“Because The Night” belted out by Patty Smith twenty feet away as our legs dangled over the low balcony edge. It was September 1 in Cardiff and we’d been married 5 days. The venue was intimate and the music explosive. Patty was raw, wild, a force of nature. Carol and I laughed, shrieked, cried and quivered to our core. An amazing night, a wedding gift from friends.

My brief time in Wales, a tad under two months, is a somewhat hazy recollection due to frequent and copious ingestions of liberty cap mushrooms which certainly enhanced my experiences if not my memories of them. But this one was indelibly etched in my amygdala. Here is another.

The four (and a half) of us wandered down the mountain into Llangynidr, the small village nestled in the valley below. This was my first visit into town. The old stone buildings, cobblestone streets and alleys, small shops, even the villagers watching us cautiously all fascinated me. We discovered a small waterhole on the edge of town and all jumped right in, soaking our clothes. Everything felt magical. As we left the pond, we roamed across a large grassy field with a hill nearby leading into a wood. Suddenly a herd of cattle came thundering out of this wood and down the hill towards us. Wide-eyed and awestruck, we froze in place as they descended upon us, not slowing their frantic pace. Like a storm passing, they enveloped us completely and were gone, not having touched a one of us, and leaving me in what I can only describe as a pure momentary state of bliss. And then we laughed our asses off, minds blown!

In mid-September Carol, Jane and I headed for London to get my one year Visa and work permit courtesy of nuptials. We then headed for Scotland, 30 miles north of Aberdeen on the east coast, to stay with friends of hers and do some “tatty” picking on a farm in the area. Potatoes were churned up by tractor attachment to be placed into baskets (the picking part) mostly by the women and children and the baskets then lifted by the men folk onto a flatbed trailer slowly pulled along by tractor. It was all pretty back-breaking work on uneven ground for six hours a day making all of $15, plus all the tatties we wanted! I believe we ate some version of them at every meal.

Newton of Ludquharn, our Scottish home.

As I said, we were staying with an English couple that Carol knew. During the first couple weeks I fell into a pretty severe state of depression, or loneliness perhaps, being in this extremely isolated house with strangers and a wife I’d only known for two months. I stayed in our bedroom a lot, reading, writing, sleeping, keeping the fireplace stoked as it was the only source of heat in each room other than the kitchen, which had a Rayburn wood/coal burning stove. Maybe it was something to do with the landscape there, so flat and windy and cold, kinda bleak to me. Anyway, after these two weeks of isolating myself whenever home, the guy we’re staying with comes into my room, sits down next to me and basically lays out the law in a most compassionate but firm manner. If I wanted to continue sharing their house, I needed to carry my weight in the chores department, washing dishes, cleaning, cooking, etc. or I would need to leave. Boy, that was just what I needed! A kindhearted kick in the butt. Changed my whole experience to the positive. I couldn’t thank him, his partner or Carol enough for tolerating my funk for so long before setting me straight.

At the end of tatty picking, we three caught a ride with friends for the twelve hour drive back to Wales with plans to stay in the area. I would head to Cardiff and find work and lodgings, then Carol and Jane would join me. We thought by the following summer we would fly to the U.S. to live. Oh, we had so many plans while we were together. Until the wind blew us elsewhere.

Eddie, one of the residents at Ty Sheriff, invited us to join him and his girlfriend in moving to Birmingham where he and I would do sheet rocking, which I had previous experience with in Santa Barbara. Having no other prospects at the time and little money, we agreed and headed up there with them. We shared a little two bedroom apartment in a two story row house in this heavily industrial city. The company we had work with loaned us a van for the job, which turned out to be piecework, so the more we hung, the more we made. In the winter, lugging sheet rock through snow into unheated new construction working into the night. Am I having fun yet? I actually did for a while, finally making decent money, but it didn’t last. Two months later, we moved to London at the end of January, 1979.

Next: Deptford Demons and Chasing Bronze

This was a better day. Better than looking at hospital pics!

So here we are on the other side. It’s now Wednesday evening with bladder and stones things of the past. Tuesday morning around 10am I was laying in my monster mechanical bed, that seems to have gas because it’s keeps inflating like it’s bloating and then magically farts it out without a sound and recedes, when some new person enters my room and tells me she’s there to prep me for my gallbladder surgery. As noted previously, I’d been told it was postponed until at least 1:30pm, so this was an unexpected development that certainly got my heart racing. Like being told you have to give a speech two hours before you’re prepared to go on stage! Not really, since I’d be unconscious the whole time and didn’t have to do squat, but that’s how it felt so please allow me my analogy. They give me a quick body wash, a fresh gown (finally!) and we roll, and roll, and roll. So many hallways, security doors and tight turns, a long wait for an elevator, then more long hallways. All the while I’m trying to meditate, slow down my heart, and am writing this blog in my head. And what was so funny is that at every tight turn, I would be moving my feet as if they were going to hit the wall instead of the end of the bed. After this interminable ride, which was likely all of five minutes, I’m dropped off in a tiny pre-op room to meet with a nurse, my surgery nurse, the anesthesiologist and my surgeon, who were all great, explaining everything they were about to do. That was when I started relaxing again, feeling well cared for and in good hands. Being wheeled into the surgery room felt like I was in a TV show, kinda surreal. The intravenous anesthesia knocked me out in such a delicious descent that I wish it had taken longer.

And then I woke up, sans gallbladder, four new entry points into my flesh neatly glued together and only one more procedure to go! The pulling of the stones. Not much to write about for the following day, laying around, Poppy and my other awesome friend Tom visiting, more laying around, no food, water time-limited by the upcoming operation, my throat parched and sore. At this point I haven’t eaten in two days or had my espresso mocha! Torturous! No mocha?!

Skipping on to the next day, now Wednesday, basically the same routine, rolling and rolling, turning and elevating, talking, signing and another delightful descent into unconsciousness. Then awake and no longer stoned, facing another long day of the same scintillating action. But now, at least, I can have a liquid diet! Oh boy, almost food! So I get a vanilla milkshake, pudding, sorbet and coffee. A few hours later another milkshake and coffee. I’m starting to feel back in my body again. And then the gas explodes in my belly and now that hurts more than the incisions. Inflated like a balloon, rumblings to be heard across the room, all night long. Barely slept a wink between frequent bathroom visits, nurse visits, and vitals checking visits.

So this is me this fine Thursday morn, sleepless in Salem Hospital drinking coffee and a concoction known in-house as “swamp juice”, a blend of apple, prune, grape and more that is recommended to those in my bowel challenged state. Here’s to an ere long movement! And going home.

A mere two days after learning of Benny’s affliction, I started my Sunday with some abdominal pain, thinking it was just the same indigestion I’ve been experiencing off and on for the last few months. But then it persisted, and my usual fix of antacids didn’t touch it. It wasn’t awful, so we went for our weekend coffee at Dutch Brothers and walk in the park with Benny and it seemed to dissipate for a while. Back home and going about my day, the pain gradually increased until I started getting concerned. Probing my belly with my fingers, I found the source to be in the right quadrant just below my rib cage, and OMG did it hurt when pressed upon! Poppy urged me to go to Urgent Care, which I did at around 3:30pm. They diagnosed it as gallstones and strongly recommended I head straight to the Emergency Room, which I did.

The ER took a blood sample almost immediately, but then the waiting began. About 3 hours in the waiting room, then brought in to a room to wait another hour or so for someone to talk to me, then to another interior waiting room, and finally to another room where a surgeon came to go over my options, which were few. At this point Poppy and my great friend Peter had joined me, a most welcome comfort. I was told my gallbladder was likely producing stones, which would be confirmed the following day by an MRI, and the recommended treatment was removing my gallbladder and fishing the stones in my bile duct, which were causing the pain, out in a separate procedure. I was then admitted at 11pm.

This is only the third time I’ve been admitted to a hospital in my life. The first, which I don’t even remember, was as a child suffering from one of the usual childhood diseases. The second, as I recounted in my previous post about my time in Germany, was simply overnight for an erroneous German measles diagnosis. This will be my first surgery, and if I had a bucket list, which I don’t, this would not have been on it! My life has been full of surprises that didn’t particularly surprise me, but this one certainly did. It’s amazing how you’re just going about your day, you know, moving to Portugal, selling all your stuff, the usual, and then bam!, you’re laying in a hospital bed all day waiting to be have an organ you never really appreciated or acknowledged unceremoniously removed for misbehaving. So I’m giving it a little love before it’s plucked this afternoon. Great job for almost 71 years, way to go!

Following my gallbladder removal scheduled for today, which is now Tuesday, I’ll most likely need a second procedure tomorrow to pull out some stones lodged in my bile duct leading to my small intestine. The presence of said stones is as yet uncertain, though presumed to be so. This will be confirmed during my first operation through a dye injection and I believe an x-ray. This removal is performed by a gastroenterologist and involves threading a scope/thingy down my throat, through my stomach into my intestine, locating the sphincter at the bottom of the bile duct, cutting it slightly to allow the thingy to push up the duct past the stones, then inflating a balloon and pulling the stones down into the intestine where they can pass unhindered out my butt. Sorry for the technical jargon, but I’m sure you get the gist of it.

So that brings me up to my present moment. My surgery has already been pushed back once from 11am to 1:30pm and I’m told this could very well happen repeatedly, since my case is not life threatening. As a newly minted writer, I’m trying to view this whole experience has more grist for the blog, something to write home about. As someone who has lived a very full and satisfying life, I’m grateful for these almost 71 years and am ready to let go of it whenever that time should come. I seriously doubt this will be it. So do my surgeons. I’m sure Benny does, too. But, as many of you know, I like to be prepared for anything.

See you on the other side!

Sometime after Benny’s surgery, we noticed he was drinking way more water and eating his food more voraciously than usual. We had a blood and urine test done and got the results a couple days ago. Benny has diabetes. His glucose and ALP levels were extremely elevated and he had ketones in his urine, if this means anything to you. Our vet said we needed to address this urgently, as these levels were dangerously high. So now, amidst all the activity he’s already been dealing with and major changes he soon faces, we’ve had to change his whole dietary regimen, eliminating treats between meals and feeding him a special diet kibble, and administering insulin injections after every meal. Suffice it to say, he’s not a happy camper. So many of his rituals have been upended.

The same is true for all of us. I sold my beloved treadmill yesterday, my favorite daily ritual (besides espresso in the morning). I put it up for sale early, thinking it would take some time to sell. Took two days! Left a huge empty space in the house and in my day. Poppy (my wife) posted her cherished daily commuter e-bike yesterday, also allowing for extra selling time, and already someone is coming to see it today. We’re seven weeks out from leaving for Portugal and now getting down to letting go of more valued things and rites in our lives, another big step in this huge transition.

A final note on Benny’s condition. We have seven weeks to get him stabilized so that he’s able to handle the flight in cargo and eighteen hours of no food and water while being confined to his crate. We have further tests to be run to see if he has Cushing’s disease, another possible cause of his symptoms, which requires additional medication. So just when we thought we’d cleared the final hurdle by obtaining our visas, another one pops up! Hopefully, at worst, it would mean delaying our departure until he’s stable and changing a multitude of reservations. We shall see.

In reviewing my collection of letters I had written to my mother and siblings during this period that they had saved and thoughtfully returned to me, I discovered that my previous dispatch’s timing and sequencing was a tad off. I actually stayed in the Lake District for a longer stretch of time that first visit than I recalled. My visit to Dartmoor Prison happened on July 10, 1978 and then I headed for “The Picnic” outdoor concert at Blackbushe Aerodrome, featuring Bob Dylan, Joan Armatrading and Eric Clapton.

I had been told that if I arrived a few days before it started, July 15, I might be able to get a job backstage. There I was, standing against a fence with about 30-40 others all hoping to be chosen, and the guy on the other side pointing, saying you, you, you and you (me!!), you’re hired! I helped set up Joan Armatrading’s trailer, played gopher a lot, and arranged tables and chairs in the eating area under a large tent. While sitting in there on a break shortly before the concert was to begin, I spotted Bob Dylan sitting alone 15’ away, sunglasses and hat on, looking distinctly unapproachable. I maintained the distance.

Graham Parker and the Rumour were the opening act, and we were allowed to go out between the barricades and the stage, right below the band, best seats in the field. But then security got scared that we might get crushed by the surging crowd of 200,000 and they relegated us once more to backstage before Eric Clapton came on. Wanting to see the bands, we headed out for the back of the crowd, a very long way around and too distant to see more than specks onstage, the very worst seats now. So backstage again, and back to partying! The next day, I headed west for Wales.

Ty Sheriff was located on a mountainside overlooking the village of Llangynidr in Powys, Wales. Its name means “Sheriff’s House”, no doubt its purpose sometime in the distant past. It was a 350 year old stone cottage occupied by four friends and a one-year old, and they were expecting me. My friend Ken, down Dartmoor Prison way, good to his word, had notified them of my imminent arrival. Even with his detailed directions, it was not easily found.

Carol and daughter Jane, Maggie, Malcolm and Eddie, all in their early to mid-20’s, scraped by on the dole living austerely and creatively in true bohemian fashion. We all hit it off right away, particularly Carol and I. We were a “couple” within my first week there. Jane had recently undergone surgery, having a lymph node removed from her neck due to contracting tuberculosis from a polluted creek nearby, and needing daily dressing changes and wound cleansing which was quite painful for her. The doctors had left an open wound, the reason for which I cannot recall, so the healing process was quite long and unpleasant. I began helping Carol with this task, quickly forming a strong bond between the three of us dealing with this necessary but grueling business. A few weeks after my arrival, talking to Carol about my upcoming visa renewal while astride the loo, I asked her if she would consider marrying me both to resolve my ongoing visa tribulations and allow me to work, thus granting me the continued pleasure of her and Jane’s company. Despite the less than romantic setting and purpose of the proposal, she agreed on the spot.

Thus it came to pass that a party of 8 revelers, including not one but two couples of uniform intent, boarded two small watercraft and leisurely motored down the canal from Llangynidr to the nearby village of Crickhowell, which hosted a Registrar’s Office capable of the bindings sought. The second couple, an Englishman and Australian woman we knew from a summer camp in the Usk Valley below, provided the vessels courtesy of the camp. We embarked at 11am on the sunny Saturday of August 26, I suffering mightily from food poisoning inflicted upon me by a foul fish and chips lunch the day before, and all of us totally tripping on psilocybin mushrooms harvested from our mountain top. I had to make more than a few stops along the way to hit the bushes. Just your typical wedding. All the nature gods in attendance.

Me Stripping to Retrieve Spark Plug Dropped in Canal

We Took Our Sweet Time

We Did

The Traditional Wedding Photo

And we lived happily for a time…

Part 3: Welsh revels and on to Aberdeenshire for tatty picking!

Our Rental House Awaits

The final major hurdle has been cleared!. Our passports have been returned to us with fancy new Portugal visas imprinted inside and in only 6 weeks since our appointment. So now the clock is officially ticking, the task lists have taken on new urgency, and it’s suddenly gotten totally, completely and irrevocably real. We leave for San Francisco in exactly eight weeks from tomorrow and fly out two days later! The visas are good for four months, by which time we are supposed to have had our AIMA appointment in Portugal to apply for a two year residency visa. We’ll have to apply again for a three year extension and at the end of five years can finally apply for permanent residency. Their citizenship requirement has recently been extended to ten years of residency.

One new development in our travel plan is that we’ve hired someone in Lisbon who is very experienced in the process to help us retrieve Benny from the cargo building at the airport. He’ll pick us up, luggage and all, drive us there, do all the paperwork for us and act as translator, then drive us all back to our hotel, which is within walking distance of the airport, where we will no doubt crash hard from jet lag, lack of sleep and stress from worrying about Benny. The next morning I’ll walk over and pick up our reserved rental van and off we go! We’ll have about a 5 hour drive to our new home. And I don’t know yet how to pump gas at a station there. Baby steps! So much to learn.

A lot of what’s left to do now is more about unplugging ourselves from here than getting there. Cancelling subscriptions (so many!!), monthly donations, memberships, policies and utilities, and change of address notices with multiple agencies and companies are two of the big ones. The only somewhat challenging impediment to get past towards taking flight is Benny’s exam and paperwork, his visa, as it were. His vet appointment is Oct. 1. Then we need certification from the USDA giving him a clean bill of health. It has to be issues within ten days of flying. They really like to make you sweat!

I’ll keep you updated as things develop over the next 8 weeks, but for now I’ll be returning to my British sojourn. Thanks for being here!

In April of 1978, at the tender age of 22, I took a train into New York City from NJ to hopefully secure a stand-by ticket on Freddy Laker’s discount airline to London. I had little money to my name and no idea exactly what awaited me there, except that it would be an adventure. It did not disappoint!

Upon my arrival at Heathrow, I was promptly flagged by customs and whisked off to a small room where I was thoroughly searched and questioned about my intentions in their fair country. My herbal capsules were considered highly suspect, especially in conjunction with my large backpack and long hair. I reeked of “undesirable”. My pecuniary pittance did not overly impress them, either. I convinced them that my parents were funding my trip and would be wiring me substantial sums as needed. They gave me 30 days to vacate the island. I was in!

Once in London, I headed straight for Earl’s Court, where I’d been told all the young international travelers hung out. I procured a room at The White House Hotel (hah!) run by a very large and intimidating Yugoslavian by the name of Dragan. There were lots of young foreigners from all over the world staying there. After a few nights of partying with this crowd, I hitched north out of London heading for the west coast of Scotland. I camped by the lochs for a couple days, then thought I’d catch a ferry to Ireland. Unfortunately, I had nowhere near enough money for the trip, so I settled for the nearest island of Isla. Aside from it being a lovely little place, the most memorable event there occurred as I walked up the road from the ferry. A car with parents and children aboard stopped and asked if I would like a lift to the nearest village. I was stunned and delighted by this generosity of spirit and trust in a stranger. Almost 50 years later, this simple act of kindness still makes me smile.

After camping on Isla for a couple days, I ferried back to the mainland and headed south for the Lake District in England, which I’d heard was incredibly beautiful.

Having arrived in Ambleside, Cumbria (where legend has it King Arthur was raised as a child) and after making inquiries around the village in search of cheap lodgings, I was directed to a hotel run by an elderly and consistently inebriated couple who fought constantly. Sitting in the lounge with them one day soon after my arrival, drinking and chatting, I mentioned that I had been known to smoke pot on occasion. I didn’t think this would bother them, seeing as they were such committed drug users themselves. Hey, I was only 22! Well, they kicked me out on the spot with slurred invectives and wild gesticulations as only the drunk can do justice to. There would be no pot in their establishment!

Finding myself swiftly roofless again and hoping to stay in the area for a bit, I went back to a vegetarian restaurant nearby that I’d found the day before and told the woman co-owner who I’d chatted with that I was in need of a place to stay. She said I was welcome to stay at her house for a little while, since they had some extra rooms. Her name was Jill and her partner in the business was Derrick. They lived in a large historic house in the nearby village of Grasmere called Allan Bank where William Wordsworth had once briefly sojourned. It was on a hillside overlooking Windermere Lake with a spectacular view, and had its own chapel building. It’s currently owned by the National Trust and is open to public tours. It was an amazing place!

Allan Bank, Circa 1980 (please forgive my Instamatic Camera technique of the time)

View from the backside of Allan Bank

Derrick was a drummer and had a full drum kit set up in the chapel, which he allowed me to use while I was there. I had had my own set for a period of my childhood, relegated to the garage, where it was freezing cold in the winter and my daily window of practice time was brief. I took lessons for short time, but it didn’t stick. I’ve been banging away on percussive objects (some actual instruments) ever since. This was such a treat to have hours to mess around on them to my hearts content.

Jill and Derrick fed and housed me for about a week or so, at which point I felt I had imposed enough on their generosity. They were such wonderful people and I was sad to leave. We got along brilliantly. Little did we know I would be back!

This next part of the story requires some background from my previous post entitled First Movement. If you recall, I had an English drug smuggler friend in Santa Barbara a couple years before. He was subsequently deported back to England where he was caught burglarizing a mansion on some estate, thus landing in one of Her Majesty's homes for the criminal caste known as Dartmoor Prison. He had written to me back in NJ, informing me of his misfortune. When I knew I was going to Britain, I let him know I would visit him at some point. Now was the time!

Dartmoor Prison is located in Princetown, Devon, one of the most remote and bleakly atmospheric locations in the British Isles (Arthur Conan Doyle set much of “The Hound of the Baskervilles” on Dartmoor). I hitchhiked there and my ride dropped me off right next to the prison. There was pea soup fog, deadening all sound and destroying all visibility. The moment I got out, he locked the door and sped off, disappearing into the mist. Complete and utter silence descended with the granite walls of the 200 year old edifice materializing out of the haze. All that was missing was the foreboding music indicating bad things were about to happen! It was damn spooky.

I had a nice visit with my friend, who had a lighthearted take on prison life as well as life in general. He told me about some friends of his living in Wales and suggested I go visit them, which sounded good. I just kept going wherever life pointed me. He promised to let them know to expect me. What came next was most unexpected.

Next: Wales, Bells and a Bairn?

Selling Macrame Belts To Tourists On The Beaches Of Greece - The Actual Sign Used

My Ford clunker only put 50 deutsche marks in my pocket for our upcoming Greek escapade. I, no doubt, could have gotten more if I hadn’t been in such a hurry to sell and wasn’t an inexperienced youngster in a foreign country, despite it truly being a clunker. And so, with perhaps 150 marks between us, we hit the road, thumbs out, heading south to Austria.

As we chatted with various rides on our way to the Austrian/Yugoslavian border, we were told more than once to only accept a ride all the way through Yugoslavia. It was a Communist country at the time and the UDBA, their secret police, were highly suspicious of foreigners and anyone who associated with them. So good advice! We were fortunate enough to get a lift with a counter culture family in a VW bus from border to border, having a great time the whole way. As we passed through Skopje, I remember seeing armed soldiers patrolling the streets and was extremely thankful that we had waited for the right ride.

Our first stop was in Thessaloniki, Greece’s second largest city, on the northeast coast. Not the best situation for poor travelers. We had to find a very cheap room for the night, which turned out to be pretty bad. It would be our only night indoors the entire trip. Renate crashed right away, but I was restless so I went out for a walk. I wandered into a club for a beer, sat in a booth and was soon joined by a sketchy woman of questionable intent who asked me to buy her a drink. I declined, pleading poverty, but she persisted in trying to engage me in conversation until I finished my drink and asked the server what I owed. She quoted some outrageous amount, which I refused to pay for a single beer. And no, this wasn’t a strip club! She went away and a moment later I was confronted by a bouncer-looking, extremely intimidating hulk who informed me that I had to pay for the uninvited sketchy woman’s time in my company. This was not looking good. Thankfully, I had had the foresight to only bring a small portion of our meager means out into the night, so I could quite convincingly and earnestly continue my poverty plea. I emptied my pocketed cache on the table, definitely more than the price of a beer but no longer highway robbery, and they allowed me to flee out the door, body intact. That was my first night in Greece. Damn, not a good start!

The next morning we exited the city heading south for a less crowded and hopefully more cordial locale. It wasn’t long before we stopped in a lovely little fishing village with gorgeous beaches and very few tourists, which made us apparently something of a curiosity, particularly due to our nights spent sleeping on the beach. The older folks were quite friendly and welcoming, one even taking us out on his small boat to fish with him, using just a line in our hands catching tiny fish that you ate whole, head and all. Crunchy! I discovered retsina, a Greek wine with a 3,000 year history, and watched in amazement while Greek men danced and broke plates over their heads! Wild! But unfortunately, some of the village’s young men were fascinated by Renate and her bleached blonde hair, especially after learning that we weren’t married, which to them meant she was obviously a harlot. They began following us around, coming on to her and being increasingly aggressive towards me, never getting quite physically threatening but moving steadily in that direction. After a week we decided it was time to move on before things got out of hand.

On our way further south, we took an inland route to visit a centuries-old monastery atop a very tall pillar of rock in Meteora. It was extraordinary. They had carved a stairway into the rock to reach the top. But it was a male Greek Orthodox monastery and they wouldn’t allow women to enter. I had to cross a rope bridge over a chasm to go in. Breathtaking! Even though Renate had insisted I go in without her, I didn’t linger because I felt bad leaving her behind. And inland Greece in the summer is hot! On to Athens!

We headed back to the east coast before going south because the weather was much more pleasant, the beaches were ideal for sleeping, and I loved waking up in the morning and running into the water. I noticed in one touristy area that machine-made macrame items were apparently big sellers, as there were so many of them for sale. Our money was running out, and I knew how to macrame, so I purchased some cotton string and started making macrame belts to sell to tourists. I don’t know if it was the quality of my work (unlikely) or that people felt sorry for us (undoubtedly), but they sold very well. This allowed us to augment our mainly milk and bread diet, quite a treat at the time.

Once in Athens, we started hanging out with an older Australian whose sailboat had been confiscated by the authorities for nonpayment of docking fees or some such thing. He was traveling the world on it and seemed quite the rogue with loads of stories to tell. He, in turn, introduced us to his associate, who I immediately sensed was a villain. I would be proved correct in short order. We were all camping on a hillside in the city that was either a graveyard or some ruins, I can’t quite recall. One day Renate was there alone and the villainous associate tried to convince her to have sex with him, getting physical to the point she felt threatened so she ran and found me. I, in my 21 year old naivety and foolhardiness (he was way bigger and stronger than me), immediately confronted him, telling him to stay away from her. First he laughed, then he stuck a gun in my face and stopped laughing. He snarled some variation of “piss off” and I beat a hasty retreat. Later Renate and I returned and, seeing no sign of him, collected our things and permanently pissed off.

Around this time, Renate and I started not getting along as well for some forgotten reason, so we both thought it was time to head back to Germany. We had been on the road for almost a month at this point. The return trip seemed much longer than the outward journey. At least it was uneventful. Perhaps Italy would have been a better choice?

Once back in Germany, with no money, no job or work permit, and my relationship with Renate having soured, I borrowed money from my parents to fly back to the States, New Jersey to be exact, where I got a job installing carpet with a friend of my father’s and awaited my next adventure.

Turned out to be Britain. Sex Pistols and The Police!

One Month Entry Visa

The foosball factory was near the small Bavarian town of Neustadt an der Aisch, which is 35km southeast of Nuremberg. The owner, whose name, if memory serves (what are the odds?) was Kurt, lived with his family in a modest house next to the factory. Having flown into Frankfurt, I hitchhiked the 160km (100 miles) and showed up at his door in the early evening. As I previously mentioned, he was not expecting me, which hadn’t really concerned me until I found myself on his doorstep wondering if he would even remember who I was, let alone the job offer he had so generously given to the four of us well over a year ago. My sudden worries evaporated the moment he opened the door, instantly recognized me with a warm smile and invited me in for dinner. His wife and some number of children were there and they all made me feel right at home. Kurt assured me that he would indeed honor his employment offer, but first he needed to get me a residency visa and work permit. Due to my lack of funds and transportation, he set me up with a small room in the factory to live in, with a cot and a hot plate. And on top of all that, they had me over for breakfast (the main meal of the day, which was huge!) and dinner every day until I was working. Just amazing! I was a fledgling vegetarian at the time, having adopted it during my time in Boulder a couple years before, but every meal was 90% meat with loads of sausages and I didn’t want to offend, so I adapted. Again. One of my most useful skills.

One Year Residency Visa

The factory floor turned out to be exactly like my time with Kurt and his workers in NJ. People singing, laughing, drinking beer at lunch, just really enjoying themselves while they worked. Opposite the door to my room was the beer dispensary where everyone bought their lunchtime beers (warm, of course). I was instantly embraced by everybody there, quite the oddity and with hardly any German vocabulary to work with. Most of them were older folks with little or no English language to speak of, so a lot of gesturing and miming was employed in my training and in the limited socializing I did. But they were so sweet about it that I never felt alone or isolated by it.

After about a month of working, Kurt loaned me some money to help me buy an old Ford sedan with 3-on-the-tree, if you know or remember what that means. A gear shift on the side of the steering wheel column. Old school! So now I was mobile!! I started going into Neustadt an der Aisch to play pool in a pub come an evening and walk around on weekends checking out the shops. I eventually wandered into a really cool wooden toy store owned by a man named Robert, who spoke excellent English. He was around 30ish I think, and we hit it off right away. We talked for ages and he invited me to visit him and his girlfriend at their farmhouse in Altziegenrück.

Robert and Hanne lived with another couple in a two-story farmhouse with a large barn and outbuildings in this tiny village with one road that looped off and back to a main road. Behind each farmhouse was rolling hills and the farmland. There were maybe 100 people in the whole village.

All four of them were artists, musicians and bohemians. They were so much fun! I would visit them every weekend, help out around the house (they didn’t farm) and worked on my German. During this period I met a German woman named Renate and she started joining me on my weekend stays. She was an artist, as well, and kinda wild and crazy in mostly a good way. She was supported by the government for being unable to work due to psychological issues. Nice non-work if you can get it. And apparently it wasn’t all that difficult to get. She was also a lot of fun!

I developed a bad cough about 3 months into my stay and went to a local doctor for help. He gave me a prescription and after a few days I developed a severe rash all over my body. They thought I might have German measles, called for an ambulance to take me to the hospital, and fumigated my room. When I got to the hospital, a doctor asked me if I was taking any medications. When I told him what the country doctor had prescribed, he deduced that my rash was most likely a reaction to it but kept me there overnight just in case. In the morning my friends and Renate all came to get me. Robert told me I was welcome to come live with them for a while, so I quite my job that day, thanking Kurt profusely for everything he’d done for me, and went home to the farm.

Soon after I moved in, my friends informed me that it was time for my full immersion, so they would no longer speak to me in English. What?!!! It turned out to be the nicest, most supportive thing they could possibly have done for me. I learned so quickly, and it was fun. I watched a lot of news on TV, tried to read books and magazines, and did my best to keep up with meal conversations. Renate was constantly giving me lessons, as well. She eventually moved in with me for a bit, and then we decided to hitchhike to Greece. Sure, why not!

Next: Hittin’ the road again.

Now that we’re into the Visa waiting period, I’ve started digging into prepping our house to be rented. Lots of large and small tasks, painting, power washing, trimming, etc. Nothing interesting enough to share in detail. And so I shall pluck a tale of the past from my mental archives with the hope to entertain you during this lull in the Portugal saga.

Little Baynt and Big Baynt (our childhood handles)

In early 1977, after a year spent in Boulder, Colorado, partly working at the Carnival Cafe (see above), I returned to my home state of New Jersey and got a job with my brother and two friends (Bob and Bruce), who were also brothers, working for an importer who had a large number of foosball tables from Germany that were in need of repair. The holes for the players were drilled too low, so every time the ball was kicked, it went flying into the air. Our job was to plug the holes and re-drill them. The German factory owner who manufactured the tables came over with a few of his workers and we worked with them for about 6 weeks, I believe. It was a blast! They would share a case of beer with us every day and sing German songs while they worked, while we tried to join in. When we were finished with the project, the factory owner told us he enjoyed working with us so much that any of us could come work for him in Germany. More on that later!

Following that brief but awesome job, Bruce invited me to join him on a cross-country adventure in his VW Beetle. We drove down the east coast to Florida (a rear wheel fell off en route) and hung out on a west Florida beach for a bit. Then went on to New Orleans, Bourbon Street and the French Quarter mostly. North to Boulder for a visit (brakes now metal on metal screaming coming down from a high pass with backfiring any time we took our foot off the gas so going insanely fast while we’re yelling bloody murder). Then run into a snow storm with no defrost heat and barely functional wipers so we’re both freezing and nearly blind. After Boulder we head back south through Texas and throw a rod near Dallas, get towed to a shop for a quick repair job we can hardly afford. Finally, after a month on the road, we arrive at our destination, Santa Barbara, CA. Looking back on episodes like this, I can hardly believe I’ve survived this long!

Bruce immediately trades his Beetle to his brother living there for a VW bus that doesn’t run. We get it towed to a nice quiet neighborhood next to a park and close to the South Beach and manage to live out of it for that summer. There are showers at the beach, constant sunshine, loads of tourists willing to help out a young panhandler, and the occasional young lady who invites me to stay over for a time. The characters I met during this stretch could have been pulled from a novel on street life.

There was Robert O, the 40-something long-haired and bearded hippy who’d been living out of a step van for many years. We busked together, him on guitar and singing while I accompanied on my wooden spoons from Boulder. He was always dropping his pearls of wisdom at my feet, probably hoping I’d pick a few up and cherish them. They were mostly dogmatic bullshit to my ears, but he was such an eccentric that I really enjoyed hanging out with him.

Bruce and I became friends with an Englishman and his twelve year old son who were recently up from South America. He was a drug smuggler by trade, though at the time was out of work. He had a van (that worked!), so we drove around with them a fair bit, to the nude beach north of town, into the foothills, and hitting the bars around Santa Barbara (sans son). Let’s just say, many adventures ensued. More on him later!

I met a wonderful woman who worked as a governess on an avocado ranch in Carpenteria, just south of Santa Barbara. She had a VW bus, as well, also working. She took me horseback riding on the ranch, showered me with free avocados, loaned me her van to live in for a while, and taught me some delightful Tantric sexual practices. We drove up the coast together all the way to Victoria on Vancouver Island. When we passed through Oregon I thought, this is a place I could live! Foreshadowing!

In the Fall I got a job with a sheet rock installer and texturer who taught me the trade. I moved into a crappy little trailer in a crappy little trailer park during that 3-4 month period. It was really fucking depressing. Fortunately, this newfound skill led me to my next episode.

Four women of modest means wanted to open a coffeehouse called Deja Vu. They needed their space remodeled but couldn’t afford professionals to do the work. Enter me and my two amigos! They both knew carpentry (well enough) and I knew sheet rocking (barely well enough), so they hired us. And bonus, they let me live in the place during the remodel! It actually came out pretty nice, all things considered. Unfortunately, the venture didn’t pan out in the end and the women still owe me money to this day.

Shortly after Deja Vu, I returned to NJ, if I recall correctly by way of thumb, and went to work with a carpet installer while staying at my Mom’s. She (and my stepfather John) were always so generous and kind in letting me stop at their place while I saved up some funds for my next adventure. My father was a floor covering expert, eventually owning his own business, and had taught me the basics of carpet installation moonlighting nights and weekends to make some extra cash, so I had a leg up on the trade. I did this for maybe six months, at which point I decided to take up the German factory owner on his job offer. The morning of my departure, I went to the beach and watched the sunrise, contemplating my life and recognizing that an entirely new chapter was beginning. I had a one way ticket to Frankfurt, maybe a hundred dollars to my name, and no idea if the factory owner would even remember me. He didn’t know I was coming!

Next up: Bravado in Bavaria. Antics in Athens. Friends at the Farmstead.

Tchau, tchau! Até a próxima!

I consider learning Portuguêse to be the gateway into Portugal’s culture, history and daily life. It also feels respectful to the people there that we can communicate in their native tongue, even though many of them speak ours. We don’t want just hang out with other English speaking immigrants. We’re moving to a very rural location in the far north, so it’s likely we’ll have some neighbors and local shopkeepers who have little to no English, which is exactly how we wanted it. No better way to learn a language than to be forced to use it. Full immersion!

Before my 10 day trip in late March, I used some language programs and translators to learn some phrases that would possibly come in handy there, but they weren’t engaging or fun for me, and didn’t give me any hope of ever becoming conversational. Then we came across one called Portuguese Pro “Talk The Streets” created by Liz Sharma, an Englishwoman who is fluent in both Brazilian and European Portuguese, and we love it! The curriculum just makes sense to us, there are weekly live sessions working on proper pronunciation, which is quite challenging, and Liz is delightful. It’s very engaging and fun! The course is relatively expensive compared to others, but for what you get, we think it’s going to be worth every penny. We only started it a few weeks ago, but we’ve already come a long way with our pronunciations as well as learned quite a bit of grammar. Our vocabularies are slowing growing and we’re close to forming complete sentences on our own! It’s very exciting while also quite daunting, knowing we have so, so far to go. We’re hoping to be able to shop and order café and a meal by the time we arrive. Perhaps even some small talk! As you might have guessed, we highly recommend Portuguese Pro for anyone intending on joining us there.

While Portuguêse does share some words with Spanish, it usually pronounces them quite differently, which can be confusing to those of us with some Spanish lessons in our past. We’ve been warned repeatedly not to use any Spanish that we know in Portugal. It’s better to stick to English. Apparently the Portuguese are sensitive about their language being confused or conflated with Spain’s. Heard!

I had actually planned to learn a language after retiring last October for fun and to keep my mind sharp. More interesting to me than crossword puzzles! Little did I know I’d actually get to use it on a daily basis. So cool!

On a complete tangent, which some of you will understand the significance of, I let my skydiving license expire June 30th. My last jump, number 750, was in February of 2018, so I’ve kept my license current since then just in case I ever decided to take it up again. It’s an expensive, extensive process to reacquire one. I only recently came to the difficult conclusion that I’m done with it, which was kinda sad but also liberating. Another chapter closed, now carrying less baggage into the next one! Skydiving taught me so many things, but these two come to mind: slow is fast, and just let go and jump.

Benny had the growth between his pads removed and four teeth pulled last Friday at Vintage Veterinary Hospital and Boutique. We were originally planning on going to VCA Animal Hospital, but after our dear friend Shaundee told me she (and another friend) uses Vintage for her pup and loves them, we decided to have them examine Benny and give us a quote for the surgeries. Thank the Goddess we did! First of all, they are really lovely people in a small, cozy and aesthetically pleasing space, and secondly, their fees for the same work were less than half of VCA’s quote. We’re talking thousands of dollars! Thank you, Shaundee!!

Vintage is located in the same building that our old vet was in some years ago, which is slightly weird and mysterious in some way. I can’t speak highly enough about them, they were so good with him. It’s now day three post-op and he’s doing well, on pain meds and antibiotics and sleeping a lot but not limping anymore. He absolutely hated the cone around his head, and managed to get his good front paw caught in it, which was not good, so we traded it out for a donut one. He hates that one only slightly less. Mostly we just keep an eye on him to make sure he’s not licking his sutured paw. He also doesn’t like being watched! Makes him nervous.

Some news on his flight arrangements. Air Animal put me in touch with a guy in Lisbon who has years of experience helping people get their pets through the vet exam and paperwork. He’s going to pick us up at the airport, drive us to the cargo building where the vet offices and Benny are, take care of all the paperwork so all we have to do is sign there and there and there, then drive us to our hotel, which is within walking distance of the airport, where we will no doubt crash hard for the night. I already have our room reservation. The next morning I’ll walk over and pick up our rental, a van of some sort, and off we go to the far north. About a 4-5 hour drive, plus rest stops.

I’ve revised our rental car plan a bit. I was going to keep the van until we buy a used EV, but since it costs a lot more than a car to rent and is too damn big for the roads, I’m going to trade it out after a week for a small car, unless we manage to find an EV to buy before that. I’d trade it out sooner but the weekly rental rate is much less than the daily, so it works out better to keep it that long.

Benny’s surgery was another unexpected hurdle to clear before moving day, emotionally, physically and financially, so that’s a relief! Now we just have to get through the healing process and medication regimen and he’ll be back to his prancing cuteness.

Next up? Learning Portuguese! Falo muito pouco Portuguêse!

It’s now Wednesday, April 1 in Braga, and April Fool’s Day is apparently in full swing. I’ve had my café and pastry at my newly discovered favorite coffeehouse, packed my bags and am about to head back to Porto airport to return the rental car and catch a train to Lisbon for my flight the next day. I walk to the parking garage to retrieve the car, drive to the unmanned exit gate, insert my ticket and wait for it to tell me how much to pay. Instead I get a message in Portuguese that I can’t understand. So I try again. Same result. Now there’s a car behind me and another in the other gate next to me and I’m feeling pressured. I type the message into my translator app and it means something like “pay for parking”. I’m trying!

I put the help button and get someone over a crackly intercom speaking Portuguese, naturally. His English wasn’t great, but he did manage to inform me that I need to pay at the machine back in the car park first. Not great. There’s no longer any cars behind me, as they had used the other gate, but to go back I need to drive in reverse through a fairly long, single curving lane with solid walls so I can’t see if anyone is coming. Have I mentioned how fast the Portuguese drive? For such a slow moving culture, incredibly fast! Like they’re making up for moving so slowly the rest of the time. So I’m slightly terrified someone is going to come screaming around the curve while I’m slowly backing up it holding my breath the whole way. But they didn’t. Whew!

As soon as I re-enter the garage, I see the payment machine nearby, but I have to find another parking space and walk to it. And, of course, all the instructions are in Portuguese, so out with my app until I figure it out. Painstakingly slow! When I finally get to the amount owed, I’m shocked to find out it’s over $50 (€47) for less than two days! April Fool! I had been told by my landlord that the garage accepted credit cards, but it was cash only, and I didn’t have nearly enough left to pay the exorbitant fee. Off I go, looking for an ATM in the area. When I find one, I’m struggling once again with the language barrier while a woman is waiting to use it and is obviously annoyed with me. I finally fold under the pressure, not being able to figure it out, and decide to find a bank instead. I walk another couple blocks and am astonished to see the very Millennium bank that I opened my account at just two days prior. Eureka! I go in and see the woman who helped me before at her desk alone. Rather than take a number, I boldly walk over and ask for her assistance with the ATM in their lobby. I’m starting to feel my rental car return time closing in on me. She is once again very patient with me, I get my cash and I’m on my way. I feed the machine, it spits out my paid ticket, I insert it into the next machine and the exit gate rises before me. I’ve escaped the underground garage! Only took 45 minutes! Life in Portugal is going to be a series of expensive learning experiences, no doubt.

My drive back to the car rental company goes smoothly with Maps, I arrive exactly on time, and the shuttle driver immediately takes me back to the airport to catch the Metro into Porto for the Lisbon train. I’ve already charged my Metro card for the return trip when I was in Porto before, so I only need to scan it at the platform and I’m off. During this half hour ride I realize I’ve left my favorite brimless hat that I bought years ago at the Eugene Saturday market on the rental shuttle. So sad! I’ve never seen another one quite like it and haven’t found one since. Alas, I don’t have a single photo of me wearing it to share with you.

Had a very pleasant 3.5 hour train ride back to Lisbon. Sat next to really nice woman from Amsterdam who had been traveling alone for a month, through Germany, Switzerland, Italy, Spain and Portugal. Her husband stayed home for work. We had a wonderful talk, sharing stories and photos. At this point, my train station navigating confidence is slowly growing. I managed the entire return journey without assistance! Just in time to leave. So it goes. Now I have only to get to my final accommodations near the airport and I can relax for the evening. Should be easy enough. Call an Uber, give them the address, and Bob’s your Uncle! But wait, it’s still April 1st, so Bob is not my Uncle, or even remotely related.

We get to the location, which is in a very busy city area with lots of traffic and tall buildings, and there’s no indication of where my specific address is situated. The driver parks and gets out to try and locate it, but returns in a minute apologizing that he can’t find it. Fair enough. I load up, thank him for his efforts, and start the hunt. I go back and forth on the block it should be on, seeing numbers before and after it, but it still can’t find it. I finally go into some unknown kind of business with someone at a reception desk and show him the address I’m looking for. He kindly steps outside with me and points down the front walkway to where the building makes a right angle. I thank him and make my way there, and lo and behold there is the number in small digits next to a door hidden in a recessed alcove with a keypad for entry. This is my second rental where you’re given access codes only on the day of your arrival and never see anyone. I’m in, it’s nice enough for a relatively low price, and now Bob and I are reacquainted!

My reserved Uber ride to the airport the next morning went smoothly, all my connections were on time, and I arrived back in Portland by dinner time that Thursday after another 12 hours of flying and 15 hours of travel time. It’s now 1a.m. according to my Portugal adjusted body. I catch my Groome shuttle back to Salem, Poppy picks me up, and it is so good to be home!

Upon my return to Braga from Guimarães on Day 7 of my trip (or Braga Day 1), I was immediately challenged by the lack of parking anywhere near my rental apartment. The entry was facing a pedestrian alley and all of the nearby streets were cobblestone and very narrow, with limited parking. After some circling and a brief run-in with a parking patrol officer who shooed me away from a spot I’d stopped in because it was handicapped only, which I’d missed, I eventually scored one a few blocks away.

The apartment was the nicest place I stayed at my entire trip. And the location was perfect! It was on the second floor so I was above most of the noise and had a nice view. Here’s an inside photo and one of the views from a window.

My landlady then informed me, by text, that I couldn’t park on the street overnight and would have to use a nearby parking garage, so I moved the car and then found a nearby restaurant seen amongst many in the photo below for a lovely veggie burger and fries dinner as I gazed upon, what else, but another church! And not just any church. Braga Cathedral, also known as Sé de Braga, is the oldest cathedral in Portugal. Consecrated in 1089, it predates the establishment of Portugal as an independent kingdom by over fifty years and is one of the most important buildings in the country.

As you can see on the banners everywhere, I happened to be there during the Holy Week of Semana Santa. Braga is considered the religious centre of Portugal, probably because it has the oldest church in the country. There was chanting playing from loudspeakers all around this area. Kinda nice, but also kinda weird and haunting.

After dinner, I wandered about until tuckered out, then headed “home” for a deep, restful sleep.

My second day in Braga began with a delightful shower that had an overhead rainfall type shower head. They are the best!! Our rental has one, as well! Then off for café at a nearby café. I managed to order it in Portuguese, which felt like a major achievement. After getting sufficiently caffeinated, I set off to tour the historic district and found so much amazing architecture, sculptures and beautiful gardens. Here are some of the highlights.

Jardim de Santa Bárbara - Santa Barbara Gardens

These next four pics are from inside The Biscainhos Museum.

Another large and busy square.

Amazing churches everywhere!

And finally the Avenida da Liberdade.

I’ll leave you with that historic eye-candy. Next up, escaping the parking garage, losing my favorite hat, and hunting for my final night’s accommodation. Tchau tchau!

My seventh day began with a one-hour morning drive from Viana do Castelo to Braga, Portugal’s third largest city about an hour northeast of Porto. I had a lovely little one room apartment awaiting me in the Historic District. Since I couldn't move in until 3pm, my first order of business was to find the Millennium Bank I’d chosen to be our home branch for our Portuguese bank account. We had established that we’d look for rentals in the Braga area, and after researching our options for expat banking, I’d landed on Millennium as our best bet.

A little background on this banking process first. In order to get a D7 Retirement Visa, we were required to have a generously funded Portuguese bank account prior to our Visa appointment. To be able to open said account, one must first obtain an NIF (Número de Identificação Fiscal, think Social Security number), which is only possible either by going to Portugal and dealing with their bureaucracy in person (never fun) or getting a representative there to help you. We chose the latter, paying Viv Europe to assist us. So I’m going into the bank prepared!

Until I walk in and am confronted with a machine with instructions in Portuguese. Yikes! I look around in a slightly panicked search for some kind soul to spot my anxious glance and scoot over to push the proper button which will gain me some form of entry, the exact nature of which I have yet to fathom. There are individual booths around the perimeter of the room with bank employees helping customers and a large waiting area with perhaps a dozen people sitting quietly. I manage to catch the eye of a banker who is free, give her my best “please help me!” expression, and she comes over and explains in decent English that I need to take a number by pushing a particular button. So simple if one can read!

When my number is eventually called, I’m relieved to find that she is the one assigned to me, so I’m able to complete the process in English without difficulty. Success!

Next on my flexible agenda for the day before my check-in time is a quick trip to Guimarães, a small city south of Braga commonly referred to as “the birthplace of Portugal” and first settled in the 9th century. In 1128, major political and military events that would lead to the independence and the birth of a new nation took place in Guimarães (courtesy of AI). I didn’t have enough time to see much this visit, but here are a few photos of what I did manage in the brief time available.

Paço Dos Duques De Bragança (Ducal Palace Of The Bragança)- 15th Century

Igreja De S. Miguel Do Castelo (Church of …)- Consecrated in 1239.

Buildings I didn’t identify…

And your ever-present statue.

That’s all for now. It’s pushing midnight on July 4 and the booms and bangs and crackles are beginning to dissipate enough that I might just be able to sleep. We shall return to Braga anon! Até a próxima!

After months of planning, gathering documents, getting them notarized and apostilled, photos taken, FBI background checks requested and some sleepless nights worrying about what I’d forgotten or what could go wrong, it’s finally done! Now the morning after, and I’m exhausted.

As you may have read in my previous post “Permission To Enter”, this was our appointment at VFS Global in San Francisco to apply for a 4-month D7 Visa to Portugal, which is basically for retired folks. VFS collects all your information and passes it on to the Portuguese Consulate for approval. Once approved, you have 4 months to fly to Portugal and apply for a 2-year Residency Visa. After those 2 years, you can apply for another 3 years, and then finally for Permanent Residency.

So this was a big, huge ginormous deal for us. Just getting the appointment in the first place is a challenge. So much so that we hired a company to help us get one, as well as coach us in the documentation process, which is very specific and detailed. It’s been a lot to deal with, even with assistance. And it’s done!

Our day began at 1am Tuesday morning, June 30th. Mine after a whole three hours of sleep, Poppy’s with only slightly more. Hit the road at 2:30am for Portland airport for our 5:15 flight to San Francisco, arriving at 6:45am. Two highlights for this flight were no luggage whatsoever and I was actually able to sleep on a plane for a change, something I couldn’t even manage to do on my 11 hour overnight flight to Portugal.

We arranged an Uber ride to VFS, in an EV naturally, and were at their door three hours early for our appointment, as expected. And really, really tired, also not a surprise. What to do? More coffee, of course! Then we go a wandering. We really have no idea where we are, other than it’s downtown with loads of skyscrapers all around us. Turns out we’re in the SoMa district (South of Market). We walk down Folsom, which sounds vaguely familiar to me, and end up at the Embarcadero on the bay front, which I’ve definitely heard of! Here are some pics of our stroll:

This building made me slightly disoriented just looking at it. Wild!

On the Embarcadero.

The bay.

Look, it’s a Zook! Self-driving futuristic box on wheels!

And a Waymo, also self-driving, in front of a lovely historic building. Waymos were everywhere!

A ferry dock. Tons of them buzzing about the bay.

The Market building.

And finally back to VFS for our appointment.

We had been instructed to arrive 15 minutes early to get checked in and be given our “code number”, which they displayed on a screen overhead. We got there 10 minutes too soon but decided to go in and see what happened. The security guard chastised us for being early, then let us in anyway and told us to come back to him just before our appointment time to get our code. We sat down in the waiting area and a couple minutes later he brings us our code. This is going well! We’re sitting facing the row of booths, like at the DMV, with VFS workers helping people, and right in front of us is a woman who has no customer. The security guard goes and has a word with her. Our appointment time is still 15 minutes away, but sure enough, up pops our code! I’m really getting to like this security guard!

There’s only one chair at the desk, and only room for one, so our person tells us that I can work with her and Poppy can come over whenever a signature is required. And we begin the painstaking process of handing over one document at a time, one for me, one for Poppy. Do I have another copy of this document? No? She goes and makes one, for a fee. A form is filled out a bit wrong. She whites it out and I fix it. Another one is the wrong one. She prints out the correct one and I fill it in. All this time, in a fairly noisy room, I’m trying to understand her Mongolian accent (I asked) and have to keep asking her to repeat herself and leaning over the desk so far I’m afraid I’m invading her personal space. The whole time deathly afraid she’ll ask for something I don’t have and send us home empty-handed. I should mention that she was really very kind and patient with me. It helped a lot.

And then we were done. Boom! It was so anticlimactic after all the time and effort, I was surprised how unemotional I felt. Possibly due to exhaustion. So another EV Uber ride back to SFO, another nap waiting for our flight, another nap on the plane, and a rush-hour drive home, arriving at 6:30pm to a very excited Benny.

Now we wait for our passports with visas to arrive, hopefully within the 60 days they predicted. Now I can get back to writing about my trip! Next up is Braga!

The morning of my second day in Viana do Castelo, after my delightful breakfast and prior to my afternoon trip to Ponte de Lima, both of which I wrote about in my previous post, I went for a walk hoping to find the funicular I’d read about that takes you up to The Santuário do Sagrado Coração de Jesus which overlooks the town.

It was surprisingly difficult to locate, considering what a popular attraction it is. I could have driven up or taken the stairs, but this sounded way cooler. And it was!

The Santuário do Sagrado Coração de Jesus (Sanctuary of the Sacred Heart of Jesus) — also commonly called the Basílica/Templo de Santa Luzia — crowns the hill of Monte de Santa Luzia. Construction began in 1904 and continued through the first half of the 20th century until 1959. It has the largest rose windows in the Iberian Peninsula and the second largest in Europe.

To get to the top tower, there was an elevator almost to the top, or a very long circular stone stairway. Elevators are boring! Then there was an extremely tight and steep circular stairway that I could barely fit through with my small backpack on. I actually thought I might get stuck! It was a good thing no one was coming down at the same time. Probably what the traffic light is for. This led to the final doorway to this interesting passageway leading to the peak.

From the top, you can see a large stretch of the Lima river valley and seashore to the north and south of the estuary, along with the green mountain range — a panorama once rated by National Geographic as the third most beautiful in the world.

Just beyond the hotel above is The Citânia de Santa Luzia, also known as the Old City of Santa Luzia, an archaeological site of the Castro culture, with construction dating from the Iron Age and evidence of occupation continuing through the Roman period. It's thought to have been inhabited as early as the 8th century BC, continuing occupation until the 5th century AD.

And finally, a large aerial view of the area in the entrance building to the ruins.

Our Visa appointment in San Francisco is day after tomorrow! I will let you all know how it went! Até logo!

I begin my second day with espresso and a pastry at a lovely little café down the alley from my lodgings. I was waiting outside their door when they opened. It had a very cool new age pagan kinda name and was run by two women who spoke excellent English. As I was their only customer my whole time there, we had a lovely chat about their café, life in their town and emigrating from the U.S.

I had an adventurous morning riding a funicular to a breathtaking view, but due to a memory blip I jumped ahead here to my afternoon excursion. Hah! I’ll come back to it in my next post. :)

So, that afternoon I decided to go for a road trip up the Lima River to Ponte de Lima, which I’d read about before coming over. It has a bridge that has crossed the Lima for 2,000 years, built by the Romans, though only part of the original bridge remains. The rest is only a mere 650 years old!

The sea of cars in the images above gives you an idea how many tourists were there that day. Naturally, the first thing I did was cross the bridge. It held! So cool to imagine the history beneath your feet.

Igreja de Santo António da Torre Velha, the church on the other side (north bank) is 18th century and lovely inside, though not nearly as elaborate as many others.

Back on the south bank in the very busy tourist area, I had a delicious veggie burger and fries sitting outside one of many small restaurants overlooking the river and listening to an amazing female singer with guitar accompaniment performing classic American folk tunes to the passing crowd. It was a blissful moment. Then I went for a stroll down the Avenida dos Plátanos, a tree-lined promenade that hosts one of the oldest continuous markets in Portugal.

As in most large towns and cities in Portugal, churches are ever-present here.

Those were the highlights of my brief visit to Ponte de Lima. A side note: the rental house Poppy, Benny and I will be moving to in October is upriver from here only about 45 minutes! We will definitely be exploring this town some more! Tchau for now!

Day 4 of my trip and I’ve left the luxury of the all-English spoken conference and Lisboans who almost all had at least basic English proficiency. I pick up my rental EV near the Porto airport, they help connect my phone to it for navigation, and I’m off for the northern coast and Viana do Castelo. Lovely highway, beautiful coastal scenery, smooth sailing. Less than an hour drive. Maps gets me very close to my accommodation in the historic district and then tells me to turn down what appears to be a cobblestoned pedestrian alleyway. I stop, thinking this can’t be right, when another car turns down it and continues on, so what the hell, in I go! Then it’s a left down another slightly wider alley and there’s one car parked close to where my hotel should be. Not at all sure about this, I park behind it and walk down a bit to my hotel, which is quite easily missed due to minimal signage. The woman working the desk, possibly the owner, speaks zero English. I manage to convey to her that I have a reservation and ask if I can park my car in the alley, with much pointing and pigeon Portuguese. My translation app DeepL gets its first serious workout. She adamantly informs me that no, I cannot park there, points down the alley and says “Gil Eannes, Gil Eannes!” I have no clue what this means, but I did see on the way in that there was parking on the main road a block over, so I figured I’d find a spot not too far away and work it out after I got settled in my room. Off I go down this road looking for an opening. There are tourists everywhere! I finally find a spot much further away than anticipated, but manageable with my two backpacks, one rear, one front. I don’t see any signage that indicates what the parking rules are, but later for that. I just want to get checked in, knowing that the language barrier could get interesting and potentially time consuming.

After getting checked in, which ultimately wasn’t difficult, I went a wandering. This part of town, which is the historic district, is definitely geared towards tourism. Loads of souvenir shops, restaurants and cafés. Wonderful cobblestone alleyways abound with so much architectural flair for an American to marvel at!

After getting some dinner, I ask someone about the parking situation and they indicate in broken English that no, I can’t park overnight on the street, and then points over toward the river inlet and says “Gil Eannes!” Well, I still have no clue what that means, but when I look where he’s pointing I see a large lot full of cars by the river, partially obscured by a large white ship. So I drive over and see that it’s a public parking lot, and free, though I tip the guy who guides me to a spot. I later learned it’s wise to do so, or your car might not be looked after, if you follow me. It wasn’t until the following day when I go to get the car for a little road excursion that I notice the name of the ship, which is a Hospital Ship and open for tours, is Gil Eannes!

More of Viana do Castelo to come!

As I shared in my earlier “Why Portugal” post, I paid a whirlwind 10-day visit there in late March to attend a 3-day Living and Investing Overseas conference in Lisbon and then the next week tripping around the northern region. The conference was informative, but since I’d already spent months researching the ins and outs of emigration to Portugal, there was little new information to be gained. The most I can say for it is that it was the original impetus for my trip. It got me there!

The first 3 days in Lisbon I suffered from extreme jet lag, the seven hour time difference (eight hours on the fifth day- daylight savings!) and lack of sleep on the overnight flight kicking my butt. I managed some walks around the area of the conference but no more. On the final, shorter conference day I had a prearranged meeting with Rita, the rep for Viv Europe, one of many companies that assists in emigrating to Portugal. She was wonderful, and their pricing was more affordable than others I had looked into, so we ended up going with them.

One down-side to prearranging one’s accommodations and rental car in advance is the lack of flexibility once you’re there. Had I not already committed myself to traveling north the day after the conference ended, I might have taken in more sights in Lisbon. Guess it will have to wait for a revisit with Poppy and Benny! Here are a few pics from my early morning strolls.

As it was, I headed north by train first thing Saturday to pick up my rental car at the Porto airport. I had already purchased my train ticket online, so it was just a matter of finding the right platform, which I accomplished by asking multiple people until I found someone who knew and spoke English. After a lovely 3+ hour train ride up the coast, my next challenge was getting on the MetroLine to the airport just north of central Porto. This would be my first of many language interface adventures with unforgiving machinery. The Andante Card dispenser! Fortunately, a kind young man at the adjacent machine helped me procure the rechargeable card and load the necessary funds for my destination. First challenge met! So should be smooth sailing now, just going to the right platform and catching the correct train, right? Nope. No MetroLine in sight. Ah, maybe if I just follow this crowd they will lead me there? Lucky guess! A long winding walk and there it is, just beyond the card scanners! I’m home free. Until my card is declined, repeatedly, as I watch the train pull away. So I go back to a yellow-vested station guard/worker I had passed en route and requested assistance, which he rather begrudgingly obliged. Turns out all I had to do was try a different scanner. Lesson learned. And so I await the next train to the airport and my rental car. An EV, naturally!

Next up, Viana do Castelo.