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.
Friday, June 27, 2008
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.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
