One fine day before I was struck down by this uselessness, I lit the old stone oven at the back of the “laundry”. Tia Maria (‘Aunty Maria’, as I call the matriarch of the village: it cracks them up every time, even though they don’t know about the drink) advised that it would take about an hour to heat up. After an hour I had to move the fire to the opposite side of the oven and give that side an half hour. Then you’re supposed to take the fire out (the stones are meant to go white), put in the food and shut the door (don’t have a door, so I’m using a stone).
But the stones didn’t go white! Even after 3 hours! By 10pm, I had to just get the food in there or I’d starve to death. I had prepared a cake with lemon and almonds, a dozen bread rolls and a pot of tandoori chicken.
And so, the cake didn’t rise and the bread rolls turned out like scones. But the chicken was heavenly. Next time I’ll have to throw a whole tree in there and keep an infernal blaze going the whole day. I realise now that my ancient oven is about ten times the size of Tia Maria’s modern one…It would be great for a party, a wedding, a bah mitzva – I could roast 20 chooks at once…
Having an outdoor ‘bread’ oven and grill, like the Aussie BBQ, is an essential Portuguese home fixture. That and the coffee machine. My neighbours don’t have dishwashers, DVD or hi-fi but they all have espresso machines… likely they are the inexpensive models… and they make really great, creamy espresso. So if you’re thinking of buying one, look for a Portuguese model and shop for coffee in Petersham or your local Little Portugal.
I have been on a diet since I got back from Paris. My sister-in-law had spent a week in Geneva where, let’s be honest, they is nothing else to do but visit chocolate shops. So not only did we have copious quantities of chocolate for immediate gratification, but I returned home loaded with an ungainly box of truffles and big fat log of nougat. And a big fat log around my middle. But what can you do? I did consider giving it all to the neighbours, but since one of them meantime had murdered my dog, it wasn’t an option unless my revenge was to clog their arteries.
So now, after several weeks of no-carbohydrates-at-night and NO PASTRIES (OMG), I have achieved no weight loss whatsoever. My only hope is that I do have four months (or four years) of physical work in the sun ahead, provided I get better sometime, so that ought to keep me from looking like mutton-dressed-as-lamb…
A diet is futile now I’m sick, anyway. The Portuguese (well, just my village people, anyway) believe that you eat your way out of illness. At home it’s vegemite toast and chicken soup and black tea, but the neighbours here are insistent that if I don’t eat at least 20,000 calories a day, I’m going to die. I read recently that the Portuguese are the only people in Europe who underestimate their weight. IE: They think they are anorexic when actually they have a healthy BMI. When they push me to eat more I feel it’s payback for all the times I hassled my super-lean friends.
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Sometimes someone comes out with an opinion so contrary to your own that it provokes you to revisit the foundations of your beliefs.
I was at a BBQ the other day and was asked to explain my reasons for coming to live in Portugal. The English host took offence that one of my reasons was the “great architecture”. “What architecture?” he blurted, revealing not just a strong opinion, but just how many drinks ahead of us he was.
So, just in case I’ve somehow come to live in Portugal under false pretences, let’s take a tour of those “foundations” I mentioned…
1. Gare do Oriente (Lisbon)
One of the major train stations in Lisbon. Its audaciousness reminds me of the Opera House in Sydney. Part space ship, part electric tree…and if train stations are your thing then feast your eyes on the restored 19th Century Neo-Manueline Rossio Station in Lisbon and the extraordinary tiled history of São Bento in Porto.
2. Avenida Infante Santo (Lisbon)
This particular street is just one example of the juxtaposition of architectural styles in Lisbon. New-Old, Ornate-Modern, Renovated-Dilapidated. It’s a funky, bold, exuberant city. Lisbon was completely flattened by an earthquake in 1755, and much like many modern European cities it’s a mish-mash of styles and additions from the 18th-21st centuries. Lisbon just pumps with character, wherever you go, as every little neighbourhood has it’s own fierce personality.
3. Churches of Bom Jesus de Monte (Braga) and Santa Maria (Obidos).
Yeah I know, it’s two, but they are examples of the same thing. Small, not particularly significant churches with super-sublime decoration. Santa Maria is Baroque and 18th Century, and Bom Jesus Neoclassical and 19th Century. But what they have in common is almost every interior surface is decorated. You might think that the effect would be gaudy but it’s elegant and lovely. Multiple patterns against pattern, it makes me speculate whether the harmony is inspired by genius or created by pure chance.
4. Mosteiro Santa Maria da Vitoria (Batalha)
She rises from a boring landscape like a gigantic hairy spider; this monastery is so much in contrast to the environment that it seems alive. It’s a radical, fantastic building that reminds me of the audacious Sagrada Familia in Barcelona. Except Vitoria was built in the 14th and 15th centuries (and the Sagrada still isn’t finished). It’s sharp and scary from the Gothic Style, and it’s curly and knotted in the Manueline Style. The interior is just gob smacking. Full on.
As a whole, it seems an imposing, serious building, but one of the secrets of Portuguese Ecclesial architecture is the funny little details. The stonework is full of cheeky little critters, alien faces and naughty mythical beasties. It’s playful. So un-churchy!
5. Kitchen at Alcobaça
The Mosteiro Santa Maria da Alcobaça is, like Batalha, an UNESCO world heritage site, and is also an awesome piece of work. My favourite bit is the kitchen, very simply finished with grey/white fired glass tiles and trimmed with blue and white azulejos. It has a elegant Moorish quality with long curved lines and an infinite ceiling.
The Cistercian monks who lived in the monastery and were famous for their culinary decadence. A stream from the local river diverts into a pool in the kitchen, providing a water supply but also fresh fish! The massive fireplace and chimney could cook a small herd of cows.
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Haven’t been posting for a while because I’ve been busy dying. Almost.
A couple of weeks ago I woke up and then walked a few steps to the kitchen. Suddenly the floor fell out from under me and I was lying on the concrete yelling at Wookie to get his wet nose out of my ear. I thought the dizziness would pass, but as I sat with my head between my knees, a searing pain shot up my neck and into my head. Migraine. I crawled back into bed somehow, but I can’t remember much more except being hung up on by Emergency when I called them an hour or something later.
For those unacquainted with migraine: plucking out your own eye seems like an appealing solution to stop the pain. I would have been quite happy for someone to drill a hole in my head with the Black & Decker there and then to give me some relief. It’s like that. You’re insane with pain.
I rang Emergency not just to avoid self-harming with power tools, but also because the world was whirling around me like I was a 14 year old with a cask of Fruity Lexia. Except there had been no dancing beforehand. I did feel like spewing, but.
It’s a bit of a bummer for the ambulance people (Bombeiros, they’re called here: Portugal has the American system of combining ambulance with fire fighters. So you could have a Firey deliver your baby, which is an interesting idea, to me at least. Hi to my Colorado friends Dom Pedro and Vasco, if you’re out there). Anyway, bit of a bummer as I was saying, when you don’t have a street name or a house number. Basically they had to wander around the village looking for someone to ask where an urgently sick person might be living (or dying). It took quite a while, but they got here eventually.
And then we had to have a Portuguese lesson. Can’t imagine why, but the words Migraine, Dizziness and Vertigo had not entered my vocab databank. I think I got there in my little verbose way by explaining that the world was rotating and I had a really really big headache. Three new words that I’ll never forget! Enxaqueca, tounturas and vertigens!
Fortunately for me, but very unfortunately for her, my mother suffered an attack of Vertigo last year. It is a rare, very debilitating and very strange condition. Basically you completely lose your balance. Like being incredibly drunk but completely lucid at the same time. You can’t walk, can’t see, you want to vomit. Even when I’m lying down with my eyes closed, I still have a sense of being on a boat on the high seas.
Anyway, if Mum hadn’t had it and hadn’t told me all about it, then I’m sure I would’ve been terrified. I can handle the feeling that someone left a sharp axe planted in my head, but having an uncooperative body as well is just a bit too much to take.
The Bombeiros really sucked. They weren’t that cute and they didn’t have gas! It’s almost worth being critically ill in Australia just for the hotties and their nitrous oxide. This scabby socialist country wouldn’t even give me oxygen on the house. Buggers. So I writhed about on the pointless voyage to the health centre, where, lo and behold, they took one look me and said “too hard” and off we went to Coimbra Hospital.
I’m not going to give a blow by blow account of the whole hospital thing. It wasn’t nice. The veryold were there. The dying were there. And the groaning were there. There were flirting frivolous stupid people who stuck needles into me without even introducing themselves. There were big machines on me at 3am. There were some drugs, but I needed them too much to enjoy them, if you see what I mean. At the end of it all, they said “too hard” and sent me home.
My arrival in the village was a soft fuzzy warm one: all the neighbours were out to greet me, including the dog-killer suspects. They were all being really sweet, just like people who care! I was really touched! (but I was also on drugs). I was forcibly removed from my home and taken to Tia Maria’s for some proper TLC.
But it wasn’t to last. Once the hospital-strength drugs wore off, the migraine came back- this time in my sinuses, all sharp and pointy and nasty. I was already verging on an overdose of codeine, so I had no option really but to call back the Bombeiros. And now I had a new, alarming symptom: half of my face had gone numb. I thought I was having a stroke.
The Bombeiros were delightful this time. A very nice person called Anna held my hand and stroked my hair on the way to the “still too hard” health centre where I had a fight with a couple of people for jabbing needles full of paracetamol into me without asking if perhaps I might be allergic to anything, like, say, paracetamol? My mother is, you see. If the stroke wasn’t going to kill me, a hapless nurse would. Thank god for Anna, who put in a good word, got me a shot of something strong, and then whisked me back to Coimbra. Another night of state sponsored torture to make Salazar proud.
Some of the same suffering people were there, ranting in that special dementia way. But the staff were a different horrible bunch altogether. One little charmer, raised on a diet of House and Grey’s Anatomy, tried arranging a date with a nurse-boy while attempting to extract blood from an arm of mine. She slipped with the needle, provoking a suitable flow of blood and a flow of words from me suggesting that she should pay a bit more attention to what she was doing. She replied by saying she could do two things at once (!) provoking another flow of words that included Fuck and Bitch. That put me at the bottom of the morphine waiting list for the rest of the evening. It didn’t really matter, as approaching death kinda feels similar to morphine anyway.
No one had a clue what was going on with my head, but seeing as they’d cleverly ruled out a heart attack, a stroke and swine flu, they decided that a forced discharge was the next proper course of action.
Disclaimer: Don’t misread me, people, I love socialism. I believe in free health care for all. I’m grateful to Portugal for allowing me access to the health system. It’s just that I’ve had better care in Africa. It’s also free in Australia and the care is of an infinitely higher standard. Why not charge non-citizens a surcharge so you can pay the nursing staff more or invest in better training?
So after I made sure that my surviving pets were still fed, medicated and watered, I went back to Tia Maria’s 5 star nursing home. It really was awesome. Big comfy bed, enormous and yummy meals brought to me in bed three times a day. Regular entertainment brought to me via children and naughty dogs. And two mobile phones running hot with international text messages. Top quality TLC. With furry visitors taking full advantage of the situation too.
Considering I was lying like a useless lump in bed the whole time, it was actually an action-packed week. Tia Maria’s is something of a transit point for all the neighbours so I got to see way more of all of them than I wanted to. They were all morbidly interested in the progression of my illness. In someone else’s house you inevitably get exposed to their dirty laundry, and here it was like the whole village was queuing up to use the washing machine. As a captive audience, I became in-confidence to everyone’s blunt little prejudices and grievances and ancient inter (and intra)-family quarrels. Reconfirming what I learnt when I first came to this little village, everyone has it in for everyone else. Even old granny got a serving. Forget Telenovelas: this here is a seething hotbed of hate and dirty little secrets, and everyone is a villain dressed as a saint.
As far as the Case of the Missing Babywookie, accusations were flying left and right: the accuser’s motives were more of interest than the accusations themselves. Once I could stomach the truth, it was pretty obvious. In three weeks, three dogs disappeared; first Dingo then Max then Baby. As I’ve said before I don’t really want to know the ugly details – but everyone has had their part to play, either by giving the orders, carrying them out or keeping mum about it. I feel sorry for the kids here, though. Old enough to know what’s going on and old enough to know it’s wrong. Silenced and confused, they are doomed to grow up just like their parents.
Lest we forget the little guy, here’s an encore pic of Baby at his fuzzy finest:
There are those who think we bring illness upon ourselves, and for those who think that illness is a manifestation of unprocessed emotion, I have this to say. I couldn’t properly grieve for my little pet, nor spit out a torrent of snowballing fury, because I just didn’t want to believe that a neighbour would kill my baby. In short, stress brought this on. These people give me a headache. But a victim, I ain’t.
The other night I had the sweetest dream, (in Portuguese they call them pink dreams) that Babywookie came home with six little puppies. In the dream, no one had realised that he was actually a she. When I woke up I realised that I had been waiting for Baby to come home. But he isn’t coming home. Under the influence of a potent pharmaceutical cocktail, I got really angry and confronted a few people and told them what I thought of their stupid, uncivilised, cruel little lives. Now I feel sad, but better, and more determined to get the house done and get the fuck out of here as soon as possible.
Meantime I’m still stumbling around like a hopeless drunk. Wish I was. It’s a good cover for ranting whenever I feel like it.
So as not to leave you on a bum note, two slightly amusing things happened while I was in my sick-bed: a chook got out (I love it when there’s a chook free on the streets) and the rabbits had babies. Check out the newborn bunny-kitten!
…and Wookie enjoying the spring weather.
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