Kindness of Strangers

We have spent the past two days in Viana do Castelo, a sleepy beach town near the Spanish border in the north of Portugal. We had hoped to spend another day, but the fates saw it otherwise: tomorrow a folk festival is beginning, and everything was booked. I’ve been feeling a little bummed that we haven’t been able to spend more time here. I have a general rule that, given the hassle involved in transporting our things, less than three nights in a place is generally useless. When we arrived in town yesterday, the temperature was blessedly cooler than Lisbon, where we spent the last week in sweltering heat. Blue skies reigned, but since we arrived late in the day, we promised to hit the beach first thing in the morning.

When I woke up today, a blanket of clouds shrouded the city. “What luck,” I thought. I checked the transportation schedules for tomorrow, when we will travel to Guimaraes. It looked more complicated than I had hoped for, given the short distance we have to travel. “Why did we come here in the first place?” I moaned. I was off on the wrong foot.

Despite the cool, gray day, which I had pined for two days ago but was suddenly irritating, we decided to head to the beach anyway. The city sits perched on the banks of the Rio Lima, and a small boat ferries passengers five minutes across to Praia do Cabedelo, reported to be one of the best sweeps of beaches in northern Portugal. The beach was more or less deserted but for a few brave souls who bundled up in beach towels after taking a bracing dip in the Atlantic. I laid on my shawl, exhausted, and tried to nap. But the breeze was distracting, and I could hear Maikael in the distance talking to a sunburned, Speedo-clad German.

The sun slowly began nudging its way through the clouds. My mood hadn’t improved, and we were hungry. Unsure as to whether the sun would make its daily appearance, we decided to buy some time by sitting down to lunch at a beachside cafe. We are conducting an informal study of sangria prices in Europe, and thus far have found Viana’s to be the most reasonable (4.6 Euros for a liter, compared to the whopping 12 Euros we saw in Madrid). Deeming this to be a find, especially at a landlocked beach, we ordered a liter.

By four a clock my mood had begun to improve. The sun was shining, though still too cool to spend an afternoon at the beach, and I was beginning to see the brighter side of things. We crossed back to town, walking along the waterfront back to our hostel. From a distance, I could hear the faint strains of Brazilian samba music from the park. “Do you think that’s live or recorded?” I asked Maikael. I am a huge fan of this style of music, so we crossed over to the tree-line thoroughfare to see for ourselves.

There we saw a full Brazilian band jamming to an infectiously rhythmic beat. One man played a large, green drum; another the bells. They danced in a large circle, as the lead singer sang his heart out. A cadre of young women pulled the audience out of their chairs, who appeared to be a large group from the local retirement home. One girl swung an old lady’s cane over her shoulder as she helped her dance the samba. Another girl wheeled an old woman around the square to the beat of the music. I looked to my left, where I saw a school group listening enthusiastically. My attention immediately went to one boy, who clasped both hands tight over his ears. (I imagined this boy to be Maikael as a kid, who has always hated loud noises.) Then, the boy suddenly jumped up with his friend, who was wearing powder blue Crocs, and they began dancing manically, thrusting their appendages in every conceivable direction. Everyone was having the time of their life.

This isn’t the first time that we’ve heard a spontaneous concert break out in Portugal. We currently have a Spanish youth orchestra staying at our hostel, and have been treated to their daily rehearsals. Back in Lisbon, we returned one evening to our hostel just in time to hear a Portuguese gospel choir performing on the patio below. As we ate sandwiches and fruit above, as such American favorites as “This Little Light of Mine”, “When the Saints Come Marching In” (the second time we’ve heard that song performed thus far), and “Say a Little Prayer for You” drifted up from below.

We rested this afternoon and finally mustered the energy to go to dinner. We had hoped to eat at the hostel, but missed the reservation time for dinner. Now, we had to walk to town; I was grumpy. As we made our way through the narrow lanes of Viana, I heard a big, brassy voice belting “Georgia on My Mind,” as the notes reverberated off the azulejo tiles. We turned the corner, finding not only a full jazz concert in a small square, but our restaurant adjacent to the impromptu festival.

We were seated next the open windows, where we ordered excellent pizzas, as well as a bottle of vinho verde tinto, as the music played outside. I was excited to try this Portuguese wine, which I had read about in my Lonely Planet guide. Vinho verde is a semisparkling wine grown in northern Portugal. It apparently has a bad rap in the wine world because it doesn’t ship well, having a poor shelf life. Therefore, the only place in the world that it can truly be enjoyed is exactly where I was sitting. We ordered a bottle from a few towns over for the bargain price of 6.5 Euros, and it was delicious. As we ate, two little boys at the next table over were clearly dying for dessert. The waiter scooped up the first boy, carrying him to the freezer case, where he chose ice cream in a Donald Duck-shaped cup. Next he led the second boy to the towering case, where he stood on his toes, peered over the edge, and chose Pluto. The waiter made a “ruff-ruff” sound, making like a dog as the boy giggled.

I know it sounds terribly cheesy and cliché, but it’s these small moments that turned my day around. I’m trying desperately to let go of my expectations, to accept the day for whatever it brings. Most of the best things that come my way are never things I could have planned in the first place, and in the end, I’ll remember that little boy dancing a crazy samba more than the effort it took to get here.