Bem Vindo ao Algarve

Our Iberian escape has landed us in the far south, a region known as The Algarve (say al-gar-veh with minimal pronunciation of the veh), and so far it presents quite a difference to the central and northern regions we’ve sampled. Driving in from the Alentejo province just to the north, the first thing you notice is the change in topography.

Pastoral ranch lands and tree-speckled knolls give way to ridged hills which get more pronounced and soon you’re spanning deep ravines on dramatically high bridges. Suddenly the trees become more shrubby, cactus is visible, and it’s obvious from the welcoming Algarve billboard that you’ve breached the threshold.

You’ve just crossed over into the Twilight Zone.

Here comes more billboards – an assault of fun-loving families at water parks, kids laughing at Legoland, older couples sipping wine, playing golf, watching sunsets… good lord! What kind of tourist hell have we fallen into?

As the highway begins to change quality (just a bit more worn and rough), your eyes pick up a subtle change in the color of the light, perhaps influenced by a mixture of dry dust, industrial emissions, and seaside spray. We’re not in Kansas anymore.

The road takes a turn and now the sea is visible (yay), but so is that blight of sporadic big box development around the Faro airport (booo). Now the pavement feels even rougher, no doubt the consequence of being pounded by all these big trucks who’ve suddenly appeared around us. Whereas in the north, drivers drove without haste and only used the left lane for passing, here they are almost exclusively driving in the fast lane and there is definitely a feeling of stress as they weave in and out in a hurry.

My first 5-minute impression of the Algarve is to wonder how the hell did we get to Los Angeles? I don’t remember crossing the Atlantic.

My second thought is to keep calm and be patient. Obviously, our experiences up north have given me expectations, and that is the issue here. Algarve is Algarve – I am the guest here, so just go with the flow. This will be different, but we’ll find the charm all the same.

An electronic billboard with something about taxes and euro amounts posted on it whizzes by. As we pass under, our car beeps loudly, like it might if the gas tank was empty or the engine was about to explode, and a little icon of an official holding a document (on our dashboard) lights up. We still don’t understand what that was, but it happens 2 more times as we make our way.

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The end of the world

Our disenchanting entrance aside, the Algarve is a much-loved and oft-visited destination for locals and tourists alike. I bet we’ll find the beach towns to be as quaint as the guidebooks described. That its introductory highway is so shocking a divergence from the visual narrative the rest of the country has built up is likely due to ultra-agressive tourism development and lots of foreign investment – it’s just grown too fast without proper planning (though I am completely talking out of school here). In a weird way, it does resemble its seafaring nickname from ancient days: The end of the world.

It’s understandable and I’ve seen it before. However, after I deliver my State of the Caesar Salad Address, I’m going to berate the government official who allowed this to happen.

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Stasia’s yin

My yang is starting to spiral a bit. I realize I’ve gotten quite attached to my vision of Portugal and this isn’t it. I’m bringing all kinds of uninvited guests to this party and need some water to quench the fire before it causes some damage. Stasia counters my disillusionment with humor and a happy carefree heart – through her positivity, I begin to relax. Soon enough I am mellow and enjoying our trip again, secure in my original travel mindset: It’s not where you go, it’s who you spend your time with.

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The tiny township of Tavira

We find our target area quite easily, park on the thin spaghetti strand of a street, locate our door from the stone jungle of medieval rectangular boxes, and are let in. It’s an absolutely warm and inviting studio pad, with a punch of modernist flair and a fabulous outdoor patio!

Our hostess is a cool, sandy, windblown sun-worshipper named Alexandra. She’s very nice, gives the rundown and dismisses herself.

The bed looks a size smaller than me but there is a generously long couch to hand that will work perfectly. A beer or two, some din-din, and a Bobby Flay later, we’re tucked in and snoozing away.

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The surrounds

The next morning while Stasia gets ready, I tool about the area and do some reconnaissance. Just want to stretch the legs. Two things make themselves known to me: 1. Glad we’re here ahead of the tourist wave along with all these other tourists (hmmm…). 2. I love the feel of these salt-scrubbed churches, white-washed convents, and bleached, crumbly stone houses.

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First local flavor

Stasia and I take a late-morning stroll about our neighborhood and find our way into a little taverna. The sole employee – host, waiter, bartender, and cook – is a nice enough fellow, though a bit quiet and shy – like you’re not sure if he understands you or your order because there’s no read from his poker face, only a slight furrow in the brow that could mean anything.

As in so many of our encounters, it’s Stasia who breaks the ice and brings him out – soon he’s smiling and engaging. She also is becoming more confident with her Portuguese, and all the pre-trip Duolingo study is starting to pay off.

We tuck in for some fantastically robust calamari and a balsamic pesto caprese salad. It’s a delightful starter!

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The multiple-choice test

We’re running low on cash and many establishments don’t accept plastic, so since we’re passing a bank now, I’ll just create a new travel memory with this ATM machine. I request 200 euros, upon which I am presented a yes/no question which more or less reads: This will cost $248 USD due to conversion rates and fees. Do you accept this?

No, actually, I don’t want to pay that fee, thanks for asking! I tap the ‘I refuse this charge’ button. I am again presented with a similar question – and at this point, I don’t care what it’s asking because it’s another yes/no question with the larger amount on one side and the smaller amount on the other along with an ‘I refuse this charge’ button. I am starting to get the hang of this vetoing business. I wave it away, whatever it is, expecting the machine to sullenly spit out my card – which it does, along with 200 euros. I check my bank statement later and see that the normal exchange rate was charged along with a reasonably small $3 fee. I think I passed the test.

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Celebration blankets

Wending our way to the waterfront, we deftly pass along trinket shops, picking me up a much-needed pair of shades, then duck into a storefront with some textiles and blankets out front. Here, Stasia finds the score of the day – a queen-size throw of locally spun soft cotton and 2 matching pillowcases for a great price. Nothing brings out the call for celebration more than a perfect purchase in a foreign land! I vote for Piri-Piri Frango at the nearby outdoor cafe.

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Archetypes

We are outside looking at their menu when 70-year-old Italian man (who looks like any other tourist) comes straight at me. His body language says, ‘I run this joint. You want a meal? I’ll take care of you’

As is the custom by now, I attempt to speak the native tongue, but maybe I’m taking a little too long in my communicado. After a brief moment of squinting and leaning the good ear towards me, he gives up trying to listen and just rattles off nationalities “British, American, Spanish, French, Greek…?” as if to say, ‘You’re obviously one of these and not a native. Pick one, ok? Look, let’s not waste time. Hungry? Sit and I’ll feed you. Otherwise, I’ve got shit to do’.

I look at him as if to say, ‘Oh, it’s you. I’ve worked for you a few times in my life in little hole-in-the-wall kitchens. You are a demanding boss and bark a lot but run a tight ship. I know you and I’ve never liked working for you but Italians know how to run restaurants and make good food so let’s do this.‘.

We two sit and order a couple celebratory beers, a vegetable soup for Stash, and a fish stew for mybadself. Damn, they’re tasty. We then order a Piri-Piri Frango to go for dinner later, and when he delivers the container and passes by Stasia, she looks at him as if to say, ‘I know you. You look, sound, and smell like the uncles from my childhood. You are familiar to me. I’ve always liked you.‘

We saunter back home, ducking into a loja de vinhos for that garafe of ginja we’ve been thinking about plus another bottle of that unbeatable Dona Antonia White Port to pack away as a souvenir.

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Glorious unconsciousness and the Mark of greatness

What follows is a rare treat – I never take naps, they have to take me first – but upon entering our stone-walled abode, we turn on a fan, flop into a horizontal position and drop into a delicious afternoon slumber, well-fed and suddenly dog-tired.

I was awoken by my phone ringing. It’s a Croatian number but it might be one of our VRBO hosts, so I answer. The strange voice at the other end knows my name and saying things but my brain hasn’t joined in yet. Turns out to be my forever buddy Mark calling from the homeland, but I am just waking up and am still disoriented. After blowing away the mental fug, I have to peel off the layer of fantasy life we’ve been living in order to achieve full awareness.

We have a sincere, nay I say, heart-felt conversation, which happens more and more as we get older, though don’t tell him I said that. We usually just put each other down and crack jokes the way besties do.

Serves me right

Right after my bragging to him that my work was so hands-off while I was away, I got three calls from my clients and had to fix the weirdest programming errors – the kind you ONLY get after making sure you won’t get any while on vacation. I tell my client that it’s remarkable that the only time these things seem to happen is when I take a vacation. She says ‘Yep. You have to pay for it’.

As I toil on the keyboard, Stasia cooks up some amazing rice and veg dish and serves it up alongside the Piri-Piri Frango and fries. Together with some broccoli, we savor every bite – charbroiled chicken cuts coated in a spicy jus with the wet, brothy vegetable rice – it’s by far the best meal we’ve had yet (though I think I will keep bestowing that honor as we travel) and the closest thing we’ve had to home-cooking in two weeks.

You know, I think this Algarve thing is going to work out after all