More meanderings on Hiraeth/Saudade

A friend, Slim Russell, noted the similarity between the Welsh hiraeth and Portuguese saudade, not knowing the linguistic relationship. These are from some notes I wrote to her.

Well, it's not so strange a connection in that Portuguese/Galego (Galician) and Welsh are related, both stemming from the same Gaulish-Celtic ancestor...and that strange melancholia was a noted trait among the Celts.

I discovered that the Welsh hiraeth, Breton hiraezh, Cornish hyreth, and Irish sireacht (shiracht), all stem from the Celtic root word, siros, from Proto-Celtic *sīr-axto-, akin to Gaulish siraxta (“longing”) which is related to Latin serus—which evolved into Portuguese/Galician via Iberian Celtic speakers, full circle to Saudade. Galicians also use morriña, that's extreme saudade on steroids. But someone pointed out that it probably came from the classical Latin solitās, Makes more sense but I’m not up to deconstructing that last paragraph.

Portuguese/Galician Gaulish had many similarities to Irish (Q-Celtic) vs Gaulish, from which Welsh (P-Celtic) stems. Of course Portuguese/Galician evolved from Iberian, or Atlantic Celts trying to speak Latin, language of the conquerors.

"Hiraeth is a Welsh word for which there is no direct English translation: homesickness tinged with grief or sadness over the lost or departed. It is a mix of longing, yearning, nostalgia, wistfulness, or an earnest desire for the Wales of the past.

Hiraeth bears considerable similarities with the Portuguese concept of saudade (a key theme in Fado music), Brazilian Portuguese banzo (more related to homesickness), Galician morriña, Romanian dor, Russian toska and Ethiopian tizita."  —Wiki

"Saudade is a word in Portuguese and Galician (from which it entered Spanish) that claims no direct translation in English. ...Saudade is also associated with Galicia, where it is used similarly to the word morriña (longingness). Yet, morriña often implies a deeper stage of saudade, a "saudade so strong it can even kill," as the Galician saying goes. Morriña was a term often used by emigrant Galicians when talking about the Galician motherland they left behind. Although saudade is also a Galician word, the meaning of longing for something that might return is generally associated with morriña. A literary example showing the understanding of the difference and the use of both words is the song Un canto a Galicia by Julio Iglesias."   —Wiki

One of my favorite songs of Cesária Evora, is Sodade. (Cape Verde spelling.)
Y un canto a Galicia, desde Julio Iglesias, who is Galician.

It's Pearl Harbor Day, a good a day as any to suffer from a case of saudade or hiraeth.


Longing/Saudade/Hiraeth  A blog I wrote on saudade/hiraeth.

and another on Hiraeth.

SANTOS folk narrative

SANTOS FAMILY FOLKLORE as if told by Jimmy's grandson, Sean

(We pieced this family folklore together while we were in the Azores, and I added bits to it right after we returned. It's a story for my 1st cousin once removed, Sean Dinsmore, who was a child at the time. Now Sean is 21. I transcribed the folklore as if told from Sean's point of view, so he would have a family record for later. (I was taking a monologue class at the time....I did one for each family name. I was planning to use them in a monologue in several voices, since I couldn't use them for my folklore class.)

At the time, I was desperate to fill my required 40 bits of collected folklore for my anthropology professor, Dr. Alan Dundes' folklore class at UC Berkeley, and this unexpected piece came out of the collecting process. 

My informants were my aunt Canice, who was married to Jimmy Santos, and her daughter, my cousin, Sinead Dinsmore, who was Jimmy's step-daughter. So it all came from second-hand informants. I wasn't sure how to clarify the information from two sources.  It was disjointed, Sinead and Canice would begin a story, we'd be interrupted, then, out of the blue, hours or days later, they'd finish the story.

Alan Dundes said he only wanted first-hand informants, in their own authentic language structure, replete with hem-haws, ahems, and warts. So I wasn't able to use this piece. Then I changed the story, to be read as if told from Sean's point of view. I have the original fragments in my journals, but they are fragments, not contiguous.

How I collected the stories: We were traveling together, over a period of a month, In September, right after 9/11. The fragments were collected in San Francisco, Boston, Azores, London—in hotel rooms, boats, and planes. The stories are fragments, as they were always interrupting each other. A tape recorder would've come in handy. Or not. Canice was on a pilgrimage to the land of Jimmy's ancestors, in the Azores.

Canice and Sinead were the ones Jimmy told these stories too. And my cousin David, too (I've never collected his Jimmy stories). I heard a few stories too at Thanksgiving dinners. Sadly, Jimmy (James J. Santos in the story) never met his grandson Sean. Jimmy died too soon, at the age of 54, in the 1990s, of heart failure, though his heart was big.

I never finished writing this piece. There were a lot more stories that I didn't capture—Jimmy in Mill Valley, and working in Sausalito, etc. Sinead still tells a few Jimmy stories, and I always mean to write them down, but I never do. If I wasn't trying to upload and post-date my old writing for this blog, this piece might have languished in cyberspace forever. Several of my old files from 2000 are corrupted, with bits missing. This blog is an attempt to rescue old files.

Regardless of how this memoir was captured, and transcribed, it does chronicle the times. The story was as true as I could make it. A record for the future. And now that that little boy I traveled to the Azores with, Sean, has a son, Jameson, perhaps it's time to give Sean this small piece of his past, now that he's a father, himself. —MH 11/20/2015)

As if told by Sean Dinsmore:

Great-grandpa John J. Santos and great-grandma Bernice D. Santos were new parents to my grandpa, James J. Santos. Great-great grandma Desalla didn’t approve of how her grandson was being cared for. She took it upon herself to whisk James home to her house. He lived with his grandparents until he was ready for school. 

One day his mother decided it was time, and brought him home. His grandmother would be an important figure in his growing up. He often went fishing with his Uncle James and played in Sausalito amongst the boats. His father took his favorite car and sold it without his permission, because Great-grandpa needed the money. This bothered James for the rest of his life, so he supported his sons when they bought their first cars.

During the Big Fire on Mount Tam in the ’40s, Grandpa told stories. How his father worked on the Fire Crew and all the men. The canteen service that worked the fire, the giant amount of food they served. Grandpa was a small child and the portions of steak and chicken were huge massive servings. These men worked long and dangerous hours that seemed longer and they were filled with emotion. This was a defining memory of his childhood.

Great-uncle Jimmy was a fisherman during his youth, and when he was older, he took men sport fishing. The sea was his environment and he fished and worked the sea his whole life. He lived in Mill Valley with Sally in his parents’ house where Great-great-grandma lived. Stories of Grandpa coming home from school crying and sad because the kids were mean. Great-uncle Jimmy telling James to stick-up for himself.

The next day he came home with a smile on his face. The story is that Grandpa James didn’t back down from the bullies and so his battle was over. Grandpa had problems with discrimination his whole life because he was dark, not black but not pure white. So kids who didn’t know him would think wrong thoughts. Adults that he worked with often mistook his ancestry and assumed it wrong.

The Azore Islands is were my great-great-grandpa was from. The Azore Islands were discovered in the 14th century by the Portuguese and Europeans. My mother and grandmother and godmother went with me to the Azores a few years ago. When we were there, we saw volcanic rock beaches. The landscape is similar to Ireland with fields marked with stone fences. We saw a farmer riding his donkey from the corn field with the fresh corn under his bottom. 

The Soares and Bettencourts and Desallas are names in my family tree. My father John, and uncle James would fit right in with their dark hair and eyes, though they're half-Irish. My father John, is very tall—6’5,” and for his heritage, he’s a little big—with size 15 shoes, a little hard to find. 

After the Azores, we went to Lisbon, and to Fatima, a religious site. Then we went to London, England, and stayed in Maidenhead. In “Harry Potter” they show the train station Mom and Grandma took me through. We visited Buckingham Palace and Westminister Abbey as well as Harrod’s department store. The lemonade was very expensive.

Portugal Journal: Lisbon London SFO 5

9 AM London time, 1 AM California time

10/8 Monday 8:45 AM: I'm going to arrive at SFO at noon aboard United flight 955 Heathrow to SFO. Landing last night from Lisbon, we learned that the US and Great Britain had just completed a five-hour bombing of Afghanistan. I am seated in business-class wondering if this might be my last few moments on earth, at least in this format.

Having had a déjà vu sequence, while in line to board, I was suddenly struck with fear, and burst into tears as I sat down in the waiting room. A British woman put her arms around me which really got me going, and now I'm continually on the verge of tears.

Having started the day sampling whiskey, a first ever before breakfast, I joked with Linda the shopkeeper, saying I might need the whiskey. She said come back later for the really good stuff… But the two thimblefuls I tried sent me over the edge, I've had so little sleep these past few nights. Everyone is so kind to us because of 9?11. I was not expecting that.

And as I boarded the plane, the elevator music became an unconscious dialogue. In my business class seat, I listen to Will you go, Lassie go? I thought: is this it? And are you ready to leave? My exit pass… it is highly possible the Taliban might retaliate with an airstrike on a US airline, and United has already been in their sights twice…

So many people seem to be leading normal lives, sitting reading the newspaper or pulp fiction – but at this point even the news is pulp fiction… I am profoundly saddened by the turn of events, but not surprised. As Bush did warn us that he'd strike… But this time, not alone. Great Britain too is joining in…

Tim, the taxi man, or Grandpa, as he preferred to be called, from Maidenhead, said, "It's the only way. I was in World War II. Like with Hitler. We should've taken care of it in '32 and not in '45. Better to kill 6 million now, than 10 million later," he said.

I cannot work my mind around these abstractions. Of what is right or wrong, or ultimately better in the long run? I just know my heart hurts.

I left 1,000 escudos with Marria in Lisbon to buy to heart milagros at Fatima, so whether or not I survive this fligh,t at least there will be a remembrance for me, of me. The other heart is for Canice's heart. Maria said, "You have to believe in something, why not Fatima?" The maid singing Fatima adios to because she doesn't believe. Ultimately, what do I believe in?

The message email I tried to send Neil last night wouldn't go through. Dave Challis, our knight in shining armor, sent my email for me—brief and to the point, and signed it, the temporary landlord. Dave is a stranger who slept on my cousin Dave's couch, and is returning the Pay it Forward favor.

At the airport, I run out of time to call either Neil or Sinead. Is this the exit pass, not enough time? Or not the right coinage to call home? Nature is indifferent; the chaos theory is fully operational.

It is a relief to know that daylight will follow us all the way to California. At this point, I'm afraid of the dark. I wonder where night will occur? Are we flying into the light or do we chase the darkness across the globe?

I'm sorry I didn't take the free champagne from the flight attendant.  I'm in a muddle as to whether or not to be clearheaded, though I suspect no amount of alcohol will have an effect on me if something were to happen.

Here we go… The stars and half moon over Maidenhead, a beautiful surprise. Liftoff… We are no longer creatures of the land, but of the air, having joined the birds at their own game – hopefully not that of angels. I think of Wim Wenders angels walking the earth, wanting human emotions – to love. And the woman…

The flight attendant plies me with endless port the rest of the way home.

8 PM Great Britain time, noon California time. Dank you well dear, crew for safe journey. I cried when I saw the land of my birth, blowing kisses to Point Reyes, Bodega Bay, and Double Point, naming each landform and lake, as if in benediction, realizing how much the metaphor of Christianity is embedded within me.

The flight attendant, equally moved, though she be British, thanks me for my words of thankfulness—for within their job, within their duty, they have performed herculean tasks, they have restored bits of humanity to me. Touchdown on the hot sleek surface of the runway, we all spontaneously applaud the captain.

Here it is noon in California and 8 PM in Great Britain or Lisbon, time to day goodbye. The flight attendant Derby Walker's friend was Finnish. Kitos, she said, Thank you. Kitos, I reply.  Thank you.

Portugal Journal: Fatima Story 4
Independence Day, Fatima, Portugal
Portugal Journal: Lisbon to Fatima 3
Portugal Journal: Lisbon 2
Portugal Journal: arriving in Lisbon 1

Portugal Journal: Fatima Story 4

10/6 Saturday, Lisbon.

Our concierge, Maria Santos Pinheiro, of Pensão Residencial Estrela do Mondego, walked to Fatima, she said it took her four days. She slept in pilgrim hotels along the way. She said she went because of a promise she had made. She wouldn't say what.

I asked how the custom began, the walking on the knees. She doesn't know how, or when, but said that when people make promises because something bad happened in their lives, and then they just do it. They fall to their knees and walk.

She said there's a big (holm oak) tree on 93 Azinheira, near there where the Lady appeared there at the Capelinha das Aparições (Chapel of the Apparitions, where three shepherd children saw the Virgin Mary in Cova da Iria, Fátima), in 1917.

She said that people took bits of the tree, they even took the land, until there was nothing left. The faithful finished off what the anticlerical liberal factions couldn't destroy, when they cut down the wrong tree in 1922.

On 13 May, when Our Lady first appeared, and every month until October 13, people walk from all over Portugal for the Peregrinación to the Santuário de Nossa Senhora de Fátima. She said "I like it better on the 12th at night, because of all the candles. And everyone waving white handkerch1efs. There's a song the people sing when they go there." 

The  maid begins singing El Adeus de Fátima, as she makes the beds. It's a very touching, if droll, song, perhaps it is a fado, and I am moved to tears.

Ó Virgem do Rosário, da Fátima Senhora. De Portugal Rainha, dos homens protectora. Ó Virgem do Rosário, da Fátima Senhora. Do Vosso Santuário, forçoso é ir-me embora. Uma prece final, ao deixar-Vos Mãe de Deus. Viva sempre em minha alma este grito imortal: Ó Fátima, adeus! Virgem Mãe, adeus!

On 12 June, Maria said, "On my birthday it's very joyous. And when you're there when you see Fatima, it's very touching. I cried and I cried," she said.

Thousands and thousands of people attend the services, and most of them have walked to Fátima on foot. The Virgin is paraded around the courtyard on a raft of white flowers, and everyone singing O Fátima, Adiós! while waving a sea of white handkerchiefs. Even the rosaries are white.

"The house where the shepherd children were born, is still there", she said. Milagros, the candles... You've got to believe in something." she said. "Heads legs children—that's what the Milagros are made for. You make a wish and you throw it in the fires that burn day and night."

Maria said that sometimes when people get married, they leave their flowers at Fátima for no special reason, other than for a blessing.

She said there's a lava-pés, a place where you wash your feet, and then the nuns will bandage your feet. She said that it's a recent custom, not an old one.

She explained, Our lady was brought to the Basilica on 13 May and was there until 13 October. When she was brought back, we sang a special song, Fátima, adeus! because she went around the world.  People pray with the rosary, they pray for whatever they want, there is no set thing that they pray for. Whether or not they believe, it doesn't matter.

Now the maid is singing it too because she doesn't believe. I left 1,000 escudos with Maria to buy us two heart milagros at Fatima, next May, one for me and one for my aunt Canice, whose heart keeps rhythm with the help of a new pacemaker.

Portugal Journal: Lisbon London SFO
Independence Day, Fatima, Portugal
Portugal Journal: Lisbon to Fatima 3
Portugal Journal: Lisbon 2
Portugal Journal: arriving in Lisbon 1
Azores Journal: Terceira, São Jorge

Independence Day, Fatima, Portugal

Pilgrims line up at the square, wearing kneepads, commercial, and homemade, Some pilgrims wear towels wrapped around their knees others wear polyester pads. Brown, to hide the dirt, and the blood.

It's raining. Men hold umbrellas over their wives, or mother's heads as they shuffle their way down the hill to the fountain. It's called an indulgence. Mostly Portuguese women. The sight is so bizarre, and so moving, we too want to join their ranks. Fall on bended knee. But I wouldn't last long. Too many falls from horseback.

They traverse the courtyard, a half a mile, perhaps three quarters of a mile on their knees, then up the steps to the church, praying all the wile. Everyone fumbles their rosary beads. Some wail, and beat their chests. Pull their hair. I have never see the outpouring of so much collected grief. People praying for a miracle, or divine intervention.

There are several altars to choose from. The one to our left, is situated before a perpetual flame of indulgence candles. it's a huge vat, an Inferno smelling of honeybees. I ask, do the fires ever go out? Nothing prepared me for this.

People toss in armloads of candles—40 to 500 at a time into the flame. Some people light them first, most do not. The beeswax, drips and hisses like snakes. It is so hot, the rain has evaporated from this station of indulgence.

My aunt Canice lit her candle first, with her cigarette lighter, but it went out. Probably from a profound lack of oxygen. My candle wouldn't stay lit either. It probably means bad luck—or too many wishes. When the candle goes out, your wish is not granted, it's like a vast birthday party for the dead.

10/5/2001
10/15/2015

Portugal Journal: Lisbon to Fatima 3
Portugal Journal: Lisbon 2
Portugal Journal: arriving in Lisbon 1
Azores Journal: Terceira, São Jorge

Portugal Journal: Lisbon to Fatima 3

10/5/2001 Lisbon-Fátima: We took the metro to bus station to Fátima where we're on the blue line, things aren't clearly marked and it isn't easy negotiating as there's so much lack of information etc. We miss the bus to Fátima. 

My cousin and aunt are too slow in the morning and again we missed a significant portion of the day. It's raining and we're wet and miserable.

Yesterday was a total waste in that they all were so late getting ready, it was noon before we even got out the hotel door. I said to them previously, if you want more time in the morning, just tell me and I'll go out by myself but as usual it didn't happen.

Then my aunt wanted to go to the bank. Sinead had to go with her. So Sean and I went on ahead, only to get caught by the trolley inspector, who insisted that my 24 hour pass, which I just bought, was no good. We been told so much conflicting information from the information people were beginning to feel ripped off.

This is the third time it's happened and so I began to holler and scream and we missed our bus stop and had to walk two miles back to the Monastery of Jerónimos and we missed Sinead. 

Sean was tired, and I wound up carrying him on my back for blocks. I was exhausted by the time we got to the monastery I wanted to cry, but I had to maintain face, and not have a meltdown, for Sean's sake. 

I sat in the hot sun waiting for them for 4 and a half hours. They'd ignored our Plan B to meet at the information booth and went on inside. I was pretty upset.

The upshot is that I ran through the monastery and cloisters, through the back door, so I didn't have to pay, I managed to get to the Museum of Archaeology, but the Celtic stuff was in storage so that was a waste of time.

There were two stone Celtic warriors with torcs, shields, and bigotes. I asked a docent about them, and he took pity on me, and guided me to the library. I looked up and cross-referenced some postcard photos. There was lots of gold, but mostly plain gold. No La Tène culture, I slogged through Portuguese anthropology books, and discovered it was easier to read Portuguese, than to speak it.

Then we went onto the Torre Belém. By this time it was 4:35PM and the guard wouldn't let us in so I guess I won't get to see the inside. Altogether, it was a shitty day. The very two things I wanted to see most. I hope today improves. Blame it on the full moon.

It's 115 km from Lisbon to Fátima. At Fátima, believers board the bus. Imagine plays on the radio. We are sardines, soaked through to the skin. A young cancer survivor, with the bug-eyed beauty of Sinead O'Connor, boards the bus. Was she one of the lucky ones?

At Fátima, I gazed into the eyes of a young boy, olive skinned, and old before his time. My indulgence, for all the living and the dead of the World Trade Center, I buy candles to light their way.

added, rev. 9/17
the story continues:
Independence Day, Fatima, Portugal
see also Fatima Notes
AFTER READING BROWNING’S SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE

Portugal Journal: Lisbon London SFO 5
Portugal Journal: Fatima Story 4
Independence Day, Fatima, Portugal
Portugal Journal: Lisbon 2
Portugal Journal: arriving in Lisbon 1
Azores Journal: Terceira, São Jorge

Portugal Journal: Lisbon 2

2
10/3–4 Wed. Lisbon: I can't sleep – that chocolate mousse after dinner was too much. My mind was racing. There are cockroaches in the bathroom, and I can't reach them. One jumped on my leg trying to hide from the light.

They're all snoring in the other room—even the baby. Not the cockroaches, my family. The baby Sean nearly got burned in the shower this morning. It was a rough start.

Suddenly the time is running out and there is still so much to see. Lisbon is growing on me. The trolley pass finally did it. It gave us wings, and the city with its seven hills became friendly, not like that crazy taxi ride from the dive that we spent the first night in.

There was no lift (elevator) and I thought Canice was going to die going up all those stairs. Five flights. The first floor begins above the reception desk. Which was already one flight up so the fourth floor was really nearer to the sixth floor then the fourth.

I had to exercise my Spanish or Spanglish in order to survive here. Sinead and Canice can only achieve rudimentary communication as most people don't speak English here. But I'm able to prattle on, and get the nuts and bolts out most of the time. Except for today at the castle.

The castle WC was in the lower depths of the ramparts and I thought my bladder was going to burst. The WC guard wanted valuta and I saidI was desperate throwing down some escudos but still she screamed at me. How much did she want. I eventually understood that she was saying: too late too late. And pointed at the symbol of a man.

It was the men's room. I ran down the hall like a crazed woman, and the little old ladies took pity on me. I was wild eyed and they let me go in first.

Linda was right, at times the Portuguese is is different from Spanish as Chinese is to Russian, though I think that's an unfair analysis. I can understand a fair bit but the Brazilian soaps on the TV don't help much. The women with painted eyes look as silly as the retro 60s woman in the airport. Elizabeth Taylor's paint job on Cleopatra come back to haunt us on late night TV. All the TVs in this hospidaje, or pension (pensão) happen to watch the same canal, or channel as there's only one satellite receiver so we flick the channels—all forty-something of them to the same inane game show with men lounging around, dressed in skins and bad makeup jobs. Big Brother it's called, a talk show of sorts, I guess. 

All the azuelos, the tile buildings, surprise and delight the eye. The trolley is a magic ride. We took the number 15 trolly down to the recently restored Torre de Belém (or Torre de São Vicente, the patron saint of Lisbõa) and we saw the Gothic Manueline monastery of Jerónimos (Mosteiro dos Jerónimos) by moonlight.

Both are Unesco world heritage sites. Torre Belém in the distance, like a wedding cake confection, surrounded by water. Hard to imagine something of that beauty inspired by the art of war.

At Vasco da Gama's monument, (Padrão dos Descobrimentos) we traced our route on the stone map of the world. I wasn't too sure I wanted to celebrate Vasco's discoveries as Europeans in the New World (or India) weren't too good for the local populace—no matter how you reassembled the history. Vasco da Gama is buried at the monastery of Jerónimos. A faint odor of pepper and cinnamon in the air.

All the gold and silver altars we've seen, are mind-boggling. On Praça 25 de Abril, a woman shows us a back room at the Igreja Convento da Graça, one of Lisbon's oldest churches, made of azuelos and painted ceilings. Last night's downpour took its toll and a portion of the ceiling vault fell through, and I realized that much of the ceiling detail is based on illusion.

Wondrous interiors to fool the eye into believing the fabulousness of their new world and wealth has no end. All this gold from the Americas what extraordinary artifacts were melted down so that we may celebrate religion?

I saw a submarine traverse up the Tagus River with a couple of military ships. From Vasco da Gama Square I could see the far shore was comprised of oil tanks. I can't seem to escape them. The tragedy of 9/11 seems to be fading a bit, but today as we come down from the castle or the citadel, I found myself in in tears once again.

Sinead, in the bank this morning, was talking to a Portuguese man about 9/11, and later a newspaper tumbled down the street and stopped at my feet. Even in Portuguese the headlines were perfectly clear.

Many people in Lisbon certainly have Moorish ancestry, but here and there, the Celt is still visible, though more so in the Azores.

I'm getting a bit tired of being sidestepped all the time as tourist bait but we have taken to fighting with the kiosk ticket sellers and taxi drivers who insist upon cheating us on on every turn. Usually usually we pay, but not without a fight.

Lisbon is definitely a bit rougher, but we are, for the most part, left unmolested because we are three women traveling alone with a small child.

I collected lots of folklore, but mostly from my family. It's been hard collecting from the Portuguese. You need to build a relationship first, and that takes time. When we haven't got a lot. Also, we're not meeting the Portuguese in Lisbon it's not as friendly as the Azores.

As Sinead said, yesterday her palm is still itching that means give it away, not a good sign in that yesterday a lot of money part parted itself from us unwillingly and hopefully that's in the past but her palm still itches.

I'm sitting in the hall listening to everyone snore behind closed doors in the middle of the night. Wired and allergic to all the cigarette smoke, I'm sitting on the floor, an ignoble midnight studio.

I'm certainly seeing lots of things. First time away from home in five years. Hard to believe it's been that long. I've always had such a travel bug and now I'm not used to all this stimulation. I think travel requires a certain fortitude. Certainly with family. 

We absolutely hated Lisbon when we first arrived. We almost packed it up and left town. I'm glad we're giving it another chance because it really is an extraordinary place.

At the castle, the opidda, where Roman, Visigothic and the later layers of history are visible too, but not much of the 12th-century castle is original. Zealous restoration and re-Christianization creates a Disney-like effect. But I love walking along the ramparts with Sean. White peacocks and sickly cats added a surreal effect. Gone is the bustle of a medieval city, though the Alfama surrounding it, is a warren of streets enticing one onward.

Independence Day, Fatima, Portugal
Portugal Journal: Lisbon to Fatima 3
Portugal Journal: arriving in Lisbon
Azores Journal: Terceira, São Jorge

Portugal Journal: arriving in Lisbon 1

Tuesday October 2, Pensão Flor dos Cavaleiros, near Praça Largo de Martim Moniz. It ain't beautiful but at 4500 escudos it's a port in a storm. We are in the underbelly of Lisbon, or Lisbõa. We find out too late that there's no lift, Canice has a pacemaker, her heart can't take the stairs, we're on the 4th floor, which really means the 5th floor, and there are only two beds, a double bed which Canice and Sean snag, so Sinead and I sleep head to toe in a tiny twin bed.

10/3 After much scouting around, we land new digs Estrela de Montenegro for 9000 escudos a night, not bad divided by three. It has a lift and three beds. Survival on the wrong side of the plaza, a difficult proposition.

So our wanderings, in we stumbled into O'Gilin's Irish Pub (not an Irish name), on Rua dos Remolares, off Praça Terracina, near the armory. We're eating tapas and drinking Guinness in Lisbon! An Irish ceilidhe instead of a fado? No Irish food though. Before that there was a poetry reading. About the only word I understood was the word poesia.

Today we rode the number 28 train along the Tagus River, glimpses of it between buildings and city canyons. It's so big, it's like San Francisco Bay. Amid the blind musicians and the deformed James Merricks on the streets of commerce, we wandered not quite tourists, on Rua Agustus, Julius's heir, on the street of banks and Cartier. Eiffel's protégé built the elevator to nowhere. We overlook the city. Lisbon is as seedy as Lima, but less dangerous.

Van Morrison on the tape deck, or on the other side of the world they would be shocked to know that he's a neighbor.

I'm so behind on my writing. I expected to be writing much more but survival is too difficult. Sinead and Canice were out of escudos for days, so I'm the local bank.  I was afraid we wouldn't get off the island. it's a hard transition from the Azores to the bustle of Lisbon I keep calling it Lima. And for good reason. We are in the underbelly of the beast.

• Portugal Journal: Lisbon London SFO 5
• Folklore: Stairs & bad luck
• Folklore: Common Sense
• Portugal Journal: Fatima Story 4
• Independence Day, Fatima, Portugal
• Portugal Journal: Lisbon to Fatima 3
• Portugal Journal: Lisbon 2
• Portugal Journal: arriving in Lisbon 1
• Azores Journal: Terceira, São Jorge

Postcard from Saõ Jorge

 

Saõ Jorge, October 1

Dear Neil, they say the past is another country and this is another country altogether. We arrived Friday night. Sinead got seasick as it was a rough crossing of 2 and a 1/2 hours, we saw dolphins. Velas, the port town, looked pretty rough, and we had trouble finding a place that was cheap, so we wound up in a dark hovel. We were looking for a cheaper place to stay, but it was a port in any storm kind of situation. Canice forgot all the guidebooks. We should’ve asked the taxi drivers who are super guidebooks here. Then, on a whim, the owner of the ferry boat canceled the Sunday boat out as there were not enough passengers, so we had no way off the island until next week. Which meant we were going to miss our flight to the mainland and Lisbon. In desperation, I approached a taxi driver and explained the situation. He gave us a fantastic tour of the island Once he realized that Candace was married to someone who came from Saõ Jorge. We were able to get a flight off the island with the help of our taxi driver, with a whole lot of arguing with the airline clerk, for a little more than the boat fare. She thought she could sock it to us because we were tourists, he gave her the what for. We leave this afternoon so all is well, after all. It rains hard here every day. But it is like Molokai. The island is a long, steep ridge, mid Atlantic kind of like Point Reyes too. It’s raining so hard, we can’t even go exploring on our last morning here. It was only an exploratory trip after all—aplace to come back to later. 

The running of the bulls (Postcard)

Praia da Vitoria, 30 September 2001 

We landed on Terceira and stayed that is, slept two days in Praia de Vitória, and left before the running of the bulls. They painted up the whole town and boarded up every window as the bulls think nothing of jumping through them. We were sorry to miss the event, but we had to get to Saõ Jorge as the fairies are in frequent. Prior day Victoria is a US military base, the largest gas station in the Atlantic, so we were glad to leave. We met an ex-spy, who said that the cargo planes which we had counted like sheep were returning from Kuwait empty. Scary. We lost count at 50 planes. More to tell at Saõ Jorge. Terceira’s capitol, Angra is a world historic site, founded in 1435. It’s a lot like Hawaii here. Lots of rain and humid. 

Love, Maureen

Azores Journal: Terceira, São Jorge

9/27/2001 Rue de Jesús, Praia da Vitória, Terceira, Azores

The streets of commerce, where anything is possible, are always open for business—except in Praia da Vitória,Terceira, which is a US military base. The only thing open 24/7 is the US military base. We meet many interesting people over coffee, in the cafes, the only other establishment open during the day. Shops keep very selective hours, depending upon the whims and vagaries of the proprietor—something we will find out more about later.

Canice Santos photo

The huge black cargo planes en route  to Langley from Kuwait, are the newest model, said retired Air Force pilot and CIA agent, Jim Swain. They were called C Fives, or something like that. He said they come in empty and stop to refuel at the most strategic Air Force Base in the Atlantic, which is also the largest gas station in the Atlantic, he said. He was on a roll and told us many air force stories we could barely follow. He also said, Don't believe in half of what you hear.

Sinead Dinsmore photo

Jim's wife, Nancy Swain, from New Hampshire, who was once a Vanity Fair Cover GIrl, said the coffee was too strong. "You know why the espresso spoons are so small? Because they dissolve after the third cup. Bigger spoons are too expensive." I nearly snort my galoni (galão), a thick sludge of espresso and condensed milk. No fresh milk to be had on the islands. Or fish either. Dried bacalao, or bacalhau, takes some getting used to.

9/28 São Jorge Island. We blew into a rough port after an equally rough crossing from Terceira. Sinead is belowdecks feeding the fish vomit. Not a happy camper.

Around Sañ Jorge, stands of Japanese Cryptomeria, a kind of red cedar, reminds me of our redwoods. There is also a native juniper, Juniperus brevifolia. It's like being in Point Reyes, West Marin, so many familiar faces. Most of the ranchers are from the Azores. Many young men look like twins of John Santos with their distinctive eyebrows. The Irish-Portuguese look is in.

On a small plane headed for Terceira, late afternoon rain building, heavy rain this morning, and every day. Our hosts at the Hotel Australia were suddenly very friendly as we were leaving. It would've been better if it had happened sooner.

Sean and the little girl playing hide and seek, have no need for language in common. I tried to collect some folklore for my class with Alan Dundes, from José Sourez, but his English wasn't up to it. Um boca calada diz tudo, he said. Urbano da Silva was more adventurous. I got one bit of folklore from the taxi driver, Alberto Santo Amaro, who has an apartment to rent. Next time we come to visit, he says.

After ignoring us for almost the entire time we were here, everyone expects us to come back next year. That's the way things are done here. The Portuguese are so reserved at first, they seem hostile, but then we make such silly attempts to speak, they take pity on us and dust off their English or Spanish. I am speaking a weird form of  Portuguese-Spanglish which seems to work but it is harder to understand the Azoreans' replys. I suspect their dialect is different from that of the mainland.

9/30 So how we got to ride a twin prop plane back to Terceira instead of the ferryboat for $40 versus $25, was because the boat owner change the schedule two days early, leaving us stranded in Velas for a week. But our plane to Lisbon is on Monday so this is not an option.

Luckily we were able to get a flight out as this was off-season. Yesterday, we went to check on our return tickets, only to discover that the boat had already left an hour earlier that morning. Our Sunday crossing was canceled.

We spent much time trying to find another boat off the island with no luck I called the airport and they said the flight was full but there was space on Sunday for something like $400. We about fainted. I told the taxi driver our problems he said not to worry and he took us to the airport. And got us a ride out of Dodge. Aberto Santo Amaro, was our official living santo. He got us off island when no one else could.

Words from the Portuguese: mosquito!