The Fruits (or Cake) of our Labour

A few days after that fateful Saturday, we went to dinner with some cousins. After a great meal of seafood, we had dessert. And what was on the menu but a cake made out of alfarrobas.


My mom ordered it because she'd never tried it. The rest of us were eager to try something from the tree we'd suffered and maimed ourselves for.


It didn't taste like chocolate, but it wasn't bad either. The same can't be said for Steve's cheesecake. Not so much cheese as gelatin.

Carry a Big Stick

My grandmothers are two of the toughest women I know. One is the finest lady I know and I’m sure could make a gangster feel ashamed of his profession. The other, in her 80s, makes her own cinder blocks and wakes up with the roosters. These are strong Portuguese women and I’m very proud to come from such strong stock.

But, there are just some things that an 84 year old women shouldn’t do. One of them is picking alfarroba. For those of you unaware of what an alfarroba is, don’t worry, it’s a Portuguese word. The English word for it is a carob tree. I’m not going to pretend I know what they are. I didn’t know there was an English equivalent and I still don’t know what is. All I knew was that they could be used in chocolate and that my grandmother picks them and then sells them.

Alfarroba's aka carob pods. The black kind play the starring role in this story.

That’s how it started. My mom’s mom has a house in the country. She spends her days in her garden tending to her flowers, plants and doing other upkeep. She also has a giant carob tree on her property. Lucky for us, our time in Portugal happened to coincide with the time of the year when alfarroba’s are ripe for picking. Not one to actually come out and ask for our help, my grandmother spent two days subtly (or not so subtly) hinting that she'd like us to help. We would ask her when she’d come to the beach with us. She’d sigh heavily, look out the window point at the carob tree and say she had so much work to do. Keep in mind that there is no real obligation to the tree—there is no law to pick the tree. But it was on her property and she wasn’t going to neglect it. So we made a deal: she would come stay with us for a few days and we (me, parents, my sister and brother-in-law, Steve) would devote our Saturday to picking this tree.

“It’ll take a morning, probably less with all of us helping,” my dad assured us, himself a veteran of the task.

We began early: up at 8am and after a wake up coffee for the oldies (Jen and Steve I’m talking to you) we were off. Our task was to get the alfarroba pods off the tree and collected in sacs. In some cases this was easy. Some had fallen off the tree and all we had to do was pick them off the ground.


Others were not so accessible. In order to get at them we resorted to different tactics. The first was to use giant sticks to smack at branches of the tree. This would send pods falling to the ground and usually hitting whoever was picking them up— in this case me—on the head (imagine raw lima beans smacking you in the head).

In order to get at the hard to reach branches, some of us would climb the trees to smack at the branches with our aforementioned big sticks. This was both a test of balance (standing on the branch) as well as coordination (using the stick to smack the branches).


But perhaps the most efficient way was Steve’s, “making it rain.” It involved Steve climbing the tree, going deep into the brush and with each hand holding a different branch and either jumping or shaking the branches. This would cause the pods to cascade to the ground in large numbers and “making it rain.” It proved quite successful as it maximized the amount of alfarobas and minimized the effort of everyone—except maybe Steve.

But it was not without its dangers. There were a few times when Steve neglected to tell us it was about to “rain” and those on the ground—me and Jen—where assailed with bean shaped missiles smacking us in the head from great heights and at greed speeds.

In the end, collecting all the alfarrobas took a full day. To amuse ourselves we sang out loud—Pretty Woman, Bon Jovi and others. By the end, we were exhausted, full of back pain and covered in battle scars.

Scraps and scuffs from the carob tree

And to add insult to injury, my grandmother welshed on her bet. She never came with us to the beach.

B-I-L Steve and I in a tree

My sister Jen

My tough grandmother

Me and the parents

Sightseeing in Sintra

On one of my last days with my cousins we travelled to Sintra, a spot 20 minutes outside of Lisbon. I'd been to Sintra when I was little, and it was, and still remains, one of my favourite places in Portugal. There are several castles around the city which are the city's biggest draw. Tourists love to climb to the tops to soak up the scenery and the beautiful castle interiors. This time we were too late to go inside the castles. Instead we had some pastries and took a walk through the city. Here are some highlights.

The British poet Byron was a frequent visitor of Sintra (and this restaurant)

Street in Sintra (my cousin Rita is in purple)


Those buildings on the hill is one of castles in Sintra

The fairy tale style castle I went to when I was young.

Just for fun

Doing the Electric Boogaloo to Medieval Castles

Next was a visit to Alfama, the oldest district in Lisbon. To get there we hopped on the 28 elétrico or 28 Electric tram. These trams were imported in 1901 from the United States to replace horse drawn carriages as the prime mode of transportation in Lisbon. While the rest of public transportation has been revamped—and quite nicely I might add —these little relics have endured as both a tourist attraction and a piece of local history. It's one of the secrets of Lisbon (it wasn't in any of my guidebooks). It’s only €1.30 and the 45 minute ride takes you through the gorgeous historical district and back in time. If you’re lucky to go in June, you’ll get to experience Portuguese fado singers accompanying passengers along the route. One tip though, hold on when the tram comes to a stop. Brakes from 1901 don’t provide for the smoothest—or quietest— journey.

The 28 elétrico

The hills of Lisbon

The long and winding road

A peak inside the electric (apologies for the fuzziness)

That day we got off at the entrance to Castelo São Jorge (Castle of St. George), a castle built on the largest hill overlooking Alfama. The castle dates back to before the Middle Ages. It was used to force the Moors out of Lisbon during the Siege of Lisbon in 1147. After that it became the Royal Palace and was the site of a reception for Vasco da Gama which celebrated his discovery of a maritime route to India (thereby starting the spice trade and empire building. This era would be one of the richest periods in Portugal's history).

Courtyard of Castle

The Castle

Watchtower

Cousins Freitas (left to right, Anna, Manuel, Rita)

Today the castle is a major tourist attraction, not only for its history but because it offers some of the best views of Lisbon.

View from the courtyard (River Tagus)

Lisbon from the courtyard

Lisbon from the Castle watchtower

Cheira Lisboa--Smells Like Lisbon

As nice as Belem is, I was ten times more excited to go to downtown Lisbon. It is a gorgeous city. But be warned, it's made up of seven hills. Good for a thigh and bum workout, not so much for tired feet.

A Parisian store in Lisbon. It may have the flair of Paris, but we're in Lisbon baby.

My tour guide for this leg of the adventure was my cousin Rita and she was absolutely invaluable in showing me the sights and explaining history. We started our tour in the Chiado district of Lisbon, a trendy area home to charming boutiques, cafes and poets, especially Portugal’s Fernando Pessoa.

Fernando and I

Then we walked to Carmo square and over to the Santa Justa lift (which was made in 1900 by Raul Mesnier de Ponsard, an apprentice to Gustave Eiffel, of Eiffel Tower fame). Only, we didn't actually take the lift, we took the stairs.

Santa Justa Lift

From there we got a pretty good view of the streets of Lisbon that were redone after the 1755 Earthquake. Up until then, Lisbon had been rocked by a few earthquakes (eight in the 14th century, five in the 16th century and three in the 17th century) but this one was particularly bad. It destroyed 85 per cent of the city and killed 60 to 90, 000 people.

Lisbon, and that area on the hill is Alfama

The River Tagus

View of the Rossio square, one of the most important squares in Lisbon

As a result of the destruction caused by the earthquake, Lisbon had to be rebuilt. Instead of rebuilding according to the old plans, the Prime Minister at the time, Sebastião José de Carvalho e Melo, the Marquis of Pombal, rebuilt using modern urban planning. As a result, the streets in the Baixa Pombalina (Pombaline Downtown) area are grid like and symmetrical.

Straight streets are a trademark of Pombaline design

Beside the elevator was the Carmo Convent, a Gothic cathedral. The Convent was mostly destroyed in the 1755 Earthquake, except for its arched frames. It also has a modern significance. In 1974, it was the headquarters of dictator President Marcelo Caetano during the Carnation Revolution that removed him from power (via a military coup). A year after the coup, Portugal held its first free elections since the 1920s and restored democracy to Portugal (Caetano's Estado Novo, or "New State" regime was the longest authoritarian regime in Western Europe). The convent still shows the bullets used to "encourage" Caetano to surrender.

Convent do Carmo

Bullets from the attack on Caetano's headquarters in 1974

Now, it’s used as an archaeological museum that houses two Peruvian mummies (it was closed when we visited).

Banging Belem

I’ve been to Portugal many times in my life. My family started going every two years when I was eight. But despite the fact that I’ve been 5 or 6 times, I havn’t really seen much of it. We usually travel from Lisbon to the Algarve in the fastest way possible and then set up camp at the beach, with some miscellaneous visits to the cities of Loulé and São Bras de Alportel to visit my grandmothers. But other than that, we don’t see much.

That was going to change this time. I was going to see Lisbon. The three days I spent in Lisbon before I met my parents were going to be filled with seeing and doing the things I didn’t get to do in the one afternoon we spent there when I was 17. And I had the greatest tour guides: my cousins who live in a suburb of Lisbon who are around the same age as me

The first thing we did was visit Belém which is known for two things. The first is the famous tower, the Torre de Belém. Built sometime in the 16th century, it was made to honour the expeditions of Vasco da Gama. It also served as a part of the Portuguese fortifications protecting Lisbon.

The Tower of Belem

Look at that stone work

The view from a lookout point

That dark spot at the bottom of the photo is how far the water rises in the winter

Belem is also known for its awesome pastries called Pastéis de Belém or more commonly as pastéis de nata. My cousins called them “cookies” which is not only incorrect in language but in fact as well. These aren’t “cookies,” they are small custard-filled caramelized pieces of heaven. And Belém is the best place to get them. Rumour has it that they were created by nuns in a nearby convent and Casa Pastéis de Belém was the first place to sell them outside the convent. So we went to Casa and got our very own pastries fresh out of the oven and sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar, just as tradition dictates.

How amazing do those look?

My cousin Manuel devouring some pastéis

Fun facts about pastéis de nata:

• They were the sweet chosen to represent Portugal in the European Union’s Café Europe initiative in 2006.
• They have become available at numerous bakeries, as well as Macau-style restaurants and Hong Kong branches of the KFC restaurant chain.

Author's Note

WARNING! The next few entries are a description of my trip to Lisbon and then my time in the Algarve. They may or may not contain obvious, unabashedly pro-Portuguese commentary, some posts may even verge on propaganda.


Portugal is not the world power that it was once, and hasn’t been for some time—though the President of the European Commission is Portuguese (what what!)—so I feel the need to point out our accomplishments, even if they are few and far between. So be prepared for Portuguese propaganda. If you don’t like it, too bad, you’ll have to stomach it anyway.

Leaving on a Midnight Train

When I was planning my voyage from Brussels to Portugal, my friend Cassandra implored me to take the train. "It'll be just like in Before Sunrise!"

For the record, I'd never seen or heard of Before Sunrise or its sequel, Before Sunset. But Cassandra assured me that it was really good and really romantic. And the main protagonists met on a train. I didn't need Before Sunrise to get me excited about train travel. I'm a self-professed train nut. Even four years of taking VIA Rail to and from Ottawa several times a year hasn't dulled the luster. But I eventually decided not to do the whole voyage by train (which would have taken about 4 days and involved going Brussels to Paris, where I would have switched stations to Paris north, then gone Paris to Madrid and Madrid to Lisbon).

But to get my train fix I decided to take the overnight train from Madrid to Lisbon (the capital of Portugal for you geographically challenged readers). It was a good plan: cheap (€52 for a youth seat), environmentally friendly, and allowed me to stay in Madrid an extra day and get into Lisbon at 8am with the rest of the day free to see the sights.


Now the only part I didn’t factor into the equation was the night part. The train left at 11pm from Madrid and got into Lisbon at 8am. That’s about nine hours on a train, sitting mostly upright and not served any snacks (because they assume you’ll be sleeping). Surprise, surprise, I didn’t sleep.


There was a group of about 12 young German men sitting around me, all wanting to talk and make noise and hit their friends that happened to be sitting beside me or behind me. I really wished I could have turned around and hissed something cruel in German. I didn’t. I instead read for a while and tried to drown out the sound of the train with music from my iPod until I fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion. I can’t tell you how many hours of sleep I got, but it wasn’t much and it wasn’t the good, deep REM sleep kind.

But I do have the experience of saying I took an overnight train. And it was mostly positive—minus the Germans. But there was no sign of Ethan Hawke or Julie Delpy.

An Open Letter to Spain

Dear Spain,

Hi, how’s it going? I hope this letter finds you well. These last weeks have been pretty intense for me. I've been busy with school and assignments and trying to figure out which side of the street to look when crossing. But I hear you've been busy too, buying banks and stuff. Are you sure you want to do that? I mean, these last few months have been tough for governments too, what with the financial sector disintegrating around us. What a bummer.

Anyway, that's not what I wanted to talk about. I want to bring something to your attention. I spent four days and three nights in your capital city. I very much enjoyed it. The weather was gorgeous, the food tasty and the culture rich. The museums were top notch, but what’s with the security in the Prado? Do you really think I’m going to grab a Goya and make a dash for it? There are security guards everywhere. You can't pick a wedgie for fear of being watched. But I digress.

I’m writing to express my concern over something I noticed while in Madrid. What's with the lack of English? Before you ask, no, I'm not American. I'm Canadian and Portuguese. I don’t speak Spanish. I know, I know. I'm well aware of the arguments: "You're in a Spanish speaking country, and Spanish is one of the widest spoken languages in the world." I know all of this. It just so happens my Spanish isn't great. I can count, say hello, goodbye and ask how much something is. Then I'm tapped out.

But cut me some slack. I can speak two other languages well enough to get by: French and Portuguese. I felt that I could at least fake Spanish with Portuguese. But when I tried, I got no love. None of the three languages were any use to me. I’d ask people—everyone from taxi drivers, waiters and museum guides—questions in English such as “How much is the audio guide?” or “How do I get to the church?” And they would look at me perplexed. And then I’d ask to speak any of the three languages mentioned above and always got the same answer: “Hablo Italiano?” No, I don’t speak Italian! I just named two—English and French—pretty popular languages and you come back at me with Italian? What’s that about?

What’s with the hate for English? I get it that you guys were colonial enemies back in the day. I get that it’s a language of imperialism and that it's not a very pretty sounding language but come on. You’re in the European Union for God's sake, where English is one of three working languages—French, English and German in case you’re wondering. It’s kind of a practical language.

Why do you hate the language so much? Is it a form of nationalism to refuse to speak any language but Spanish? Or do you just not know how? Are you shy that you might get words wrong, because even British people can’t say “tomato,” “banana,” or “aluminum” right and they’ve been speaking it a lot longer than most people. Don't be self-conscious. We can help.

Anyway, I just wanted to ask about that. Oh, and if we speak Portuguese to you don’t pretend that you don’t understand. It’s a slightly different language so don’t act like we’re speaking Russian.

No hard feelings, just thought I’d voice some concern, keep on rocking in the free world.

Diana