Friday is sexy day
Friday is sexy day
you remember sexta-feira your way, I'll remember it my way
On Monday the weather app showed clear sunny skies all week, but beginning Wednesday it’s been misty gray, the air a curtain of superfine droplets you don’t realize are drenching you until you are halfway through your walk with the dog.
Yesterday Alberto brought over some seed rolls in addition to the tremosos and ginga he brought earlier in the week - a thoughtfulness he extends every time we have guests. I think he misses the h, who spent the week in Switzerland at a conference.
When he return? Alberto asks. Amanha, I tell him, forgetting as always if Thursday is quarta feira or quinta feira. Pedro, my language instructor, who is native Portuguese, says he forgets too.
Friday is easy to remember - sexta-feira is unique enough to recall without any other mnemonic devices, and besides everyone knows Friday is a sexy fair of a day with its vista of weekend freedom in front of it.
Speaking of sexy and fair, the cottage has been primed white and looks crisp and beautiful even against the dreary sky. Tiago and crew are in a hurry to paint it before the October rains are underway. I hope we haven’t missed our window. We’ve decided to keep it white, with a color we call Queluz blue1 framing the windows, doors, and the built-in concrete benches on either side of the door (there is only one now; the other still has to be built).
During morning feeding midweek, the chickens gathered around me as I stood indecisively on the back kitchen patio. There was only one hen in the crowd; did the fox take the other in the night? It tends to strike on drizzly nights, we have learned. Wednesday night I walked the property twice after midnight, following the path the h described when he staked it out one night and saw it bounding confidently down the the moonlit cottage staircase like a character from a fairytale, clearly familiar with its route to a chicken dinner. As I walked I didn’t try to stay hidden; I made noise, wanted the fox to be too nervous that people were around to even try to take a hen.
I walked over to the pool steps and there was Betty White, waiting with Alphonse. See I told you, Alphonse clucked to her in a low voice. He walked nonchalantly over to me and I let him eat from the scooper. He took his usual desultory pecks, his manners impeccable. Betty hustled over, nervous but not wanting to miss out. She lacks Alphonse’s finesse, smashing her beak into the cup and scattering feed everywhere. It’s not her fault; only two or three of the flock are confident in eating from hands or things held in hands. The rest of them, though clearly thankful for the free meals, and are a much more robust weight since our arrival here at Casa dos Galos, retain their feral wariness and who can blame them. This flock has survived abandonment, extreme weather, predators galore - owls, hawks, the odd stray dog, the legions of stray cats and now, surprising everyone in the bairro, a fox. They are not about to be taken in by the likes of me, is the general feeling. Except Alphonse, the Michael Caine of roosters, who just strolled into the house one day, all nonchalant. Postsy is more skittish about being held but affectionate enough to stand on my foot and lean against my leg while he eats from my palm.
The rest of the flock followed me up the steps, and for a moment, among them, I was strongly reminded of going to the symphony, the way everyone in their evening clothes flowed up and down the steps to the restroom and bar during intermission. It was not dissimilar being among the roosters and hens, chattering in low tones amongst themselves as they climbed the steps, their feathers elegant, the brightest thing under the gray morning sky.
Yesterday on my walk with Jake we passed a cafe with the words A Vida e Super in the window. There was a table of older ladies sitting near the window having coffee and they gazed frankly at me as I passed by with Jake. The last time we came this way, the same or another table of ladies watched us pass. I sometimes have to remind myself I have purple hair. I wave and say bom dia and to my surprise they all wave back.
There are two smashed up cars side by side in the parking lot behind the cafe. Both are damaged in the same place, the left front bumper. They looked like two boxers recovering after a match.
All week the rain never fell in earnest, just an on-and-off-again light misty almost-drizzle. The chickens hide most of the day under the protection of the low brush in the Secret Garden. Despite the humidity I take the henlets for their morning and afternoon romps in the garden. When the wind blows raindrops rattling down from the palm trees, the four of them stare up at the sky, trying to detect the invisible predator. I let them peck around, gently corralling them when they inadvertently head towards a phalanx of curious roosters (who, all having been warned in nonviolent, creative ways by yours truly, now rarely approach the henlets when they are out for their constitutionals).
The henlets roll exultantly in the damp earth of the garden then lay stretched out in contentment, ruffling and cycling their little claw feet and pecking, a rustling mass of lounging galinhas, feathers saturated with dirt.
When I observe I Dream of Jeannie shivering, I pick them up and carry them in. I can hold all four at once but they are an armful now and I have to really employ my arm muscles to make sure that I do not squish them against me, which they object to. Other times I carry them in two at at time. If they have had enough garden time they do not protest when I pick them up, and stay relaxed in my hands. If however they still have places to go and people to see they will squawk indignantly and cycle their little feet and try to flap their wings to wriggle out of my grasp, in which case I always let them play a little longer.
As I carry them across the front courtyard and inside they look about them with curiosity and not struggling to get down. Such good girls, I tell them. Such little beauties.
We proceed through the palaceta mudroom and down the hall to the front door entryway, an 8’ x 8’ room with a set of double doors overtopped with glass transoms in three of the four walls, the floor to ceiling double doors dominating the fourth. I deposit the little quad of henlets onto our brown leather chair, then sit opposite in the big green recliner. One by one they give their feathers a shake, dirt crumbs flying. I will have to fire up the shop vac this weekend. Jeannie is the first to hop down, walk over to my chair, measure the distance a few times before flying up to my knee and immediately settling down, emitting small trills when I lift my warm hand from her feathery back.
Within minutes Black Haired Cher, Yella Amarela and Princess Leia follow Jeannie’s lead, and soon my lap disappears under a row of little hens. Their cold dinosaur feet grow first warm then hot, as they nod off then jerk awake - usually at the sound of roosters arguing outside, or a bird or plane that can be seen through the entryway windows. Sleep gradually overtakes them and we all rest together in the quiet, a little hen siesta.
Have a good sexta-feira, friends.
This is not an official color of Sherwin Williams or its European equivalents; rather, the h and Tiago drove over to the national palace, the former domestic abode of the last King and Queen of Portugal. The building is blue, with white trim and black wrought iron (as opposed to the traditional dark verde color that metal gates and grates and bannisters seen all over Portugal. They left the truck running and walked up to the walls of the palace and held up paint chips as tourists entered the palace to purchase their tickets for guided or self tours. I like to picture them in their matching work-stained workmen’s pants with the reinforced knees and seat (Tigao gifted the h with a pair when I asked where I could buy them), their arms tan from working in the sun every day, facing each other and talking into Tiago’s translation app as they discussed the subtleties inherent in shades of blue. They took their pictures and conclusions back to LeRoy Merlin and had the color invented into being: Queluz Azul
Lovely; this is what we all need, a hen siesta.