Searching through photos for one thing inevitably surprises us with something else. Especially when you have the amount of photos that I do.
This is a photo I took when visiting my cousin in Portugal when I was 23 years old. He and his family lived here, in a small fishing village, Vila Nova de Cerveira, at the mouth of the Minho River, just minutes from Spain. It was an indescribable experience, and looking back now, even more so, especially as the area has evolved so since.
Truly, it was a village. There was a tinker (today’s handyman/carpenter), a small bakery/grocery store, a church, a police station, and a few other shops. There was also a castle, and a variety of homes. The streets were cobblestone, and it seemed that everyone knew everyone. Many people grew or raised their own food.
In the morning, we heard the clanging of the bell at the long driveway gate. A neighbor had brought a clean bucket of milk, fresh from her cow. Wherever my cousin and I walked, there were young children skipping after us, fascinated by the visitor with her light-colored eyes.
Coming across this photo brought back so many memories, which could probably fill a short memoir of its own. My cousin, his wife, children, and dogs were my warm and wonderful hosts. With all I experienced in that too-short week, I existed in a slice of time never to be known again.
I also remember the train ride home, first to Porto, then a switch to a second train to Lisbon. In my compartment were five Portuguese men and women, none of whom spoke English. During the 5-hour ride, they brought out their lunch, and so generously offered everything to me – bread, cheese, some kind of meat, wine. With hand signs and broken language, we talked and laughed all the way to Lisbon.
I remember wondering even then if Americans would be so utterly kind to strangers who spoke no English in a traveling compartment. The importance of that entire experience has deepened ever since. Would we all be as kind and generous as they? Can we still share? Can we still love?
Still A Dreamer 
Ah! I love this story, it’s pensive, but also joyful themes, and the photo, Jeanne! What a sacred memory. It would make a wonderful memoir. More!!!!
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Thank you.To have lived that week in such a vastly different environment than I’d ever experienced, was truly a gift. My train arrived much later than expected, and my first exhausted-from-traveling-for-24-hours-straight night there was in my cousin’s vast library in front of a roaring fire, covered with a blanket and his Doberman.Unforgettable.
Who would want to read such a memoir?
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I would!!!
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That’s true, I’m sure. Thanks, Kitty. One book sold! LOL.
Any response here is definitely colored by the huge challenge it is to market and sell one’s own self-published book, so pay me no mind.
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Lovely memories Jeanne. I don’t think everyone would be as giving as those people were.
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Thanks, Andrea. Likely not; however, the recipient – in this case, me – would also need to be open and friendly, as I tend to be with people. They were peasants, deeply tanned and weathered in their faces and hands from a lifetime of work outdoors. All dressed in black, as is often the case in some Catholic areas where one must wear black for a certain number of years for the loss of each loved one. But they just had kindness written all over them. It would have been hard not to smile at them.
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We went to Portugal a few years ago. Although we were tourists and people made their living being nice to us, everyone bent over backwards to help us and be friendly. We don’t often see that attention, service and friendliness here in the states. It was a wonderful experience interacting with the people we met. Your post was very meaningful and thought provoking. Love you.
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I am very happy to hear that that wonderful kindness and friendliness is still there! Thanks for sharing.
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