Aventuras em Torno de Albufeira

From our previous haunt, it’s just under an hour’s drive to our next cidade do viagem: Albufeira. We know that it’s a favorite summer destination for the Uber driver I met in Porto and that the word comes from the Islamic influence on the language (begins with AL) – but naught else. We’re in no rush so we take country roads in our Tavira exit, passing orchards and verdant vineyards.

Like everywhere here, the streets are narrow and winding and there’s a thrill in not knowing what’s coming up around the bend.

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Simulacra non grata

At one point we come upon a woman weeding and pruning the vines around her fence on the side of the road. We are brimming full of sunshine after a relaxing beach day and I guess it showed. As we pass, she does this sort of smile which widens to an open-mouth laugh with her head slightly tilted as if to say, ‘There you are my friends, so glad you’re enjoying yourselves!’. It’s genuine and warms our hearts but I can’t suppress a niggling feeling that I’ve seen that exact mannerism before – in commercials for riverboat cruises and giant bus tour companies. Those bastards! Their simulacrum is not invited to our sacred travel memory.

Two fingers pointing back…

I’m just as guilty. It’s not lost on me that in my profession, I often curate stock photography for the web and print design work I do, trying to find that perfect “real” moment just to sell something using the same fakery: People pretending to be happy and carefree. That realization will haunt me for some time. Whose real moments am I diluting?

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Clube Albu(querque)feira

Albufeira was chosen due to the availability of a timeshare resort within its borders – and in planning, I was a little concerned that the ‘resort’ aspect might break the continuity of the narrative we’d woven thus far – “The local experience”. It’s a rabbit hole to go down, trying to control things to fit something in your head – and you run the danger of pounding square pegs into round holes, or ‘overworking the material’ to use some pottery parlance. Don’t let perfection be the enemy of good. Regardless of where you go/are, you bring the experience rather than receive it.

We pull into the resort and it’s immediately apparent that humans aren’t the only sun-seekers here. Just outside reception, we pass a couple of kitties basking in the lazy, late day – one of them skittish and the other only too ready to accept any passing head-scratch or back-stroke.

The ‘Clube’ sprawls up and around a hillside, with a dozen small condo complexes concentrated around pools and parks. Visually it’s a pleasing continuity – the style of architecture evoking both classic and futuristic forms, the sun casting sharp shadows off its multi-faceted facades. Large loquat trees groaning with fruit are everywhere and I glean a couple dozen for snackin’.

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… and a side of Luis, please

We have a very early and exciting day tomorrow, so it’s off for a dinner and then straight to dreamland. We could cook, but are too tired for all that and so saunter up the hill to Casa Azúl, a nearby restaurant, enticed by the Tagliatelle Oceana we see via an online menu.

Our waiter Luis (pronounced Luu-eesh) has big, old-soul eyes and an expressive face revealing depth, passion, and the Latin love for food, wine, and people. When we tell him of our stint in Porto, he does that look up, kiss the fingers then pull them away while fanning them out gesture (you know the one) and waxes nostalgically of his hometown.

We ask to see the weighty wine list and he humors us by handing it over. In the two seconds it takes for us to open a page, realize there are hundreds of options, and close it, Luis is back at the table with his recommendation, an Algarve red which he says will pair excellently with our dinner choices.

The tagliatelle is everything we hoped for and more – clams, shrimp, and assorted marine life living their best death in a buttery, briny tomato base. The wine stands up perfectly and provides a nice palette cleanse when we transition to the other dish we’re sharing – an orange, pomegranate, and pistachio salad sitting on a bed of arugula with a ball of burrata in the center. The whole meal is a visual treat and epicurean delight.

We’re still hungry afterward – and in hindsight, I think it’s just that we don’t want it to end too quickly – so an order of bruschetta topped with paper-thin slices of cured ham is summoned. When Luis returns to find the plate clean, he raises his brows and smiles. “Wow”, he utters, taking both the plate and yet another request – a slice of their boysenberry-kissed cheesecake. We exit and tell Luis how much we enjoyed the food and his company saying “We’ll be back!”. He looks at the remains of our dessert plate and in all earnestness says “I hope so!”

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The cold splash of reality

We have a rendezvous with the sunrise this morning and need to be awake by 5 in order to eat, prepare and drive. For no particular reason, we both awaken at 4 rearing to go. This whole trip has been like that and we know to just roll with it. As Stasia makes the espresso, I’m surprised to see Zephyr calling. Apologizing for the earliness, he tells us he’s in the emergency room after injuring his foot earlier in the day. It had since swollen considerably and he got worried. Thankfully we’ve had a minute to clear away the sleepiness! We help him diagnose the injury – it sounds like it’s just a bad sprain and there’s no pressing need to run up an expensive ER bill, so we have him return home and do a regimen of ice, compression, and elevation. We’re proud of him for taking action to protect his health, but he now knows when to use ER’s and when to call advice nurses.

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The only souls

Now fully fed and caffeinated, we’re out the door for a 30-minute drive in the dark through sleepy neighborhoods on our way to the seaside villa of Benagil. The meeting point is a cliff-enclosed, tiny little beach attached to the road by a small fishing outpost. We pull in and park, looking around for our contact, not another soul to be seen. I get a text that he’ll arrive momentarily, giving us a minute to capture the pre-dawn glow.

Victor and Diogo pull up, extract the sea kayaks and we all walk down to the beach. Stasia and I don our lifejackets and get into position, butts in seats, oars in hand, faces to the sea – and when Victor judges the right moment, we get pulled out into the surf, waves crashing against the hull and spraying us as we paddle out, Victor calling out to tell us to wait outside the breakers.

It’s a moment right out of one of our favorite films, Castaway. To get out there, we have to crest more than a few incoming tidal rises, all the while paddling our hearts out, giddy and wide-eyed. The pooling seawater we’re both now sitting in encourages all kinds of porky humor (I’ll spare you) that would make any 8-year-old laugh.

Out in the deep, our guides join us and together we paddle alongside the weathered, stately cliffs of Benagil. The sun has almost cleared the horizon line and irrespective of the rest of the hemisphere, it feels like we’re the only ones receiving its morning message. There’s naught else but to appreciate our relative tinyness.

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Stasia and the S-word

Stasia is fascinated with sharks, knows all about them, and has seen her fair share of Discovery channel documentaries – you know, the ones with the god-voice guy dramatizing the normal lives of giant, horrifying, monsters of the deep. I’ve already hinted that I’d rather she not mention the S-word while we’re floating like a couple of tasty seal-steaks out there in the middle of the ocean and to her credit, she doesn’t. She does however come up with a way of getting the guides to talk about it, and mad props to her for this deft maneuver. They assure us that there’s no danger of such an encounter. I think there have been like 8 shark attacks in the country’s recorded history – and I’m not even going to look that up to verify it.

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Kayak surfing at Benagil Cave

Victor and Diogo go in first and beach their craft. A moment later they start waving us in. We paddle furiously but now he’s giving us the STOP signal. Brakes on, we feel a big wave rolling under us, then we get the GO sign again. This start/stop pattern happens once more… but now is the moment of truth. They’re both shouting GO-GO-GO! as in NOW, HURRY! The timing is perfect and we ride the crest of a breaker right onto shore with a certain flair and carefree panache like we surf ocean kayaks all the time – how proud we were!

Grotte de Benagil is a bit of a famous thing in the world (though I’d never heard of it before) and it’s hard to find a single reference to touring the Algarve without a photo of its magnificent interior. It’s a huge dome carved out of the cliffs by time and tide with a wide oculus at the apex. Victor tells us it’s composed of limestone from crushed sea shells. The sand is fresh and our tracks make the first marks. Deeper inside is a sub-cave filled with assorted stone stacks, no doubt tributes to the great forces that created this.

There are a few mouths to the cave where the sand meets the sea and it’s here that I find my special place. I mean, the entire experience is awe-inspiring but there’s something about the sound of rhythmic waves echoing off the walls that gets me deep inside my own inner grotto.

Stasia is wandering around, feeling the expanse and observing the birds as they flit about, disappearing in the strata. She looks closer and identifies them as pigeons and makes the connection that these little hollowed-out hovels they live in are pigeonholes, a word which now will forever remind us of this experience.

It’s at this point that Victor tells me we are the first group he (or anyone) has led this year and that soon this empty chamber will be so filled with group tours, you’ll hardly be able to see the sand. This explains why I had to search far and wide on Portuguese websites to find someone to take us in. The season hasn’t officially started.

From there we kayak back out and explore the jagged coastline for another 90 minutes. Lots of caves and hollowed-out cliffs with Diogo sharing stories – like the one where local development was causing seismic damage to the coastline and the government had to step in and permanently stop the project. Stasia relates how impressed we are with the community-centric intelligence of the Portuguese to which Victor replies “… we are sometimes smart”.

Our last stop is Praia do Marinha, which Victor bestows with the honorific “The most beautiful beach in Europe”. With towering rock formations, clear water over soft sands, and arches leading into sea caves, it’s easy to see why. But my favorite part was our entrance. Unlike the previous display of deftness, this time our kayak is sent sideways right as the wave breaks. Seeing that we’re going to tumble, I grab my iPhone and prepare for the worst. Our saviors are already at the ready, securing each end of the craft to prevent it from tipping – these guys are amazing!

We more than recommend Victor and Diogo of Kai’n Koa Adventures!

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John does dinner

Don’t send me to the store while on vacation unless you want a carload of groceries when I return. Especially at Pingo Doce – I love this place!

Honestly, I went there with a list of six items, but the exotic selections, fresh fish and meat dept, and killer prices lassoed me in – and each new item I picked up inspired looking for another. I visit the markets almost daily back home, it’s a part of my day to wrap up work by biking out and filling my backpack with inspiration for the evening’s fare. So, the organization, layout, and logistics of a Portuguese market are as fun an exploration to me as any sea cave. Three large plastic grocery bags filled with quality goodies, meats, beer, and assorted sundries for the upcoming week was a paltry $60.

With all the new inventory, I set to making my own version of Piri-Piri Frango. Right in the container I bought them in, I marinate a clutch of chicken thighs in oil, garlic, salt, pepper, chopped chile, oregano, and both liquid and powdered piri-piri. Two hours later the magic begins. I toast the dry rice in oil, onion, and garlic and let it start browning before adding chicken broth. With the top on and simmering, it’s time for those chickadees to take a sizzling field trip to the oiled skillet, skin side down, and render for about 10 minutes over a medium flame. Give ’em a flip and toss into a hot oven. They’ve only got a few minutes to finish in there, so I use that time to cut up some broccoli and carrot and add that to the rice (which is al dente by now) and which I’ve made extra wet to accommodate. The rice gets taken off the heat to settle, and my little fowl friends are out of the oven and resting. The pan they were in is ready for olive oil, diced onion, and garlic. As soon as the garlic releases its aroma, the pan is doused and deglazed with chicken stock and a healthy squirt of tomato paste. Lastly, lots and lots of piri-piri liquid is added alongside a dollop of butter to help it stick and I let it combine over a 5-minute simmer. After a big squeeze of citrus, the whole party is joined on a plate with the sauce ladled on top. At this point, you’re on your own, but here’s a pro-tip: try eating it.

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Time to weed the braingarden

We’ve found ourselves so wonderfully entranced with this experience that it can be a little challenging to calm down. The rest of the week, with some notable exceptions, will be dedicated to catching up with work, painting, and generally chilling out. Home at ease, we’ll invite some stillness into our mind palaces through meditation, swimming, and long walks with the new audiobook I’m only too eager to give a listen and to which Stasia’s already twice enjoyed and desiring a third round with, “The Creative Act” by Rick Rubens.

We’re weeding our braingardens for a few days to let the sunlight of our upcoming last leg have the greatest effect. Though I know all good things must come to an end, the thought of this odyssey concluding is not yet allowed in. Funny how when planning, I assumed by now we’d be quite homesick and bored with being away. I think we are homesick but it’s tempered with a feeling of home here – something in the air, sea, land, people (or at least the idealized versions we’ve created in our heads) that is ever-ceasing to register as ‘foreign’.

Time to start that meditation….