More things about Portugal

My family and I recently returned from (another) trip to Portugal. It was (another) phenomenal trip filled with growth and leisure, and we are incredibly grateful and fortunate to have had the experience.

I wrote a similar piece last year around this time. For this piece, it is less things I will miss, and more just things; things that made me stop and take notice, things that are different than they are in North America, and things that are simply conduits to share some of what transpired with myself and my family. I’m no expert in anything I discuss by any means (and welcome corrections and additions), but I do hope it leaves you with just a glimmer of the goodness and growth I experienced.

Things about Portugal

Barbeques

It took me a long time to realize it, but the standard propane BBQ of North America doesn’t seem to be a thing in Portugal, possibly not in all of Europe. At our little spot, we had a brick outdoor BBQ known as a Churrasqueira, which I still cannot say anywhere close to properly. The typical cooking method is charcoal, not propane. It’s a slower, more drawn out process for sure, unlike our instant on, barely need to heat up before burgers on North American grills. My first few attempts at cooking on this thing were absolute fails; I couldn’t even find any suitable YouTube videos on how to light it!! Oh how we have become dependant on the how-to. But after a few more tries and understanding some of the principles (i.e. — airflow is important!!) I was eventually able to get it started on the first go. Cooking fish on this thing was so satisfying. The crispy outer bits, and the smokey inner bits. And potatoes!! That’s pretty much all I did on it, and it was lovely.

Dogs

There are lots of dogs in North America. There are lots of dogs in Portugal. When you’re somewhere unfamiliar, dogs feel a bit more raw, just a tad more feral. This is how it was for me in Portugal, at least initially.

There were a few that lived on our street within a few doors of us. We would pass them on our way to and from our kid’s school. They were behind some low stone walls that were topped with fences thick with bramble, and that bramble had been ground away in certain spots by seemingly vicious… or more likely not vicious, just misunderstood dogs in their yards. These dogs were scary to us. They barked, we jumped. But really, I think they were just lonely. There are lonely dogs everywhere. Our fear was just a symptom of not knowing the place as well, and hence a loud barking presence is bound to stir up some anxiety. The kids got used to them and their barking, so did I. Us humans can get used to anything.

Family Values

There was a lovely man that worked at the local Pingo, our go to grocery store. It was roughly a 10 minute walk from where we were staying, after we eventually discovered the quickest route out of a multitude of different paths and alleys. This man typically worked at the cash at the Pingo, and often during evenings when i would swing by to pick up a thing or two we were missing, or in some cases to do as many groceries as I could carry in their mondo shoulder strap carry bags.

As I was saying, this man is quite lovely. He cast me immediately and would speak to me in english. He was always very careful when counting out change, moving groceries swiftly but with care through the process. In most Pingos the grocery store workers are seated. They have what looks like a little office-like station and sit there, as people stream by all day and evening. No matter how long the line, no matter how long this man was working, he would always take the utmost care with everyone that came through, he just exudes patience.

The other skill he clearly had was awareness. He could spot a newly pregnant person a mile away. Could be at the very tip of the long end of the line, he would spot them. And then he would halt everything he was doing and beckon that woman forward. Or if you had small kids, were elderly or in some kind of legitimate distress, this man could sense it right away, and with style and grace manifest that person to the front of the line with ease.

There was one time I was near the till having waited probably 10 or so minutes in the line one evening, and I see him beckon… through comes like a said, a barely showing woman with a couple groceries in her hands, that once I saw, yes was for sure pregnant, to the front of the line. Along came with her husband and a full bin of groceries. Part of me was in awe that he spotted her, and the other part of me had my North American insensitivity fired up, questioning their legitimacy as now I was having to wait even longer. But this man’s motions were almost spellbinding and I of course in the end, fully endorse the moves he made and hope to be more patient having been in his presence.

To round this one out; the behaviour of letting families and elderly to the front of the line was universal in Portugal. It is assumed, often either asked for by individuals, or offered by line waiters. And it is a lovely thing.

Dressing Well

I had some pretty serious culture shock walking down Somerset Street when I got home. Of course, you see a lot of stuff on Somerset Street that I’m not going to talk about now. What I am going to talk about; and this one might get me trouble; in comparison, many people in Ottawa dress rather slob-like compared to the average person in Portugal.

In Portugal, there is a real pride taken by individuals in how they dress. All the way from teenagers, to the elderly. Nice shoes, lots of collars or sweaters over the shoulders, well fitting clothes, style. Perhaps it is a certain uniformity, but it is refreshing.

Coming home, I immediately noticed how many people don’t give two shits what they look like here. I’m speaking primarily of men I suppose. T-shirts 5 sizes too big, shorts that are also too big with little space showing on their bare legs between their hiked up socks and running shoes. Not to mention, on average, we all weigh a lot more here; way more noticeable obesity. Hair unkept. Droopy backpacks. Nothing on point, nothing fresh. Personal style is at most a reflection of a sports team on a ratty ball cap.

I’m the same too — I came back and fell into old habits; jogging pants, hoodies, ballcaps. Its lazy. It’s ugly. And it doesn’t have to be that way. But it is, and it’s fine, I get it. Fashion isn’t a priority for most people. It’s costly, it requires thought, it’s unnecessary. But seeing the other side, it has some hard to describe benefits.

I’d like to appreciate North American style more. But the more I see of it, the more it just feels like it’s a symptom of a population that is lost and wearing that loss on their bodies.

Beach

What can I say, the beach is lovely. It’s a meeting ground for locals, and families alike. A place where everyone goes to hang out on nice days. Occasionally it’s a place for young people to have sex in the open (ok under a blanket, but ya, we saw that, and ya, it was 5pm. and ya, good for you!, and no, we won’t tell your parents). Folks kicking balls around, chatting, playing in the water, in the sand, generally hanging out. It’s all generally a wholesome place for people to hang out and soak up the beach vibes that permeate happiness and a glow to all that soak it up.

Friendliness, Brazilians

I’ll never forget what a cab driver told us on our second trip here in 2023; to paraphrase, he said people are friendly here because friendliness is proportional to your closeness to the ocean.

In general, as a tourist or multi-month visitor, the Portuguese are incredibly welcoming as a broad stroke.

But having now spent over half a year there in the last 18 months, the picture isn’t quite as clear. This last trip we were in a much more residential area, and a reasonably well to do one at that. Everyone was of course very friendly. But having chatted with lots of local folks that worked in the service industry, I learned that many / most of those folks were in fact Brazilian. On a scale of being able to interpret someone’s Portuguese origin from 0 to 100, I feel I’m now at 1 or 2… so not very far. But just far enough to learn that native Portuguese are at least a 90 on this scale, and apparently it does matter. And what I learned from the lovely and always friendly (and grateful) Brazilian Portuguese is that they are in fact not treated equally as European Portuguese, nor tourists. Several conversations had a similar tone;

“we love it here, the weather is just ok (not as nice as Brazil). Brazil has become incredibly dangerous, and it is so safe here. We aren’t treated all that well by the locals though”.

One Brazilian service worked I got to know that didn’t have anything bad to say about anyone was really only using Portugal as a stopover on their way to the USA. USA??? Oh man, “why would you want to go there” I of course said. The response was basically, that it’s a magical land of opportunity, and will surely still be even better than here.

Teachers’ Affection

We were extremely fortunate to have both our kids admitted to a school 3 doors up from where we were staying for the 3 months we were there. We’d take the most lovely little walk every morning, hand in hand through lovely foliage to the school (also past the dogs of course, but like I said, us humans can get used to anything). We’d buzz a button to get in the gate, stroll in up the lovely stone stairs, and drop our kids off inside with the teachers.

It took a few weeks, if not months, for our kids to adjust to the drop offs of the new school environment. Lots of tears and tantrums. But from the very beginning we noticed the teachers’ warmness. Their care meter is just off the charts. They always took lots of time with each of the kids, were incredibly patient even after weeks of tantrums and resistance, and were generally just so lovely.

And as the kids got to know them better, we noticed how their affection grew and was just so lovely. They would snuggle the kids like crazy and be very generous with their kisses. Our littlest just loved the machine gun kisses the teachers would hand out.

On our very last day at the school we had to say our goodbyes, and the teachers were noticeably emotional about having to say goodbye. Even in only 3 months they got pretty attached to their boisterousness.

The teachers there were all women, and it felt that many had worked at that school for many, many years. It felt like a family, everyone was so happy and generally cheerful. They showered the kids with affection, but also were firm enough to tell them when they were out of line. They managed to get a class of two year olds to sit in line and be quiet somehow. It was magic.

Accessibility

In my city of Ottawa, there is a general expectation that the city should be incredibly accessible to differently abled folks. The City of Ottawa design guidelines states a 2.0m wide sidewalk as the norm.

Where we were in Portugal, there appeared to be no such guideline. While much of the old parts of cities and towns are incredibly walkable, there are often areas that are incredibly narrow if not totally impassible if you don’t do a little jump or careful footwork. There are many places where sidewalks just end as well, often when trees are growing in the middle of them. The cobblestone while beautiful, doesn’t help and makes it very hard to navigate rolling devices.

The train lines is a good spot to see this mentioned explicitly. On the train map, the stops that are wheelchair accessible are denoted with a symbol. But what that actually means is open to interpretation… maybe the gap between the platform and train is only 1 foot as opposed to much more. Or perhaps they ensure there is no stairs to make it to the street.

In any case, it really got me thinking. Our city of Ottawa talks the talk of keeping things at the highest standard, even though we often see them fall short in day to day operations. But I’ll give them big credit for new things that are built, they seem to be very much up to snuff.

To retrofit an old world city like Lisbon with the standards of Ottawa would be a monumental if not impossible task. They seem in no hurry to do it. The charm of the city is in the old worldliness, inherent in this is the limited accessibility.

I don’t really have a point on this one, other than it’s a shame something so charming cannot be accessible to all, as to make it so would likely tarnish what it is to some degree.

Mould

Apparently, North Americans would say, Portugal has a mold problem. We noticed this on our last trip in a different spot, and noticed it again on this trip. Many of the residences have a musty smell, if not visible mold. It was the type of thing we were fine to stick fight against for three months, but any longer and it may have been a bigger issue. It feels like it is somewhat systemic too, in that many of the houses were simply never designed for modern-ish windows, or at least for those windows to not be fully open at times that would allow the houses to de-moisturize.

I mention this mostly to highlight our very limited viewpoint that it’s just a reality that is dealt with. People live with it. There could for sure be a not-talked-about or under the surface health epidemic in the country as a result, or of course as I’ve learned, I don’t know what I don’t know and perhaps people are well aware and working to deal with it.

Shortage of “ethnic” food

This was more a late realization about myself more than anything.

While I was there, I thought there was less “ethnic” food — excuse the term; I’m referring to Vietnamese, Thai, Middle Eastern, Latin American, etc.. wait a sec, there was actually a few of each of those places. Ok maybe it was just the lack of selection at the grocery store for stuff like fish sauce, and good hot sauce. Wait a sec, the grocery stores at home rarely have lots of that good stuff, only certain spots do. For all specialty ingredients I actually do have to go out of my way to track them down. Not far, but it took me years to discover how and where to find certain things. Like real authentic buckwheat soba noodles. Wait a sec, I ordered those from Continente and they were delivered to my house in Portugal the first month we were there.

Why am I recounting this? It feels at first glance like diverse food options like these are more abundant at home than in Portugal. But thinking a tad deeper, it’s just familiarity, and in some cases found knowledge one or two internet searches or reddit posts away. My original assumption was that there was less of it there… but the reality is likely a lot closer to I hadn’t yet found it.

Cheese Scammed

My partner prides herself on travel savviness. I less so, because I have less, but am generally uber skeptical about anyone that wants my money. But we got scammed in Portugal on this trip, and it’s a good one. It’s… a cheese scam.

On our trip in 2023 we discovered our favorite Portuguese cheese by far, Serra da Estrela. Its sold in a big round block, you cut the top off, and spoon out this relatively mild but absolutely delicious creamy heaven onto bread or a cracker and lose yourself for a few moments. Its really something. We brought a bit back last time, and vowed to bring more back this time as gifts for some of the folks that helped make our trip possible.

We were pricing out the best spots to buy it. It wasn’t super easy to find, and ranged anywhere from 10 to 25 euro for a block.

Near the end of our trip we were touring through Lisbon one day and went through a little square that had a bunch of kiosks (as they often do). One of the stalls was labeled “Serra da Estrela” with official looking logos, and was overflowing with rounds of cheese. We thought ‘oh great, let;s go see what their prices are like!’.

We approached the kiosk and the man immediately offered some to us. He gave us each a piece of bread with the oozy cheese generously covering it. I was popously like “I know what this is man” but tried it anyways of course, and it was as I know it to be.

We negotiated a price for 4 rounds, which was basically 15 euro a block, he threw in a free small round (which really made us feel like we were getting a deal), packaged it up, handed us a nice paper bag that had the very convincing “Serra da Estrela” logo on it, and we were off.

But — IT WAS A SCAM. We got cheese, but it was not the same cheese.

Serra da Estrela cheese we came to learn, comes from a very special sheep, a high altitude sheep, a sheep kept and fed within a certain standard. The cheese we got? Still sheep cheese, but far less special sheep, not as high up on the mountain, not as well cared for. Sad really, I’d want all sheeps to be so prized, but there is only so much space on the mountain.

Anyways, the cheese was still decent, our friends liked it (and if you are one of those friends that got it and we didn’t feign any knowledge of this, I trust you will corner me about it), but we were humbled. The man gave us the real thing, and then gave us decoy. Dangggggggg. Be vigilant out there, cheese people.

Trains

Coming from a city with an exhaustingly underperforming public transit system and seeing multi line, multi form factor trains covering the city to help folks on their daily commutes to work or the beach was a breath of fresh air.

Doing so for a full 3 months, I learned a few things.

I embarrassed myself on Reddit in an effort to deeply understand how some of the machines worked. The learning here was not to trust the functional definition of an English word when used in another country; the word “Validate” in this case, actually also decremented the fares on your card, something my poor rigid brain could not have conceived of with my trust in the english language.

I learned that even if the train is so jammed with young folks leaving the beach and there is no visible space for even the smallest passenger, the crowd of teenagers will part the seas and make way for your whole North American family, complete with North American Thule running stroller that would seem ludicrous to suggest it might fit but somehow it does. And those same young folks will also very politely smile at your kids and part the seas once again two stops down the road to let you get off at your stop via the exit on the other side of the train.

I learned, much like in Ottawa, that the trains are not perfectly reliable. This may seem trite, but this is a very fitting final lesson. When you ride it for a few days, usually, everything goes perfectly. Things are on time, you get where you’re going, it’s kind of magic (again, coming from a place where all you know is the disfunction at a highly inflated ratio compared to actual successful execution). Being there and riding it every day, you realize it is not perfectly reliable or perfect. Schedules change, trains break down, construction happens that disrupts. It is far from perfect, but you need to be in it for a while to see that. Rose colored glasses, etc..

It is so cliche and I’ve been taught this from my elders, but the older you get, the more you realize you do not know.

This adage works even harder when you expose yourself to new places. We had to make some sacrifices and are borrowing a bit from a certain future to make it happen, but I like to think it’s making us and our kids richer in other ways.

Feels like it’s about time to bust out the charcoal grill and try to cook some fish.