Coffee drinking is a serious business in Portugal. There’s no way you can come here and not have to order a coffee at some point, so here is some essential information.
These are general guidelines. No two cups of coffee will ever be identical no matter what words you use. Relax, it’s just a drink.
I’m sorry, tugas. I apologise, it’s just a sacred drink. Please go easy on me, I’m just a beginner, a humble student if you please. And please if you have some corrections, additions or some anecdotal contribution to make, be my guest.
The most popular coffee is an espresso. In Lisbon you would order um bica (oong beekuh) and in Porto um cimbalinho (oong simbalEENyo). Elsewhere um café (oong kaFEY).
There are infinite variations on how it comes, so don’t be shy about being specific about your needs. Cheia (shayuh) is a full espresso cup, tres- quartas (tresh kwartas) 3/4 full, a ristretto is called um italiano (small, strong, the first few seconds of the machine’s coffee). You could ask for it não quente (nowng kent; not hot;) and they’ll put a dash of cold water in it for you.
In this pic (below) there is um italiano (top), um bica (right) and um cortado (left). In Portugal a cortado is a standard measure from the ’small cup’ button on the machine, not to be confused with a spanish cortado (cut with milk, see below).
Staying with the small cup theme, your poison may be um pingo (oong pingoo) also called um pingado (oong pingardoo); an espresso with a drop of milk (sometimes hot milk, sometimes not). Um garoto (below, left) has more milk; about 50/50 coffee-to-milk ratio but still in a small cup. In Spain this is known as a corto or a cortado. In Australia it’s a piccolo caffe latte. Uma carioca (below, right) is the opposite of a ristretto – a full small cup minus the strongest first two seconds of an espresso.
For a long black, or a large black coffee, you would order um abatanado. This could be also called um café americano, but ordering an americano may get you an instant coffee in some places. If that’s what you want then order um nescafe. If you’d like a double espresso, order um café duplo (oong kafEY DOOploo)
Going the milky way, um galão (oong galowng) is served in a tall glass and is about 3/4 milk. Traditionally a galão is made with a second passing of coffee from the machine and is very weak. If you want something more like a caffe latte than coffee flavoured milk, order a um galão directo (deeretoo). You can also ask for a dark one escuro (eshkooroo) or a light one claro (klaroo). Ordering a galão after midday will provoke funny looks, unless you’re over 80. It’s either for breakfast or it’s a nanna’s drink. You might save face by ordering uma meia de leite (maya de late) which is half milk in a regular cup, like a flat white in Australia. But like my half-Australian buddy, you could try ordering a layer de mate, mate 
Special thanks to frogdropping for her impeccable production assistance in the rain and everything.
Some things that travellers are meant to encounter have always eluded me. “Cultural differences” and “culture shock”, for example, are two concepts that I have never really had a grasp of while on the road.
But now that I am settled and my mind is no longer occupied with train timetables and food poisoning, I have had time to ponder these issues.
I know that many of the comparisons I make on a daily basis are city/country comparisons, rather than being particularly Portuguese/Australian. The problem is with the generalisation. So, permit me instead to illustrate some examples of the more unexpected, curious and/or seriously annoying old life/new life differences I have encountered.
Do not take medications with alcohol
Elsewhere we understand that alcohol interferes with some prescription drugs, and can also exacerbate any side-effects like drowsiness that may occur. But here in my village, this code of practice is taken literally; I.E. you should not use a liquid containing alcohol to swallow your pills.
To counter this village logic, I have drawn up my own personal guidelines:
All illegal drugs should to be consumed with alcohol, although ecstasy should only be drunk with a trendy spring water.
All pain medication should be taken with an espresso to bring it on super fast.
Any sedative should be taken with a glass of milk, preferably malted.
Bex powders are of course taken with a cup of tea, followed by a lie-down.
Antidepressants, if taken in the morning, should be drunk with a neat scotch, or if in the evening with a swig of vodka straight from the bottle, for that desperate housewives type of style.
Any heart, circulation, or blood pressure treatments should be quaffed with a glass of red wine.
Antibiotics, logically, with a liquid yoghurt.
Ritalin, lithium, dopamine and anything containing pseudoephedrine should be drunk with a large glass of unnaturally-intense coloured cordial or soft drink.
Anti-inflammatories, which should never be taken on an empty stomach, should be taken with a smoothie made from chops, potatoes and peas, or whatever you’re eating put into the blender. Mmm. spag bol smoothie, now we’re talking…
In this same “village logic/cultural difference” category one may also include “don’t drink hot things with cold things” (thankyou waitress now get me my coffee and orange juice) and “you can’t toast bread with fruit in it” (thankyou waitress now go toast my merendeira quicksmart thanks).
Being fat and being skinny
Despite the alarming growth of my girth and the persistence of a vulgar muffin top, my neighbours are insisting that I am puny and weak and need fattening up. It’s sweet of them to ignore the disintegration of my used-to-be physique, but really, I’m already rolling down Heartattack Road, and I don’t need a push.
You see, here, if you’re not as big as a house then people take pity on you. They describe fat people as “strong” people. What’s interesting is that their attitude is just as scientifically flawed as our perception of thinness being attractive. We might be starving ourselves to ill health, but they are meanwhile eating their way to heart disease and diabetes…
Pets
There isn’t even a proper word for “pet” in Portuguese. The best they can do is ‘animal of esteem’ which echoes nicely the dubious attitudes Portuguese have for companion animals. I should say, some, perhaps even many Portuguese do get it – just no one here in my village. Just how many times do the neighbours have to say that I have to keep my dog chained up EVERY HOUR OF EVERY DAY FOR THE REST OF ITS MISERABLE LIFE. Just how many “pet” dogs will the neighbours dump in the forest five minutes after their fun use-by date? How many domestic cats do we need who are hungry, diseased and petrified of human contact? What the hell is the point in having them around? I mean, if they were eating them, it might just make sense…
However, it seems their respect for animal rights is diverted to other species. The goats, sheep and one rooster are permitted to walk the streets like the holy cows of India. Which is all nice and utopian except for the backing soundtrack of the howling dogs, imprisoned for life.
At the café, it’s just incredible how many people are terrified of dogs. And Wookie is not exactly scary. Maybe I should take Mao out when he’s in a bad mood, and then we’ll see.
Stuff beside the road
Where I come from, if you make a pile of things outside your house, in any way adjacent to the roadside, you are sending a message that this is stuff you no longer want and that the general public is most welcome to come along and take it away.
This is not the case in here in Cú de Judas. A pile of anything anywhere still belongs to someone and will be doggedly protected should you attempt to reclaim it. I have stumbled over this cultural mogul when I was sprung liberating junk from a junk pile, which was unfortunately considered by the other party to be valuable personal property. “If so”, I queried, “why was it not secured?” Why was it not inside out of the rain, for example, or even behind a fence, or why didn’t it have a little handwritten sign saying “my shit – don’t take”? It’s charming, in a way, that Portugal (or Cú de Judas, anyway) is still so innocent that unprotected belongings left for days, weeks or months in full view of passing traffic in an open field, should not be mistaken for abandoned or be considered vulnerable to repossession.
Indeed, even in areas without houses to indicate private property, you should be careful about what you lift from the footpath. I have been told that collecting kindling by the roadside puts me in a suspect moral position. Certainly I now understand that seemingly ancient stacks of tidied branches may be someone far away’s sensitively aging wood pile. Even random arrangements of tree waste might be precious treasure to someone somewhere, and not just nature providing for the freelance hunter-gatherers’ benefit.
So now when I’m feeling nervous and guilty while gathering pine cones, (I don’t actually stop doing it) I just reassure myself with the wise words of a neighbour: stealing to eat isn’t stealing. I presume this includes stealing to cook, to eat, isn’t stealing.
1. you don’t have to be at the office at 9.
(To be honest I think ‘you don’t have to be at the office at all, ever’ but some people do like work. sick. freaks.)
2. you can eat out of your own garden
4. you have a hammock and you use it
5. your pancakes come out with smilies on them
6. you spend very little money and create very little garbage
7. you drink champagne on wednesdays
8. you make stuff, with your hands, just for fun, just ‘cos you can
9. the chickens roam free on the streets (wookie suggested this one)
10. there are no queues, no traffic jams, and no parking tickets
So, what are your signs? 
Those that know me well will be sick with dread after reading that. Houseminding. Horror. I have a history with houseminding. A dark, violent history. A history filled with shame, blame, guilt and tears.
Something happens to me when I am left alone in possession of property. I become possessed by the devil; a domestic bitch who leaves dirty footprints and a trail of broken appliances in her wake. I don’t mind the house, so much as contaminate it.
Fortunately my current hosts and friends, Derek and Inés, are in far off Australia where where the internet cannot reach, or so they tell me. They will not worry because they will not know, unless of course they call, as they have done, but then I will do as I never ever do normally. I will lie. And later I will plead temporary insanity.
barragem do castelo do bode
I suppose I could blame my parents for leaving me alone to “mind the house” when I was 15 and somewhat irresponsible. I took being left alone as an open invitation to drive the family wagon to school, or to not go school, to invite friends over for parties, and/or stay out all night for several nights in a row. As a result of the last activity I lost my father’s beloved siamese cat in the first 48 hours of their inaugural post-retirement 6 week European adventure. Thus, I spent the next 6 weeks having to lie, and tell them she was ‘justfine’ every time they rang, or else ruin their holiday. I also crashed the family car, but it was just the first time of many for that and it’s really the cat running away that scarred me psychologically.
ribatejo light
I’ve now come to regard losing the pet cat as de rigeur for any houseminding episode. And it’s not all about me. Running away is the well-bred cat’s logical reaction to being abandoned by its owner. Perfectly natural. My sister’s cat always runs away whenever she goes on holidays. Actually all she does is hide inside the house (for several days), until she is satisfied with the level of response and the subsequent angst of both the houseminder and her owner (if the houseminder is stupid enough to have told her about it. I never do. Very unprofessional.).
Also par for the course is the breaking of appliances. My record was set at a dear friend’s place when in one two-week period I broke the dishwasher and coffee machine, melted the juice extracter and the food processor exploded, causing minor injuries. I took photos of the wounds I sustained and the shrapnel from the machine which was splattered in every corner of the kitchen and used the photos to emotionally blackmail the owner. Once I had their sympathy, I then told them about the other appliances. That is professional modus operandus.
scandanavian style cabins at aldeia do mato
My real strengths lie in destroying large-scale travelling souvenirs or family heirlooms. That Morrocan rug you bought on your honeymoon? Well, it’s a long story. I’m not sure what the bottle of turps was doing in the lounge room anyway, or why I thought an entire box of laundry detergent should be employed in the clean-up. As for the lampshade that was the single memento from your childhood summers at granny’s… Sorry about that. That’s as bad as it gets, isn’t it? It’s perfectly understandable if I’m never allowed in the house ever again. And that the 20 year friendship would be finished does seem justified.
a holiday favourite; chocolate pikelets
So, how’s my form this time around? On the first day here I tripped the power (no biggie in general, but in a new house the culprit can be a bit mysterious) requiring discussions with neighbours, and then unplugging everything… etc etc. The washing machine and kettle weren’t a problem on their own, but when you add the pie warmer and the bubble-bath frother… blah blah blah… The fun really started when I was preparing lunch. I’d just added the oil to the pan when the doorbell rang. Neighbour with stray cat: in a turn-up for the books, instead of losing a cat I was adopting one. But Wookie had other ideas about the new kitten and in the ruckus I shut the front door – locking myself out. With a hot pan of oil on the stove. Located another neighbour who showed us the way in, and I only had to break down one interior door to stop the kitchen fire from spreading throughout the house. No worries. Only one ruined pan. (Probably belonging Great-Auntie Amalia, may she rest in peace).
sweet little recent arrival
What really got my heart going was the oven exploding when I tried to light it, and the force of the blast throwing me across the kitchen floor in a cloud of fluffy insulation.
Things have calmed down somewhat since then, with only three trips to the vet and a great deal of vomit, piss, blood, shit and frothing-at-the-mouth mopping up, (but none of my own so far). I’ve got locking-myself-out down to a manageable once-daily routine.
wookie's new best friend
This morning’s pre-breakfast rampage could just be called ‘exercise’. Wookie took a liking to next-door’s sheep and chased them around the paddock for half an hour. One unruly little one thought it would be funny to shove its head through the fence and get stuck, so I had to carry it home didn’t I? And now there’s the fence mending to do this afternoon. Luckily it’s the first time and the neighbours still think it’s funny. That won’t last.
I have a sneaking suspicion that my reputation preceded me because Derek and Inés seem very well prepared. I’m sure I saw a rice-cooker and an electric wok here on previous visits, and now they are nowhere to be found. I’ve tried to use the dishwasher. But it was already like that, surely. I can’t break it just by looking at it, can I? So there’s nothing to worry about. Nothing to worry about, yet.
Ahhh… so much for a quiet life in the country…
If you’ve ever wondered what the difference is between a girl builder and a boy builder I can tell you right here.
I’m now set up in my friend’s garage for a bit of paint stripping on my old windows for the annexe. As I packed at home in a hurry, I forgot a few handy little bits, including a set of small paintbrushes. Rather than snuff around through my mates’ 100 boxes of stuff I remembered the fab care-package sent by a friend earlier in the week : a serious stash of cosmetic goodies, from Le Mer samples to herbal nail treatments and whatnot. Unreal, especially right now as I’m needing that makeup brush to apply a dainty layer of toxic chemical on my DIY project of the moment…
OK, so a guy builder could have thought of it, sure, but would he get away with it? Later in the morning session I felt the need for an emery board, to get at those pesky corner bits. As it happens I was given a rather large pack of them for Christmas, from another intuitive female who I’d never met but who obviously could sense that I was the tricky-creative-random-tool/emery-board-emergency kind of person. Now, boys, don’t go stealing the lady’s stuff. Get your own.
About these windows. I’m going to do a crazy thing. I’m going to ask for your advice.
Eyes being the windows to the soul, windows are the soul of a house.
And new windows ain’t got no soul, man! I’ve acquired some 40 or so windows and doors that have been ripped out of a chateaux in France, or fell off the back of a truck or whatever. They are gorgeous. Trouble is, big, old, single pane windows do nothing to help insulate against cold. It snows in my village. Snow = double glazing. The second most important thing after insulation in designing an energy efficient house is double glazing. So. I’ve decided to make old fashioned double glazed windows, as in this:
Massive job. Stripping 34 windows and making 17 boxes to contain them. Plus the windows most likely contain lead paint, and there’s only so much lead poisoning a girl can take. Let’s put aside the cost for a minute because the alternative is also expensive: new timber double-glazed windows for my place will cost upwards of €5000 or more than €300 a unit. So far, it’s taking about a week to strip each window, so there goes the rest of the year if I’m going to do the lot myself. That’s out. So how can I simplify what needs to be done, while still using the old windows but upgrading their insulation potential from single-glazing?
Anyone got any paint stripping tips? Does anyone really vouch for a hot-air gun over sanding? Know anyone in the furniture restoration business, who can strip them for a good price, and possibly stain them? And that someone will not be dumping the waste in the nearest river.
Maybe then I just make the boxes. Is this style of box the way to go? It’s been suggested that I could stick on a single pane of glass over the top of the existing with a 5mm air gap, but I can see condensation and mould, because the air space is useless if not sealed. Does the frame need to go inside another rough frame? I’m thinking not, (in a unusual instance of self-restraint). What are your thoughts regarding expansion and movement? Treat against insects? Treat against water penetration? Oil or polyurethane stain? Sill gasket, foil, or insulation between the frame and the stone surround? Chocks and spray insulation? Any bright ideas anyone?
Or here’s a third idea from a “get-on-with-it” type builder: don’t strip the windows back to timber, just prep them for more painting. And he’s got a point because in my all-white-Scandinavian-modern style interior, the window interiors would be white, and not stained timber. It certainly would be a travesty to have stripped the windows beautifully, expensively and toxically if only then to paint one side anyway… so, I put it to you, dear reader, could we work with painted timber windows for the exteriors? I’m thinking slate grey or chocolate brown. I like the idea for it’s skipping the stripping process, but I baulk at it from an aesthetic pov (not that there’s any evidence that the windows are made from a noble timber, or that there is any thing worth “revealing” from the paint stripping process). And, as pointed out by someone else – there will always be an apparent difference of the timbers of the old windows and the new boxes, which painting would sympathise. Is there any added protection against humidity and insects with a paint finish other than a oil or stain?
typical house from the 'aldeias do xisto' in this area
Painted timber windows anyone? Or does everyone want to remind me what a economically crushing massive overproduction this idea is?
Many of you will have forgotten that I am building a house. I understand how you feel. I tried to forget it myself, but as anyone who has built a house knows, you are reminded of how much there is to do EVERY TIME YOU STEP OUT THE DOOR.
This is probably just the right moment to remind the doubters out there (not you, dear reader, I’m sure you’re all with me… oh.. I see…ok, maybe some of you are with me) that this is not a RACE and I have had a MIGRAINE for the last six months, not to mention there’s been a GLOBAL FINANCIAL CRISIS, which has forced some of us to take it SLOWLY OR DIE FROM STARVATION. OH-KAY-EY?
I’m going to say this once, just so we are all clear. YOU CANNOT BUILD A HOUSE BY YOURSELF. That’s right, YES, I know that. And YES, I will be getting the crew in sometime soon. As soon as this headache goes away and the winter is over and I find that last 50 grand I left somewhere. So BACK OFF, or I’ll get the chainsaw out again.
Along with the billions of common frustrations that come with building a house there is the less famous annoyance called not building a house. I had my hands on some stones the other day (was covering the ruin walls to stop them from ruining some more) and felt that dotted line of joy just to be near them again. The craving just to get on with it is driving me loco.
But – there is some news – I did have the angle grinder out. Eons ago I went on a hunt for gates (actually I can look up the blog to when the great search for gates began… it was August. As I said – Eons ago). One gate was needed for the last garden stone wall to be finished and the other for the bathroom stone wall. Couldn’t build the walls without knowing the width of the gates, you see. And unlike new stuff, you can’t rely on a standard size with an antique, or an old-piece-of-crap velharia anyway.
Long story short, found gates in next village, great colour excellent price. Going to be gorgeous. Trust me.
Needed to remove the old hinges and bits before handing them over to the serralheiro to fix new ones, so out came the angle grinder. Just as I was thinking that I really don’t like metalwork much, nor do I like the blunt and rather vicious instrument that is the angle grinder, I became hypnotized. Rather than just saw off the hinges, I cleaned them up like you’d never know the hinges had existed, then I moved onto the rust and old paint. It must have been the extreme noise that ushered me into the 8th state of consciousness you can only get with power tools. It’s not entirely unlike an MRI scan at 3am in a foreign hospital with a migraine. You can really lose yourself in there.
YES earplugs, YES I WAS thankyou, doubter. Now piss off or I’ll GRIND you.
Now that the gates are sitting somewhere waiting for new hinges, I might actually be planning some wall building. Now that it’s sub-15 degrees. And raining. Oh hang on, there’s snow forecast for tonight. Brilliant. Er, I doubt it.
Everyone in my village makes their own wine. My house has a 500 litre vat downstairs and most of the ground floor space is dedicated to wine making. Most of the old houses around here have an adegga. In the old world economy, if you don’t drink it, you can barter it for something else you need.
When I first moved in and I still had my wits, I decided that my time would be best spent building rather than winemaking. I gave away some four oak barrels, about 100 bottles and a bunch of other stuff to make some space for my hardware.
Two years on, and somewhat less sane and sensible, I have decided to give this wine caper a go.
At the end of the vindima I picked my own grapes. I have two varieties at my place. One is the very typical ‘morangueiro’ also known as ‘vinho americano’ named after the hybrid imported from North America to combat the Phylloxera plague which decimated European vines in the late 19th century.
The hybrid grape is known as isabella, whose parents are vitis labrusca (whose strong strawberry, morango, scent lends itself to the Portuguese name) and the native European grape vitis vinifera. Unfortunately it looks like isabella might have been the actual carrier of the nymph-fly Phylloxera to Europe from the Americas in the first place, where the native American grapes were immune. Subsequent to the plague, the vinho americano was employed as a disease resistant and hardy variety to be used as a rootstock. In poor and needy early 20th century Portugal, many farmers preferred to cultivate isabella without grafting or restoring the native varieties. In viticulture, not only was it recognised that the grape produced very poor quality wine but the hybrid grapes were considered an aberration on the European wine industry, and a ban was put on the commercialisation of this variety. Hence, you won’t find morangueiro in a bottle. More recently, morangueiro was a suspected cause of white matter lesions in the brain, i.e. brain damage, but the experts now say that it’s falling on your head after drinking morangueiro that’s the culprit. Still, “it would explain a few things” as my brother-in-law put it.
my grapes: tinta on left. morangueiro on right
Farmers today continue to grow isabella /morangueiro/vinho americano, especially in the Azores Islands where all European grapes had died. It’s the predominate backyard grape in this region. It’s prolific and hardy and some people have even become fans of the taste.
My other grape variety they call “tinta”. This could be one of a number of grapes native to Portugal: tinta amarela, tinta barroca, tinta caiada, tinta francisca, tinta miuda, or tinta negra mole. Or it could be that the neighbours don’t know what it is and it’s always just been called ‘red’. Or it could be mean they think it tastes like paint…
OK, less conversation, more action: I picked my grapes, cleaned them from the stem, gave them a wash and put them in two big buckets. I still own a grape masher, but it’s an enormously weighty contraption and I thought it wouldn’t be worth getting it out for only about 80 litres of grapes. Anyway, as foot mashing is traditional somewhere in Portugal I thought I’d give it a whirl. Set up the camera, washed the feet and jumped in.
And immediately fell on my arse, on concrete, causing a bruise as big as a t-bone steak. It’s slippery in a bucket of grapes. DER.
That night, hot feet woke me up, but I didn’t think too much of it. The following night, after another round of foot mashing, my burning, itching feet woke me up again. Not just itchy, I mean itchy bitchy itchy. I had to get up and give them a cold bath and then balm them gently with ointment until they calmed down.
Obviously that put a stop to any more foot-grape shenanigans. As the week continued my feet just got itchier and so shredded up and gory that I looked like I had leprosy.
the moment before falling, expertly captured
I complained to the neighbours. They said of course, idiot tourist, you see us foot mashing? No. DER.
I continued a once-daily mashing of the pomace with, logically, a potato masher. This process is meant to stimulate the fermenting of the grapes, but already I could see that there wasn’t much happening with the ‘tinta’ batch. No bubbles, not much smell. At this point someone more experienced might have added sugar or yeast to get it moving along, but my neighbours use no additives at all, so why would I?
After a week the neighbours told me I had to listen to the wine ingasso (pomace) and if it was quiet, I should drain it off. Indeed, as the wine said nothing, I drained it off, putting one batch in a brand new plastic jerrycan and the other batch into 5L plastic bottles. As I was draining the last of it through a pillowcase, Tia Maria suddenly appeared shaking her head disappointedly. She used some peasant viticulture terms that lay just outside my vocabulary, but I got the gist. It wasn’t looking good.
The method I was using was to follow what the neighbours do, but I was also bearing in mind advice from wine forums where the people are (perhaps) more concerned with the flavour of their labour. I should have done precisely what the neighbours do, but the trouble is, the traditional method is only focussed on saving the crop from souring. I was at crossed purposes, hedging my bets between an amish-like purity and the web-wino’s techno-intelligence.
At this point nothing was going to save this year’s “vintage”. The tinta had never tasted like wine, and was now swinging towards vinegar. The morangueiro at least had some alcoholic quality to it, but I wouldn’t say it was drinkable, exactly.
The one saving grace was that I also made 30 litres of agua pé from the must of the morangueiro. Agua pé is a drink traditionally given to the workers, to children and to the chestnut-eating people on St Martin’s day. It’s water that has been drained through the grape must, with a bucket of sugar added. It is mildly alcoholic, but is basically a nasty cordial… and that’s alright by me.
And there is a final consolation: if your wine turns out complete crap, you can still distill it to make aguardente. Morangueiro makes great aguardente… but for that story you’ll have to read part two…
My sister’s friend Pete died last Friday. About two years ago, in the earlier days of his illness, Pete converted to Buddhism and became a monk, which I now realise was ingenius forward planning on his part. As a Buddhist he believed in reincarnation. In the face of death, or even life, reincarnation is a superb concept. It’s comforting, for you and your people to see dying as a metamorphosis… an evolution… or even just a change of outfit!
You have to hand it to the Buddhists. Not only for reincarnation, but they also believe in peace (as opposed to violence), a concept that Christians, Muslims and Jews seem to have dispensed with altogether these days.
My sister urged Pete to come back as a Burmese cat. What a life! Of course in Buddhist philosophy you don’t get a choice, but seeing as it’s not a request to come back rich, powerful or beautiful, or even as a person, then I don’t see there’s any harm in an appeal to the people at front desk to come back as a cat.
The Burmese cat’s lifestyle is far better than an human one. Basically it’s a bit like being a rich and spoilt retired supermodel. You sloth about, with slaves at your beck and call, and everyone thinks you’re gorgeous.
If you’re thinking this might be a bit dull, think again. If you’re the adventurous type you can make the rounds of your territory outside, with all the security of a premium guided tour but no compromise of jungle safari danger and daring. For a cat, the world is extremely big, so there’s no pressure to climb Everest or go wingsuit flying to get your adrenaline fix. A trip out to the car park is thrilling enough. You might even meet a dog out there.
But to the Burmese, the outdoors is a bit common, really. There are superior pleasures to be found inside the home. If you’re bored by deep sleep in front of fireplaces, you can find any number of cosy hiding spots that change daily like a blackboard menu. There also might be warm bodied people to sit on, or even a light or a computer left on, ready to be exploited.
Sports? Burmese are famous for fetching; you throw, they bring back. They also have a pronounced imagination and revel in private fantasy games: sometimes humans might be invited to join in a game of chasings, invisible mouse hunts, or a battle against unseen monsters.
Burmese also have a rich intellectual life. They like reading and they especially enjoy surfing the net, especially on a Mac. You think I’m being silly now. It’s a fact.
I don’t want you to think it’s a life without some responsibilities. But they’ll only take on a task if there’s something in it for them. My Mao has a taste for bugs, so when we lived in the city I put him in charge of pest control. He would willingly eat 5 large cockroaches before I left for work each morning. Now we’re in the country, he keeps the mouse population subjugated, but he’s excelling himself as heating policeman. If the ambient temperature in the lounge room drops below acceptable comfort levels, he’ll come to the kitchen and say “Mao!” thus alerting me it’s time for another log. It’s a system. It works.
Speaking of communication skills, the Burmese can be very persuasive indeed. Like Siamese, they have a tendency to be verbal, whether it be just enjoying a chat or expressing their concerns with your relationship. The good thing is, if there’s a problem, they won’t bottle it up. Take for instance a friend of ours called Moet, who is not at all a whinger or a noisy pest, but in fact an excellent communicator. When, at 1am she had an issue that needed addressing, she let her mother know by saying “Ma”. Ma opened the window, and Moet went out. But the issue wasn’t resolved, so she came back inside, and said “Maa”. Her mother got up, went downstairs and gave her some food. “Maaa”. Her mother gave her some of the other food. “Maaaa”. But her mother hadn’t been listening properly so Moet said “Maaaa!” and then, finally, at 1:30am, her mother had the idea of changing the kitty litter. Before the final pellet had left the bag, Moet’s needs were met.
It’s being sociable that the Burmese likes most. They love company. If you’re around they will be with you. They like to share the love. And that’s not a bad principle for life.
So if you happen to be adopting a Burmese today, I already have the right name for you. Lozang Dhondrup.
For Pete, safe travels, brave monk.
This furniture is an inspiration. I spotted it in the Portuguese design magazine Attitude, impressively included in an Orgulho/National Pride editorial, a couple of years ago. I kept it in the back of my mind to go and see them whenever I got to the Alentejo.
When I finally made the trip visiting the Agua de Prata workshop it was the highlight of my visit to Evora. Roman era temple? For what we came. Pre-history Cromeleques? Saw them. But Nossa Senhora Da Graça Do Divor… Conquer me!
The studio is situated on an enviably pretty hill, next to a notable church on a gently undulating Alentejan plain, dotted with the ancient water wells that supplied Roman Evora its silver water, agua de prata.
The wool producing town of Arraiolos is about 15kms away, and supplies the artist, João Videira, with the wool with which he reinvents and revives old furniture frames and other objects. There’s a magic fusion that happens between the old framework and the intensely coloured wool that creates an altogether new and beautiful design piece. The warmth of the recollected meets the tactile wool in a way that makes this furniture irresistible; it’s at once modern and antique, designer and personal, precious and cuddly.
And the recycled and recreated philosophy fits perfectly with the concept for my house. By taking what has heritage and soul and stripping back the parts that have deteriorated. Then restructuring and repairing those bones for a modern use, adapting outdated living concepts for today’s needs and integrating modern desires for comfort and pleasure. The result is honestly beautiful, luxurious and unique furniture of character and simplicity.
My favourite things are, naturally, the Pedras de Lã, Wool Rocks. At first glance their organic shape made me curious about the support around which the wool is carefully wrapped. Their weight gives nothing away, except that inside they couldn’t be hollow. Nor are the stones hard; they have a sponginess that adds to the organic characteristic of their shape. The answer is, that the Pedras are solid wool, a ball so carefully and tightly bound that it has taken on its own natural form, and like all the Agua de Prata works, is individual and unique.
And if you’re passing the town through at lunchtime, as we were, wondering where all the folk could be, tuck your head into the first café on the left, which will be packed and dishing out delicious local plates with atmosphere and conviviality. Happiness all round.
http://aguadeprata.blogspot.com/
There is the short story and there is the long story.
The short story is a list of requirements you need to fulfil, and the long story is about the personal process of actually fulfilling them. In any case, I know I’ll have to abbreviate the long story, because it took the best part of a year and is not the sort of uplifting tale that people enjoy reading. It is however, true, and it has a happy ending.
First, some definitions: when I say Australian I mean an Australian citizen travelling on an Australian passport. If your nationality is Australian but you have another passport, this doesn’t apply to you. For some other Non-EU citizens such as US citizens, Canadians & Kiwis the rules are similar as for Australians – but you must check, because the devil is in the detail, and things can change, based on whatever trade agreement might be on the table that week. However, generally speaking, the rules are the same for all members of the “white list”. Then there is a list of “Annex ii countries” otherwise known as the “the black list” whose citizens are apparently considered less desirable friends of the EU and the conditions for them are different, I.E; even more difficult. In case you’re wondering there is no list known as the coffee-coloured list, red list, or even green list, so if you’re from Mars I cannot advise you and nor can wikipedia.
Second: A disclaimer: I will be reflecting on my experiences with the consular, foreign affairs and immigration departments of three countries. At the time, I was learning about the process and it was very difficult and frustrating. I understand now, with hindsight that all the officials involved were just doing their job, and it’s a complicated one where issues of “national security” come before any kind of human issues. Despite my belief that anyone should be allowed to live anywhere they like, I also understand that it isn’t functional. I am grateful to Portugal for permitting me to live here and I respect their rules. Please give me another visa when I need one. Thankyou.
snow on the cherry trees - winter in berlin
The Short Story.
1. Australian citizens are not permitted to live permanently or work in Europe without applying for a visa. Australians are only permitted 90 days visa free in the entire Schengen area (most of western Europe except U.K.).
The application process for stays of more than 90 days varies slightly for each of the Schengen countries and there are variety of visas that you can apply for with varying requirements for documentation.
The first thing you should do is contact the department of immigration/
embassy/consulate/foreign affairs of your destination and have a look at their publications about the visas available. In Portugal it is the Serviço de Estrangeiros e Fronteiras at www.sef.pt. You can also use the internet to read the entire Schengen Agreement legislation, if that’s the kind of over-producing you’re into.
gleimstrasse tunnel, berlin
2. Schengen Area countries are happy to have Australians hang around for more than 90 days if you have
• a satisfactory reason why you want to be there
• proof that you have enough money to support yourself
• good health and/or have health/travel insurance
• somewhere to live or other registration with the police
• proof that you don’t have a criminal record anywhere
and/or
• an employer, and a job that will support your visa application
• engaged in a course of study at a university or other institution
• work in or are researching a highly specialised field (i.e. for scientists or academics)
• family resident in the country who can support you on a family reunion scheme
There’s some info here:
http://www.canberra.diplo.de/Vertretung/canberra/en/01/Visabestimmungen/seite__2__welches__visum.html
http://www.spainexpat.com/spain/information/schengen_visa_spain/
henrich-roller cemetery, prenzlauerberg, berlin
Now, let’s workshop your situation. Let’s say you don’t want to study or work, you don’t work in a specialist field, and you don’t have family connections in Europe. So we’ll focus on the first list of requirements:
• a satisfactory reason why you want to be there
You want to travel and see more of the country. Just bought a house and want to live in it? Always wanted to speak a foreign language. Looking for a husband. Whatever, just so long as you have a plan and it doesn’t involve bombs. Nor do you want to be a burden to the health system, social security or take money out of the country. Supply a harmless little reason for wanting to stay.
• proof that you have enough money to support yourself
The value of “means of subsistence” varies according to the minimum wage, which differs dramatically across the European/Schengen region. In Portugal as of 2009, it is €450/month. You need to show you have more than this to live on, because you are going to need it. Banks statements, share statements, income statements, your credit card limit, whatever you’ve got. Show them the paper and make it convincing. If you’re applying for a Portuguese “Authorisation for Residence” you’ll need to show a year’s worth of money – but then to actually get residency with your authorisation you need another year’s worth – basically I showed them everything I had.
• good health and/or have health/travel insurance
If you’re away from home you should have travel insurance anyway. But they might require of you a doctor’s certificate, or as was in my case, a Gesundheitszeugnis, a legendary certificate that says you’re not a plague carrier. Once you are in Portugal you will be covered by their health system, but if you can afford private cover, get it.
• somewhere to live or registration with the police
In Germany I needed to have a certificate from the police to show I had registered my address with them. For that I needed a signed rental agreement for where I was living. For Portugal I showed a copy of the contract for the house purchase. Another rental agreement would have been the alternative.
• proof that you don’t have a criminal record anywhere
You can request a copy of your criminal record with your local (or state) police at home. The embassy will want a record from the last place you were a resident, or a resident of the last 5 years. I needed one from both Germany and Australia. I mailed the police a form downloaded from the internet along with a fee. They sent me the police record in the mail in a few months. Quite a lot of bother for something that says nothing.
Maybe that sounds all well and good to you. There is one final ‘requirement’ that won’t be listed anywhere but will be critical to convincing the relevant authorities that you do fit their eligible criteria and are a nice person and you mean them no harm. Is it just tenacity they are looking for? I don’t know. All I can tell you is what happened to me.
The Long Story
The Immigration System is an inherently xenophobic one.
In 1999 I returned home to Australia after a couple of years of travelling to find it had turned into a redneck wonderland. People I had previously thought of as intelligent and liberal-minded were mouthing political dogma like neo-nazis. An insidious anti-immigration mood had been introduced by the Howard government who propagated the idea that immigrants, (in particular the most desperate kind, “illegal immigrants”; people who travelled first and delivered paperwork later, mostly economic refugees but also including trafficked people and political refugees) were parasites and terrorists and should preferably be drowned at sea rather than be allowed to set foot on Australian beaches.
“Queue Jumpers” as they were called, were locked up in camps where they invariably went a bit crazy. Many Australians were horrified and ashamed, because as the entire world is aware, 97% of “Australians” are immigrants, at the least 8th generation immigrants. The issue raged on for years, time enough for people and the media to become polarized, and to take sides on the issue against the government. Hundreds of people would visit the detention centres on weekends to give their support person-to-person. The general public got to hear what life was like for these new arrivals, and I don’t think I was the only one who found themselves imagining what it would be like for a whole nation to think you were a criminal just because you were from somewhere else. Xenophobia. Racism, pure and simple.
It was with this frame of reference that I embarked upon the adventure of becoming an outsider myself. I left Australia without planning my final destination. To apply for residency in Portugal you have to be somewhere else other than in Portugal, preferably your country of origin. But in my mind going all the way back to Australia was not an option. Anyway I have a thing for taking the most difficult route possible. I chose to apply from Berlin.
The Portuguese embassy in Berlin would accept my application if I could prove I was a resident there. This started the first phase of my residency process, and introduced me to what a time-consuming and humiliating ordeal it would be. The Ausländerbehörde (immigration office) in Berlin was just out of reach of public transport, which they must have planned on purpose because the rest of the world is accessible by Berlin’s über public transport system. So it took a few hours to get there and I learnt from trial and error that if you weren’t there by 8am you could forget it. Any later and you would not get a place in the queue that would guarantee being attended to that day.
the latte-macchiato, unique to berlin.
ampelmann, unique to east berlinI also learnt from trial and error that “being attended to” didn’t have much meaning anyway. The first time that I got to the desk I was told I had to make an appointment, which I had been told on the phone wasn’t necessary. To make an appointment I had to come back the next day because the computers weren’t working and I couldn’t make an appointment over the phone. Actually I’m making this sound much simpler than it was, because I don’t speak German and NO ONE AT THE FOREIGN AFFAIRS DEPARTMENT SPEAKS ANY OTHER LANGUAGE EXCEPT GERMAN.
Is wasn’t so much that no one spoke English that surprised me, but no one spoke Turkish either. Turks make up the majority of immigrants to Germany and the majority of my queue companeiros whose style I was beginning to admire. I had observed some subtle but crafty tricks a few of them had going on. “Queue jumpers!” I felt like yelling, but of course no one would get the irony. I realised I would need my own secret weapon if I was to conquer the system.
But first, a bomb dropped. I was innocently searching the internet for the small print in the Schengen Agreement that would clear the path between me and a visa. I had discovered an anomaly: the legislation says that Australians are permitted 90 days visa free in a Schengen Country, which had I taken to mean 90 in each Schengen Country, and I had, in fact, discussed this on two separate occasions with passport control coming in and out of the UK. But I had just found a forum discussion to the contrary – 90 days in theentire Schengen Area – which didn’t make sense, because how could your average backpacker fit in 25 countries including France, Italy, Germany, Spain, the Netherlands & Greece, in 3 months? I rang the Australian embassy, where my friendly fellow countryman informed me quite succinctly that I was in Germany ILLEGALLY, and, in fact I’d been illegal in Europe for the last 6 months and I was GOING TO BE DEPORTED. Panic spread from our apartment across Berlin, over the north sea to England and then over to Sweden where it gathered momentum before finally waking up family members in and around Sydney.
Two Berliner mates rang the Foreign Affairs Hotline, pretending not to be me or in any way associated with me, and were independently reassured that despite what that cranky Australian embassy prat had said, “We in Germany just don’t do that sort of thing anymore”.
Hello? What was that last part again?
“We in Germany just don’t do that sort of thing anymore”.
I had used the English word “deported” which my German-speaking friends translated directly into German, where it’s connotation refers to that unfortunate period in Germany’s modern history whose name shall not be spoken aloud. Deportation. Trains. Jews. Translation issues aside I was reassured that I would not be “politely asked would I mind voluntarily departing the country at my earliest convenience by whatever transportation method I deemed appropriate” as my German boyfriend interpreted the modern German terminology. Thank god. Thank Yahweh, I should say.
I then recruited a good German-speaking friend to escort me on my next trip to the Ausländerbehörde. She was a busy person and didn’t have the patience for queuing, plus she was my secret weapon, so somehow got up to the desk fairly early in the day. When Desk-Bitch-Eins gave various pre-prepared excuses as to why my requests for assistance should be denied, my friend simply argued with her so ferociously that she broke her will to live. So then we got moved onto Desk-Bitch-Zwei who confounded us with conflicting information only further riling up my buddy who was in no mood for recalcitrance. We then found ourselves absent-mindedly wandering the halls of the department contemplating our next move. Then we struck gold. We were standing by the office door of Mr Biergarten Doppleganger, whose title my companion deciphered as the Regional Area Chief and before I knew what was happening my friend had burst through the door and was pushing her stupendous breasts in his face. My gutsy girlfriend explained my dilemma with such overwhelming intensity that poor Herr Doppleganger was forced to confess that we would be assisted on the second floor.
Now that we were on such intimate terms with the boss we could use his name as the master key to every door in the department. I found myself in a waiting room next to the only other suited applicant that I had seen so far. He was the ambassador of Nigeria.What are you doing here? I asked. “Oh We have to wait in line like everyone else”, His Honourable Ambassadorship replied, with such grace and humility that I felt like a street urchin. Get a load of that – not only is he an industry insider but also a high ranked official, and the Germans make him wait in the smelly line like everyone else. Crap to that.
Meanwhile my curvaceous chum returned from another whirlwind tour of the halls to find us deeply diverted on the subject of the Nigerian elections. Credit to the BBC World Service for keeping blonde flirts fully briefed on current affairs. Unfortunately my cleavaged comrade had been so successful in her pursuit of satisfaction that we had bumped His Highness of Nigeria (and thus my last hope of ever finding a suitable husband) and it was our turn for an interview.
The moment had come to prove my worthiness and I was at a loss for words. The most excellent thing about my feisty friend was that she wasn’t intimidated by the process, because she had nothing at stake. In my mind, getting this visa was critical to my whole grand plan, and even though I’m hard to subdue even at a funeral, I felt that being any more presumptuous than a field mouse would put everything at risk. But my friend didn’t have her future riding on this moment. She was confident and the people in charge respected that. Feared that.
Desk-Bitch-Drei asked me why I wanted to stay in Germany. We submitted my prepared answer that I wanted to stay so I could study…A language…A Portuguese language. But this did not tick her boxes. You can apply for a student visa, but you have to be studying German or some other respectable subject, not Portuguese. We went through the other possibilities. Did I want to work in Germany…? No, I knew already that this would require sponsorship and a big hassle. “Perhaps I wanted to stay so I could see more of Germany”, Helpful Desk-Person-Three asked. Yeeessss? Bingo! You see, Dear Reader, there are secret (and blaringly simple) answers that you won’t find on the internet or in the legislation. You might be allowed to stay just because you want to. It helps to have the right colour passport and the right answers ready.
So there it was, the visa in the bag. I was given an arbitrary 143 days and a couple of nice stamps in my passport. We went outside for a celebratory latte-macchiato. In the café sat a woman in a headscarf, accompanied by what were unmistakably, her lawyers. It struck me only then that even though it had taken many, many, many hours and a shitload of stress, my experience of the system was nothing compared to what other people must go through. I remembered the Arabs, Persians, Asians and Africans that the Australian government had locked up in camps. It had been educating to experience the system first hand, but I was sure as hell appreciating that stroke of luck of being born white and middle class.
I was thus prepared to engage the Portuguese authorities. I had my list of requirements printed out and I was off to discuss the details at the embassy. This time my secret weapon was my Professora Da Lingua Portuguesa, another feisty young spunk with a similar disregard for diplomatic dress codes.
She outlined my desire to be at one in the Portuguese countryside in her prettiest Paulista accent, but The Porco Da Embaixada, as he was about to become know, wanted to hear none of it. “AND WHAT IS SHE GOING TO LIVE ON?” he spat, in the most frighteningly discourteous way possible for a Portuguese person. “AIR?”
“AIR? AIR?” my teacher repeated, as we relived the horror on the pavement outside. And thus began my war with The Porco Da Embaixada. Clearly I was not going to be taken for a mature, respectably dressed, law abiding woman of independent means, but instead apparently I was a queue jumping, terrorist parasite. At least, that’s how it felt.
As an ex-wannabe filmmaker, I make a mean presentation. My application for residency looked like a pitch for Portugal Tourism’s advertising business. Photos, mood boards, colour spreadsheets, mission statement, graphic data, and high gloss colour reproductions of historical documents presented in a fully bound gold leaf album that sang the national anthem when you opened the cover, that’s how it was.
But it didn’t impress The Porco Da Embaixada.
“ONDE ESTA O GESUNDHEITSZEUGNIS?” He demanded. “The…?” said the field mouse.
“G-E-S-U-N-D-HE-I-T-S-Z-E-U-G-N-I-S????”
I had to get the Professora to get them on the phone, twice, because she had no idea if this word was German, Portuguese or Swahili. It turned out to mean an official health certificate. I asked around my friends. My friends asked their doctors. I went to medical clinics. I looked on the internet. My Berlin mates rang around the immigration and the health departments trying to discover what it was and how to get one. No one knew. Finally we found an elderly neighbour who used to work for the minister of health. There used to be a form, she said, but no one used it any more. So we reported this back to The Porco. Not negotiable, he said. No Gesundheitszeugnis, no visa. No visa, no Portugal.
The Professora raged around her living room (we were having our daily two hour Portuguese personal-problem-solving-workshop) before calling them back, for the third time. She wanted to know why especially a Gesundheitszeugnis and not some other form that certified that I was safe cargo? What diseases were they worried about? Which ones did I have to be tested for? “ALL OF THEM” The Porco replied. “ALL OF THEM”.
dogs in cafes... very berlin
This did not placate the Professora, not one little bit. “WHAT IF YOU HAD AIDS?” THEY CAN’T STOP YOU GOING TO PORTUGAL BECAUSE YOU HAVE AIDS! THAT’S DISCRIMINATION!” I share her passion for human rights, but I was perfectly quiet. Because, with this ludicrous request for indemnity against every infectious organism on planet Earth, I realised that the gloves had come off. This wasn’t about genuine requirements and box ticking: this was about making it as difficult for me as possible. It had just become personal.
It was around about this low point that I received an email from my Swedish brother-in-law. He told me how he had felt while applying for residency in Australia. ‘Like a low life criminal’ he explained. The hyperbole of this was understood between us. He’s not, of course, a criminal, nor even a criminal type, and I would describe the reverence that Australia has for Sweden to be like Portugal has for Our Lady.
The aim of the immigration process is to intimidate you into giving up. I don’t know why. But if the Australians are making it hard for Swedes, then it’s a global conspiracy. It’s not written in the Common Consular Instructions, but their aim is to keep you out.
With this new intelligence I moved things forward. I eventually I found a few antique template Gesundheitszeugnis-es in the bowels of the internet, and my flatmates and I selected the most thoroughly officiously German looking one. As it happens, my Berliner boyfriend was not just a follower of modern German linguistic trends but also a licenced medical physician. So he looked over my Gesundheitszeugnis the next morning over breakfast. “Do you have Tuberculosis?” he asked, without even looking up. “Um…No, I don’t think so,” said the field mouse. He crossed the box. “Polio?” . “No, we all get immunised against polio, don’t we?”. “Good answer” Herr Doktor replied. He crossed the box. And then he crossed another box without asking anything. “What’s that? That box, that I don’t have?”. “That’s for Plague. You don’t have Plague”. “Are you sure?” the field mouse said, getting all the more timid with every box crossing. The Doktor put his pen down gently on the breakfast table. “If you’ve got it, then I’ve got it. And I don’t have Plague.” That was reassuring, no plague in the house. It was some scary Gesundheitszeugnis though. And thus, with a stamp and a squiggle, it was done. I was no Typhoid Mary, nor even a typhoid mousey.
The next day I put on my best outfit and rode my bicycle into town feeling like Audrey Hepburn playing a nun. Sweet, saintly and irrefutable (and free of all infectious diseases). But you should never underestimate your opponent because while I had been gone The Porco Da Embaixada had been thinking up another reason not to accept my application. This time, he said, everything had to be translated – from German to English, from English to German, then to be sure, everything into Portuguese as well. He’s got to be kidding (again), I thought. You reckon between the diplomatic corps in Berlin and Lisbon, that no one is bilingual in either German or English? Just how exactly did they get a job in an embassy? Of course the field mouse said none of this, and went on her little way to spend vast reserves of renovation money on intergalactic translators. And photocopying.
And I had to buy two more folders. The application tripled in size.
Then my mother arrived in Berlin to come between me and my nervous breakdown, and we temporarily deported ourselves to Prague. I left the application-encyclopaedia with my friend with the biggest heart and the biggest boobs to “drop off” at the embassy on her way to work. Seizing the upper hand again The Porco sent my friend away with the instructions that all the certificates had to be notarised. By a notary. So instead of going to work, the kind lady with the twins delivered the package across town to some lawyer mate of The Porco’s. What a rort.
I’m pretty sure I didn’t hear about this until I got back a week later, because I would’ve gone ahead with the nervous breakdown, mother and Prague notwithstanding. The application was now so huge I couldn’t ride the bike with it anymore. I can faintly recall teetering on the edge of sanity the next time I rolled up at the embassy. The strain must have been visible, because The Porco took the application without argument, and I went home to take some more of those pills that stop people from flying planes into tall buildings.
My visa was processed in record time and I left Berlin on the day that my German residency expired. When I went to collect my passport from The Porco, he was, just as my brother-in-law predicted, my new best friend. He acted like it had all been a silly game and was overflowing with congratulations and well wishes for my life ahead in Portugal.
Incredibly, I was actually still looking forward to it myself.
