Yarn Shopping

Blatant stereotypes. We all make them, no matter how accepting or progressive.

Few are probably aware that I have taken up a rather unusual hobby for a man in his 20’s – knitting. It came about a couple of years ago when I read a story about a movement in the United States that involved young people getting together to knit and talk – a stitch ‘n bitch. Having crocheted as a child with my grandmother and as a new resident to Kansas City looking to meet people, the idea had some appeal. Eric gave me my first how-to-book, needles, and carrying case while a friend from my first job in Kansas City at the Federal Reserve provide some coaching and encouragement. At that point in my life, the theory of knitting was better than the practice as I became very busy with changing job responsibilities and an ever increasing community role. My needles would sit idle in their box through several moves and eventually wind up in HK.

Our first week in HK was a busy one with all the unpacking, connecting of services, and attempted new schedules, but during that time I ran across a posting on a website for expatriots for a HK stitch ‘n bitch. Intrigued, I contacted the group leader and was welcomed to attend an upcoming meeting. Since that time, stitch ‘n bitch has been my most consistent extracurricular HK activity. I am enjoying re-learning the process and making connections with some very nice people – two of which are Midwesterners from Chicago. In what I consider one of the most telling signs of HK’s acceptance of all, I have received few looks of curiosity or notice while attending a stitch ‘n bitch, which are regularly held in busy coffee shops.

Our quiet group on a recent Saturday afternoon.

I cannot say that Portugal has been as quickly accepting. While I haven’t actually pulled out the yarn and needle on the train, tram, or the pasterleria, I have purchased yarn and materials for a new project that I plan to start when I return to HK. Surly not. A mistake. What does he think he is doing? The faces have said it all. Even as I am purchasing materials, well beyond the point of accidental entry, the women have continued to treat me gingerly. I am a cow out of pasture. Perhaps I am the hundredth American male to purchase yarn from them that week, but I suspect not.

Do you think I made the dinner table conversation?

Nazare

As I said in a previous post, I spent some time in Nazare on Sunday. While once a dainty seaside town that was engrossed by the fishing and textile industries, I think the world has discovered Nazare’s natural beauty and come knocked down the door. It was by far the busiest of places that I have visited yet but that distinction could also be a byproduct of the weekend.

With strikingly long and sandy beaches and an even longer commercial viewing corridor, Nazare looks as I have always imagined the Boardwalk to have looked like. Everyone out, just to be out. Some sit on the beach but more occupy coffee and ice cream shops. Two people toss a frisbie for twenty minutes before heading to the ocean’s shore. I abandon my good senses and lie directly on the sand and am a coated with the remnants of past waves, rock, and sea shell, causing me to shine and sparkle in the sunlight. Among the amazingly homogenous kernels lay an occasional brilliantly blue clam, radiant like an opal. There were not many, and while I have no idea of this is actually true or not, I cannot help but feel that I have found the inspiration. The one. I’ve wondered since we began exploring Portugal what could have inspired such an obsession with blue paintings. Whether fictional or not, now I have an answer that satisfies me.

After soaking things up for a while, I packed my “tennies” and flip-flopped away. Nazare has one escalator (tram) that takes locals and visitors from the beach level a couple of hundred feet diagonally up to the city’s second half which is perched above. With the gorgeous ocean views, this area seems another haven for tourists and those wishing to sell to them. While I was expecting to see pottery, clothes, and other such little trinkets, I was not expecting to see nuts. Yes, nuts. Lots of them being sold by a glut of vendors. Haven’t seen nuts sold anywhere but Nazare on the street.

While I did gnaw on a few cashews, I snuck in a more an adventurous snack of mussels on my way back to the bus depot. I am not a seafood guy, but the crowds at this little restaurant were impressive, so after initially walking past in defeat, I turned around and sat down. In about 3 minutes, my order was out, and I was loving it. Yummy sauce, onions, and great toasted but soft bread were a great compliment to the natural freshness of the day’s catch.

Where do I exist?

I hate to get all existential, but I think it’s a valid question. In the past few months, I’ve seen a lot of changes to the way in which I live and interact with people. I am seeing new places and experiencing new things. I have begun to share more and more about my life on the Internet through this blog. There are moments in which I zone out on a bus, fall asleep in a hotel, or round a corner and am blind to where I am. I have to think hard, and once even when I did that on this trip, I still got it wrong the first time. KC? HK? Now, this can be a good thing as you get more comfortable in a place, but it can also be discomforting and out-of-body-esk.

Sunday I traveled through a town north of Lisbon called Nazare that is along the Atlantic Coast that was recommended to me by a work colleague – Bob. At certain times, I found myself snapping photos of the crashing waves, sandy beach, and soaring cliffs, absorbed in a crowd of people doing just the same. I knew none of them, and yet by happenstance, as of today, I have inevitably ended up in one of their photos, captured by mistake (or intent) in the camera frame and soon to be plastered into a scrap book or cast aside in a shoebox. My non-posing face forever digitized or chemically burned in mid stride or stare. But is this existence?

You know the story. Tree falls. Empty forest. Is it heard?

You are reading the story. Boy travels. Foreign place. Is it real?

The strange thing about living a life is that it hardly feels like you are living if you have no one to share it with. That’s one of those things that is always said but I’ve learned just how true it is. For that, I count my blessing daily for having Eric, close family, and friends. On these quick journies, few lasting connections are made, and for me if it were left to that, to the checking off of tourist spots from some book, that it would be a waste. Not an existence. For me, it is the talking about it, it is the writing about it, it is the sharing of a life that brings it into form and brings with it some meaning.

Thank you for sharing with me an existence and helping to keep some semblance of place in an unbounded world.

Two Worlds of Taxis

In Hong Kong, we have found the taxis to be a safe and predictable mode of transportation. All vehicles are identical Toyota models, painted alike, metered, led by their honking horns, and driven by men whom with we struggle to communicate and whom show little positive emotion. The last is true except for two incidents, the first, a driver who upon our commenting on our hunger and love of chips actually gave Eric’s mother a hand full of his sour cream an onion. The second anomaly was in having a female driver. To this day I think I have only had this one female taxi driver anywhere in the world. Even with the occasional anomaly, HK taxis are a beast of mass transport that tend to belch constant noise and anger in traffic, which HK is not lacking.

Lisbon taxis are as unique as the people that drive them. Many Americans would be surprised to get in the back of a Mercedes or BMW taxi, but that is the standard here. Leather seats and black interior are the norm. Compact, station wagon – you just never know. The horns of the taxi seem more a means of long-distance greeting than confrontation as we see with protracted HK honks in backed up traffic or an unfriendly lane change. I’ve seen more drivers cower in quiet almost Midwestern disgust, internalizing and not daring to touch the horn in similar situations. There are beeps for greetings, salutations, and as the vocal accompaniment to a short wave. On our ride from the airport to the train station, our driver, window down, spent a few minutes in traffic giving directions to another passing driver. On a ride tonight, my driver checked to see if it was “hurry?” I am not sure what he would have done had I said yes as runners in an adjacent park were steadily passing our deadlocked rush hour location. I must admit it is nice to be in place where language is less of a barrier in the taxi. We’ve actually had several nice discussions with our drivers, whether in English in one instance or in butchered Spanish in the other.

Unencumbered Portugal

Routes are plotted.

Plans are made.

Packages are bought.

Signs are followed.

Destinations are achieved.

Sound familiar? Probably a lot like your last vacation. Disneyland. Bahamas.

AAA-assisted adventures.

As we get busier and busier, as the tourism industry becomes more commercialized, and as the sheer number of tourists in the U.S. reaches perceived capacity in many places, rigidity, assistance, and limits are necessary evils of travel. We set them ourselves and the places that we travel to impose them upon us. And while there is no doubt that Portugalis facing some similar pressures, it doesn't appear to be setting any rules and neither are it's travelers. In Eric's words, this is "unecumbered" travel.

View from inside St. Vincent De Fore's.

Thus far, our explorations have seemed amazingly untethered by nosey security guards, pesky ropes, security screenings, or many of the things we have become accustomed to in the U.S. For example, we spent several hours on Saturday exploring the St. Vincent De Fore’s, one of Portugal’s oldest churches and for centuries the state home of Catholicism. We were able to walk freely among the remains of Portugal’s kings and queens, unwatched and unnoticed among winding halls, few tourists, golden artifacts, and tiled murals. Unencumbered.

The royal crypt. The two main sarcophagi shown are of King Carlos I and his son who were killed in 1908 in an end to Portugal's monarchy. The statue between is their wife and mother.

A reverse, unencumbered, view.

In the afternoon, we headed out to Expo 98, former site of the European Exhibition and now huge commercial development. Passing through the gates to Europe’s second largest aquarium, again we were freed into an oceanic world where we would see amazing things – dancing, out-of-water stingrays and a baby sea otter, for example – and be put literally face to face with animals. In the most graphic example, we turned a corner to find a penguin-like bird standing on the human side of the railing. Cowering and scared, it stood almost petrified as people walked by and in some cases reached to touch the bird. After seeing no staff for about 15 minutes of our journey in the area, we finally encountered an Oceanarium representative and helped to rectify the situation. Unencumbered.

I could go on and on about the access we’ve been given within castles and other sites. The freedom to explore openly is wonderful but frightening in many ways because it’s as if you are a teenager who is for the first time being sent off to college. You come to expect a certain amount of security which in return provides you with structure for your experiences. As it was, I found myself constantly questioning our right to be where we were, but to my knowledge we’ve broken no laws, begun no international disputes, and in no way have dampened the reception anyone reading this should expect on their own adventure in Portugal.

Cabo da Roca

With sore feet and salty skin, we were coming to an end of our time in Sintra. As such, Eric and I broke from the advice of our innkeeper and set out at about 6pm for the Cabo da Roca. As the western most point in continental Europe, the Cabo da Roca has developed into relaxed retreat area with many getaways and low-key restaurants.

The major problem with our desire to visit the Cabo was transportation. To get there, we hailed a taxi and were off. After 30 minutes or so, we wound our way into the circular drive near the point. It was only then that we realized the isolation of the spot and the near fatal flaw in our decision not to pay the taxi that brought us to remain and takes us back in half an hour. Lucky for us, there were two scheduled buses to come the rest of the night, including one that would take us back to Sintra.

As we set off exploring, it was hard not to be impressed by the geography and charm of the location, even with the less than perfect weather in which we found it. As with any seaside location, cloudiness can come and go, and for the hour of our occupation, it had come. The wind swept over the cliffs with regularity and strength. A short walk to the point, and you could see the infinite possibilities that generations had felt in similar locations. While I know the world that lies across the Atlantic, many to stand before had only known possibilities and imagined routes.

Cliff side view of monument.

The site is dominated by a tired lighthouse that but for its location, and with a small squinting of the eyes, could be a farm and silo from the Kansas prairie. A large cross stands at the utmost western point, strong in it defiance of the huge drop-off and crashing waters below. The country that surrounds is rolling and green with little flowers and fields of grass. It was Eric’s first time to see seaside cliffs in person, and I think they made a good impression.

A bus did arrive, much to our relief; however, the bus was not the one we needed. Luckily, a nice bus driver and empty bus meant that we got a free ride and drop off to an area of restaurants near the Cabo. With a promise to return when his route reversed in an hour, we left the bus and went for dinner. Although not really open, we found a restaurant and with it a rich dinner of salmon and beef filets. While very fresh, we seemed to have found the salted scent of the sea - but plated (even coating the salad!). A little salt was a small price for the beautiful and relaxed setting.

At the promised time, the bus pulled back in, and we were off for a winding journey back to the hotel and an end to our Sintra time.

Sara

As a tourist, you see what seems like an endless stream of new people in a given day, and it is always a shock when you begin to recognize one person. While it seems like an unlikely phenomenon, in reality, it happens, and in that instant you are rushed with dueling feels of paranoia, competition, and allegiance. Paranoia for the sense that someone is following you; competition because first come first serve mentality takes over when facing busy attractions; and intrigue for in that instance you begin to have a history with said other person(s). For me, a majority of the time, it is usually at least sighting three before there is much intrigue. By that point fate has come into play.

As Eric and I climbed to the top of the Castelo dos Mouros last Thursday, the ocean dampness enclosed the air around the castle and scattered our view of the Palacio, causing us to remain atop longer than would be the norm as we hope for dissipation. Although the fog never cleared, I think it was a divine cosmos that placed it there for in our waiting we made a new friend – Sara.

Sara was traveling alone and as such I offered to take a picture of her at the top of the Castelo for even with the splotchy fog there were still some stunning views to be had. Realizing we both spoke English, Sara declined as she had no camera but that was enough to spark discussion. While short-lived at first, we would encounter Sara later (sighting #3 – intrigue) during our descent back into the town. Amazingly we would learn that Sara came from Malmo, Sweden, my ancestral home and Eric’s often destination as his boss is located in Malmo. Of all the places in the world for the three of us to meet, it would be in Portugal interim destination for all.

It is always nice to make a friend, especially an interesting one. Sara was likely in her thirties, a curly blond that showed signs of Swedish heritage. She was a gardener by trade but was in the process of retraining to be a dance instructor. She was in Portugal to study African dance, and she had spent many previous months traveling abroad on the same endeavors in Africa and even Brazil. We spent but an hour or so together, exchanging stories of home and present over a coffee before she headed back to Lisbon on the train. Sara was on the last leg of a journey that seemed to have strengthened roots to a home and a place which she had been away from for a long time. Soon she would return to Sweden and to Malmo where she hopes to open the city’s first dance school.

Eric and I snapped a photo for Sara so that she would be able to remember her day in Sintra, and perhaps yet this week we will meet for coffee again or one day in Malmo.