we have a little extra time, I also make the girl tag along the journey down the roto do vinho to see if the kind people at the Casa de Saima would let us drop by unannounced. Although luck is not with me at the lush gardens of Saima, I do note an ice cream parlor we simply must stop by after our 2:00 appointment.
The tour through the Quinta is an unrivaled experience. We arrive in the waiting room of a Portuguese mansion that has been restored to house the offices and meeting facilities for the Borlido estate. In the outside courtyard a large fountain provides a relaxing soundtrack beneath the shade of grandiose palms and your usual Portuguese abundance of flowers and foliage. The setting gives no indication of all that goes on in the bowels beyond the creamy yellow paint and traditional blue mural tiles of its outside facade.
A glamorous young woman in silver heels, a glittery silver top and jewelry to match comes to greet us with some of the best English we have come across in Portugal. She leads us through the converted building and down a set of stairs at the bottom of which we are shot out into the shiny processing unit of liquors, liquors and more liquors. It's as though we have entered the world of Willie Wonka: polished pieces of equipment are buzzing and churning and the smell of almond fills the air.
An hour and a half later Genna and I have seen the endless caves (a creeping reminder of Poe's Cask of Amontillado), have learned the tedious process of quarter rotating the yeasty espumantes twice a day and have gotten a personal look at the corking, bottling and labeling lines where strong and proficient women smartly package and ship thousands of bottles a day. We have learned of the Portuguese drink known as the Tango which is a beer flavored with a the popular red grozhela berry and we have engaged our host with the intriguing dialectic over the Doniminacion de Origin Controlada labels that many Portuguese bottles boast to claim their single origin status. I am giddy with new information.
On our way out Genna and I inquire about this young glamorous woman's position at Borlido, as she seems to not only know everything, but is frequently called for questioning throughout our very personal tour. Just as we are about to step out of the wide garage and into the sunlight, as if emerging from a Food Network program tour or one of Mr. Roger's explorations into the zipper factory, we learn that we have been lead on a thorough personal tour by the winemaster and maker herself. Score.
Beaming with our fortune, I "drag" Genna to the ice cream shop down the street. Genna sees the closed blinds and door and waits in the car while I insist on running up to give the handle a turn. Locked. Maybe a knock I think.
A bent and smiley old Portuguese woman in a candy-striped tunic opens the door. Her Hobart mixer churns in the background while a counter chockablock with chocolate. I cannot help but invite myself into what is clearly more a processing facility than a vendor (and beckon Genna to come with). The woman does not speak any English but she can imagine why I am there. Without so much as a word between us she scoops two giant balls of stracciatella and plops them onto a double barreled sugar cone.
By the time Genna arrives I am a schoolgirl licking up my sweet treat as fast as it melts and have promptly made friends with the household hound - a sweet and aged cocker spaniel. The girl shakes her head at my absolute ridiculousness before the woman hands her a double cone of the same. As we sit there between the threshold of the ice cream shop and the interior which is clearly the woman's household kitchen I cede power to Genna for the next morning's activities; today is a day I got exactly what I wanted.
Friday, June 13, 2008
The Scenic Route
When I was a child (perhaps when we all were) my father would take my brother and me on routes he would euphimistically call "sidehighway trips." We knew better. Either the man was lost and wasn't admitting it, or worse, the man wanted to show us something educational or historical...groan. Somehow, some 10 years later, I find myself in my first rental vehicle, insurance waved (just like my parents would do), indicating to Genna the little brown sign on the side of the road, "Look, el roto do vinho! Let's go down that way." Away we bumble down the narrow roads of regions known for their brancos, tintos or espumantes just ogling at the vineyards, quaint houses just drowning in flowers and geriatric men camped at cafes watching the cars go by. When did I turn into my parents?
I suppose I must have done it sometime over the past decade but well before the rest of my kind. As it is, Genna and I seem to be not only the first Americans meandering around this place, but now the only people within about 20 years of our age. This is all well and good for us, at the port cellars in Porto we take charge and exuberantly ask questions about brandies and grape varieties, brown-nosing our way quickly to heads of the class. While the French tourists down their samples the honeymooners delicately sip theirs, leaving 3/4 of a glass just beckoning to be wineswept, especially when they have done so with a particularly pricey special reserve.
minesweeping: the act of taking for one's own the leftover food or drink of another (winesweeping: the act of minesweeping wine)
By midafternoon outlooks on driving out of Porto are grim and we are bound by our state of intoxication to another night in the beautiful riverside city of Porto. As we watch the sun set over the town reflecting pink off the houses that jut out of the steep hills on either side of the valley, we think of our mothers and how much they would like it, refusing to admit that we do, in fact enjoy it ourselves. Luckily for us Europe's obsession with soccer/futbol means that every night has entertainment to offer in the form of a giant screen staged in the center of town around which nearly everyone gathers and drinks either Super Bock or Sagres watery national beers. Now here's something we can do.
Still, in the process of watching France lose multiple times, the Netherlands triumph as often and Croatia, Romania and the Czechs go from highs to lows, I realize that even when becoming a soccer devotee it is impossible to catch a goal on live television:
Leigh takes a sip of beer, "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!"
"Damn."
Leigh gets up to go to the bathroom, "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!"
"Damn."
Leigh swears that she will not peel her eyes from the screen for 10 minutes, "Game over; Italy wins."
"Another Super Bock for me."
So, as our road adventure continues we head up north to the quaint castle-topped town of Melgaço where we taste the northern vinho verdes and espumantes which are just sworn to be leaps and bounds better than their sister fermentation: champagne. While I cannot swear to this I can swear that the northern Portuguese are some of the friendliest people on the face of the planet and their cultural pride is so welcoming that I am inclined to agree with whatever they tell me. If I had a 5 cent Euro for the number of times a person drew us a map for directions or simply walked with us to our destination I'd be super wealthy in US dollars (yes, it does suck to be on the Euro).
This is no more true than when we roll our Ibiza into the little town of Anadia where the Vine and Wine festival is about to get kicked off. The month of June is a regular extravaganza of free food, drink and entertainment in Portugal, and we have hit the motherload. It starts at the Bairrada Museum of Wine in the center of town. I am like an exhuberant school child as we approach the doors of the building that is to educate me on exactly what I love: people's love for food and booze. This is only more appropriate considering the crowd that awaits to enter. Standing in pairs two large classes of second-graders wait until the museum curator finished his cigarette and is ready to begin their tour. Don't you just love Europe?
So here Genna and I are, accompanying a bunch of 8 year old mini enologists through one of the most modern educational museums I have ever been in. The art exhibit in the top hall boasts a full floor with the title "Our King, The Pig." This takes some explanation: the traditional delicacy of Bairrada is the much prized roast suckling pig or leitao assada. So yes, they pretty much take a baby pig, skewer it down the middle, turn it slowly over a flame until its meat nearly melts off its fat little body and then serve it up with some delicious tinto espumante and an orange to cut through the soft thick flesh.
If their is one thing these Portuguese know how to do it is to fuse tradition with the modern and take pride in it. Acrylic, oil and spray painted canvases boast every impression of the leitao, including some very reminiscent of George Orwell's Animal Farm. At one point I find myself standing before a taxonomized piglet sitting in a high chair sporting a bonnet and a pacifier, meanwhile accompanied by an eery barnyard soundtrack. But yes, I do still plan on eating that little creature this evening at the festival...and apparently so do the rest of the elementary schoolers.
We emerge from the museum tagging along at the end of the line of children wondering when snacktime is and whether we can exchange our juicebox for wine. This is no matter as the Vine and Wine Festival is about to kick off and the adventure really starts...
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Teenagers
He could smell it. She had it and he wanted it...BAD. On the farm, when a cow is in heat there is no mistaking it. We are like the parents with horny teenage children. We see it in their eyes. We give them a stern talking to about the curfew: you MUST be back for the evening milking, or else. And just like me at that age, it is to no avail.
The moment the chains are released those two disappear like fugitives to greener pastures (so to speak). The toro sounds his huffy possessive moo, a signal that the surrounding herd is his and his only. But this week Mandarina has the seat of preference. She is the favored concubine among his harem: a young, beautiful bovine just exuding sexuality...literally.
So, when opportunities mount so does our bull. The evening milking comes and the cattle call is sounded by Josep and myself, "Chicas, venga!" As the sky illuminates the clouds into a fluorescent expansive of pink against the lush mountainside the girls wander their way back up to the farmhouse to relieve themselves of the incredible weight that a day full of eating has condensed into their udders. Genna stands guard, ready to take up the battle of the cereals. Genna against ruminant, ruminant against Genna. It turns out, we are neither stronger nor smarter than cows. Genna discovers the strength aspect when trying to guard the evening doling of cereals from the early arrivers who cheekily pilfer neighboring allotments or sneak into the cereal shed when we´re not looking. We both discover the intelligence aspect when we realize that even cows stop eating when they´re full, which is more than we can say. I´m only waiting for one to memorize the numbers of my checking account. But heck, that´s what you can expect from an animal that can lick INSIDE of its nostrils AND move each ear independently.
When the sun fades and the full moon rises to illuminate our valley we realize that we will not be seeing either the bull or Mandarina tonight. Tonight dinner conversation involves the usual talk of vacas in Catalan, only now "Mandarina" seems to be interspersed as often as "vacas" among the bubbling Catalan. Tomorrow, it seems, there will be hell to pay.
We arise at around eight to the sound of a buzzsaw that is the generator running suction throughout the milking barns that surround the house. Genna, not a morning girl, but definitely a bra-wearing one, awkwardly slings tangled straps around her shoulders as she forages for stinky sweatpants and a 5th day teashirt before stumbling into the bathroom we both been dreaming about since round 6AM.
By this time I am downstairs and in my shit-stained coveralls, albeit braless, and have stolen the one small pair of boots without the hole. I arrive at my post, bucket in hand, active and ready for duty sir. On a good day I arrive just in time for the first canister of milk to be poured into my bucket which I lug, lift, and pour (with finesse of course) into the double sieved huge vat. The variable amounts of milk these girls can crank out is absolutely astonishing. While some will provide only enough for breakfast, others can keep us supplied for a week.
After two weeks Genna and I have just about got this down to a science. While she hauls I scoop shit out of the second milking room and vice versa. Meanwhile we have learned to be of assistance with various tube attachments used for suction and have even personally fastened a sucker or two onto engorged teets. We swear that one day we could be in charge of the milking, but there would be no need for that as the man has been working 11 years, milking both day and night, with not one day off...NOT ONE.
Still, there is one thing I have turned out to be useful for on the farm. You might even say I´m a cowgirl. When the girls come in for their morning milking there are always a few stragglers. Today, I have rounded up all but Mandarina and the Toro and so it is that I am heading down to the electric fence to see if they have finally wandered their delinquent selves back to the gate this morning.
The good thing about being the parent of a bovine is that they come with a built-in security system. This does not only refer to the cowbell (farmer GPS) around their necks (that I´m sure my parents would have liked to attach to me), but also to the nature of the animal. Udders do not take time off for a little recreation.
There they stand, whiny adolescents lowing outside of the gate, knowing that they´re in trouble. When I open the gate, the bull meanders in, lazy and exhausted from the night´s fling and now seemingly disinterested in his conquest. Poor Mandarina, on the other hand, is in a state so pathetically hilarious that I almost keel over laughing. Hanging, bloated and massive between her shaking legs sags an enormous sack of udders dripping rich white dairy all over the cobblestone driveway.
"Venga" I tell her like the upset parent I should be, meanwhile chortling with amusement. She steps forward, each back leg painstakingly straddling the engorged balloon as she attempts to waddle her way up the hill. Her legs quiver with the weight and the awkwardness of her load. When we finally reach the milking barn the bull collapses on the floor in a heap. "I know how you feel," says Genna, "sometimes I get that way too." Mandarina, equally lethargic, leaks her way to her post where Josep does her the favor of immediately attaching the suction to her swollen teets. As they begin to deflate I swear I see relief pass across that bovine´s giant glossy eyes. Serves her right, think the three of us concerned parents as we give each other knowing winks. Ahh...teenagers.
The moment the chains are released those two disappear like fugitives to greener pastures (so to speak). The toro sounds his huffy possessive moo, a signal that the surrounding herd is his and his only. But this week Mandarina has the seat of preference. She is the favored concubine among his harem: a young, beautiful bovine just exuding sexuality...literally.
So, when opportunities mount so does our bull. The evening milking comes and the cattle call is sounded by Josep and myself, "Chicas, venga!" As the sky illuminates the clouds into a fluorescent expansive of pink against the lush mountainside the girls wander their way back up to the farmhouse to relieve themselves of the incredible weight that a day full of eating has condensed into their udders. Genna stands guard, ready to take up the battle of the cereals. Genna against ruminant, ruminant against Genna. It turns out, we are neither stronger nor smarter than cows. Genna discovers the strength aspect when trying to guard the evening doling of cereals from the early arrivers who cheekily pilfer neighboring allotments or sneak into the cereal shed when we´re not looking. We both discover the intelligence aspect when we realize that even cows stop eating when they´re full, which is more than we can say. I´m only waiting for one to memorize the numbers of my checking account. But heck, that´s what you can expect from an animal that can lick INSIDE of its nostrils AND move each ear independently.
When the sun fades and the full moon rises to illuminate our valley we realize that we will not be seeing either the bull or Mandarina tonight. Tonight dinner conversation involves the usual talk of vacas in Catalan, only now "Mandarina" seems to be interspersed as often as "vacas" among the bubbling Catalan. Tomorrow, it seems, there will be hell to pay.
We arise at around eight to the sound of a buzzsaw that is the generator running suction throughout the milking barns that surround the house. Genna, not a morning girl, but definitely a bra-wearing one, awkwardly slings tangled straps around her shoulders as she forages for stinky sweatpants and a 5th day teashirt before stumbling into the bathroom we both been dreaming about since round 6AM.
By this time I am downstairs and in my shit-stained coveralls, albeit braless, and have stolen the one small pair of boots without the hole. I arrive at my post, bucket in hand, active and ready for duty sir. On a good day I arrive just in time for the first canister of milk to be poured into my bucket which I lug, lift, and pour (with finesse of course) into the double sieved huge vat. The variable amounts of milk these girls can crank out is absolutely astonishing. While some will provide only enough for breakfast, others can keep us supplied for a week.
After two weeks Genna and I have just about got this down to a science. While she hauls I scoop shit out of the second milking room and vice versa. Meanwhile we have learned to be of assistance with various tube attachments used for suction and have even personally fastened a sucker or two onto engorged teets. We swear that one day we could be in charge of the milking, but there would be no need for that as the man has been working 11 years, milking both day and night, with not one day off...NOT ONE.
Still, there is one thing I have turned out to be useful for on the farm. You might even say I´m a cowgirl. When the girls come in for their morning milking there are always a few stragglers. Today, I have rounded up all but Mandarina and the Toro and so it is that I am heading down to the electric fence to see if they have finally wandered their delinquent selves back to the gate this morning.
The good thing about being the parent of a bovine is that they come with a built-in security system. This does not only refer to the cowbell (farmer GPS) around their necks (that I´m sure my parents would have liked to attach to me), but also to the nature of the animal. Udders do not take time off for a little recreation.
There they stand, whiny adolescents lowing outside of the gate, knowing that they´re in trouble. When I open the gate, the bull meanders in, lazy and exhausted from the night´s fling and now seemingly disinterested in his conquest. Poor Mandarina, on the other hand, is in a state so pathetically hilarious that I almost keel over laughing. Hanging, bloated and massive between her shaking legs sags an enormous sack of udders dripping rich white dairy all over the cobblestone driveway.
"Venga" I tell her like the upset parent I should be, meanwhile chortling with amusement. She steps forward, each back leg painstakingly straddling the engorged balloon as she attempts to waddle her way up the hill. Her legs quiver with the weight and the awkwardness of her load. When we finally reach the milking barn the bull collapses on the floor in a heap. "I know how you feel," says Genna, "sometimes I get that way too." Mandarina, equally lethargic, leaks her way to her post where Josep does her the favor of immediately attaching the suction to her swollen teets. As they begin to deflate I swear I see relief pass across that bovine´s giant glossy eyes. Serves her right, think the three of us concerned parents as we give each other knowing winks. Ahh...teenagers.
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