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...
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