Sunday in the Park with Jake
Although spring is technically two weeks away the weather this weekend was beautiful, the air soft, the sky blue, tree branches bursting with buds, little wildflowers peeping everywhere, butterflies hovering. Even the roosters are feeling it, crowing constantly just for the heck of it.
For a small village Belas has plenty of parks, three within a twenty minute walk. On Sunday Jake and I hit all of them. The energy of spring was everywhere – each park bench occupied, the playgrounds loud with children. Young parents pushed strollers, old men and old ladies gathered in unisex groups of three and four, talking animatedly. People drank their bica and ate pastel de nata in the outdoor cafes. Parents swung on swing sets with their kids. Runners zipped past us in ones and twos.
Dog walkers were everywhere – Jake made friends with a border collie and a golden retriever puppy, but most of the dogs we saw – a young beagle, a pair of floofy chihuahuas – barked crazily, making a big show of pulling at their leashes as if to say “Let me at him!” One especially noisy small breed jerked the leash right out of its owner’s hand as it strained toward Jake; when it realized it was free to get closer it put its ears and tail down and slunk to a tree behind its owner, suddenly uninterested in the large reality of Jake.
Jake stood calmly wagging through it all, though one friendly trio of small dogs milling about his legs and boldly walking under and around him, sniffing, made his neck ruff stand at attention. I saw him looming over a butterscotch-colored terrier – the largest of the three but still only about twelve pounds to Jake’s seventy-five, and I hastily moved him away. She’s way too little to hump, I scolded him. Though often Jake settles for humping the air *above* a small dog’s back. He’s enthused, but confused.
There are a lot of road bikers here, another way Belas is similar to northern California where the winding mountainous roads of the Marin headlands feature as many bikers as cars – the bikes are always faster going downhill, taking the curves at terrifying angles. The road bikers are julienned, traveling in threes and fours, and once, thrillingly, more than a dozen, all women. There are mountain bikers too, as well as a few folks whizzing past on electric bikes, huge grins on their faces. I can’t wait for my Avendon electric bike to arrive.
On a day like this you just naturally look up, and in Belas everywhere you look up there seems to be a statue.
At the village park Jake pauses at the water fountain, waiting. It has become a ritual, me scooping the water that has collected into the bowl of the fountain, Jake drinking from my cupped hands. A little boy watched this, grinning. Ajuda o cao, he said shyly, and I smiled at him, thrilled that I actually understood him (you help the dog). Jake always takes three or four handfuls, drinking earnestly. A man sitting on a nearby bench watches and laughs.
Everywhere, laundry flaps from windows. I used to think how much prettier Portugal would be if laundry wasn’t hanging from windows like ragged Christmas decorations someone forgot to take down. But I’ve come to appreciate the homely beauty of it.
We walk along the narrow sidewalks. On my left is the land of the former Queen, and a sign to Queluz, the home of the former royal palace, while to my right is a sign advertising the tiny headquarters of the Communist Party of Portugal. This tickles my funny bone.
Though there is plenty of freshly cut green grass in the in-town parks, Jake decides it’s nicer to roll on the tile, which stays cool even with the temps rising to 72F.
I like to make sure Jake gets some trail time and not just walk on tile sidewalks all the time. The sprawling municipal park with its network of trails is a place I can let him off leash without getting stink eye, or worse, seeing people cringe away in anxiety. But the rugged mountain bike trail is Jake’s favorite – he often runs when we are on the way to the trailhead, though it is a steep uphill route. Once on the trail I let him free to sniff at his own pace. He is a good boy and never ranges too far ahead without checking back.
High on the hill that connects to the trailhead I notice the red tile roof of our Quinta is visible, and the magnificent umbrella of a tree that looms over it.
Back home, the orange tree is heavy with fruit. The calla lilies lift their white faces as if to admire the cerulean sky.
