Community, Tight Corners, and Tidbits

Community can mean a lot of things. Back home (California) being part of a community is a place you live and may mean going to local events. Sometimes you’re lucky enough to be in a neighborhood where people look out for each other… you know, like when you accidently leave your garage-door open and they close it or text you and tell you. Thankfully, that’s what we have.

But, I’m talking about a different kind of community. The kind with thousands of little acts of concern, attention, and kindness. That’s what this village has perfected. If an elderly person is struggling up a hill, whoever is walking by changes their path to help them. If someone drops something others stop and help pick it up. If a soccer ball rolls by, everyone—even grandma—kicks the ball back to its owner. One of my favorites was the other day on my walk I watched as a filthy car stopped next to one of the guys who was spraying down the sidewalks. They rolled up their windows and turned on their windshield-wipers as an invitation. The guy laughed and thoroughly sprayed the car down.

When someone wants to save a table at a street café, they set their cell phone on the table and go inside to order. It’s sort of a foreign concept that someone would take it… because it’s not theirs. Front doors are left open. Car windows are down. Laptops are in plain sight. If someone leaves a jacket or scarf, someone will trot after them to return it. But if there’s no one to give it to, they leave it where it was. It will be there for days. If laundry falls off the line it is put back on the line or set on the ground beneath the line if it’s a couple of stories up.

It’s nothing to see people walk across the street with restaurant wine glasses and beer steins to sit on the ocean wall. When they’re done, they just carry it back to the restaurant. It’s not really very complicated. Don’t get me wrong… they’re not saints. Back when we had our plumbing problem in the bathroom, we had a sopping wet, stinky rug to deal with. We didn’t want to make our housecleaner carry away this gross mess, so Joe rinsed it a little bit in the shower (because I refused to touch it) and carried it out to the clothesline. We left it out there overnight because we didn’t want it in the house. Well, karma was at work that night. A thief stole it. Can you imagine what went though his or her head when they put it in their kitchen or bathroom?

When a beach umbrella breaks loose (frequently) and goes tumbling down the beach, everyone in its path joins the attempt to keep it out of the ocean. This may actually be a national sport. I’ve never seen people break into a sprint quite like the umbrella-chase. A lot of times the owner is playing out in the ocean and is unaware. No biggie. A group effort to put the umbrella back to its rightful spot takes place. BTW, a cool trick I learned here was to fill that sleeve the umbrella comes in with sand. Then you hook it to the umbrella. It makes a great anchor.

When someone is backing up in a car to try and fit into the ridiculously small spaces, anyone nearby guides them. It’s a group effort. The other day a guy backed into a post (they’re fairly flexible posts for that reason) right in front of us. The problem with the posts, is they’re just short enough to not show up in the rearview mirror. This lady yesterday almost backed into one, but Joe warned her. She said thanks, and pulled forward. Unfortunately, she proceeded to back into a different one even with people trying to guide her. We left the scene… it was too painful to watch after she hit a second post.

Our street corner is absolutely crazy. It’s such a tight corner and has a one-way street going down in front of the house and a non-usable one-way street on the side (because of a construction project). I’m amazed at the size of vehicles that make their way around the curve right past our house. Clearly these roads were built before cars. To explain a little more clearly, before you get down to our house there’s a super narrow alley… think Smart Car. No construction, delivery, or van is going to get through it. To solve that problem they come from the other direction—backing up! Backing up past the tight corner in front of our place. It’s insane. Also, because of limited parking, cars will back up the closed side street, but they leave their phone number on their dash in case someone needs them to move.

Speaking of construction… it’s more of a suggestion really. Manual labor is a scarcity here, like in America. Something happened that made young people see craftsmen and manual laborers as failures. They want to have a high-paying office jobs and then complain of boredom. The problem is that the world will not function without these craftsmen. Typically, in almost every first-world country, the laborer makes more money. But even the crummy jobs are considered beneath our youth. My first brush with this was in the Algarve at a winery. The guide said the vineyards used to be harvested by teenagers wanting some extra summer money. Now they have to hire immigrants because the kids want to hang out at the beach. Up here in Sesimbra, our plumber cannot keep up with his workload, but he can’t get anyone to help him. He says young people don’t want to do that kind of labor. Then came the air-conditioner guy. He had a young man he was teaching the trade to… there’s hope for the world.

As we sat at our favorite tapas bar, The Lighthouse, around the corner from our house we got to talking to the Canadian owner about Sesimbra. He has a lot of the foreigners come to his place because he plays old-school British and American music. A common complaint he hears is people are bored in this village. They ask him what do people do here? Other than walking up to the castle, there’s nothing to do but sit around at cafes and go to the beach. He laughed as he told us, “This is what we do. We visit. We enjoy each other’s company. Our agenda is to meet for a cup of coffee in the morning, a cup of beer in the afternoon, to stand in the ocean, and a cup of wine at night. Other than that, we work twelve-hour days.”

Advice: When paying with your credit card, keep in mind the dollar to euro conversion. First of all, we recommend you get a card with a bank that doesn’t charge for the card conversions, like Charles Swab. When paying your bill, the clerk hands you the little card machine. Look for the question “1. Pay in dollars” or “2. Pay in euros”. We always choose to pay in euros. Then another question immediately pops up. “1. Accept conversion” or “2. Reject conversion.” We choose reject conversion. This prevents them from applying their own conversion. It saves you money. Not every card reader has these questions, but you should be aware.

Another recommendation is to wear shoes (including flip-flops) that don’t skid on the cobblestone sidewalks. This doesn’t guarantee you won’t slip, but it sure stacks the odds in your favor. My flip-flops are worthless… cute but worthless.  We choose our route based on the slippery-ness of the streets. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve lost my footing. The other day I was going down the steps and I did a slow-motion fall. Thankfully I was holding the rail, so I just sat on my butt, but I got a gnarly cut on my toe. I admired that cut for days because it reminded me how lucky I was to be holding that rail!

Sorry for the longer than usual blog-post. We’ll be starting our journey home tomorrow.

Bacalhau, Smoking, and Santos Populares

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.

Best Screenplay Award, Beach Life, and Plumbing.

Remember when I told you The Tattered Book had been nominated for Best Screenplay at the European International Film Festival? Well, it won! Can you believe it? It’s a nice feather in my cap for sure. I got a very pretty laurel too ;)

Today is our anniversary. We’ve been married 38 years. We celebrated by having a pastry for breakfast and for lunch our friends from Lisbon came to visit. Antonio’s son is sixteen years old now. That seems amazing to me… I remember when he was twelve. He’s so tall. Martinho and Antonio are getting married next week in Martinho’s tiny village he was raised in. They showed us pictures of the venue on a small river running through the forest. It looks beautiful. There’s going to be 150 people there! I wish we could make it, but it’s too far and too difficult to get to.

We found a beautiful restaurant way up on the hillside. We could see it from the beach, so we wandered around until we found it. What a great view! From up there you can see the frenzied work being done to prepare for the busy season. It looks like they planted an orchard of umbrella posts. Based on the other umbrella orchards nearby, I’m sure they will have a great crop soon. After we said goodbye to the boys, we walked up there for a glass of wine and a beer. Tonight I’m making filet mignon and potatoes for our dinner. Maybe the neighborhood cat will join us again. He’s definitely friendly.

This Airbnb in Sesimbra is a love hate thing. We love the location near the beach. I can see the ocean from where I’m sitting right now. Marco, the host, is very nice. We have a functional little kitchen and living room with a good size bedroom. The bed is too hard, but I put the big, fluffy comforter under the sheets and now it’s cozy. The bathroom is nice looking with a good shower. Unfortunately, it has a leak… from the sewer line. Need I say more? It smells horrible and I have to put down towels to contain it. Marco has done everything in his power to fix it, but you can’t get a plumber in this little fishing village at a moment’s notice. The guy came and worked on it, but it still leaks. This weekend is the “Popular Saints” festival, so my toilet is very low on everyone’s priority list so we have to wait until next week. We’ll live. Just have to keep the bathroom door closed. Shrug. Oh yeah, the AC is still broken but they’ve ordered parts for it. Can you imagine how stressed-out Marco must be?

Today is windy and a little cool. Joe got a haircut and then we came across an Italian guy we’d met yesterday. We sat at their table (he and his Portuguese girlfriend) and had a conversation in Portuguese, Italian, Spanish, and English. He’s from Verona, so of course we talked about the movie. Backing up a little, a couple of days ago an Italian man, Tiziano, stopped at my porch (actually a step) to visit. Somehow we hit it off. He sat next to me on the step and we talked using the translator app. He was our buddy from that time on. He was staying at the place across the alley. Without the app, we were incapable of communicating, but we somehow became friends and were introduced to his other Italian friends.

Sesimbra is very clean. People litter, especially their cigarette butts, but they have a clean-up crew working all the time to sweep the cobblestones on the streets and the promenade. They even have a big water truck with a long hose for pressure-washing the sidewalks and streets. It’s a full time job.

Our laundry-line is in the alley and at ground level. I went and bought one of those round things with clothespins to dry your underwear. I hung that inside to dry… I just couldn’t bring myself to have my undies hanging at eye-level as everyone walked by.

Speaking of alleys, we have a favorite fish restaurant called Remos. They seat you in this super-narrow alley and give the best service. They even removed the bones from the fish right at your table. So far we’ve had the Sea Bass for two and the Sea Bream for two. Yum. The only strange thing to adapt to is the pounding of hammers as the guests crack their lobster. Where I come from in Northern California, we use a tool like a vice. It looks like a large nut-cracker. Here, they lay a napkin over the shell and whack at it with cute little hammers until it’s edible.

Final Movie Meetings in Florence, On Vacation Now in Sesimbra

Calm. You may wonder how I could write an interesting blog about a soothing, calm experience? Sesimbra is so mellow and normal after the fancy-pants Italian culture. Though, right now I can hear a marching band performing on the oceanfront promenade around the corner. When I went for my speed walk this morning I watched them dragging old fishing boats onto the sand at the base of the fortress. A few people were in costume, so I guessed an event would follow… I was right. We’re going to head out and see what’s up.

It turns out that it’s Fisherman’s Day in Sesimbra. Every year on May 31^st, they re-enact the culture in Sesimbra during the mid 1900’s. A lady explained it all to me as we stood watching the activities on the beach with her Portuguese family interrupting her constantly to share some other tidbit with me. There were several groups represented; The fishermen, the widows, the wives, the girls who worked in the canneries, and the tourists. Even the donkey, an ever-present pet of a local, was present. It was actually pretty amazing to be here for such an important day.

I promised I’d recount the meetings on the day before we left Florence. We took the train to Prato and were picked up by one of the film-studio execs. He whisked us down every back road to the studio. This is not so much a filming studio but more a film preparation and post-production place. We were shown into the room with the artists creating costumes, then a room displaying some of their more famous costumes from the series; Medici.

We sat at a long table and discussed the production of The Tattered Book. The head of it all turned his laser eyes on me and asked me to tell him about the story, but don’t take too long. Hmmm… I’m still working on my pitch and I felt like it came off okay—not good, but okay. They expressed an interest in being hired for production. They asked for a copy of the book. Mark and their team discussed tax credits and rebates and other mysterious stuff. Finally we were whisked back to the train station and almost got hit by an SUV. Trotting through the tunnel (because we were late as usual) we got stopped by the police and were told to produce our passports. We don’t travel with our passports. Thankfully they accepted our driver’s licenses.

Back in Florence, we hoofed it to the next meeting using the app on my phone. This time was with a young woman who right away asked me to describe the story. I was still panting and sweating, but I did it. This time I finally found my rhythm. Instead of telling her the story, I said, “Imagine a magical book where the main character fell in love with the reader. What if it was about you—what you need, desire, yearn for. For everyone who reads it, the story is different. In this case, Cassi, a shy introverted woman, reads about a handsome detective in Florence. She dreams about him and Marco begins to fall in love with her during the dreams. When she reads the book, she sees herself in the story. Naturally, this makes her question her sanity, but her elderly friend encourages her to not take it so seriously… just enjoy the book while she can. Cassi gives him her email in a dream, and voila! They have a real connection… if only they could meet in the real world.”

Anyway, she liked it and was interested in producing it. She also asked for a copy of the book. I’m finding most of them are interested in getting paid to produce it. I don’t mean that in a cynical way, but it is their business. They make movies. However, they seem to want to make sure it’s something they want to be associated with. So far, it looks like I’m going to have to change the location to either Lucca, Pistoia, or Prato.

We said goodbye to Mark Holmes on Wed morning and we went our separate ways—us to Portugal and him off to Greece. Now we’re in a cute little house next to the beach in a fishing village. Part of the charm of Sesimbra is the difficulty in getting here. It keeps it slightly off the beaten tourist-path. We took an Uber from the Lisbon Airport for fifty bucks. Otherwise you have to take a train, a bus, and a walk. As it was, our Uber driver had a hard time getting us close to our place without scraping the side of his car on the narrow streets.

Sadly the air-conditioner is broken. The fan they brought over rescued us at night, and the mornings are fresh. We open all the windows like our neighbors and I sit on our step with a cup of coffee. As the locals walk past on their way to pastries I greet them with, “Bom dia.” Now I’ve wormed my way into their lives and they greet me, even if it’s somewhere else. The lady who cleans our street was stunned when I greeted her the other day. She just stared at me. Now she greets me first. She’s also on intimate terms with every dog in the neighborhood. They get so excited when they see her with her electric trike and bucket.

Joe goes to the beach gym and I go for my walk, then we pack up our backpack and head to the beach for the day. It’s absolutely lazy. The ocean street is one-way and can get busy. What amazes me is how patient people are. A van will stop in front of a restaurant to offload its product and the cars behind it just sit there… no beeping horns, nothing. It’s rare to hear a car horn, but there’re plenty of situations that would elicit that in the States. If someone walks by with a boombox, I can guarantee you it’s not a Portuguese. The only time you hear them being noisy is when they’re talking. It sounds like a fight, but it’s not… also when a Portuguese soccer game is on. Then it’s really loud.

Meat and Scouting Scenes

This may come as a shock to you, but I’m not a big fan of traditional Italian food. I don’t normally eat food made from grains, so pasta, bread, pizza, etc.. aren’t my favorite. I’ve learned to either get a charcuterie board or order from the ‘second plate’ part of the menu. This has been such a great discovery for me. I’ve heard of this Florentine Steak served here, but they are super expensive. It looks like it’s a thick cut of a ribeye steak leaving in the big center bone, which drives up the cost because it is sold by weight. It would be cheaper to order the famous meat raised near here as a ribeye instead of getting the Florentine cut. We ordered one just for the experience for 75 euros. It was delicious for the meat and fed the three of us, but, as I said, I’d just get a steak next time.

The restaurant we went to has the stereotypical Italian men working there. The good looking younger brother stands in the doorway flirting with every female that passes by and complimenting the men. He told Mark, “I’ve been to Alabama! I had a girlfriend there.” His brother was the waiter and an old guy who was probably the cook wandered around the tiny restaurant asking if they remembered the actor who played the priest on Saturday Night Live. The implication was that it was himself. He’d come back every couple of minutes to ask us again. We finally asked the server and he whispered it to Joe. Next time the old guy interrogated us we made a show of recalling the character’s name. It was comical how gratified he was.

We’ve been busily walking the routes of the characters from the screenplay. We went to the police station, down Via Santa Monaca (which I’m going to change to a more attractive street), Ponte Vecchio, the Duomo, and up and down every side street and alley we were drawn into. We even ate at Grom Gelato because that was in a scene—the sacrifices we make to create a film!

We also took the train to Lucca. This time we let Mark do his own thing while Joe and I wandered and sat watching the world go by. I think Lucca has everything we need to film The Tattered Book. Lots of narrow streets, towers, piazzas, and churches. The giant earthen wall outside the actual city walls is gorgeous and has plenty of romantic vistas. The tunnel from the police station outside the wall into the old city would be awesome on film.

The next day Mark and I took the train to Prato and Pistoia. Joe stayed home… which was a good thing because he discovered a rooftop bar to take me to. Mark and I hoofed it around Prato for several hours. It’s a nice, tidy city. It has a really cool castle right in the middle. Everything was good, but the vibe wasn’t quite right. Not that that’s important because the vibe is from the movie, but still… it kinda fell flat.

Pistoia was a similar city but had more elegant piazzas and churches. It’s famous for its flowers and nurseries. We came across several outdoor plant markets. I like Pistoia better than Prato. It’s more like Florence, but no crowds. We can’t decide which would be better; Pistoia or Lucca. On our way back we purchased our train tickets and went to the track along with fifty other people and climbed on board. Both of us immediately became immersed in our phones until a dude stopped by us and said, “They canceled this train. It’s not going. You need to get off.” That’s when we noticed we were the only ones on the train. We got off to chaos. Everyone was standing around wondering what to do. I went over to a young Italian woman and asked her what was happening. She shrugged and said she didn’t know. This kind of thing happens all the time. She was staring at the monitor watching for the changed platform to show up since our train was still sitting there on track 2. About one minute before the next train came in (supposedly to track 2) the sign changed to track 4. Everyone started running for the stairs down to the tunnel to get to the other side to track 4. It was crazy. We all clambered aboard and sat there for five minutes. All-in-all, we were an hour late getting home.

Mark went to Rome for more meetings. One was at a well known producer’s home. He invited Mark for dinner and had several people there whom he works with regularly. It lasted so far into the evening that Mark didn’t bother finding a hotel and just stayed awake until his 6:00 am train. Today was more meetings that I’ll tell you about in the next blog.