Portugal

As the finer details of San Diego fade, what still echoes is curiosity—namely, people asking about our plans and us offering only vague answers. Perhaps the absence of a plan is our plan now. And after a lifetime of planning, letting go of plans sounds like a great plan to me.

Any given day in Portugal, I seem to accidentally wander into an open-air museum. Sometimes I’m sort of looking for it — murals, street art, painted walls, the odd little corners I’ve started to notice. Other times, the exhibit appears without warning.

I’ve gotten to the point where I want to take off the training wheels and put my translation app away. The problem is, I’m not always sure what I’m ordering — or what just arrived. My food literate goal is being able to recognize enough words to avoid ordering ensopado (stew) when it is espetadas (skewers) I want.

This week was a simple one, but full of little Algarve moments — bikes, friends, sunshine, views, and one very good detour.

The Alentejo had been calling, so we answered with a lunch plan. Mértola would be the destination. Everything else was negotiable.

May in the Algarve brings traditions tucked into village streets and small discoveries waiting just around the bend.

This past week was all about turns: a turn on the trail, a turn around town, and then a turn in the weather — from a bike ride on recently dried paths to a community walk and, finally, a museum visit to escape the rain.

Walking around southern Portugal, it’s hard not to notice the plants. What grows here?

Being retired, every day is the weekend. With weekdays freely intermingling with the weekend days, a Bom Dia seems the most reliable greeting. Over time, though, something funny happens. The days begin to earn their own identities