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.