YDYtravelers: And now for something completely different. Also Jen and Eli appear

George didn’t go to sleep last night. That’s because we had to wake up at 2:30 in the morning to get a ridiculously early flight. I didn’t believe him when he said he’d be awake that late/early, but sure enough, there he was, reading Agatha Christie and welcoming us to our last Dutch day. Quick cab to the airport and a sleepy flight later and we landed in Faro, right in the middle of the Algarve (the southern coastal towns of Portugal). And who did we happen to run into there? Jen and Eliza, fresh from their flight from Paris (okay, Eliza was fresh, but Jen...no). We happy five set off to find our rental car and it wasn’t easy. That’s what you get when your eschew Avis, Hertz and the others and instead opt for YOR rental cars. 30 minutes of confusion and slow-walking (remember some of us are gimpy), and we found our YOR representatives in a tiny kiosk in Parking Lot 4. Jen was a master at learning how to drive Portuguese style, which involved learning how to turn on the car, not using the windshield wipers to put the car in reverse and finding the exit to the parking lot. Actually, she was a gem and safely delivered us to our home for the next several days - Tavira.

We are staying at an old home on the river, situated at the beginning of one of the ancient bridges across the Gilão river. The views from every window are of river and ancient city and cats roaming balconies. The patio is the best spot in the place, with a big, covered table and views of the town all around. Eliza spent quite a bit of time looking over the balcony at the birds, fish and crabs. It’s what she does, and she does it like it’s her job (which it will probably be someday). A trip to the grocery store was next, where we learned lessons such as how to say distilled water in Portuguese (aqua destilada - not that hard, was it?), and the uncanny truth about the availibility of orange juice in country (okay, not total availability everywhere - just at this particular store. Or maybe everywhere — perhaps we didn’t learn all that much after all).

Lunch at our new outdoor dining space had we five in a state of wonderment and gratitude for this time and place we’ve been given. The wind blows off of the river and the air is warm. Birds dip into the water and zoom by, giving Jen and Eliza a show. We are so lucky.

In the afternoon, some of us hung out at the house, which really, would be an excellent vacation in itself. Others took a walk around the village, popping in to stores and scoping out gelato venues. I dozed on the couch while Eliza and George sketched and colored. Sounds of villagers and tourists floated up from the bridge below us and the wind, picking up in the afternoon, banged the old wooden shutters on our windows and doors. Everything is just right in the world in this moment.

As we left to grab gelato, I commented on the unique door knob/knocker on our house door. It’s in the shape of a hand. A passerby told us the story behind it. It goes like this. Before the Portuguese conquered the Algarve and Tavira, the area was inhabited by Muslims. The women of the house were not able to see who came knocking at their door, and in order to adhere to their beliefs and customs they needed to decipher between a male and female visitor. So these knockers were the answer. They were called the hands of Fatima. One of her hands made a deeper knocking sound than the other, revealing whether the visitor was male or female. The woman of the house could then answer the door in the appropriate attire. Who knows if this an accurate story. Do you? If you do, comment below. Some of us are skeptical.

Evening sent Eliza and Jen birding in the Ria Formosa. The lazier of the group sat in the living room looking at our phones. I have no information about the much more worthwhile and interesting things that they did. Just picture them with binoculars and jungle suits, spotting a spotted spitting spooner and you’ll get the general idea. Or just ask them. They are super knowledgeable and smart.

We had a heck of a dinner of undercooked pizza (made by yours truly) and a salad. Port, of course, was served (when in Portugal...) and the talk lasted into the night. From the bridge we could hear a man singing traditional Portuguese songs, called Fado. What an end to a transformative day. No Dutch here. Hardly a bicycle to be seen. New characters in our story. And the river and bridge and house and patio. Welcome the the Algarve.