Anha

I nearly belly crawled into Chafe sporting a blister on my right big tow, a tight right calf, and something badly wrong with my left foot. My trip here started with brutal emotional challenge and ended with brutal physical challenge.

The climb was nearly 600 feet up through beautiful forests and small towns. Then is was down about 300 feet into the town of Chafe. My Camino Portuguese guide app said this leg was 8 miles. I walked 11.

Exhausted, I arrive too early at Casa da Reina to check in. (I am learning that next to nothing happens here between 1 and 3 p.m., except the consumption of an enormous meal.) I trudge to a local cafe, S. Sebastian Pao Quente Pastelaria for lunch, and they have salads! Some days here in French fry land I would kill for a vegetable. Anyhow, I get my salad and sit down and notice in the window on my left a poster for a fado show. Tonight! Catching a not-too-kitschy performance of this traditional guitar and voice music was on my Portugal bucket list. The show is at 9. I am blistered, stinky, and sore, but I am going.

A heavenly helping of green veggies later I arrive at Casa da Reina. And it is... magical. The original stone building of the compound dates back to 1744. It’s been in the owners’ family for generations, centuries. Around every corner of the grounds there is something new to see. It also has a modern pool. And toilets.

Cecilia, who runs the place her vintner husband inherited, hooks me up with a seat at the Fado show. It’s over at the community center. The person who answers the phone is a nephew. It’s a small town.

I take a shower and a rest before heading to the pharmacy, which is diagonally across the street from the salad spot. I’m in flip-flops because of the blister. It’s 7 pm, but the pharmacy is closed. Even though it says right on the door ‘8 p.m.’ open and closed are fluid concepts here

I figure I’ll head to the community center and grab dinner somewhere nearby. I call an Uber. A fashionable woman in a bright pink jacket (it’s a popular color here.) pulls up. I hop in. She drives around the corner and stops. Across the street from the salad place. The ride has been maybe 100 yards. She looks at me, incredulous.

She points to the GPS on her phone: ‘Arrived.’ We are both confused. So she parks at the cafe, and we get out.

What follows is a Portuguese version of the Marx Brothers’ Duck Soup. The owner of the cafe comes out. “Aren’t I the woman who was here for the vegetable lunch?” She asks.

I left my hiking poles. She gets them for me. I am thankful. The pink Uber driver is waiting. She strikes up a query with the cafe owner about my 300-foot, $4 ride around a corner. A fellow at one of the tables joins in. There is much hilarity. The cafe owner, who had told me during my salad day that the performance was at the OTHER community center makes a call. Nope. It’s across the street.

Friends, a couple of years ago this situation would have had me mortified. But not today. I’m enjoying the ridiculousness of it as much as they are. I don’t feel a fool. Kismet has brought me back to the cafe to pick up my poles. I order a dinner of fried chicken cutlet and fries. I add a beer. I watch families leave the nearby church as I await my concert. It’s peaceful.

The fado performance is exactly what I hoped for: mid level performers who love the form and an audience filled with friends. They sing along with the band. I sit alone at a table. I am pegged as an outsider because I’m now carrying my walking poles. Everyone is polite, but they don’t know me. This is fine. I’m here for the music. Besides, the plate of cookies at the table for four are all mine. (Portuguese pastries are the crack of the dessert world. I love them as much as I love salad.)

Late in the performance, the lead guitar player messes up during a song and stops playing. The audience is already singing along. He cues them to stop. They ignore him and instead sing louder. The singer in the band laughs and goads them into a raucous chorus. The guitarist gives up and joins in.

It’s a perfect metaphor for my day. Shit goes sideways; it’s how you respond that matters.Read more