Evening in the Village

This weekend we planted basil, dill, rosemary and sunflowers. The h is sprouting nursturums, marigolds and morning glories; as well, he shored up the long rows of potatoes, adding earth in a mound on top of each budding plant and predicting we’ll have more potatoes than we know what to do with.

I try not to think about it, because while growing food is awesome, it creates a huge accountability not to waste it. I’m already reading up on recipes for apples and pears - the trees have just begun to sprout prettily, a reminder of the windfall that is to come (and one I was totally unprepared for last fall, alas).

Today I will transplant some cacti Tiago found under a pile of English Ivy, and plant more sunflowers. Also harvest some of the lemon verbena growing wild in between the rows of potatoes - Alberto showed the h how to make tea, and now it is a nightly pleasure.

Watching the h attend to his plantings in the greenhouse, Tiago remarks, Ele is um homem da agricultura!

Sim, I respond. Um um jardineiro nato.

The h has always had a green thumb. Our apartment in San Francisco had wall to wall, floor to ceiling windows in two rooms, lined with plants that frequently outgrew their pots. It was a bittersweet pleasure to post them on Buy Nothing on Facebook; we had more takers than plants, and no-shows lost out quickly to the next person in line. It’s nice to know our plants continue their lives in the city that we love.

The soil here is very well-draining.  From my vantage point in the potato patch, weeding, I can see Alberto’s spreading garden across the street and up the hill. He grows so much, so well, it’s like magic. Persimmons, walnuts, avocados, tangerines, lemons, seven foot tall cabbage…not a square inch is wasted, not a single weed visible, everything orderly and every inch of ground occupied with some organic business. Even the fence bordering the garden is heavy with roses and grapes.

Alberto has been scarce lately, looking after his wife post-knee surgery, and adapting to recent asthma problems has meant only short stopovers to his garden - we see his car out front for a bit, but it is gone before I can search him out for a chat.

Olá, bom dia, espero que tu e a Rosa estejam bem! I texted this morning.

Ja estamos um pouco melhores, he texts back, and though I would prefer them to be muito mais melhores it is still good news. I will get you chicken feed, he adds. After my online Portuguese lesson I go to the kitchen and find a fresh loaf of bread the h put on the counter where I was sure to see it, a weekly (and sometimes more) gift from Alberto, sharing the bounty of his produce exchange with the locals.

The heat this weekend made everyone lazy -  Jake elected to lay inside, on the cool file floor. The hens and roosters dug trenches in the ground and lay in them. The coming week will be ten degrees cooler, and easier to work outside without the annoyance of sunblock melting off my face to run stinging and burning into my eyes. 

The h’s investment in a heat pump water heater has kept our utility bills ridiculously low and has the added benefit of keeping the quinta a cool 65F even as the sun was broiling hot outside, reaching 85F at 3:00p. We have been eating our meals in feels-like-air-conditioned-air of the quinta, where we as yet have no stove but make do just fine with an induction burner and air fryer - and of course there is always the propane grill.  Sunday is always brunch day - we ate spinach just picked from the garden with a breakfast of eggs found in the fruit orchard.  We had just–picked lettuce in a salad with just-picked carrots and red onions to go with our spaghetti dinner in the evening, which featured loads of parsley, also fresh-picked. I’m liking this garden thing.

Friday evening we watched the sunset with Jake from the top of the cottage steps, not talking much, just enjoying the soft air and light. When the sun set we went for a walk in the cool of the evening and found the town park crowded with people with the same idea. We sat on a bench and watched a  pickup futebol match of kids ranging in age from 12 to 18,  while Jake grazed around. The h speculated which players he’d choose if he had to pick a team. Two boys too small for the match kicked a ball back and forth on the grass near us, falling about in hilarity when one of them tripped and fell and pretended he was too heavy to be helped up. A man strolled past us with a glass of beer sparkling under the park lights. Women called to their children, who ran everywhere, seemingly with no destination or reason in mind. Watching them, I had a full body memory of running around on a perfect summer evening playing Ghost In The Graveyard. I still feel that visceral joy when the weather and my body are feeling just right. 

A very young couple strolled past, arm in arm. She had a very short haircut and wore bermuda shorts and an untucked tee shirt; he had a plaid shirt neatly tucked into skinny jeans and enormous round-rimmed glasses that were fashionably nerdy. They couldn’t have been more than 16, more opposite, or more adorable.  I’m glad there is someone for everyone, I said to the h, and he kissed me.

A boy chased a soccer ball that landed near us; he tucked the ball under his arm and looked at Jake who lay on the calcadas, panting lightly. He spoke rapid Portuguese; the h said Desculpe?

The boy made a biting gesture toward his arm, then gestured at Jake. 

Ele e amigavel; e muito simpatico, I told the boy. He tentatively patted Jake’s head. Jake panted. Two little girls in poufy dresses came up, wanting to pet Jake but backing away whenever he turned his big brown face towards them. Jake loves children and always wants to give them a kiss. The girls were too nervous to allow that, but copied my patting his broad brown back. The littlest one giggled when Jake’s tail thwapped her, and grabbed it. Jake glanced over his shoulder and smiled in his Labrador way. She tugged the tail and then still holding it patted his head with exaggerated pats. 

Tudo bem! I told them. Ele ti ama! 

The mom stood serenely by, watching her girls.

Desulple, I said. Eu estou a aprender Portuguese. 

Ah, she said, smiling. Then: A sua Portuguese e boa! 

I shook my head and smiled. Obrigada, I told her. Nao e verdade, mas obrigada. She raised her eyebrows in approval at my accent. 

Meanwhile her little girls with all four hands beat a tattoo on Jake’s back;  every time he turned his head to look at them they backed away, squealing, then returned to their rat-a-tat patting when he looked back at us as if to say, Don’t I deserve something for all this?

Ele quer um biscoito, I told the mom, who laughed.

Claro, she said, leading her girls away. The curly head of the littlest one turned; a little hand waved at Jake. I waved back. I really must start keeping biscuits on my person for such occasions. 

Walking home the streets were crowded with walkers, everyone out enjoying the mild evening temperature. Young couples with strollers, old ladies and old men in duets and trios chatting on the corners and on the benches.  The bus stop was standing room only. Three African ladies in gorgeous traditional dress passed us, they were like brilliant flowers chattering and laughing with musical accents. A quartet of teenagers, all dressed carefully to appear cool and nonchalant (how are high waisted jeans a thing again?) crossed the street in front of us to Cotorinho, a restaurant less than a hundred yards from our front gate that serves an excellent American style cheeseburger and where the servers always gives me the most generous pour of wine by the glass, smiling when I exclaim tao grande!

We did not stop for wine or cheeseburgers, though Jake was up for it and the servers, recognizing us, would  no doubt have allowed him to be seated with us on the patio. Back home the house was swallowed in darkness. We put out all the rechargeable lights - some are shaped like candles, some like tribbles from that episode of Star Trek. They shed enough light to make tea by, or sit and read, which is what we did, the occasional call of the roosters drifting through the open window.

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