Jet Lag, Breastfeeding and Chocolate
A morning in Portugal
The Best Laid Plans …
Disclaimer: I had prepared an informative and well-researched article about the differences between American and Portuguese apartments. But something priceless happened this week, too good not to share.
It’s 9:30 in the morning, and I’ve just woken up from night number four of jet lag. With 26 hours of travel under my belt, mass confusion reigns in my 552-square-foot apartment. Unpacking the 230 pounds of storage unit items? Done. Grocery shopping? Done. My body clock? Still somewhere over the Atlantic, probably swirling in turbulence.
So, instead of fighting Senhor jetlag by ricocheting off the walls, I decide to go with the flow, get dressed, slap on some makeup, look slightly human, and treat myself to a Meia-de-Leite and a chocolate muffin at the local pastelaria. Why a chocolate muffin in Portugal, you ask? Because it’s the least sweet item in the pastry case, and I wasn’t emotionally prepared to commit 25 minutes of my life to waiting for toast. Yes — toast. Twenty-five. Whole. Minutes. Plus, after forking over six bucks for a cup of bitter drip coffee in the US, I will gladly pay 3 euros for a muffin and espresso-based coffee — bless this country.
Pastelaria Olympics
Today’s a good day; I’m only number seven in line. Pastelarias are where locals congregate. Inside, nannas gossip in squawky clusters, like hens in a coop. A tall brunette in white jeans stands at the counter, sipping her espresso and nibbling on an apple tart. Exhausted parents rock a sleeping baby in a stroller with their foot while attempting to talk about something — anything — other than diapers.
Customers scurry out the door with bags of bread rolls. In contrast, others take advantage of the indoor vending machines, which dispense cigarettes, ice cream, and canned mini sausages (yes, like those disgusting Vienna sausages popular at 1970s ladies' bridge parties). It´s the hub for mornings in Monte Gordo, Portugal.
At pastelarias, seating is always a struggle. After all, this is Europe, where café chairs remain occupied by people who will linger until the Second Coming. And — wait for it — no one cares. Then I spot it: a four-seater outside, in the shade, no ashtrays or smokers nearby. Miracles do happen. A newspaper rests on the napkin holder at the center of the table, and I naively assume it was left there as a gift for the next caffeine-starved human — rookie error.
Enter Marguerite
I settle in: one glorious sip of coffee, Kindle open, chapter six of Alice Waters’ The Art of Simple Food. Heaven. Until a sixty-ish, impeccably dressed lady with corkscrew blonde hair approaches the table. In broken English, she informs me that the newspaper was her table reservation. Yikes, another immigrant faux pas. I apologized and offered to leave. She waves it off with a polite “não, não” and sits down. I was thankful I pulled myself together this morning, put on extra deodorant, and didn´t look like a troll.
Through Google Translate and theatrical body language, I learn she´s French, living in Portugal. We exchange pleasantries, including the always-present questions I hear: “When and why did you move here?” followed by the inevitable moment of shock and awe when they learn I have no Portuguese familia. “Muito amigas,” I always share. “Muito amigas.”
Her breakfast arrives — a classic baguette with butter, cheese, and ham, plus coffee and fresh-squeezed laranja (orange juice), as bright as swimwear on the beach. Soon, an elderly Portuguese man with silver whisker eyebrows and mismatched clothing strolled up to join us. After a quick debrief in French-Portuguese-whatever, he relaxes about the strange foreigner at their table. He tries me in Portuguese, then French, before realizing I’m basically linguistically useless … but working on it! Still.
Mosquito Mayhem, Round One
As I write this from my home office, a mosquito just siphoned blood out of the back of my ankle — while I’m sitting at my desk. At 1:30 in the afternoon. Excuse me while I stop writing, slather my leg with a gallon of hydrocortisone, as if I were frosting a carrot cake, then search for and find my train of thought amidst the jet lag, and return to writing.
Now. Back to breakfast.
Bonding Over Nipples (Yes, Really)
Marguerite, Arturo (as I choose to call my new acquaintances), and I chatted about how Portugal is a calm country and how the throngs of tourists will all leave in about one week. We exchanged our favorite beach spots and whether we prefer white or red vinho.
Being a proud nanna, Marguerite whipped out her iPhone to show me snapshots of her cute-as-a-button infant granddaughter. I felt honored. Then, holding up her index finger, raising a coiffed eyebrow, and smiling, she let me know I was in for a real treat. What could it be? A Michelin-starred secret? Which salon gives the best Brazilian wax?
Nope. Instead, I get a full-screen nursing video. Baby latches on. Baby unlatches. Baby beams with a gummy, euphoric smile. And looming in front of it all? A nipple the size of a beach ball.
Internally, I gasp with shock. Externally, I’m nodding, smiling, and commenting on how precious the dribble of milk is rolling down the baby’s double chin. Because that’s the polite thing to do, right?
But then … Marguerite did it.
You know that slow-motion feeling, like when you see someone about to trip in high heels and there’s no stopping the disaster? Yup. That. I watched as this nanna pinched and zoomed — like she was enlarging a map on Google Earth — to proudly showcase the “drive-in movie theater” proportion, in-your-face, shriveled pink nipple, photo-bombing the baby from stage right.
Look — I get it. Motherhood is beautiful. Families like to showcase their offspring. And as a proud auntie (and great auntie), I’m right there with you. But let’s be honest: no one is ever prepared for a stranger to hand-deliver a 4K nipple close-up over morning coffee and a chocolate muffin.
Mosquito Mayhem, Round Two
And now — DANG IT — four more bites. I have work to do at my scrawny apartment desk. Hydrocortisone. Bug spray. Threats of murder. Weighed down with my A positive, he couldn't have buzzed off very far. Better to battle it out now than groggy-eyed at 2 a.m. only to wake up God-knows-what-time tomorrow with red welts on my face looking like I lost a game of paintball.
People think I’m brave for moving to Portugal sight-unseen. Honestly, I think the real courage is wearing a sundress in this country. You can practically hear the mosquitoes announcing over the PA system: “Attention Kmart shoppers: White chick in third-floor apartment wearing a sundress with tasty-looking veins. Lunch is served.”
No success locating the flying pathetic excuse for creation. Ugh! I digress.
Dancing, Clams, and the Grind of Daily Life
Back at the café, post-nipple-bonding, we clink glasses of laranja and coffee in three languages and celebrate new friendships. Then Arturo and Marguerite casually invite me to go dancing at the beach. Tonight. Starting at 10 p.m. On a Monday. I´m sure it will be well attended until 2 a.m. Don’t people have jobs and go to school? This is all very European.
Meanwhile, the pastelaria line has now extended onto the street, where a young man is hawking small clams and other creatures that ooze in and out of their shells. It’s common to witness tense negotiations between round-bellied nannas and skinny bronzed men trying to sell their Styrofoam ice chest bivalve mollusks, all before the sun spoils their catch of the day. So, yes, you can purchase your bread, espresso, cigarettes, canned sausages, and clams … all at the local pastelaria.
It’s now 12:45. Beachgoers are returning home as the heat presses down, laden with chairs, umbrellas, and sand-coated legs that leave a gritty trail on the cobblestone street. Babies sleep in juddering strollers, while toddlers, carrying sand shovels and buckets, wail in protest, despite promises of gelato. Tourists study lunch board menus, while merchants shout out discount prices on end-of-season swimsuit cover-ups and cheap plastic beach toys from China. And there we are: three people in the shade, sipping coffee, watching the daily grind. It´s our reality show.
When we parted, Marguerite let me know that they often spend their mornings here and that I have an open invitation to join them. Apparently, I’ve passed the initiation ritual of “foreign lady who accidentally steals our table and then survives a nipple video show.” Happy infants, always a bonus!! I felt blessed, placing hand over heart with a sincere, “Obrigada.”
Bravery In All Sizes
Meeting people over mishaps can be common when you travel or live abroad. And here too in Portugal, where the people are kind, calm, and gracious — alright, with a few meatheads sprinkled in for flavor, but that’s humanity anywhere. Language barriers? Overcome with a bit of pantomime, a translation app, and a lot of humility. Speak slower. Listen and avoid slang.
Bravery comes in many forms. Some people sell everything and move across the ocean. Some strike up conversations with strangers in the grocery line. And some of us smile politely at enlarged body parts over breakfast, then go to war with mosquitoes while donning a sundress. Whatever your brave point is, do it.
A Glorious Murder
Two days later, after a sleepless night playing hide-and-seek, I lit upon Mr. Mosquito. The splat of blood on the floor confirms the kill. No moment of silence was observed. No funeral. Just another dab of Hydrocortisone cream on my scarlet, blotchy legs.