Food is by far the most difficult part of traveling for me. Not Joe. He’ll eat anything and rarely feels the affects of it. I feel best if I eat whole foods… you know, the kind you identify in one or two words? Restaurant food is rarely that way and because I don’t speak fluent Portuguese, I can’t special order very easily. I usually just order a burger with no bun, but we did find a piri-piri chicken restaurant that is good. The butcher shop and the municipal market are the answer to this dilemma, but then we have to cook. Our standard solution to getting simple food in our guts is to make scrambled ham and eggs every morning with a piece of fruit.
The other day we were at one of our favorite cafes and Marcia, the owner, came over and chatted with us. With a look of food-lust, she asked if we’d had the Francesinha. Yes, once in Porto and it was disgusting. “You must have gone to a bad restaurant.” I didn’t tell her we’d gone to a place famous for this heart-attack on a plate. Next came the extremely sensitive subject of bacalhau. This is the sacred dish of Portugal. It is dried cod that has been rehydrated through a long process and eaten a thousand different ways. We’ve had it about four times and the first time we spit it out. The next times we chewed our way through the tough stringy fish. It tasted okay. Marcia said her friend was making bacalhau for dinner and she was going to ask him to make an extra filet for us to try the next day. Uh-oh, now we were really going to be on the spot. The next day we returned for a beautifully prepared plate of food. It tasted good and was stringy like dental floss. We told her it was the best bacalhau we’d ever had, which was true. I just don’t understand why they’re so obsessed with it. It’s delicious fresh!
This is a fishing village, so the fish restaurants are great. It’s super fresh daily and a local told us to not bother with ordering fish on Monday because the fishermen take Sunday off. In the morning, on my speed walk, I get to see the locals walking back from the marina with baggies of fish. A truck drives around and delivers boxes of fish to the bigger restaurants.
Another thing I see on my walk (and all day long) is smokers. I’m out their quick-stepping with all the locals who are either walking or jogging. The thing that blows my mind is how many men I see going for their walk while smoking a cigarette! Really? This is a country where 99% of the restaurants have crowded outdoor seating. Is it because they love the outdoors? Nooo. It’s because they made a new law that you can’t smoke indoors. You have to go indoors to get fresh air… ironic isn’t it?
I just spent my usual one cup of coffee on my front step watching the neighborhood go by. Such variety. Most of the people heading uphill are empty handed. Coming downhill is different. They’re all carrying bags. Beach bags, garbage bags, or the iconic brown paper bag from the extremely popular bakery around the corner. I can hear the crinkle of the paper bags before they round the corner. There’s the old guy across the alley who steps out his door and almost falls—every single time. There’s the old lady following her dog who is taking itself for a walk with its leash in its mouth. Gratzia always stops to say hello and fire off a conversation in Portuguese and doesn’t seem to be bothered by the fact that I have no idea what she said. The ancient guy creeping down the street with his cane held up off the ground cracks me up. There’s a pretty woman, about 30-years-old, walking with either a stroller and 2 walking children, a dog, or a young man who appears to be recovering from a stroke. I wonder what her story is
Sesimbra is definitely a community of Portuguese. I told you about the cute little Santos Populares (Popular Saints). It’s really a nationwide month-long event. Lisbon has a specific day for this festival to go completely insane. It literally shuts down the entire road infrastructure for the entire city. I’m glad we’re here, but it’s not exactly calm here. I don’t know if I already told you about a unique Portuguese trait (besides being obsessed with soccer, exercise, smoking, making babies, and eating bacalhau)… they don’t sleep. I’m serious. These people don’t sleep. The festivities kitty-corner to our house begin at 10:00 pm. Festivities mean a band, street food (probably bacalhau), and dancing. It goes until at least 2:00 am, often until 4:00 am. No amount of dual-pane windows and earplugs can completely block out the noise. Naturally, people who want to chat gravitate to our side alley and stand there under our window and chat, smoke, and finish a beer. One night I was sure that it was a bad crowd across the plaza, so I peeked out my black-out blinds to see if we were safe. Yeah, we were safe. It was elderly people and families with little children dancing around holding hands. Fortunately, we can sleep through it and it’s only on weekends.
We have a lunch date tomorrow with our Italian friend, Daniele, to go to his favorite fish restaurant. We met an adorable young French couple yesterday. We plan to go out to dinner with them soon. Life is good. We’ve made new friends, but we’re ready to go home to our cat and garden, and of course, our family and old friends on the 26th. We’ve been gone for two months.
In case you’re wondering, The Tattered Book is still in production. This stage takes a long time, but Holmestead Entertainment is hoping to start filming in 2027. Possibly the spring, but more likely the fall. I’ve been tasked with cutting two and half pages of the screenplay to make it more appealing to the investors because they want to see 120 pages or less. They can be added back in at a later date, but my concern is that it won’t read as well without those parts. I’ve done my best, so we’ll see.
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