Sintra

The drive made us feel capable and free. Though I initially worried about the recklessness of European driving, Brett was a calm international-driver who took multi-laned roundabouts with the finesse of a leaping ballerina. Often I gasped or held my breath and pointed things out to Brett even though he was well aware of his surroundings. I annoyed myself with my concern and quickly decided that even if we crashed, I wasn’t going to outright blame Brett (who needs it?) so I may as well just enjoy the scary ride and if we go out in fiery honeymoon blaze, so be it. 

Our first stop was Sintra, an old Moorish hangout for royal folks looking to escape the bustle of Lisbon. We arrived on a rainy weekend so I’ll encourage you to “Google it” to see what it looks like on a sunny day. You know how I love colors. 
The rain was too much on this day, so we opted for a coffee shop lounge followed by an extended lunch break before we scuffled back to Martin and drove slightly out of town to our AirBnb. Here’s where things get juicy. Our house for the night was in a tiny town, thirty minutes from any larger towns, and it was located right off the one main street but tucked back through an alley. We couldn’t find it. So we sat in car as rain pop pop popped on the roof. 

Brett tried to call our “host” but no one spoke English. Twenty minutes past our check-in time, a tiny old lady with an equally small umbrella came shuffling out of this mist, waving and talking and smiling at us. She came right over to the passenger side, opened my door, yanked me out and gave me a long, wiggly hug. She was giggle-talking in Portuguese the whole time. Boy was she excited to see us. She grabbed my purse and my arm and held her tiny umbrella over my head and led me around, gathering more of our things as Brett unpacked the car. Her giggling made me giggle and the two of us stood in the rain laughing at each other. Once Brett got our suitcases, the old lady grabbed onto my left butt cheek and pulled me down the ally to our house. She had her other arm wrapped around Brett’s body and insisted we both squish under the tiny umbrella but she wouldn’t let go of us, so we moved in a mob, tripping over each other while rained dribbled down the sides of the umbrella into our coats and hair. She was still talking awfully fast and laughing at things and only letting go of my butt to pat my arm like a happy Mom does when her kid comes home for the weekend. Then she’d grab hold again and pull me wherever she wanted us to go. I remember wishing she would switch to the other butt cheek to give the first one a break.

Once inside, she was a little Portuguese tornado. She blew through the house pointing out different things, talking about the house, making us feel the difference between the hot and cold water. She opened drawers and turned on lights and showed us where the extra blankets were, still grabbing on to various body parts to pull us around with her. She’d hustle us along so close together that we’d step on each others feet or whack others with your elbows. If you tried to put some distance between yourself and the herd, she’d come grab you and pull you back in, so we moved through the house in a triangular hug.

But then she needed to tell us something important and the language barrier finally became a problem. She talked and pointed at the ceiling. She handed me a remote to the air conditioning and looked worried as she explained things. Then she got a bright idea and called her English speaking son who said something about the heat not working.  She beamed at me while I spoke to him. Then she’d say something to Brett who’d smile at her and she’d clap her hands together and hold them under her chin. 

When I hung up with the son, I heard the lady say, “I’m sorry, I only speak Portuguese and French.” 
She said that in Portuguese so I don’t know how I understood her but I lit up and said, “Je parle le francias!” and the little lady managed to get even more excited and we got the whole tour again but in French. I didn’t have to say much at all because she was rapid firing every thought she was having but it was quite exciting to finally use something I learned in school. Is this what that’s like?

After the French tour, she asked about us and I realized all of her giddiness was due to us being on our honeymoon. “Amour! Jeune amour!” she said looking at us. Then she told me all about her grandchildren and Brett managed to ooze out of the room.

Before she left, I asked her if there were any restaurants nearby and she said we absolutely had to go to Don Pablos’. It’s right down the road and we wouldn’t miss it. We all triangle-hugged goodbye and after she left Brett just said, “Woah.”

Brett is too tall for most Portuguese passageways. 

We rode down the dark country road passing what looked like collections of small pueblos every mile or so and occasionally a car lot or a dusty corner store. In the distance was a neon glow and I had a bad feeling that was Don Pablos.

Like a palace in the desert, Don Pablo’s was a beacon of light in the still darkness. We approached a parking lot fit for a hundred cars and still had to park in the back where the street lamps flickered and the staff dumped the boxes and scraps. Looking in from the outside was like peering into a cross-section of an ant bed. It was warm and busy and we questioned whether or not to go in. As it did come highly recommended by our favorite French grandmother and there was likely nowhere else to eat, we went for it, and heads turned as we stepped through the double doors. Mostly people stared at Brett. I was swarthy enough to fit in but they still sent over the one waiter that knew a bit of English and he lead us through the restaurant and sat us at a table between a business dinner and a teenage girls' rowdy birthday party.

Don Pablos’ as it turns out, is a buffet style restaurant, highlighting the many delicacies of Portuguese cuisine. The walls were purple and mounted with large tv screens showing soccer game replays. The large black and while tile floor was fit for a party of what I estimated to be about 200 people. It was garish and loud and busy, and it occurred to me that it was the prefect setting for a panic attack.

To start, there was an 8-foot buffet of salted meats and livestock cheeses. These were not labeled so I reckon even the locals had to guess whether they were working on a chunk of pig or cow.

Then there was the “vat” section, which displayed a half-dozen cauldrons of the more juicy dishes, hence the need to store them in vats. Most of my supper came from the Vat section as it had the few labeled items and one cannot go wrong with beans and rice or lamb stew. The main buffet, that Brett eyeballed at about 18-feet in length, housed everything from vegetables and potatoes to unlabeled fish patties and some poor critter who’s eyes were left intact. There was an additional cured meat and cheese section on this buffet, just in case. Finally, there was a dessert buffet on which I count 27 different cakes and pies surrounded by fruit that no one knew whether or not to eat because it wasn’t on any kind of platter, it was just scattered around between the pies. 

For being a part of a nation so quick to criticize the fat, uncouth, grotesqueness of American culture, this felt an awful lot like the dining room on a Carnival cruise ship. Brett and I fixed modest plates and brought them back to our table, next to a of bunch of young girls dressed like transvestites. Maybe it was because people were staring at him, but Brett wouldn’t let me go to the buffet unaccompanied. I would have laughed at this if I wasn’t enduring a sensory overload. At the time I was grateful for his support. As soon as we finished our tiny supper, our plates were whisked away and a fresh one set down in front of each of us. We were a bit more adventurous on our second round, and for his third act, Brett sampled a sizable selection of cakes and pies.

We left as soon as Brett’s bottomless gut was filled and we drove off into the night, leaving Don Pablo’s neon glow to grow dim in the darkness behind us.

I didn’t sleep well that night. Must have been something I ate.

The next morning, we drove Martin back into Sintra and started our walk up to Pena Palace. Everything we read warned us against driving to the top of the mountain because the roads were narrow and there was nowhere to park. Since we’re young and Brett is healthy, we decided to hike up to the palace. This did prove to be a steeper, longer climb than we expected. Brett scampered up with relative ease, though in my defense, he readily stopped to pretend take in the view with me even though we both knew it was really just a chance to catch our breath. We hiked the arduous trek up a cobblestone path just wide enough for tour buses to squeeze through. We hugged the walls and sucked in our guts as they went by and then we forged on upwards. Our butts burned. Our legs trembled. My heart raced with every strained step. I wondered why we were the only people making the climb. At long last we could see the ticket booth in the distance. Sweat beaded on our brows and our ankles burned with weight. Finally, we came over the crest of the hill to the base of the fort. The first thing we noticed was the sizable parking lot with ample spaces available. 
“Don’t think about it.” Brett said, before I could even get started on my angry rant.

The Palace was very interesting, colors and patterns and all that. For a gal that's wandered many-a ancient home, this one sticks out. Usually I abide by a "seen one, seen 'em all" stance on buildings made out of stone but I'll give this one some distinction. So we looked around a while and then got lost in the enormous gardens.

On our way back to Martin, we stopped at a farmer's market and bought some snacks for our drive to Porto. While we were here, someone’s dog caught a rat scampering through the booths and the scene resulted in shrieks and laughter and the casual cleaning up of rat blood next to the local produce stand. Everyone went back to normal afterwards and again, I thought about how this would never fly in The States. As we pulled out of our parking spot, we discovered that we had parked on church grounds and had been blocking traffic for some kind of ceremony. Old people glared and pointed at us and we had to creep along with the mob of angry Catholics to get back to the highway.