Home Sweet Anywhere

by Lynne Martin

  Carnival’s sales materials had not even hinted that this would be Destiny’s last voyage…nor her first ever transatlantic crossing. If that wasn’t enough to concern us, we were to learn some other “interesting” facts while sailing across the ocean: neither the ship nor its crew, nor any other Carnival vessel, had ever undertaken such a long journey. Her destination wasn’t really Venice, but a shipyard in Trieste, a half day’s sail farther on. We were later informed that, upon arrival, all passengers would be hustled off the ship by ten in the morning, which meant the start of debarking just after dawn. After dumping the guests, she would steam away for her $116 million heart/lung and hair transplant, along with a much-needed nose job and face-lift.

  We were not encouraged. In addition, almost every passenger we met felt like dates for whom we’d bought dinner and drinks, but didn’t even get a good-night kiss! We just didn’t have any chemistry with those folks. It looked as if it would be a long, lonely voyage.

  Yet, we were homefree adventurers and seasoned travelers, so we were determined to make ourselves happy and at home instead of sulking. We moved in, admired our light, bright stateroom with its tiny balcony, stowed our gear, and set up camp, determined to make the best of it.

  Eighteen days inside a thousand-foot-long deteriorating capsule full of bored people was an endurance test, not only for passengers, but also for the crew and especially the kitchen. One night, we were served escargot in the regulation porcelain six-divot plate, each containing a shell crammed with a tasty morsel. It was a delicious appetizer. Evidently they weren’t a big hit with the rest of the passengers, so the next night, the thrifty chef presented them without the shell in little bowls. This time, they were tossed with herbs to enliven them. I could imagine his staring at the little brown pile with green flecks thinking, hmmm…that’s dull. How can I make this look more interesting? His solution was to garnish his creation with one potato chip standing on end in the middle of the pile. It didn’t work out too well visually, but they tasted good, and Tim and I were happy enough to get escargot two nights in a row in any configuration. I did feel for the poor chef, though. Trying to come up with something attractive for fifteen hundred guests eighteen nights in a row would drive anyone over the edge. Let’s say I have now tasted salmon prepared in every conceivable manner except mixed in my toothpaste.

  Just before our dessert arrived every evening, the maitre d’, a Nicolas Cage look-alike, would grab the microphone at his front desk. In his Eastern European accent, he’d announce, “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s shhhhhhhowtime!”

  Several fit young women, garbed in Caribbean ruffles, bounded into the dining room and jumped atop four strategically placed marble plinths. Mr. Cage cued the pre-recorded steel drum band and the young women gyrated for about five minutes. After a few days or so, even the most polite passengers were finding it difficult to feign interest.

  About every third evening, Mr. Cage would command the wait staff to drop their duties and arrange themselves around the large room, lining the stairs and balcony railings to serenade us with the ditties they’d been required to learn phonetically. The performers pretended to enjoy themselves, and so did the diners, but I knew they were humiliated. A group of reluctant Indonesians warbling “O Sole Mio” creates an unusual theatrical experience, to say the least. We were embarrassed and pained that they were forced to do this.

  Happily, the food was good, and since we’d asked Nicolas Cage to give us a table for two, we weren’t required to socialize. Unhappily, there were no specialty restaurants aboard. A steak house or Italian restaurant would have offered a nice change of venue and certainly improved the situation. On several evenings, we resorted to room service rather than facing the entertainment. We don’t mind propping up on our bed, munching BLTs and potato chips while watching Lincoln on the ship’s closed-circuit TV for the third time. At least it beat the reruns of Love Boat, our other choice.

  I frequented the ship’s library when it wasn’t filled with clicking Knitting Club members. Tim would deposit my Bose earmuffs, along with me, and fetch me when it was time for food…or better yet, cocktails. Thus, we endured Destiny’s last hurrah and we were grateful to arrive safely in Italy without needing to test the whistles on those orange life vests. Although I am not fearful by nature, I do have a healthy respect for the sea. Arriving at our destination without incident always deserves a silent thanksgiving.

  When we docked, a dusting of snow covered the ancient wonders of Venice—an exciting, unusual phenomenon. However, it was much too cold to venture out and we had an early flight to Lisbon the next morning, so we luxuriated in a stationary bedroom for the first time in weeks and a dinner without Caribbean ruffles or singing waiters.

  To our delight the next day, everything went smoothly, a sign of good things to come. Even doing the airport drill—getting the bag trolley, finding the luggage and the car rental desk, locating the car itself, and starting out in the right direction—was indicative of the following five weeks. It was all EASY.

  Once in Portugal, Victoria adjusted instantly to her new home and started butchering the Portuguese language without a hitch. As we crested the first hill overlooking Lisbon, I was riveted on the GPS screen, trying hard not to muck up such an easy arrival. Tim commanded, “Look up from that thing. I don’t need any help right now and I know where we’re going. Look at this city! I’ve been dying to show it to you!” Tim had visited Portugal years earlier and had longed to return.

  I looked up. What an incredible sight. “Oh Tim, it’s even better than the photos. It’s Istanbul meets San Francisco!”

  Lisbon seemed to blend the best of those two astounding cities. We drove under the tremendous, graceful Águas Livres Aqueduct, built in the late 1700s. Beyond it, red tile roofs topped buildings painted in Easter egg colors. In the background was the wide Tagus River, flowing into the Atlantic. We approached one of the world’s longest bridges, painted the same rusty shade as the Golden Gate Bridge, which connected Lisbon to the communities on the other side. An elaborate castle topped a big hill in the distance on our left, and across the river, not far from the bridge, stood Christ the King monument, a replica of the larger one in Brazil. It was a sensational view which, of course, Tim couldn’t enjoy much because he was trying to get us onto that bridge without taking someone else’s bumper with us.

  Our charmed day continued with Victoria flawlessly directing us over the bridge toward Costa da Caparica, a little beach town, our new home. Within twenty minutes, we pulled up beside the property manager, who hopped out of her car and opened our gate. We hadn’t been on the ground for more than an hour. Believe me, this is a statistic worth noting. It was the easiest transition we had made from airport to target destination in our many years of traveling.

  We always try to remember these really good days when things aren’t going so well!

  We were in great spirits. When the property manager opened the door, we were even more delighted. The house was large, a treat after the restrictions of our diminutive digs in California and the shipboard cell that had been our “destiny” for eighteen days. It included a large private fenced patio, a good-size living room with a wood-burning fireplace, and a dining room that seated eight. The kitchen was excellent and it had a dishwasher. There was even a covered laundry area outside the kitchen, and a washing machine. No dryer, of course, but it had a big clothesline, so the laundry guy was in business. Nice bedrooms and a full bath awaited upstairs.

  It seemed like luxury living to us, and it was clean and, more importantly, cheap, well below our monthly housing budget. In this and many other ways, Portugal surprised and pleased us. The streets, bathrooms, trams, buses, and tourist venues were scrupulously kept. Of course there was plenty of graffiti and there were run-down areas. The country showed signs of wear and economic distress, but it stood out as one of the most hygienic places we had visited.

  Katarina, the manager, ticked through our checklist with us before she left. She spoke perfect
English, which was wonderful, since the Portuguese language is completely beyond the ability of ordinary people to decipher. It has nothing to do with Spanish at all, and sounds to my ear like some Eastern European lingo. Even our dear friend Clif Garrett, a linguist and language professor of some repute, advised me to save my energy and time because my attempts would be fruitless. I mastered “thank you,” “please,” and “pardon me.” Since almost every Portuguese person we met knew at least rudimentary English, which they spoke willingly, that was enough.

  Katarina showed us how to turn on the wall heaters, which were located in every room. “Just turn the switch,” she said confidently. “See, the red light is on, so they’ll start up right away. They’ll keep you warm as toast.”

  Once again, we quickly moved into our routine, making a grocery list, putting our things away, and inspecting every cupboard and closet to see what the home provided.

  Several hours later, the house was still only as warm as yesterday’s toast. Although the red lights came on, only one heater worked. The concrete house had been closed up for at least a month, so the temperature dropped precipitously when the sun went down. That night, it plunged to the mid-thirties Fahrenheit, and although the fireplace helped us downstairs, the bedrooms felt like walk-in refrigerators. I went to bed in fleece tights, a T-shirt, my PJs, a sweater, and two pairs of socks. I have no idea what Tim wore because I was scrunched under the covers when he came diving into bed, and I spent the night with my back jammed up against his warm body. We put every blanket in the place on our bed, so the covers were too heavy for either of us to move.

  When we first set out on the road home free, we were a little tentative. We might have gone out the next morning to buy some space heaters ourselves, thinking we could speed things up. However, experience taught us that the manager might ask us to wait for the repairman or just put more wood on the fire. We were prepared to be more proactive and insistent about correcting the situation without being inconvenienced. Remember the blue button in Buenos Aires? We had learned a lot since those early days.

  We had no phone, but Skype worked fine. By 8:30 a.m. we had reached Katarina, explained the problem, and told her that we wanted it corrected before that evening. We did not want to spend another night dressed like Pillsbury Doughboys. Within an hour, she arrived with two large, effective radiators, a huge pile of firewood and kindling, and a promise that the radiators would be repaired. Although the weather that March was raw, we quickly became cozy. Even better, we had not invested our money in someone else’s problem or waited around for hours for some guy to show up and tell us it would take weeks for the part to arrive from Germany, a tale of woe we’d heard from expats in several countries when some piece of their equipment broke down.

  The portable heaters worked beautifully the entire time we lived there, and although the owner’s electric bill might have been a surprise to him, we were comfortable. Of course, it was three weeks before the repairman appeared. Nice guy, but the parts never came while we were there.

  By the second night, we were completely unpacked and into our rhythm. I prepared a tasty little pork roast, some veggies, and a salad, we had napkins in our laps, a pretty bowl of flowers on the table, and even candles to enliven the scene. The heaters hummed along, the refrigerator and pantry were full, and a nice little fire crackled in the living room. Our Internet connection worked fine, and we charged our electronic gear with our plug adaptors. We also tried all of the appliances. They worked well, and we were feeling very proud of ourselves.

  We soon found a large supermarket, about fifteen minutes away in a big shopping center. We figured out the parking and shopping drills by watching the insiders, so we were spared a repeat of our Italian humiliation and irritation. We bought a local throwaway phone for about ten dollars, persuaded the clerk to make it speak English instead of Portuguese, located the nearest gas station for future reference, drove to the ferry pier to check out the parking situation and boat schedule, and sent messages to let everyone know we had arrived safely.

  In short, we were at home, and our home-away-from-home routine was really clicking. “I can’t believe how easy this has been,” Tim gloated as he leaned back against the warm stucco wall of our patio the next morning. “Seriously, all of our experience has paid off and it’s all come together. I’m proud of us, honey.”

  “We’ve surely learned a lot, haven’t we? If I can just finish the book, we’ll be free to play. Guess I’ll go inside and start to work.” All those months of making mistakes and learning to cope with almost any situation had really paid off in a big way! We had found out the hard way how to ask the right questions and look for solutions before the problems even arose.

  “Wait…what do you say we go out to lunch first?” he asked.

  I was on my way upstairs to find my shoes before he finished the invitation. As you have learned by now, it doesn’t take much persuasion to distract me from my work, especially if there is food and drink involved.

  We walked to the end of our lane, lined with palm trees, enjoying nice-looking houses on either side. Their vine-covered, walled gardens reminded us of Mexico or Italy. When we reached the end of our street, we ducked through a break in a small forest, as we’d noticed the locals doing. We found a sandy path, with wildflowers and bright yellow broom decorating its borders, and we meandered along it toward the dunes. It was a joy to be among trees after having spent such a long time in the sterile atmosphere of a ship. The sound of pounding surf grew louder. Chatting away, we climbed a rickety wooden staircase. At the top, both of us stood there frozen, transfixed by what we saw.

  The waves were tremendous! Huge sets started hundreds of yards out and crashed in their green/white/blue fury below us. The beach, which stretched for seven miles, was almost empty, pristine in its winter solitude except for the surfers who enjoyed themselves enormously. I couldn’t wait to tell our friend and editor Bob Yehling. In addition to being an extraordinary writer, teacher, editor, marathon runner, and all-around good guy, he is also (of all things) a big-time surfer dude. When we told him about the waves later in a Skype call, he let out a yelp of jealousy. “Do you realize that Garrett McNamara rode the biggest wave of any surfer in the world last year right by there?” he exclaimed. “It was measured at seventy-eight feet.”

  A pity such excellent surf was wasted on two non-sporting types.

  There was a long row of clapboard restaurants, spaced far apart, hunched along the top of the dunes. Each big beach shack included a large covered patio. Brightly colored beanbag pallets were tossed on the sand around low tables, very handy for customers to enjoy. The land embraced the tremendous bay on three sides, and we could see the Tagus River flowing right into the ocean. It was dramatic, exciting, and cold.

  We hurried to the Kontiki Bar, the closest of the bar/restaurants, and were delighted to be tucked behind some dunes, seated at a table sheltered from the wind gusts by sturdy glass walls and a canvas canopy. Three generations of Portuguese families gathered on the patio, already enjoying their Sunday lunch: drinking wine, chatting, laughing, and watching their children frolic in an unusually sunny March afternoon at the beach. We could tell from their name-brand clothes and upscale haircuts that these people lived across the bridge in Lisbon, where Gucci and Prada stores coined money in expensive real estate along Liberdade Avenue.

  We lingered over our meal and enjoyed a long lunch. I was happy to be in a country where they understood octopus in all its iterations, while Tim was content to munch one of the best hamburgers he had found anywhere. When the skies behind the hills on the other side of Lisbon began to darken, we trotted home in a hurry. The weather changes fast in that part of the world, and we barely beat a huge downpour that would last all night. It made for wonderful sleeping.

  The next morning, Tim was distracted. “Do you have the keys? I have the camera. Now, where is that ferry schedule? I just had it in my hand…”

  We were in our regular get-out-the-door mode. I threaten
ed to plant a little Post-it list on the front door, but Tim claimed we hadn’t sunk quite that far into our dotage (then why don’t we ever have a phone with us? I ask you). We were off on our first trip to Lisbon; since the ferries cast off punctually, we raced to get out the door.

  “Yes, yes, I have the keys! Please go out and I’ll grab my purse and lock up,” I said to him, pulling on my raincoat.

  As I looked at the keys, I suddenly had a dreadful flashback to Argentina: it was the same medieval-looking brass clunker that had given us so much trouble in Buenos Aires. If you chose the wrong one or inserted it upside down, you were sunk. Of course, the mechanical lock was buried inside a heavy door, so the chore had to be accomplished by feel. We never did get it right on the first try, in either country.

  But we loved the ferry. After we walked aboard, we clattered up the metal stairs to the enclosed upper deck so we could see everything. Lisbon looked like a pastel wedding cake gleaming in the sun beyond the big red bridge. What a glorious sight! Cargo ships, guided by tiny tugs, lumbered in from the ocean. Sailboats skittered back and forth on the river, dodging them. Even the locals, who use the ferries as casually as we use our freeways, seemed to enjoy the views.

  Lisbon has been a major seaport for more than three thousand years, since Phoenician times. It is the oldest capital city in Europe, easily outdating Rome and London. The place teems with history. Phoenician ruins lie beneath the Lisbon Cathedral, and the statue of Vasco da Gama, the great explorer who found the route to the East from Portugal, commands one of the major traffic circles in the city. The diverse population stems from the variety of conquerors who have arrived and stayed in the country. Muslims, Arabs, Jews, Berbers, and Saqaliba have all marked the population with their genes. Our entire visit felt like an excellent history lesson about a country we’d known so little about.