The Power of Two Peaches
At home or traveling, choose to bless.
A few days ago, I popped into my local grocery store. It’s about the size of a 7-Eleven and, on a humid summer afternoon, smells like watermelon, cured meats, and a whiff of mop water. Quaint? Yes.
In much of the world outside the U.S., including here in Portugal, you don’t do the once-a-week mega grocery haul that ends with a cart stacked deep, a receipt long enough to tail a kite, and a promise to “never shop hungry again.” Instead, grocery shopping is a near-daily ritual. It’s intimate, seasonal, slightly sweaty, and always a bit of a social experience. And while there are the mega stores, I prefer the local ‘ma and pa’ shops.
Here in Europe, many of us carry our groceries by hand, which naturally limits how much we buy. That’s probably a blessing in disguise. You think hard about whether you really need that third jar of olives when you know you’ll be schlepping them up a cobblestone hill, possibly onto a bus or Uber, and flights of stairs to your kitchen the size of a cheese grater.
We purchase produce in season, with handwritten pricing labels showing where it was grown — no bar codes slapped onto your apples. Stores receive goods from small trucks and vans, often blocking half the entrance with crates of regional produce. Real produce with insect holes, soil still clinging to root veggies, and imperfect shapes.
On this particular day, peaches were in season — the kind of peaches that perfume the air and bruise if you so much as look at them sideways. I decided I needed a little juicy sweetness to jazz up my afternoon salad, so I made a beeline for the fuzzy treasures. I found a few "donut peaches" (as we call them in the States — small, squat, and sugary enough to bribe a toddler with), and I started carefully choosing the best ones when a tiny Portuguese nonna shuffled up beside me.
When opportunity strikes
Now, when I say “tiny,” I mean... granny you could tuck into a shirt pocket. She probably topped out at four-foot-eight in her sensible sandals, with ankles like sturdy tree trunks and a cotton dress that had seen a decade (or two) of wear. She wore one of those pull-over-your-head apron vests with deep front pockets — likely containing a lifetime supply of Kleenex. Her grey hair was frizzy, unbothered, and somehow regal in defying gravity.
She reached for the peaches, and, too short to read the handwritten price, threw me a glance and rubbed her thumb against her fingers, the universal sign of “What is the price?” I responded with, “Três e trinta e nove por quilo.” (€3.39 per kilo, or about $1.78 per pound), feeling a tad smug that I actually pulled some Portuguese language out of my brain cells before lunch.
Giving me a 5-toothed grin, she shrank back a little, and shuffled on with a look we’ve all experienced at the grocer of “that’s too expensive, maybe another time.” Like priceless gems, I placed my coveted peaches in my shopping bag, then picked out two more and put them in a separate bag.
Granny and I crisscrossed in the store after that. She selected a meager tin of sardines in oil, a sack of plain crackers, and three bananas. No extravagance. Just basics. Counting pennies.
There is only one checkout counter in our little mercado. There’s usually a line of anywhere from 4 to 13 people. Yet, no one complains. No one huffs or checks their smartwatch every five seconds. It’s one of those everyday lessons in patience that living abroad teaches you, especially in a country that prides itself on slowness, civility, and three-hour lunches.
Determination pays off
At the checkout, I failed miserably to explain to the cashier that I was buying two peaches for myself and gifting the other two to the nonna. But my Portuguese vocabulary just doesn’t extend to “I would like to secretly gift these peaches to the elderly woman in the pull-over apron with the frizzy hair and five-tooth smile.”
After a few confused exchanges and flailing body language that made me look as if I was auditioning for the circus, nonna herself appeared around the corner. The cashier’s face lit up. She understood what I was failing to communicate.
After I paid for my cheese, eggs (ovos), mineral water, and peaches, I walked over to the tiny granny who was, I’m convinced, old enough to have witnessed the invention of the wheel. I held out the bag with two peaches, patted my heart, then pointed to her. I opened my hands in offering. No words needed. She understood. Her eyes lit up, and she patted my hand in thanks. I gave her a prayerful gesture, turned, and left the store under the amused and approving gaze of those thirteen people waiting in line. Will I ever see tiny pocket-granny again? I don’t know. Does it matter? No.
Let me be clear: this story is NOT about doing a “good deed.” It’s not about applause or “likes” or a social media post with the hashtag #lookatme. It’s about noticing.
Too often — especially lately — the world feels like it’s unraveling. So many people are walking around with invisible blinders on. There’s a simmering “us versus them” mentality, a kind of selfishness that spreads like infectious mold. A mindset of blame, with the attention span of a cricket, entitlement, and a lack of community and mindfulness. This growing self-centered cancer even bleeds into the travel industry. I’ve seen tourists barrel into a café without so much as a bom dia, disrespect local customs, bark English at waiters, or act as if their money entitles them to bend the rules. We’ve become impatient, easily offended, and oddly proud of our ability to “be right about all things.”
But it doesn’t have to be like that
It doesn’t take much to reach across the table, so to speak, to bless someone without promoting your action on social media — to improve someone’s life in a small way. In this day and age, when isolation reigns, let a stranger know I see you and you matter. It can be as simple as making eye contact, offering a bom dia (good morning), letting someone go in front of you in line, or buying a bottle of water and a sandwich for a runaway teen who escaped an abusive home. What about complimenting someone you know you would never socialize with, reaching out to a friend who has been on your mind, or give a listening ear over a Portuguese pour of vinho. Bridge that gap between us and them.
Too many of us think, ”Oh, I donated my old clothes and contributed to a food drive, I did my part.” I encourage all of us to be more mindful of those around us, to step out of our comfort zone and sterile lives to bless someone today. These tiny moments — uncelebrated, unfiltered, and quiet — are the stuff of community.
An invitation
Today, be a blessing.
Not a showy one. A quiet one.
No bells, no whistles. No public declarations.
Just something small.
Something real. Something human.
And tomorrow? Do it again.
And the day after that — especially if you're traveling, where kindness counts double. Be willing to let go of the need to be right in your opinions. In doing so, we will start to promote community, step outside of our selfish natures, and look out for each other instead of tearing each other down; often for no other reason than a different belief, heritage, or dare I say, political preference.
If we turn down the chatter of TV and social media and start looking at how we can serve and love versus take and demand, we might, just might, start to shift our mindset and promote healing on earth.
Start with something simple and discover the power of two peaches.