I plan to transform my brain into a plethora of cultural experiences but learning about one’s own heritage can be just as fulfilling, if not mandatory.
I have travelled to my mother’s hometown of Almada, Portugal, known mainly for the massive statue Cristo de Rei, twins with Rio de Janeiro’s Christ the King. I was quite the lucky little girl as I got to spend a handful of my childhood summers on the beaches of the Algarve and walking the ancient Castelo de São Jorge cobblestones in Lisbon. Ran my fingers across the stone walls of Belem Tower, drank ginjinha in Óbidos and fed hoards of pigeons in the middle of the Praca do Comercio.
My own stranded island
When it comes to mainland coverage, I’ve had sufficient emersion; been there, done that, banked multiple T-shirt souvenirs. It only took 20 years for my father to pipe up and demand we visit his childhood home of São Miguel — one of the nine Azorean islands found stranded in the Atlantic Ocean. I’ll admit it; I was hardly enthused at the thought of spending a week on a volcanic rock known as “The Green Island.” As a child, my father would regale in stories about his village, which consisted of one radio (owned by the priest, of course) and the good ol’ days of planting crops and, the highlight of the year, killing the pig. None of these things interested a girl barely twenty; I don’t care how much moonshine you get to drink before the slaughter.
As we discussed the holiday I had flashbacks of my father’s tale of terror when folks panicked over a devil sighting only to learn in the morning that Satan was in fact just a dog that broke free of his collar and took a midnight frolic in the fields. If a dog enjoying brief freedom translates to Lucifer’s Second Coming, what are the chances my idea of fun would get me shipped to the nearest convent? On that note, I accepted that this trip would be one of those excursions full of pretty scenery, plenty of long-lost cousin sightings and senior-early bed times. Oh, the excitement was unbearable.
I’ll only admit this once…
Off we went; my father and uncle giddy with excitement to return to their roots along side my mother and aunt, strategically planning out our days. My brother, my two cousins and I crossing our fingers that the capital city of Ponta Delgada had at least one decent bar that we could frequent.
I would like to take this opportunity now to admit my low expectations were blown out of the water. The rolling hills, the vibrant flowers, the mouth-watering cuisine; it was nothing like the dusty roads and mule-pulled wagons I had pictured in my head.
I ate it up – the two toned Lagoa das Sete Cidades, the clouds we drove through to look down in Lagoa do Fogo and the black sands and volcanic rock that hug the lazy waves. We even made it up the winding road leading to my father’s little town of Ajuda da Bretanha – population booming at 1,330 – complete with a church, a local bar and a fig tree that marked my great-grandparent’s old property.
The cookout begins, hold the grill
Although strolling through the streets of my father’s childhood and watching him and my uncle attempt to climb decaying brick walls and reunite with old relatives that never made the trip to North America created priceless memories, I loved one experience even more – the Azorean cookout.
When you think cookout you think hotdogs, hamburgers, perhaps some corn on the cob and, if you’re feeling overzealous, a rack of ribs or two. Not on this island. We headed to the city of Furnas, known for its hot springs and its pungent rotten egg smell. Why was it my favourite part, you ask? The meal – Cozido à portuguesa.
The traditional meal is quite basic; in a pot combine beef, pork, and an assortment of Portuguese smoked sausages (morcela, farinheira and chouriço). Serve with a side of cabbage, carrots, turnips, rice, potatoes, and collard greens. Hearty would be a terrible understatement. In order to complete the Azorean cookout version – throw it in the ground of an active volcano, come back in a couple of hours, and you got yourself the best meal the earth could possibly steam up. Overindulgence would be a terrible understatement.
The family who stuffs their face together…
As a whole, we ate until our stomachs were pleading for us to stop. We paused just long enough to pick a fresh pineapple off a tree, which was chopped with an intimidating machete and consumed at lightening speed.
The crash course of my father’s upbringing was one I wouldn’t trade for the world. We laughed until our ribs were sore and soaked up the simple island life – we even found a decent bar in the city where one too many drinks were consumed and foggy memories were created.
I look back at this trip, attempting to spot the life lessons I was meant to learn; never assume the dullness of a family vacation, no matter how much time has passed you can always go home, and stretchy pants are mandatory at an Azorean cookout. Now, pass the chouriço and the vinho tinto.