Kindness of Strangers

I’m an idiot. Yesterday I was had for the princely sum of 1.30 Euros, about $2.00 for those of you in the U.S. I should start by saying that I’m not a particularly gullible person. I’ve survived innumerable solicitations for money, many scams, and even three robbery attempts, and have luckily escaped  these situations mostly unscathed.

Last night, Elizabeth and I went to a fabulous dinner at Valdonas, a stylish converted 17^th century manor house in heart of the Guimaraes historical district, serving nouveau Portuguese cuisine. The ambiance could best be described as a fusion between historic architecture and modern design, with smart pendent lighting that cast a warn glow over our table and hipster instrumental music (much like you’d hear in a Banana Republic) piped into the dining area. Elizabeth’s Iberian pork, a specialty in this region, was especially succulent, and my bacalhau, wrapped in corn bread, tasted as fresh as any seafood I’ve eaten, with only the slightest hint of saltiness. We were impressed with the attentive service, and even managed a full fledged conversation in pseudo-Portuguese, which lifted our spirits, giving us a great sense of accomplishment.

After leaving Valdonas, we headed to the historic central plaza, to snap a few pictures during the dusk’s golden hour. Guimaraes’s annual festival to honor its patron saint is slated for next weekend, and the medieval structures were appropriately adorned with a festive display of lights. As we meandered, our spirits could not have been higher. “Boa noite, senhor!” I heard this phrase enthusiastically repeated perhaps four times before turning around. A man with dark, lacquered hair and Cheshire smile blurted a few sentences at me in a rapid-fire fashion. Once he saw the look of incomprehension creep up on my face, he repeated the same well-rehearsed speech in Spanish. He expertly conveyed that he was collecting money for a foundation to stop the spread of AIDS in Portugal, since as a country it has the second highest incidence per capital in the European Union, or so he said. He was quickly joined by an older woman with similar dark features, that linked the two via a strong familial relationship. Not having heard the man’s speech, she repeated the shpiel almost verbatim.

Feeling particularly charitable, I fumbled in my pockets for a coin. Not finding one, I deferred to Elizabeth, who had a “what are you doing?” look on her face. I opened my wallet and handed over a five Euro bill, asking for four in change. The lady handed back a few coins, and hurried off before I knew what had happened. I examined the change and felt that something was not right; the sizes of the coins were smaller than I expected. We looked at each other, mouths agape. A slightly queasy feeling took hold that quickly boiled into embarrassment and anger. “Why did you give them that money? It was obviously a scam,” Elizabeth inquired, a bit of resentment in her voice. “I don’t know… I felt so good about life tonight,” I responded.

Elizabeth was absolutely right:  I had fallen for a scam, and not a good one at that. Perhaps it’s very overtness fooled me. We marched away, watching the pair working the cafe tables. We both felt sour about the affair for a while afterward, and I continued thinking into the night, at the cost of a bit sleep. In the end, this was an inexpensive lesson for us that we’ll continue to use throughout our RTW trip. It’s impossible not to move on, as each day brings new, exciting adventures.

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.

I had one goal – one seemingly simple goal — for Saturday: to add new blog posts and photos to our website. We started the day at the front desk of the hostel, and learned that the computers are unavailable on the weekends. Is there anywhere near with WiFi available, we asked? Maybe at the Vasco de Gama Mall (this seafaring hero is so beloved that they even named a shopping center after him), on “the last floor”, where the restaurants are at, we were told.

We hiked a mile down the road with our computer, roasting and basting ourselves with sweat in the midday sun. When we arrived at the mall, we rode the escalators to the top floor, home to the equivalent of a food court, where you can lunch on anything from McDonald’s (always the longest line) to Argentine parrilla. We didn’t see any signs for WiFi, and wondered if this was what he meant by the last floor. We proceeded up to the next floor, a sort of loft area, with fancier restaurants. Was this the last/top floor? But we saw no signs for WiFi, so we went back down the escalators to look for an information booth, and on our way spotted a small Internet kiosk. We could connect to the Internet, but they couldn’t access our USB drive.

At the information booth we learned that there was WiFi in the mall, but that we’d have to “talk to the Clix people.” The woman at the booth motioned towards another kiosk, emblazoned with black and hot pink Xs. Through our sorry attempts at Portuguese, we learned that we’d have to buy some sort of a device at another store before we could set up a subscription with Clix before we could use the WiFi at the mall.

We walked out of the mall, defeated, and stumbled upon another Internet cafe. They, too, did not have WiFi access, nor could they read our USB card. We wandered back out the other side of the mall, stopping at another informational booth. Here, we learned that there was free, public Internet access available at the science center down the road. Bingo!

We found out way towards the modern (and air conditioned) space, which boasted a corral of new Apple computers. And yes, we could transfer our files from the USB card. For free! We ran into some major snags with uploading photos, so only managed to get the posts up.

It took us all day to learn what should have been obvious from the beginning: that any expectations we had about how something functions at home (in this case, WiFi) doesn’t necessarily translate to another culture. We emerged eight hours after our day began, able to accomplish only half of what we had set out to do.

This seems to be par for the course: everything takes twice as long to do half as much as you’d like. Most things we set out to do in a day – from figuring out how to buy a bus ticket to asking for directions to the procurement of food – take eight times longer than we think it will. Even making Top Ramen, the world’s simplest meal, is a major feat. Everything is a multistep process, and we rarely get it right the first time. This is taking some getting used to. We take our habits and routines, our basic orientation to our lives and culture, and our easy access to just about everything for granted. There are times when I just want to sit down and cry, wanting only for the simplest thing to be easy. This has been a week of calibration, of slowly learning to set my expectations low. “Going with the flow” sounds easy in theory. But it’s more complex than just learning to take things as they come. It’s about accepting the fact that everything will take longer and be harder than you think – anything additional is a bonus.

As I was waiting for our flight to Spain at Chicago O’Hare, I went to use the restroom. When I went to wash my hands, an older Indian woman, dressed in a flowing peach sari, was trying to wash her hands in the basin next to mine. She carefully studied my motions, and it soon became clear that she had never encountered an automated sink. I turned to use the towel dispenser, and she did the same. As the water in her sink kept flowing she looked panicked. She gave me a look, the equivalent of a shrug, that said, “How the hell do I turn this thing off?” I smiled and made “okay” gestures with my fingers. But the message got lost in translation, and she banged on the metal spout with her fist, hoping that would do the trick. Finally it turned off by itself, and I smiled, reassuringly trying to say, “See, it’s okay!” Inside, I was thinking, “That is going to be me soon.”

Little did I know that soon would come in a matter of hours. We arrived Madrid at 8:15 am, bleary- eyed and exhausted, having slept little on the plane. After clearing customs and collecting our luggage, we began the great debate of how best to get to our hostel. We had been warned repeatedly about pickpockets and gitanos running rampant on the Metro, and wanted to make sure our belongings were secure. First, we made the executive decision to carry our backpacks by their handles rather than the straps, so as to appear less vulnerable. I slung my daypack awkwardly over my shoulder, and Maikael strapped his to his frontside. The result was two Quasimoto-like figures ambling through the underbelly of Madrid, looking more vulnerable than ever.

Second, we decided to give my money belt its maiden voyage. I crammed the belt with passports, cash, and credit cards, and within minutes my protruding paunch was sagging. By the time we reached our destination, it was somewhere towards the bottom of my thighs. Maikael slung his backpack atop his shoulder, as if he were carrying a bag of coffee beans. I finally stopped halfway through a Metro tunnel and strapped on my backpack properly. “We’ll get better at this,” we said.

We emerged from the Metro, after wrestling with the ticketing machine, sweaty and tired. We arrived at the Hostal Alaska, relieved that our room was ready for check-in so early in the day, and Maikael removed his pack. His chest was ringed by a bullseye of sweat from hugging the daypack to his chest. On a normal vacation, I’d say, “Big deal. We’ll throw it in the laundry when we get home in two weeks.” But today my mind began calculating the complicated equation between shirts owned, opportunities for laundry, and days on the road. We are fortunate enough to have a bathtub in our room, so I immediately plunged all of our dirty clothes in the soapy water and decided to do a load of laundry. When I went to hang up our laundry line – which came highly recommended for its versatile design – I discovered that there was nowhere in our room to hang the now-sopping laundry (note to self: assess laundry line situation before submerging clothes). “We’ll get better at this,” we said.

After a brief nap and shower we went to a lunch spot that was recommended by our hostel. We ordered from the menu del dia, typical midday fare in the Spanish-speaking world, which provides a choice of one of three primero and segundo platos, plus “1/2 of wine” and dessert, all for 10 euros. The waitress brought two bottles of wine, both about ½ full, and we waited for her to pour us each a ½ glass. When she left we raised our eyebrows at each other. “Does this mean we get an entire ½ bottle each?” We glanced around to make sure there hadn’t been some mistake. It’s the first time in my life that I’ve stumbled tipsy out of a restaurant into the midday sun.

It took only one day to determine that we might need to buy a strap for our backpacks for certain situations; that our laundry situation needs some reevaluating; and that the shoes I bought are proving to be disappointing. It’s a reminder that we’ll hardly ever get it right on the first time on this journey, despite our planning and best efforts. We’ll get better at this.

Despite an exhausting and difficult day of feeling like babies beginning to walk, I am writing this post with the balcony doors propped open, as Madrilenos pour out into the waning daylight, laughter rising from the cafe below. I can even hear the strains of an accordion playing an eclectic repertoire of “Happy Birthday,” “When the Saints Come Marching In,” “Those Were the Days My Friends,” and, curiously enough, “Jingle Bells.” Could I be in any more of a quintessential Spanish scene?

Tomorrow is another day. Hopefully with better shoes.

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In the immortal words of John Denver:

“All my bags are packed I’m ready to go
I’m standin’ here outside your door…
I’m leaving on a jet plane
Don’t know when I’ll be back again.”

Well, this isn’t completely true. The bags aren’t totally packed. We’ll be back March 15. I’m certainly not standing outside any doors. But all in all, we’re ready to go. I’m happy to say this is the last post I will place in the “Planning” category.

It’s been a strange week. I have been riding an emotional roller coaster all day: one moment I can barely contain my excitement for the journey ahead, and I feel calm, cool, and collected. The next, I am panicked and nervous and just about ready to leap out of my skin. I guess this is to be expected at the eleventh hour; at least that’s what I keep telling myself.

We’ve said a lot of goodbyes this week, mostly over duck eggrolls, fancy grape martinis, Saggio’s pizza, sangria, and the best Mexican food in town, which we will miss dearly. It’s strange to say goodbye to people, knowing we’ll be back but that things will be different when we return. Most times in life, change just happens. We don’t realize until we’re in the throes of transition that things are different, and usually we never could have predicted it. It’s an odd feeling, then, to embark on a process that you know will most certainly result in coming out the other side a different person, not unlike having a gypsy tell your fortune.

As I’ve said my goodbyes and begun shedding the tangible trappings of my everyday life – cell phone, date planner, garage door opener, house keys – I’ve noticed a strange thing. With each item I give up, I compensate for the loss by adding another to the bag. I’ve found myself sneaking in extra razors to my toiletries bag, and wondering aloud if I shouldn’t buy just one more shirt. I think it boils down to an issue of control. Most of the things I am about to face in the next eight months will be out of my hands, but I have some say as to whether I add another item to my scant wardrobe. I am reminded once again of the powerful pull of stuff.

And yet, I look at the meager piles of items that we’re packing. It’s amazing to thing that I have pared down my life to 3,500 cubic inches. I’ll probably regret packing half of it by next month. Even today I found myself clutching pieces of paper, wondering, “Do I really need this?” To ensure that gender stereotypes don’t run rampant, I’ve included photos of Maikael’s pile and my pile of items to be packed. As you can see, they are nearly equal in size.

Signing off from Albuquerque, New Mexico, on the eve of a journey of a lifetime. See you in Madrid! Buenas noches.

I get a lot of questions about the trip that reflect the normal things that most people worry about when they think of traveling for long periods. What about your job? What about terrorist attacks? What if your plane crashes, or you’re robbed, or you find yourself caught in the midst of a military junta? These aren’t concerns that cross my mind too often. Instead, I prefer to sweat the small stuff: visa issues (and Visa issues), storing my passport, what socks to pack, transferring money between accounts on the road, creating laminated copies of important documents, making calendars. Last night I had a dream that revolved entirely around going to the bank and asking them a million questions. Basically, I worry about fine details — never the broad brushstrokes. In that same vein, I don’t worry about being on the trip; I worry about starting the trip.

I could be wrong, but I imagine the most joyful part of the trip will be somewhere towards the midway point, when we’ve had sufficient time to fall into a routine; or, if nothing else, become comfortable with the fact that we’re traveling for a living. The part I am dreading most is the next month. I’m sure, as most people have mentioned, that boarding the plane on Sunday will help me to breathe a huge sigh of relief. But then we get to the business of actually starting this new life, which will be hard. Not only will our surroundings be constantly changing, but everything will be new: clothes, equipment, technology, credit cards, processes for just about everything imaginable. There are no familiar touchstones; everything has to be learned anew.

I always imagined that starting a RTW trip would feel like flipping a switch. In one moment I would be a resident of my regular life, and in the next I would be comfortably ensconced in my RTW trip life. But I think it’s more like passing through a veil. There’s a transition period that occurs between those two phases, a state of limbo that is neither here nor there. While we are setting off on Sunday, I’m not sure that it will feel like we’ve fully begun this journey. I’m beginning to realize that the first month is more likely to feel like a long vacation than the beginning of a RTW adventure. But rather than fighting it, I’m going to try to embrace it for what it is. Like most challenges in life, there is no way around this uncomfortable adjustment period; it has to be faced head on. I’m sure there’s no more beautiful place than Portugal, though, to feel completely out of touch with one’s own life.