Archive for the 'Portugal' Category

Kindness of the Douro

Published
by
elizabeth
on August 3, 2008
in Portugal
. 2 Comments

On our way back to Porto, we found ourselves in Pesa de Regua, a business center for the port wine industry. We parked in the center of town, looking for a place to eat lunch. First, we had to negotiate the parking meters. In theory, you should be able to pop a few coins of your choosing into a machine, producing a ticket for the amount of time you paid, which is then placed on the dash of the car. Nothing is ever so simple. The machine only accepted denominations smaller than one Euro, which was all the change we had. In studying the machine, we saw that the meters stopped running at 2pm; it was 1:30.

A man approached, seeing, I’m sure, the perplexed looks on our faces. His red plaid shirt hung awkwardly from his frame, his beard had grown a bit too long, and his salt and pepper hair was scraggly. He smiled broadly and said something in Portuguese that we didn’t understand. We showed him our one Euro coin, hoping he could piece together our source of confusion. He pointed to the time on the meter, insisting that we only needed to pay for 30 minutes. A one Euro coin would be too much. He pointed across the street to the bakery and restaurant. “Go there for change,” he said. We walked into the bakery, and the man followed us. I asked the girl at the counter if she could make change, to which she produced two 50 cent coins. Realizing we only needed to pay 20 cents for half an hour the man explained the situation to the woman in Portuguese, something my limited vocabulary prevented me from doing myself. I held my palm outstretched, and she plucked one of the 50 cent coins from my hand, giving me back two twenties and a ten.

The man looked pleased. “You only need to use the 20 cent coin,” he said. We wished him many thanks, and he waved to us as we made our way back down the street.

I hate to admit it, but when the man approached so enthusiastically, I found myself clutching my coins a little bit tighter. I assumed he was begging for change, when in fact his only motivation was selfless: to be helpful and show kindness do two perfect strangers who were obviously at a loss.

We moved onto Penafiel, which houses a cluster of monasteries from the 12th century. It was only 10 kilometers south of town, and we had some time to kill, so we decided to investigate. At first, the route was clearly marked with signs, but soon we were traveling through a maze, our car hugging the high stone walls overflowing with grapevines. “We can’t be on the right track,” I said, but every time we stopped and asked for directions, we discovered we were. The road grew more narrow, until I could hear hydrangeas slapping against the sides of the car. We bumped down the road, wondering where this monastery was.

When we finally found it, forty-five minutes after we had taken our detour, our first thought was, “How do we get out of here another way?” Maikael asked a taxi driver - who always know how to get anywhere — how to depart town via a larger road. He explained a series of detailed directions, and we began to drive out of the parking lot. Suddenly, a taxi appeared in front of us, and we saw a long arm extend out of the window. The driver’s left pointer finger flexed up and down, signaling for us to follow. It was the taxi driver, leading us out of town. Each time we hesitated - left or right? - a reassuring arm shot out the window, pointing the way.

When we reached the last rotunda, the taxi slowed down and pulled to the side of the road, pointing straight ahead. We smiled and waved, once again marveling at the kindness of strangers.

Viticultural Adventures: Part II

Published
by
elizabeth
on August 1, 2008
in Culinary and Portugal
. 2 Comments

dscf2347After leaving Jose Manuel’s vineyard, we were ushered across the street to the museum and the Quinta de Avessada by Luis, an energetic young man who promised us a completely interactive tour of the Douro’s wine making history with the assistance of robots! We weren’t sure what this could possibly mean, but we were excited to find out. Luis asked us what language we spoke. We said English or Spanish. “Uh, I speak somewhere between English and Portuguese,” he told us, sounding a little nervous. “Don’t worry,” we said, “so do we these days!”

Luis took us through a number of photos that were blown up and displayed on the side of one of the large stone houses we had seen earlier, showing the earliest farming, wine production, and shipping techniques. Traditionally, women cut the vines and men transported them down the stone steps in rustic baskets strapped to their back, weighing upward of 80 kilograms. From there the wine was crushed and sent downriver to Porto, where the wine was stored and aged, and the law commanded that all port wine be stored in the same region of the country. This was a dangerous journey until the Douro was dammed in the 1970s, so villagers would build small chapels on the hillside as a marker of dangerous rapids. Eventually, a Scottish man named Forrester mapped the river so that transport could be undertaken more safely. We asked if, like champagne in France, only port grown in this region could be called port wine. “No, we don’t care,” he said, “anyone can call it port anywhere!”

We made our way into the large, dimly-lit stone warehouse, where a number of displays were on exhibit. Here, we were explained the three secrets of what makes port wine from the Douro region so good. First, he showed us a large, square stone vat that was used to store the wine. Early on, winemakers learned that the vats helped to stop the rapid fermentation process. Luis was very proud of the technology they were employing at the museum, and was excited to show us a DVD they had put together. A photo montage splashed across the screen to the “Lord of the Rings” theme song, and we were invited to take into the Douro, a “land of Love songs and legends.” The whole affair was home-grown and charming.

Next, he explained the secret of why stomping grapes by foot is so effective. Not only does it release more juice than a machine can, but the body temperature that is transferred to the grapes aids the winemaking process by helping to release more sugars. It takes about five hours of stomping to do the job, and it’s not an altogether jolly affair like you’ve seen in an “I Love Lucy” episode. “Here,”Luis said, “I show you.” He pointed his remote control at a mannequin, which looked like a chic model from a department store who had been attacked by the costumer from “Oliver.” Suddenly, the mannequin sprang to life, his arm mechanically moving a staff up and down, up and down. Next, three other mannequins who stood in the vat, pants rolled up to their bony, alabaster knees, got in on the action. They marched, herky jerky, from the front of the vat to the back, a large metal arm propelling them back and forth. Meanwhile, the first mannequin shouted commands in garbled Portuguese: we had no idea what the mannequin was saying, but it sounded mean. The mannequins abruptly stopped.

This was clearly the centerpiece of the exhibit, and Luis enthusiastically explained that grape stomping can be a militant affair, with a “boss” shouting at the stampers for a solid two hours. Then, they get to take a break, and a boy with an accordion comes out and plays while they frolic in the grapes. Then, more work for the last two hours. Finally, Luis showed us how the wine is transferred from the vat to the holding tanks. In order to demonstrate, a long vacuum hose, lined with red lights, ran from one end of the warehouse to the other. The displays were campy, informative, and truly charming.

The doors open into another section of the warehouse, looking rustically chic, with a lit-up bar sitting in the middle of a dim room, as large barrels lined each side: the tasting room! The room was smartly put together, making you want to linger for hours, which we did. For five Euros, we each tried two moscatels, and it also included our very worthwhile tour of the museum. We sidled up to the bar where, between tastings, we sampled their home-grown grape jelly on toasts, which was outstanding. We began talking with Miguel, the farm’s engineer and Luis’ brother, and his girlfriend, Raquel, both young, lovely people. Raquel told us that a Polish gameshow had been filming here a few months ago. The premise of the show is that contestants move from country to country, answering questions related to that country; if people answer questions correctly, they get to move onto the next country. If not, they’re shipping back to Poland. Their little quinta had been selected to host one of Portugal’s stops! Since they’ve only been open since February, they’re hoping the show will promote visitors…at least Polish ones.

After leaving the quinta, we returned to our pension for dinner, giddy with the experiences we had today. There was no menu or prices, just a choice between meat and fish; I chose the former and Maikael chose the latter. First we were delivered a variety of couvert, including a stout cylinder of fresh cheese. “What kind of cheese is this?” we asked Senhor Viereia. “Cheese from here. From the Douro.” So, too, was the olive oil. We set one of our bottles of wine on the table that we had gathered along the way today, and he opened it without hesitation. No corking fee. No convincing us to buy one of his bottles.

The meal was simple, local, and delicious: pork ribs braised for hours in vinho tinto, falling off the bone. Fried mackerel, lying in a tidy row on a rustic silver platter. A salad of ruby tomatoes, dressed simply with oil and vinegar. We were stuffed to the gills, and declined dessert. Then, I saw them pluck one of the large, green, oval melons that were stacked in the fireplace. They served a wedge to the Dutch couple; I had to sample it. We ate sweet, juicy melon, groaning but happy.

It was one of those rare moments where I couldn’t help but say out loud, “Right now, I’m living the dream.” We’ve already had so many had so many challenging experiences in three week that I need these days to keep me going and remind me why we’re doing all of this in the first place. Our trip is about meeting real people in real places, eating their food, drinking their wine, and being truly thankful for the kindness of strangers.

Viticultural Adventures

Published
by
elizabeth
on August 1, 2008
in Culinary and Portugal
. 0 Comments

dscf2340Today we set out to explore the vineyards, or quintas, of Portugal’s rural Alto Douro. But where to start? We received a map of the area quintas from the local turismo, located in the train station across from our pension; we decided to start with Quinta do Panascal, one of the three top properties owned by Fonseca, a name you might be familiar with from your local grocery or liquor store. In fact, it’s the only port wine brand I was familiar with.We took the free audio tour, which gave us a basic overview of the history, growing, production, and distribution of port wine. After a brief tasting, we decided to move onto some smaller quintas. Our guidebook suggested we move 12 kilometers north of Pinhao to Favaios, where a little-known muscatel wine is produced, one of only two in Portugal. Now knowing a little about port and absolutely nothing about muscatel, we decided to take the plunge.

The woman at the turismo had suggested we visit Quinta da Avessada, housing a wine museum and tasting room. On the way, we decided to stop in at Cascal de Loivos. We wound our way through vineyards, the stone-stacked terraces creating graduated steps up the hillside. (The amount of stones needed to create these age-old barriers throughout Portugal equals more than twice the amount of stones used to build The Great Wall of China!) At the crest, we reached a two-story stone house, which looked very closed. We rang the bell; no answer. Just as we were getting ready to leave, a black Fiesta trundled up the cobblestone street, slowing down as it approached. I figured it was someone else looking for the quinta. The woman in the driver’s seat rolled down her window. “Ah, hello. You no speak Portuguese?” “No,” we said, “only English and Spanish.” “My husband, he not at home?”

Before we knew it, she was out of her car, opening the front door to the quinta, which turned out to be her house, and calling her husband on the phone. A young boy in a Spongebob Squarepants T-shirt bounded of the car, leaving us with an older woman, who was stylishly dressed in a navy and white-striped sweater and Armani sunglasses. We gave her our stock introduction: “Disculpe, nao falo mucho Portuguese.” This made no difference. She chatted on, talking about the many products their family farm produced, including olive oil and honey. She asked us if we were from England, and when we told her we were from the US, she got excited. “I’ve been to Florida, Philadelphia, and New Jersey!” she exclaimed.

The other woman returned with a scrap of paper. “Okay, I got my husband on the phone, and he give price list.” She opened the garage door, which was a mini-warehouse stacked with box after box of wine. The older woman said, “This is not usually open to the public.” Clearly, there would be no tastings today. She walked us through the products, which ranged from 2 Euro bottles of rose to 10 Euro bottles of their reserva red table wine. The older woman prompted the younger woman to tell us about the label on the bottles, which displayed a gallery of aging black and white photos. “She wants me to tell you that this is her family. Her mother and father and grandparents. She’s very proud.” We hadn’t planned on buying any bottles, but after all the trouble they had gone to open their home to us, how could we refuse? After some confusion as to the amount of wine we’d be purchasing, we chose a middle of the road red wine; the older woman encouraged us to consider a bottle of olive oil as a gift.

Before leaving, we gave each other kisses on the cheek and were wished countless bom viagems. Could this day get any better?
We went in search of the wine museum, which took us down twisting lanes lined with shale rock walls towering on each side. When we arrived, everything appeared to be closed, the two large, stone buildings locked and the property abandoned, save for two lazy dogs who basked in the sun. Were we even in the right place? We started down the road, and then turned around, noticing a red truck that hadn’t been there before parked in front of the neighboring property. Maikael parked the car. “I’m going to see if they know about the museum.”

I stayed in the car, and heard him talking through the fence. I looked in the rear-view mirror and Maikael was smiling, motioning me to come over. “Is this the museum?” I asked. “No, but he’s going to give us a glass of wine.” We walked through the front yard, which was really the entrance to a small vineyard, where a man was smoking and talking on his cell phone. “He’s calling the guy at the museum,” Maikael said. The one-sided conversation sounded like he was ribbing the person at the other end of the line: “Hey, where are you? There’s some people waiting!”

We walked into a darkened shed, where two other men sat drinking red wine, the glass looking like something you might sip a strawberry daiquiri from. We were clearly interrupting their afternoon wine klatch. After exchanging “boa tardes,” we were each offered a glass of wine. “Moscatel o vino tinto?” Having never tried moscatel, we went for the former. He drew us generous glasses from a rubber hose attached to a metal cylindrical tub, the deep amber liquid filling the pilsner-style glasses. This was no tasting; this was a full-fledged glass of wine. We sniffed the glass, filling our noses with oranges, honey, and clover, as if it had been poured straight from the field.

In our collective Portuguese, English, and Spanish, we covered a variety of topics, from the production of wine in the Douro Valley to the war in Iraq. When asked what differentiated moscatel from port, Jose Manuel led us to the vines outside the shed’s door, pointing to a still-green bunch of grapes. “Drink of the gods,” he said. After we finished the moscatel, he uncorked a dark, unmarked bottle of wine, lying in a dusty pyramid on the floor. “You want?” he asked. He poured a long draw into another beer glass; the other two men were already well ahead of us, washing their glasses in a soapy tub on the floor. We leaned against a tractor and took a drink; it was delicious. He made a stomping motion with his feet, explaining that the wine tasted so good because it was crushed by humans, not by a machine. “Vinho maduro,” he said. I had read that this wine was famous in the region; red table wine that had aged at least a year.

We asked if they had lived their whole lives in this city. “Not a city,” he said, “a village.” Yes, they had all lived their whole lives in Favaios, except for the two men who had lived in Mozambique. It shouldn’t have been surprising, given that Mozambique was a Portuguese colony until 1977, but it seemed worlds away from where we stood now, propped up against farm equipment. The conversation flowed surprising well, given the barriers in language, culture, and age. Jose Manuel took two bottles and wiped the dust with a rag. “Here,” he said, handing each of use a bottle, “a memory. A gift.”

We were astonished by this pure act of kindness from a total stranger.

This is the kind of experience you pray will happen when you travel, but never seems to. You wish nothing more than to stumble into some real-life scene, to become a part of the culture, if only for an hour. You could never plan this sort of thing, and when it finally happens, it feels like a dream.

A Toll to Get to Pinhao

Published
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elizabeth
on August 1, 2008
in Portugal and Stress
. 0 Comments

Today we began our journey into wine country. Our rental car was being delivered to our hotel. We held our breath at the undoubted complexity of conducting this transaction with our limited language skills, but were relieved to learn that the owner had spent eight years living in the US. We were on our way! We zoomed out of the city, making our way towards Pinhao. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a toll booth appeared, as if it had materialized out of thin air. In fact, it came up so suddenly that at first we weren’t sure it was even a toll booth. We had been traveling in the lane furthest to the left and had no time to veer right, forcing us to go through the lane. Maikael slowed down to read the sign, but the car behind us blasted his horn: we realized we were in the fast lane, the lane for people who have an electronic pass that allows them to race through the toll without stopping and grabbing a ticket.The booth was gone in a flash. There was no turning back. We’ll deal with it when we get to the other side, we thought. The worst they’ll do is charge us the fare from the beginning of the toll road.

A number of miles down the road, we saw the next toll booth looming in the distance. “Here we go,” we said. As we rolled into the station, the woman in the booth extended her arm. “Bilhete,” she said. Maikael tried to explain as best he could, in Portuguese, that we had just come from Porto, but that we had made a mistake and not gotten a ticket. As they were talking I looked at the lane next to mine. People seemed to be paying about 1.50 Euros for the toll. Then, a number flashed across our screen: 23.60 Euros. Our jaws dropped open and I’m pretty sure my eyes bugged out of my head like a cartoon. The woman explained that we were being fined for not taking a ticket at the previous booth.

Now I know where the term “highway robbery” comes from.

In my time in Portugal, I have noticed that things tend to be rule-oriented. There is a way that things are done, and trying to bend the rules doesn’t usually yield great results. We tried to enter a grocery store a few weeks ago - you know when you go in the out door? — and were clearly told to go through the correct door. When we were at Sintra I tried to move backwards a bit through the line to snap a few photos, and was met with a polite but firm, “Can I help you with something?” While it was obvious that we were foreigners who had no idea what we were doing and had made an honest mistake, talking this woman out of a 23.60 Euro fine was next to impossible. We begrudgingly paid the money. “Bom viagem!” she said. Have a nice trip!

Things weren’t off to a great start. By the time we reached Lamego for lunch at 3:00 pm, we were tired and cranky and bickering at one another. Everything was the other person’s fault. Why had we rented this car in the first place? I hate wine country!

dscf2296After lunch, things began to look up. We walked up the swerving steps of the Ingreja de Nossa Senhora dos Remedios, one of Portugal’s most important pilgrimage sites on the Caminho de Santiago. The stairs weave back and forth up a steep incline, as blue and white azulejos flank each landing. The cathedral is perched high on the hill, and the view from below looks like something out of a fairytale. Huge metal boxes, overflowing with white candles, abutted one side of the church; so many candles had melted that the stone had grown waxy over time.

As we drove deeper into wine country, our car crept over hills and plunged into deep valleys. We got out of the car to take in the view but it was a smell that arrested my senses; the air was heavy with curry and sage. I’ve never sensed a countryside so fragrant. Verdant vineyards stretched as far as the eye could see, creating weaving patterns on the hillsides. The Douro River, a swath of cobalt blue ribbon, cut through the landscape. We were officially off the beaten path.

We arrived in Pinhao around 7pm, population 310. As we drove down the one street in town, I spotted our pension. A man stood outside and waved to us; it was as if he knew who we were. We have a riverfront view, with towering vineyards serving as a bookend to the whole scene. Tomorrow we get to move to the room next door, which has a balcony. One shown to our room, we about collapsed from exhaustion, but, after a short rest, decided to take a walk. There is a restaurant on the bottom floor and Senhor Vieria, our proprietor, asked us if we’d like to have dinner. Declining dinner, he said, “Here, porto,” and poured us each a glass from a small, unmarked square jar on the counter, turning a silver spigot. It was a command, not a question, but we were happy to oblige. After a glass, he asked if we’d like another. “Porque no?” we said, not sure if we were speaking Spanish, Portuguese, or both. In any event, we got another glass.

Nothing turns out like we expect it to. The things we think will be hard - renting a car in Portuguese - turns out to be simple, and the things we think will be easy - driving down the highway - turn out to be the most trying experiences. These are hard lessons to learn and hard pills to swallow. We try to take things as they come and to enjoy the scenery along the way. What better place than the Alto Douro.

Pooped Out in Porto

Published
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elizabeth
on August 1, 2008
in Culinary and Portugal
. 0 Comments

dscf2241We arrived in Porto on Monday, eager to take in the nucleus of Portugal’s famous port wine production. We are by no means wine connoisseurs, but the viticultural lifestyle appeals to us, and we wanted to be a part of it.As we made our way through the narrow lanes and gritty facades of the Ribeira District - the entire neighborhood is designated as a Unesco World Heritage site - we were surprised by the throngs of tourists who crowded the streets. After having spent time in Lisbon, a much larger and more visited city that seemed to be relatively tourist-free, we were surprised by the volume of visitors here. We made our way to the waterfront, where iconic barcos rabelos, the delicately curved wooden boats traditionally used to transport port wine down the Douro River, bobbed gracefully at the shoreline. Signs advertising cruises down the river into port wine country competed for space amongst English-language menus and ice cream stands. Large touring boats rumbled by, heaving with passengers. Industrial port lodges scrambled up the hillside opposite town, clamoring for business. This wasn’t our scene.

We had hoped to spend six days in Porto, so we investigated some of the cruises we saw advertised. The whole experience sounded crowded, mass-produced, and expensive: it would cost nearly 150 Euros (about $225) for the two of us to go on a day-trip. We began talking. What if we went to the source on our own? At the hostel in Guimaraes, we had met a woman from France who had read an article on Pinhao, at the heart of wine country, in the Alto Douro region. We set about making arrangements for a rental car and accommodations, with the help of our hotel’s front desk receptionist, departing the following day.

In the meantime, we decided to explore Porto a bit more and take care of some business. I needed to get rid of my shoes once and for all, which were creating bad mojo. They were a daily reminder of having gotten off on the wrong foot (literally). Having read that Porto was home to a million sapaterias, we spent the day shoe shopping, and I am happy to report that I am now the proud owner of a pair of Portuguese…Hush Puppies sandals. The next order of business was to mail the original shoes home, an undoubtedly complicated transaction that I dreaded. I asked the receptionist how to say “most cheap” and “most slow.” When we got to the post office, the lobby was sleek and modern. I took a number, based on the complexity of my transaction (amazingly, mine fell in the “not complicated” category), and watched for it to pop up on a flat-paneled monitor. Pleasant music played as I browsed through books and office supplies. Was I at a governmental building or a retail store? Incredibly, I was able to communicate what I wanted, sending back my shoes at the cost of 23 Euros, about $30, which was worth it to have them out of my life. The whole affair took less than 10 minutes.

The one thing I wanted to do in Porto was to visit Cafe Majestic. I love tearooms, and enjoy the experience of taking tea in different countries. I was also excited to learn that JK Rowling had written portions of her Harry Potter books in that very space. The tearoom was decked out in alabaster cherubs, with gold leaf and frilly chandeliers gracing the ceilings. I have had some of the best pastries in my life in Portugal, but things take a bit of a turn when delving into British specialties like scones. The portions were small, the items overpriced, but it was a totally fun and fluffy experience.

Being able to be flexible and change plans as they arise has been an important part of the trip thus far. I am a planner by nature, so I am operating out of my comfort zone. Sometimes it’s maddening, but sometimes it’s fun. Nearly everything we ended up doing in Portugal was not what we had originally planned, and most of the best suggestions came from the kindness of strangers.

O Cavaleiro das Trevas

Published
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elizabeth
on August 1, 2008
in Portugal and Stress
. 0 Comments

It started out simply enough: we wanted to see the new Batman movie. We missed its US release by just a few days, and by the time we made it to Lisbon, but movie hadn’t. The other towns we’ve been in since have been too small to house movie theatres, so we vowed we’d make seeing it our first order of business upon arriving to Porto.We approached the receptionist at the front desk of our hotel. “Can you help us find a cinema nearby?” “Yes.,” the woman said. “What you want to see?” “Batman.” She twirled around in her chair and grabbed the local newspaper, humming the theme song from the old TV show. She flipped to the movie section. “Batman Batman Batman,” she said to herself. “Okay, let’s see. She quickly listed a bunch of Portuguese movie titles, including Panda do Kung Fu, none of which sounded like “Batman.” “No, I guess not here yet.” She scanned over the titles again, and one caught our ear; something that sounded like “caballeros.” “Wait, what is that one called?” we asked. “O Cavaleiro das Trevas, like ‘Man of the Night.’” “That has to be it,” we said. “Man of night. Darkman. Batman. I think the subtitle is ‘The Dark Night.’” “Yes, I think that is it,” she said. “The next one start at 9:10.” I glanced at my watch: 8:00 pm. We had plenty of time!

She wrote out a series of detailed directions on taking the metro to the shopping center where the movie theatre was located. She told us to get off at the Sete Bicas stop. “When you get out, follow the people. You see it.”

We made our way to the metro station, not more than a block from our hotel. We approached the ticket machine, always a menacing affair, and read the instructions for purchasing a ticket, which made approximately zero sense to us. Finally, a man, sensing our distress, asked, in English, “Do you need help?” He showed us how the machine operated, but it didn’t accept bills, only coins. We finally wrestled with the machine long enough to produce two 24-hour passes.

When we arrived at Sete Bicas, we expected to emerge from the tunnel in the middle of a shopping center, not a residential neighborhood. There was no line of people streaming in any particular direction. We asked for directions, something that is becoming less scary by the day, and were pointed in a not-obvious direction.

Once at the mall, we made our way to the top floor cinema, looking for a ticket booth. But the only thing we saw was a long row of concession stands. “Maybe they sell tickets at the concession stand?” I said. We studied the flat panel monitor that was rotating through a variety of messages. Finally, one said “Bilheteria,” showing an icon of two movie-looking tickets. But which line? we wondered. Seeing no apparent difference, we chose one at random.

When we got to the front, Maikael asked the woman if this was the line for tickets. Miraculously, it was. “Okay,” Maikael said in Portuguese, “Two tickets for O Cavaleiro Das Trevas.” She whipped out a seating chart, as if we were at a Ticketmaster office. She pointed at a few seats. Apparently, this was all that was available for the 9:10 showing. But we didn’t know which way the screen was oriented - were the seats she was pointing to at the very front or the very back of the theatre? “How are these seats?” Maikael asked. She scrunched up her face. “Mal.” Then, in English, she said, “But there is one at 10 o’clock.” By now it was 9 o’clock and we hadn’t had dinner, so we looked at each other and said, “Sure, why not? We’ll eat and then see the movie.” We nodded enthusiastically at her and she printed out our tickets.

As we walked away from the line, elated by our triumph, I glanced down at the tickets. “22:40,” it said. “Maikael, this says the movie starts at 10:40, not 10,” I said. “Did you hear her say the movie started at 10?” We both had. Then, I suddenly remembered that the metro stopped running around midnight. Or was it 1 am? By now the line had tripled in length, and it was nearly 9:10. Should we try to exchange the tickets? And, if so, how would we communicate that? Our phrase book doesn’t cover these types of complicated transactions. Determining that exchanging our tickets would only muddle matters, we decided to take our chances with the later showing.

Tensions were running high. We were both starving. I was worried about how we would get back to the hotel. I began second-guessing myself, wondering if we should have exchanged the tickets after all. But worst of all, I felt completely deflated. We approach different cultural situations from our worldview, expecting things - as small as procuring a movie ticket - to work in the same way, even though we know intellectually that it won’t. In the world of psychology we’d call it “cognitive dissonance,” but psychobabble aside, I am tired of feeling stupid all of the time. Just when I feel like I’ve done something right or am finally grasping the way things operate, something happens to knock me off my pedestal. All of this is a bit like boot camp: the experiences break you down before you can be built back up again. I am still fighting myself, still being broken down. Eventually, I suppose, I’ll simply be so tired of the struggle that I’ll be forced to accept things for how they are, not how I think or hope they will be.

In the meantime, we ate Chu Min (chow mein?) at a Chinese restaurant in a Portuguese mall. I don’t often eat in malls - heck, I rarely go to malls - but this is the third time I’ve eaten a meal in a Portuguese shopping center.

Feeling a little more fortified, we decided to ask at the mall’s information desk when the metro stopped running. “At 1:20. Twenty past 12.” Maikael and I looked at each other, a look that could only say, “Does he mean 1:20 or 12:20?” “What time does your movie start?” he asked. “Ten forty.” “The movie, it have only two hours, so you be fine.” In my limited time visiting this culture, I have noticed that the Portuguese are exceedingly polite people who don’t wish to disappoint you. There is an overwhelming sense of optimism; this is by no means a bad thing. It can, however, be difficult to get clear answers sometimes. Being here, I realize how cynical, negative, and direct I can be, and how little faith I have in what people do or say. Part of this journey, for me, is living the kindness of strangers approach - to choose to see the good in people. I wanted desperately to trust what this man was saying - to go to the movie with the most positive intentions.

But I didn’t. We ran back to the metro station to check the times for ourselves. The board listed three different times that the metro could stop running, anywhere between 12;36 and 1:36. So which time was it? We asked someone for help, but it was as foreign to them as to us. We walked back to the movie theatre, discussing our plan of action. “We’ll ask the running time at the theatre, and if it lasts pasts 12:36, then we’ll just bag it and go home,” Maikael said.

The man at the theatre said it lasted “uma e meia,” an hour and a half. We’ll be fine! We made our way into the large theatre, which had letters marked at the end of the rows. We were in row N. But once we made it to row N, there were no numbers marked on the chairs. How did everyone know where to sit? We finally made it to our seats, plush, red leather chairs, and breathed a sigh of relief. I looked around; our row was the only row in the theatre with these special chairs. What did this mean?

Soon, the previews started. Sandwiched between advertisements for Get Smart and Wall-E were public service announcements for recycling and AIDS awareness, as well as condom and Super Bock commercials, the national beer.

The movie started in English. Christian Bale was on the screen. For once, we were in the right place, doing the right thing.

An hour into the film, the movie screeched to a halt. “What’s going on?” I asked Maikael, convinced the projector had broken. It was an intermission. For an hour and a half movie?

By 1 am, the movie was still going, and at 1:30 it was over. I had been duped. A big theme in Batman is about faith in humanity: do we choose to see the potential for good or the potential for bad in people? In that moment, I could only feel deceived.

We took a taxi home. I was convinced we’d be overcharged. We weren’t; in fact, the fare was less than we were quoted. I felt guilty about the way I had behaved, and more importantly for assuming the worst in people. When I got up today, I was still thinking about everything that had transpired the night before, and what lesson I was meant to learn from the experience. As Maikael and I talked over the events of the evening, we suddenly realized that the man had said that the movie ended at uma e meia, not that it lasted uma e meia.

Talk about getting lost in translation. It had nothing to do with deception and everything to do with my lack of faith, frame of mind, and limited Portuguese language skills. I vowed to turn over a new leaf. In the end, our big night out on the town cost us around $50. But the lesson was priceless.