A Little Bit of Rainy Day Tourism Fiction

 [The writing prompts for today were twofold. Start a story with an apology. End a story with a question. I did both.]

"Sorry"

She heard the apology but wasn't sure what it was for. In this almost stranger's kitchen the old man moved to and fro. Outside the world crawled. Looking out the kitchen's window into the apartment block’s courtyard, she saw small drops of rain steadily falling. Everything was wet. The sky was grey. The rain muted the pastel colors of all the buildings.

A loose apron hung around the man’s neck. There was a colorful picture of the Barcelos' cock and “Bon Dia” stitched on the front of the dangling garment. Could there be any clearer sign that she had arrived in Portugal? Gray haired and wearing wire rim glasses this man, her host, roamed the kitchen. He held a heavy pan. Last night when he made her a welcome to Lisboa grilled cheese and prosciutto sandwich he told her it was purchased from the neighborhood ‘fine’ cookware store.

She wondered if those were John Lennon style glasses he was wearing. However, given she had paid scant attention to the Beatles, they were so before her time, she couldn't tell. The pan appeared an ideal vessel for cooking an omelette, except for its weight. The man cracked the eggs and mixed them with two ounces of milk in a coffee cup sitting beside the gas stove. Taking the cheese and ham from the refrigerator he diced them on a small wooden cutting board to sprinkle on the cooking omelette. He pulled out a spidery red pepper and used an arched eyebrow to silently ask if he should dice it and throw it in. Just as silently with a left to right to left head shake she told him no.

"I have to apologize to you. This will not be the prettiest of omelettes. In all the cooking shows you see the chef easily flipping the omelette. Try as I might I cannot do that in this pan. I will simply have to use my spatula and sort of flop the eggs over. The taste won’t be any different, but on the whole it won’t be pretty. This concoction will be somewhere between an omelette and scrambled eggs. Are you OK with that?"

The old man’s guest at this breakfast table nodded in agreement that it would be OK. Beggars can't be choosers. She was not paying for breakfast nor for her room. Her host, the man preparing her the first meal of the day, was putting her up gratis for a couple of nights on this leg of her trip to the Iberian Peninsula. The gent walking about the kitchen was actually a friend of her very close friend, well her mentor back in the States. Apparently the two men shared a house in graduate school. When she asked for stories of life in the house, both claimed allegiance to a secret oath never to reveal what went on in the purple house they called Marvin.

She believed the old man seemed safe. He was married and had adult kids. There were family pictures everywhere. His wife was finishing up a trip to Barcelona and would return tomorrow. He had said a couple of times, “I think you'll actually like my wife better than me. She is way more interesting than I am. She knows all the hidden spots to hit for the best pastries. She knows where the pocket museums are. And she is more polite than me." Adding to her sense of safety her room could be locked from the inside.

Walking to and from the stove, the refrigerator, the coffee grinder, he kept talking."You know the asshole in chief made a speech last night. Obviously, I didn’t listen to it because it came on at one in the morning here. Even if I'd been in the same time zone, I would not have listened to that doofus. After breakfast, I may look at the Post to see if there was anything earth-shattering that we exiles need to know.

One of the most delightful things about living in the EU is that you can turn off the US news cycle for a day or two." Having said this he looked at her with sad eyes. His sad eyes were clearly those of an old exile running from his country's turn toward madness. "You may not have a country to go back to when your three months are done. If need be you can always stay here until the end of 90 days Schengen will tolerate you for."

The kitchen smells became more delightful. With care he placed a bottle of fresh squeezed orange juice in front of her. Pushing the lovely pulp filled juice in her direction he retrieved a small clear glass from an upper cabinet, and put it next to the bottle. He turned back toward the gas stove.

Facing away from her he spoke again. "I know you’re keen to get the rest of your travel underway, but it’s going to rain for the next four days in a circle 200 miles in any direction. If you stay here you can dry off in this warm kitchen after your daily explorations. Trust me there are palaces and museums enough to fill four days. On the other hand you could head out into the mud of the countryside and be miserable. At least I think you’ll be miserable."

Truth be told, she had weighed the same considerations. Being a friend of a friend of her host, she decided not to make the first overture to extend her stay. She was more than glad he offered.

Her host moved the spatula in the large pan to push the edges of the omelette in as it warmed and started to congeal. Looking directly at her he continued talking. "If you head west you’re heading to a small town in a quasi desert. In summer it’s so damn hot. In summer you only go out to see the sites before 10 in the morning and after six at night. But it's winter and the rainy season and so you could putter around all day in that gray and brown cobblestone landscape. I mean what’s really over that way except for some big rocks sitting in a muddy field that are older than Stonehenge and a chapel filled with hundreds of skulls? The way I see it your real choices are between old wet stone churches. If you ride over there you get to peek into one with skulls. If you stay here you can wander through 20 skull-less Igejas."

The whole time he talked, her host was in motion. He bent over the stove, moving the pan about on the burner. Pulling some boiled potatoes from the ‘fridge he asked if he wanted some hash browns. She shook her head no. Back they went.He dropped two slices of bread into the toaster. He clicked on an American-style drip coffee maker. He wasn’t a whirling dervish, but he was focused in his movements. She heard the toast pop up and the smell of the browned bread mixed with the smell of the brewing coffee and it was delightful.

She pondered what he had said. The trip out to the city with the bone chapel would require either hopping on the train or grabbing a bus and wasting a couple of hours. Doing that on a rainy day wouldn’t be too bad, but she wasn’t sure of her accommodations when she got there. There was a nice bed and good food right here. She thought it might make sense to stay here another day, maybe two given he had extended the offer.

She was about to say she would stay an extra night when her host pulled the full pot of coffee out of where it had been brewing. "Heads up. It’s a blend from Cabo Verde. Bet you've never had that before. Are you up to visiting another palace today?"

"Are you coming with me when I go?" she asked, indicating with a question she was not planning to leave his hospitality, at least not today.

Walking Out Before the Rain Can Catch Me

Some days hold promise. Other days convey a sense of ‘meh’. As I work my way through morning rituals in the cozinha, making coffee, emptying the dishwasher, I can see the courtyard roofs are wet. There is standing water in anything that collects it. A pregnant grey sky hangs above with the promise of more, albeit of unpredictable intensity, precipitation. After yesterday and my visit to the doctor, I had promised myself I would take a long walk today. Maybe I will take a medium walk in my recently purchased REI rain jacket. As my wife often says, I won't melt.

I am not usually one to use sport’s metaphors but when you are in the fourth quarter (American football), or the third period (hockey), or the second half (futbol) of life you really hope for more days with that aura of promise. I desire more moments when my brain is engaged enough to sit at the keyboard after a morning of experience, preferably fresh experience. I want all those bits and bobs inside me fired up so that the words I am pounding out say something other than the world is a mess.

(1.5 hours later.)

Finished a 2.5-mile walk in just under an hour. Only when I reached the University of Lisboa campus did the rain really begin and even then it was just a light but steady drizzle. In the center of campus there was a job fair going on in a long tent. Outside were the hallmarks of university life. There was a truck selling fast food like bifanas and Sagres beer. Another truck offered what the Portuguese call American Hot Dogs. Yeah, these are hot dogs pulled from a jar warmed up, placed on a bun and covered with cheese, shredded carrots, corn and crumbled potato chips. American style hot dogs indeed. Oh yeah, Red Bull was there. Of course Red Bull was there.

Whenever I see a Portuguese food truck advertising ‘American Dogs’ I lapse into a dream about a hot dog cart. In this fantasy I am setting the cart up next to the roasted chestnut vendor at the Saldanha Circle Metro entrance. I mean the cart would have the whole nine yards. There would be relish, onions, ketchup, mustard, steamed buns and all meat franks ready to eat. There would be a bar above the bins with the dogs and buns with clips holding bags of batatas fritas or Doritos. I would have a cooler with Coke, Sprite and cold water. Ah to be back on the streets of New York City, Philadelphia, Wilmington DE or even Lansing, Michigan.

Ran into one person I knew so I stopped and talked a bit. It is good to have a social circle of outgoing friends. The relationships I have built since arriving here are something I cherish. Moving thousands of miles away from wherever your life started takes a certain spirit. For the most part that spirit is an outgoing and open to experience spirit. I like people who live that way.

Well I got my walk in. Hopefully I can keep it up. Got to keep the doctor happy. Hell, I know this kind of exercise, like my daily walks, is crucial in maintaining both my physical and mental health. So I am not really doing it for the doctor, I am doing it for me.

Jazz as I Clean

 

Seen in Coimbra

Jazz is hearing a warping dropping bass line and thinking where have I heard that style before? Was it Jaco? Was it something Ron Carter did that time I saw him in the 200 seat auditorium? My ears perked up to hear where the guitarist on the hollow body Gibson takes the theme next. I wonder if this will end with soft piano tinkling and brushes playing atop the drums or something bolder? Maybe it will spin off into a much different theme. Jazz plays and suddenly I am back in the 1970s listening to jazz from the late fifties and the fusion sound of Return to Forever and Herbie Hancock.

Suddenly the music takes a sharp left turn and the guitar player drops into some soft melodic noodling and the piano fades to a gentle counterpoint. Just as suddenly I remember a night in the dormitory with all my midterms done and dinner in the cafeteria over. I lit up a damn fine joint and started listening to Joe Sample and then moved on to that Chick Chorea Gary Burton vibe driven thing. With a candle burning I leaned across my bed and rested my head against the pale green wall and let the music take me away. I am pretty sure the snow outside was six inches deep and my room's window panes in that old red brick building were completely frosted over.

Damn the song changes. The combo goes old school. The Hammond B3 is now leading the way into something you would have seen in a smoky New York jazz club circa 1967. I can see a room in dim light jammed full of small circular tables with people drinking Manhattans and nodding their heads and occasionally going “Yeah man.” I think as I continue my chores that before this night is over I should dig out some of those vintage Miles tunes that I had on that old jazz label, maybe Nature Boy. Or maybe I should check out something like Gil Scott Heron’s Pieces of a Man.

Yeah, jazz takes you to places you have forgotten or never been. Jazz is a journey through time and emotion filled with rich, soulful melodies.

Water, Wind, and the Power of Nature Outweigh Fools at Work

16 February 2025

Yesterday after a quick trip down to a hospital by the Tejo River a family decision was made to head out to the ocean. We hopped on a Carris bus to Ericiera. The trip isn't long, merely a few minutes more than an hour. The road winds a wee bit winding and the steep hillsides and the tight turns make the route a fun one.

I didn't care that much about the trip because I have not been feeling up to snuff as of late. Add in the fact that the hills in Ericiera make the hills in Lisboa look like a flat football field and I wasn't looking forward to it. But I went.

Once I got to Ericiera two things made the trip worthwhile. The first was the ocean's power. In my life the closest I have ever felt to God, or to the eternal, is when I have been by the waters of the North Atlantic. Yesterday the waters along the coast reminded me of that sense, that feeling. 

As we stood on the rocky edge of the ocean the swells were three to four meters tall. You could just sense the power in that building ridge of saline water. And then it hit the rocks and threw spray at times up to a height of just shy of forty feet into the air. Then, the spray fell slapping the brown and grey rocks louder than a prissy movie queen hitting her unfaithful fictional lover. 

With all that is wrong in the world today the constancy and the power of the ocean was what I needed to break the doom loop playing out in my mind. I felt at peace with nature as I watched those powerful waves. I realized again that no matter what we humans do to harm and denigrate each other nature is inherently our better. My cares dropped away.

hen there was the walk up the ramp from the fisherman's beach. So many feral cats who live off the scraps of the fishing fleet. It was surprising the number of Siamese cats walking down that ramp. But there were cats of every shape and stripe.Hey, the ocean reminded me how insignificant we are. However, the cats reminded me that there are still a few delights to be experienced in this world.

Saw this guy just watching the day go by. He seemed to take no notice of the beach volleyball game going out just fifty meters away.

This cat was walking with real purpose.  It seemed like he had places to go and obnoxious humans taking his picture were not his concern. 

The Captain below was just waiting for the next jaunt out onto the waves. Fish guts and fish heads await.

 

The Song on the Radio

14 February 2025

Today is the anniversary of my first “real” date with my wife. It was 47 years ago. Time flies.

Last night I did the dishes. A copious amount of pots and pans had accumulated during the preparation of ossos. Hey if you want an excellent meal you have to experience the clean up afterwards. This is what cosmic balance requires.

I have been washing dishes since I was 12. Yeah I came to kitchen work in the era of Vietnam, Lyndon Johnson, Richard Nixon and Spiro Agnew. I came into the washing and drying of dishes back in the days of free form FM radio. You may not have been around and you may not remember that time. However, back then a DJ might play 12 songs in a row and never tell you what they were. It might go from Muddy Waters to Love to Fairport Convention to Julie Driscoll to the Mahavishnu Orchestra capping it off with ELP.

In the middle of those twelve tracks, you might hear a song that just made your heart really respond. This might be with meditative love or agitation about the world as it was. It would take you weeks and sometimes years to figure out what that song you love was. It was during these dishwashing sessions that I first heard Ralph McTell’s “Streets of London”, Nick Drake’s “Pink Moon”, and Fairport Convention’s “Matty Groves”. I had the pleasure of seeing Ralph McTell two weeks ago and his voice is still beautiful. He is 82.

These days I play Apple Music’s stations emblazoned with my name. It picked up what I like using one of its many nefarious algorithms. While I washed many pots last night I realized that my musical favorites with only a few notable exceptions were created between 1967-1984. The notable exceptions are songs crafted by artists performing in those years but still out on the road creatively, like Tom Waits or Emmylou Harris. This clicked for me when the station played a Steve Miller Band song that long predated "The Joker."

Yeah even my modern devices tell me I am old. But there really isn’t another alternative that I like.

I Am Captain Mundane!!!!

Tuesday. Early morning. Early enough, it is still dark. No living thing moves outside this window, this building. The only movement is the slowly but steadily falling of the rain on this February morning. A slow grey day will come soon enough.

Read a novel last night after settling into bed at 10:45. ’Twas a tale of murder foul in the heartland of America. The first forty pages were interesting but the day’s activities clearly must have worn me way down.

Woke up at 1:30 with the iPad glowing on my chest and drool dribbling out my mouth. Got up and shuffled to the bathroom for that pre-sleep pee. Got a sip of cool water. Returned to the comforter snuggling in like a bear moving into a cave for a long cold winter.

Just like that I was off to sleep and dreaming of things most improbable and fantastic. If you quiz me now I could not tell you a single detail. But when I awoke, I was sure I would remember it all.

At 5:57 my body told me it had rested as much as it felt necessary and that I should get up, pee again and seek out some fuel for the coming hours. I fought my corpus’s demands for a time, picking up my phone and reading the headlines and my friends’ latest social media postings. But at about 6:05 I gave in got up and after hitting the bathroom headed for the kitchen.

Today, like most days I set a pot of decaf on to brew. I got a bowl and a spoon. I sliced a banana up and threw some nuts on top of it. Then the Special K and the milk. My breakfast does not vary much although some days the fruit is diced apple with a dash of sultana raisins.

Coffee done, I grabbed a hot cup and took it to the dining room along with the cereal bowl and some milk. After opening the metal curtain that hides the courtyard from my view I ate in the darkness watching for the first signs of light. Those first signs of light are never the sun or a waning dark sky. Those first signs are lights appearing in windows across the courtyard of the poor bastards just getting home from a night shift or just getting ready to be in at 7.

Of the 58 windows I can observe across the courtyard four or maybe five light up before the sun comes up. My vision is poor enough that I can’t see people or anything taking place in those apartments. If the residents of those units knew, my myopia would probably make them happy. I just see blurry pastel yellow radiating out over what I know are pastel pink and green buildings.

As I sip my coffee I try to make a mental list of what I have to do today. There is a trip to the oculista. The replacement lenses for my sunglasses are in and will be placed in the frame I bought a couple of weeks ago. Initially I got a pair with UV protection but not polarization. It took only one day walking on the glaring calçadas of Lisboa sidewalks and I knew I had made a mistake. Luckily the oculista had a satisfaction guarantee for 30 days. So, in order to get the situation rectified all I had to do was pay for the add-on of polarization. A swap of lenses is required and that is why I am dropping in today.

An add-on to the list was a lunch date with friends. Luckily it is at a Vietnamese restaurant near my home. If I remember correctly the place does pho and bao buns. And there was other stuff I added to the list. These included dishes, laundry, purging email, and digging through a bag of papers shoved under the desk. This inadvertent hiding occurred when we had a new year’s party. I need to make sure nothing of importance got put away without being addressed.

As I jotted down some of the stuff to be taken care of on a Post-it I worked on my second cup of decaf coffee. Watching the eastern sky it lightened. Soft gray clouds filled the world's ceiling. Straining my eyes it appeared that a sliver of blue sky might be mixed in but it was difficult to tell. A look at my phone and the TWC app indicates the rain will not be steady but rather have breaks of several hours throughout the day. Typical Lisboa February.

With a list of to-dos in hand I will face the day. With my black rain jacket I will live in, if not conquer, this wet day in the world.

Living in a Small World

Dawn Behind Rua Pedro Nunes

When I awake and read the tales of the current world I am driven into the small space of my insignificant life. I focus on my modest existence away from the winds of power and money. I ignore the oversized desires of the elites and the political classes. The fools in government and industry who have risen far above me cannot be changed, nor can their behaviors be changed. But here on the ground I walk I can offer love to my family, friendship to my neighbors and openness to strangers.

 

It is the compact space of my small life that I write about most often. I don’t talk about those broader things. It is done for me by people like Heather Cox Richardson and others of like minds. When I read today about the incoming administration almost completely clearing out the National Security Council because its members would not swear fealty above all else to the incoming President I knew these sunlit hours would be ones in which I focused on things like where can I find Ihla cheese that is marked gluten free? Did I empty the dishwasher yet?

 

Still, I feel guilt for writing so much about this small world of mine. I mean maybe I should detail Lisboa's art and architecture to you like an armchair Rick Steves. Instead, I talk about the windows of the apartments behind mine. As expansive as I get in these writings is when I tell you that the barber in the Belarmino barbershop down the hill from the Miradouro Sao Pedro Alicantara with all of her tattoos is one incredibly talented barber. Marta rules. Yeah, I talk about the small world because the larger world is too scary and awful for me to think about too long.

 

Here is what I wrote about yesterday.

 

Coffee? Or tea? Or maybe nothing at all. Late afternoon arrives with a day's worth of coffee already consumed. Any more and my back teeth will float. Any more and no sleep will come before three A.M. Ice cubes, lemon and tea. With the cubes clinking in a tall glass, I move out to a small table made of brown slats, an octagonal picnic table. I take in this afternoon world colored by the cool January sun. For a moment I am static as the world hurtles forward.

 

The sun's rays warm my face but the air is cool. I wear fleece and a down vest but both are unzipped and unbuttoned. Sitting here there is a serene atmosphere. It is a pause in time. Right here and right now sitting in this calm setting, the day’s worries are shoved out of my mind. There is only peace and contentment. It's a moment of stillness for my mind. It is a place where the soul can breathe.

 

The hum of traffic on the other side of the building reminds me of the chaos unfolding beyond my peaceful oasis. While my mind finds solace in the quiet of this moment, I am acutely aware of the restless and unstoppable energy outside. It is a delicate balance between inner tranquility and the frantic pace of the world around me. I will not pick up my phone and doom scroll. I just won’t, at least not right now.

 

I scan the world of the block’s courtyard. White sheets flutter below windows, building after building. Lightweight shirts can be found at the ends of those sagging lines holding fitted sheets. It is clear today, but the temperature won't reach sixty. Maybe stuff will dry, maybe not. You can tell Americans' apartments by their heavy blue jeans hanging from their lines. 

 

Fire escapes have become porches where short middle-aged men smoke cigarettes in the evening and where middle-aged women put potted palms to catch the afternoon sun's warmth. Most metal exterior curtains/shutters have been rolled up to let the sun in. 

 

Sun warmth is an ancient, natural and economical way to dry clothes. None of the people around here have energy-hog dryers. Additionally, most of these apartments are unheated. A full sun boosts the comfort of these living spaces, but so do the portable heaters we all purchase. This winter sunlight nourishes those potted plants on the fire escapes, adding a touch of needed greenery to the urban environment.

 

The contrast between the apartments is striking—on the far side of the courtyard the windows are very small. They let in little heat in the summer and very little cold in the winter. These windows are small pock marks on otherwise flat pastel facades.

 

The buildings along the sides are different. The buildings on both sides of the courtyard have balconies, which have long been covered with wide and high glass to create sun rooms. In one of these sun rooms hangs a disco ball. At night the room is flooded with red light. Another room in a building further down holds a comfy leather chair and a goose neck lamp. This lamp would have been appropriate for an episode of Father Knows Best.

 

Each window tells a story, revealing cultural differences in lifestyle and habits. While Americans cling to their sturdy jeans, others embrace the lightness and simplicity of the day. They let the sun flood their space with warmth and optimism.

 

I cannot sit long in this space. My life will not allow me to immerse myself in this meditation away and apart from this particular January's madness for more than a few minutes at a time.

Twilight Behind Rua Pedro Nunes