Home Sweet Anywhere

by Lynne Martin

  The showers stopped just as we drove through a set of elaborate iron gates leading to a cobblestone parkway that wound up through a forest along a tumbling stream, the rocks and banks covered in moss and vines. Beside it were exotic tropical palms and fern trees that looked more like Maui than Portugal. We learned that the two hundred fifty acres around the palace were planted by Discalced monks, beginning in the seventh century. Marvelous plants collected from all over the world filled the grounds.

  We rounded the last hairpin curve. There it was: the Palace Hotel do Buçaco. The palace was over-the-top, wildly romantic in the neo-Manueline style prevalent in Portugal. It included curlicues and vines, chubby cherubs, plasterwork, huge tiled romantic frescoes depicting love tales and battles, stained glass, tapestries, carved wood, stone, concrete, and gargoyle rain spouts. That was just the outside.

  We were greeted by a gracious chubby man wearing a uniform with epaulets (I’m a fool for a man with epaulets). I beheld a grand red-carpeted marble staircase, at least twelve feet wide, inhabited by a suit of armor, with great swaths of draperies hanging from thirty-foot ceilings, softening magnificent stained-glass windows. We were speechless.

  The man in the shoulder gear took us to our enormous corner suite on the second floor. It was much bigger than our Christmas apartment base in Paso Robles. We looked up to fifteen-foot ceilings, elegant French windows, and a little balcony, its railing featuring carved ribbons and animals, with views of the elaborate formal gardens and the forest beyond. There was enough closet space for a whole family, with built-in velvet-lined drawers, mahogany shoe racks, and beautiful old wooden hangers to spare.

  The spotless bathroom took up at least two hundred square feet, with the same high ceilings and Martha Stewart pale green fixtures, a tub long enough for Kobe Bryant to lie down and soak, and of course, big fluffy towels and robes. This was my kind of getaway.

  Tim plopped himself in one of the super-comfy velvet chairs while I engaged in my customarily excessive “oohing and aahing.” Even though he pretended to be blasé, I know that he was pleased with himself. The room could have used a little sprucing up, but I have a fondness for slightly threadbare aristocratic lodgings, and the bed was good, which is all that really mattered. We think it’s much more interesting to have original furnishings than state-of-the-art number beds and too-hip decor!

  My spouse smiled for another reason: the Palace Hotel do Buçaco is a seriously great bargain, particularly in the pre-season.

  As usual, we were starving. When we entered the drop-dead-gorgeous baroque dining room, a wine-tasting group dominated the center of the elegant space. Another epaulet-encrusted fellow seated us at a romantic bay window table, where we could observe the swishing and spitting wine crowd while viewing the vast gardens. He presented us with a menu that would have made Julia and Paul Child come to attention. We were absorbed for quite a while by the dazzling choices.

  Everything was delicious. The highlights included Tim’s wild boar ravioli appetizer, and my duck breast accompanied by the best potatoes dauphinoise that have ever passed my lips. His steak over sautéed foie gras (as you may recall, Tim discovered his duck fetish in France) was remarkable.

  As we relished our lunch, we had time to observe the goings-on at the big table. These were not folks who hopped off a tour bus expecting some crackers and free wine. This was serious business. We heard at least three languages, one of them an unmistakable American twang. They discussed, poured, tasted, and, from what I could tell, engaged in some large-scale buying.

  I put down my very large empty wineglass. It had held a delicious Syrah, which I had polished off with pleasure. As I glanced up, I saw several of the wine guys standing near a gorgeous antique breakfront. An array of bottles commanded their attention. My eyes met those of a big man with curly hair, whose personality and enthusiasm I’d noticed during lunch. He smiled. I smiled. Then I raised my empty glass and my eyebrows. He grabbed a bottle and within seconds was standing over our table.

  I apologized. “I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t stand it,” I said. “You were all having too much fun, and I know what you’re tasting is probably delicious.”

  “Of course you should have some! We are having a two-day conference to introduce international buyers to our regional wines.” He poured a taste into my glass.

  Next came Filipa Pato, a dark-haired, vibrant young woman who strolled around the room, offering wine sips as she talked with visitors. She brought another glass and poured a taste, elbowing her competition out of the way. “Now, here’s something really worth tasting,” she joked. And it was. Her wine was full bodied and delicious. Her label? “Authentic Wines, without Makeup!” Now that’s audacity.

  Within five minutes, winemakers surrounded us, vying for my attention, having fun demonstrating their art to an innocent bystander—one who happened to know a bit about wines. A willing accomplice, I enjoyed several varieties of delicious reds and even a nice white port, which is made from white grapes and is fruitier and bolder than the white wines I was accustomed to drinking. Dirk Niepoort, the man who first caught my eye, was a key player in the region. As well as producing some brilliant Douro wines, he acted as a catalyst by encouraging the leading wine producers to get together and spur each other on to greater things. By definition, port is made by taking a still wine and adding brandy to it. The name “port” is derived from the coastal city of Porto, Portugal’s second largest city, and the key city found on the mouth of the Douro River. Through pure fortune, we had stumbled into one of his gatherings. For the rest of our visit, I noticed his label in the window of every wine shop I passed in Portugal!

  We spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the gardens, waterfalls, paths, and woods on the estate. The sun cooperated at exactly the right moment, so we enjoyed the excesses of Portuguese architecture and horticulture, awash in perfect light.

  After a sumptuous breakfast served by the same guys (is Fawlty Towers actually a European reality?), we drove up farther to Aveiro, a charming beach town centered around a series of canals. Despite the chilly wind, tourists lined up to be ferried around in motor-driven gondolas, ungainly compared with the Venetian originals they sought to imitate. Plus, I must say, the sight of a muscular gondolier surely beats that of an Evinrude motor! We skipped the boat ride but found a decent lunch, which is always our priority. Some Portuguese food is heavy on fish and olive oil and light on flavor, which was the case that day. However, I’m happy to report that our friend Dirk’s wine was available. After a couple of glasses of his lovely Redoma, the bland lunch didn’t bother me at all!

  When we returned to our grand palace digs, we stopped in the hotel bar, with its heroic-size paintings, overstuffed, comfortable furniture, and high ceilings trimmed lavishly with layers of gilded crown molding. As we sat in the bar, Tim said, “I have something to confess.”

  Oh Lordy, no wife wants to hear anything like that. Ever. Thoughts like there’s another woman, he wants to buy a Porsche, he really DOES think I’m fat, we’ve gone broke, tend to wander through a woman’s brain when a man utters those five words. “Yeeesssss…?” I answered, trying to be casual.

  “I’m looking forward to going ‘home,’ as in our Portugal ‘home’ on the beach in Caparica,” he said.

  I laughed inappropriately. “What’s so funny?” he asked, puzzled.

  “Nothing.” I quickly pulled myself together as my fears dissipated.

  He looked at me strangely for a moment, then went on. “What I’m saying is that I’ve begun to think of the places where we are staying as if they are really home. I mean, I’ll be happy to get back to our bed, our kitchen, our little life in Caparica…like going home after a weekend away. I think that’s interesting, don’t you?”

  I agreed. We had become so adept at adapting that we could now embrace whatever lifestyle we lived at the time, and feel so comfortable that it actually felt like home to us. I knew where everything was, from the vegetable peeler to my heavier socks, so non
e of the moving-in dance was necessary! We automatically knew where the light switches were and how the locks worked without skipping a beat. It was a restful change.

  Sure enough, when we arrived in Caparica the next day, unlocked our gate, pulled in our luggage, checked emails, decided what to have for dinner, and went about our lives, it felt strangely like our own place in the world. Any place seems like home when we are together.

  We lived in Caparica for five weeks, practically a record for us. We enjoyed the Portuguese people and the laid-back vibe so much that we started plotting a return visit as we packed. However, we wouldn’t particularly miss the barking dog in the neighborhood…or the only unpleasant noisy neighbor, who lived right next door. The guy appeared every Saturday evening, played his television too loud, washed his car every week at 3:00 p.m.—rain or shine—and departed at exactly 9:30 p.m. every Sunday evening. Though he annoyed us, his schedule served as one of the ways we kept track of what day it was. It was pleasant to sink into the sameness of a routine, to rock along as we would at home for a little while, even the parts that weren’t particularly fun.

  One of the strange trade-offs of a homefree life is that we find it easy to ignore the irritations we might find unendurable in a permanent residence, like kids that yell constantly, traffic noises, partying neighbors, or loud motor scooters starting up every day at 7:00 a.m. We know we’re going to move away soon, so they don’t take up much space in our lives. Why worry about them?

  On our final morning, Katarina appeared to say good-bye. She helped us stuff our gear into the toy-size car, and we were off again. We anticipated an easy trip to the airport because it was Easter Sunday, but when we arrived at the bridge, we were dismayed to see traffic bottled up in both directions. Of course, it was raining, as it had nearly every day for the entire five weeks. The ground was soaked, and people in the other cars didn’t look very happy. We crossed the bridge, but traffic remained very slow, and we began to be concerned about running out of time.

  We spotted emergency vehicles on the other side of the road. “Ahhhh, look,” Tim said, clearly relieved, knowing the traffic would speed up on the other side of the flashing lights. “That explains the delays. They’re stopped on that side because of a wreck, and our side is so slow because people can’t help themselves. They have to have a look.”

  I followed his glance across the road. Instantly, we stopped breathing. A small forest of trees ran up the hill above the road. One of them, at least a hundred feet tall, began to move. Its top swayed drunkenly, and then it slowly began to fall, top first, down toward the road. It seemed to take forever to reach the ground—and then everything sped up. Within a nanosecond, the wreckage started crashing across the median. The tree landed on several cars, its top resting on the median railing, no more than a foot from us. Vehicles behind the smashed autos stopped at all kinds of odd angles, not at all where they should have been. People ran toward the scene from the wreck we had passed seconds before. I caught a glimpse of a woman standing beside the first car that had been hit, her mouth wide open. She was screaming. Since we continued to move forward, pushed by the traffic around us, we had no time to process what our eyes witnessed. Tim’s knuckles grew white from his death-grip on the wheel.

  Within moments, it was all behind us—the crash, the toppled tree, the smashed cars. Traffic moved along as if nothing happened. We were too shocked to speak for a little while, each of us sorting out the event in our own brains. When we regained our composure, we found that each of us had leapt from that moment of peril to thoughts of our own good fortune at being spared, and then to pondering the random nature of existence. The experience just served to reinforce our mantra: postpone nothing.

  Epilogue

  Postpone Nothing

  Our nomadic life caused us to postpone only one thing: feeling old. This is not to say that we have postponed being old. Heaven knows that with each passing day we are surprised at the changes we see in the mirror. We just do not feel old.

  There is the difference. We cherish our excellent health and financial stability—the two essential ingredients of what some people call our “derring-do” retirement. We know that it’s much easier for a person to feel young when he or she is well. We looked after our money and health throughout our lives, but we know that we cannot claim all the responsibility for our good fortune. Luck gave Tim and me good genes, and each other, both of which we are thankful for every day.

  Before we started our “home free” life, we were living in the emotional place author Jess Walter termed “the vast, empty plateau where most people live, between boredom and contentment” in his novel, Beautiful Ruins. While not unhappy, we were bored. Old age and ennui curled under the doors and around the windows.

  Never again have we felt that threat; we have not looked back. We are healthier, happier, and more in touch with our world and our own selves than we dreamed possible. The boredom stands in a far corner, kept at bay. As for contentment? In my opinion, it’s overrated.

  Some might find my view shallow, and they may be partially correct. Truth is, though, that I’d rather worry about how we will make it from Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris to our apartment at rush hour next week than whether my napkins will match the tablecloth for a dinner party, if a gardener will fix the sprinklers before the roses croak, or if I will show up late for a club committee meeting. I am not espousing our lifestyle for everyone, nor do I think that our choices are superior in any way. I do know we are living exactly the way we want to live, and feel very lucky to have made the right decision for ourselves.

  When we cast off on this adventure, we had no idea whether we were heading for years of regret and turmoil or a happy voyage. What would life be like without a haven where we could pull the covers over our heads and hide out until we found a better idea? The clock was ticking and we wanted to experience the last part of our lives without being bound to one place. This is where courage enters the picture. We needed a mixture of qualities, both admirable and unattractive, to conquer our fear of giving up our home, most of our belongings, and the good opinion of some of our friends and family to strike out, unfettered, for a new life. We were certainly old enough to know that our choice would be fraught with unforeseen consequences.

  Now, the results are in. Life on the road suits us perfectly most of the time. Our minor upsets and mishaps usually have been conquered by patience, laughter, and flexibility. Sometimes, we solve the problem by simply spending a few extra bucks to pay for a more comfortable place, or to take a cab instead of the underground when we’re lost or tired. There have been days when weather, illness, unpleasantness, frustration, or just plain bad moods plagued us. We have been frightened more than once, and I ache with longing for my family occasionally. I get sentimental about strange things like my garden, which some other woman fusses over now, or my great old cast-iron skillet, which waits for me in storage. Someday, I will have another garden, and that iron pot will produce another golden frittata when we finally decide to settle down again.

  The trade-off for these discomforts and yearnings? Challenging our notions of what “old” means. We hold that specter at arms’ length where it really counts: in our minds and attitudes.

  Of course, we have to accommodate reality: we no longer sprint up the underground stairs in the London Tube or the Paris Metro; we step to the side and take our time. We don’t frolic until the wee hours anymore; we take long, leisurely lunches instead. Red-eye flights or twelve-hour bus rides are no longer an option for us. However, we learn something every day, see something, plan something, meet someone, or solve some brand-new problem. For those reasons, we do not perceive ourselves as “old.”

  Not every older person can or wants to follow our lead by making radical changes in his or her life. However, we hope that our example can help others understand that “old” doesn’t mean “finished” or resigned to a life of boredom and routine. Living home free is more than an action; it’s a mind-set, an attitude. It allo
ws one the latitude to embrace a new idea, change a long-observed pattern, or make a new friend. Those things can bring fresh life and excitement to anyone in any circumstance.

  Many have written to tell us how they found their own version of homefree living. Some extended their travels farther afield. Others found places to live in other countries for months at a time. Several learned a new language or took an earlier retirement to buy more time to pursue their dreams. Some of our new friends are unable to travel or make changes. Yet, by riding with us through reading and interacting with us on our website, they enjoyed new pleasure, jogged their memories about their own forays into the world (however large or small), or pursued and rekindled interests they had abandoned because they considered themselves “old.”

  As I write this, Tim sits downstairs in our current home, a charming Irish cottage near the Ring of Kerry, looking into plans for the future. He mutters into his computer screen as he compares prices for a cruise we’re considering for next year. Tonight our friends Maureen and Alan, who were our generous neighbors last year in Dublin, will be our dinner guests. Our dinner conversation will probably include a lively discussion about what we’ve learned since we last saw them, and our future plans. Right now, French Polynesia is of particular interest, and a more extensive exploration of South America is definitely a contender, which we want to see despite our experiences with those naysaying Argentines. Australia and New Zealand fascinate us, and Asia always sits on our table of primary consideration. We rejoice every day for being allowed this time to see the world together after so many years apart, and a major ingredient in our delight will continue to be sharing our experiences with you.