A group of men came to the house to sing and bring meat, sweet bread, wine, and milk-bread today. They were part of the “Espirito Santo” (Holy Spirit) festival. My dad had gone for a walk and was so disappointed that he had missed them that he actually swore. Ironic, I know. He misses a part of a religious festival and he curses the revellers for coming too early! I, on the other hand, was rather embarrassed and actually went to hide from the 15 or so men. I was in pyjamas and a robe, totally unprepared for any sort of visitors, let alone a bunch of strange men. They were only here long enough to drop off their wares (which my mother later told me were actually paid for, but at a far lower cost than purchasing them from the grocery store), to sing one song, and have a shot of some liqueur or another that we had in the house. Then they continued on to their next location.
My mom made bachalau (salted cod with chickpeas, potatoes, and hard-boiled eggs) for lunch, a traditional meal that I could easily make at home but rarely do. Afterwards my dad took his daily nap (my parents are semi-retired after all) and then we went for a drive around the island and to visit some relatives.
Along the way we passed a few view points, one of which was a whale-watching station. The Azores are along a migratory route for whales, and approximately 25 varieties have been spotted here as well as dolphins. Whaling was once a vital industry, but in 1984 it became illegal. All that remains are a few museums and the new industry of whale watching. The modern-whalers still use these viewing stations located at the tops of cliffs around the islands.
We made another stop at the outer side of the drainage tunnel from the lake of the Sete Cidades. The lake is located in a caldera and the tunnel was built to drain excess water to the ocean. You can walk through the tunnel, but a good flash light would be needed as well as rain gear. We only stopped to take a few photos. My mom spotted some wild strawberries, which only really resemble strawberries in that they are the same colour. I ate a few, but they were not sweet and tasted like water.
My great-aunt’s neighbours were carving up a pig. I would normally consider this site a little disgusting, however, knowing that the animals are raised in pens where they are free to walk around, and that the whole animal will be used, it didn’t seem so bad. It was, however, a little eerie to see another pig snoozing in a pen next door to where his former friend was being butchered.
On the way back home, we stopped in at the coffee shop where my dad works a couple days a week. It’s a narrow shop with a bar, espresso machine, and only a few tables. The doors were all open and flies were buzzing around in circles. We were greeted by a small black dog, which had clearly had puppies recently. My mother and I were the only women, as per usual at such coffee shops. There was a group of old men sitting at a table playing cards and we sat and watched the second half of “Lara Croft” with subtitles on TV while my dad spoke with all his friends. The dog belonged to one of the men playing cards, who later took us to see the puppies in a shed near by. They were adorable, and my mother, half joking, asked my father if she could have them. My parents and the dog owner were chatting, while another man who came with us to see the pups took out a knife and started cutting at rolled and dried tobacco leaves that were in his pocket. He then took out some dried corn leaves that were cut specifically for rolling tobacco, rolled what he had cut, sealed it and began to smoke. I was tempted to ask if I could have some just to see what it was like, but shyness, and the fact that I was with my parents, held me back. My dad told me afterwards that when he was young he used to smoke like that because he couldn’t afford ‘real’ cigarettes, but that it burns your mouth.
We went home and ate the rest of the bachalau while watching my dad’s favourite telenovela (soap opera).
