Atlantic Islander
10-30-2013, 12:59 AM
By John Deiner
Washington Post Staff Writer
http://imageshack.us/a/img844/2900/d7cf.jpg
On the face of it, my trip to the Azores doesn't sound as if it went too well.
Only four hours by plane from the East Coast, the Portuguese islands -- nine volcanic siblings arcing across 372 lonely miles of the North Atlantic -- are the closest chunks of Europe to North America. They're cradled by the Gulf Stream, so even in the endless October-to-May off-season the islands remain pleasant.
Of course, it depends on how you define "pleasant."
I went in late March, keen on saving some money with a cheap package deal out of Boston and unbending in my conviction that even though I might not experience Ultimate Azores, I'd at least get a reasonable facsimile. Besides, I'd be flying to Europe (and untrammeled Europe at that) in less time than it takes to get to Phoenix. Who wouldn't love that? It is, however, called the off-season for a reason: Time it wrong and, despite the savings, you won't even want to look at your pictures afterward.
We took the chance. For six days, my wife and I bounced among Sao Miguel, the largest of the islands, and Faial and Pico, connected by ferry in the center of the chain.
We soon discovered that the Azores in early spring can be bright and balmy one day and downright unpleasant the next, with pounding rain and lacerating winds. Flowering bougainvillea clung to farmhouses, but much of the rich, deep palette of summer remained dormant. Rough seas and a dearth of other tourists precluded snorkeling, diving and whale-watching, and it was too chilly to swim.
Then again, hotels and restaurants were largely deserted, as were the roads outside the main towns and cities. Sunglasses trumped umbrellas. Museum docents doted on us, and priests welcomed us into churches as if we were prodigal parishioners. Instead of comparing notes with other harried travelers, we interacted almost solely with Azoreans, who graciously directed us when we were lost and helped us navigate menus written in Portuguese.
On this trip, guilt-free naps and solitary walks along seaside promenades replaced single-spaced itineraries and impatient mobs at tourist hubs.
Hmm. Maybe it doesn't sound so bad after all.
* * *
Isoura Furtado, a pert brunette with a mean pouring arm, breezed into the tasting room at Mulher de Capote, a distillery in the pastel-washed town of Ribeira Grande on Sao Miguel. She slid a shot of passion-fruit liqueur across the bar, then asked me in broken English if I spoke Portuguese. Sorry, no. She shrugged, then asked if I'd visited the Azores before. Again, no.
This time, no shrug. Just astonishment.
"Why not?"
Good question. According to tourism officials, only 11,000 Yanks made it to the islands in 2005 out of nearly 350,000 visitors, the majority of whom were Portuguese. It's a mystifying statistic, considering the close ties -- and distance -- between the Azores, an autonomous region of Portugal, and the United States.
Because of their location (about 800 miles west of the Portuguese mainland), the islands were once a vital port for New England whaling ships, which introduced the industry to the region and lured many Azoreans west. Then, from the late 19th century onward, thousands of islanders migrated to the States, for reasons including crop failures and natural cataclysms. Portuguese communities now flourish in the Northeast, particularly in Massachusetts and Rhode Island.
What they left behind is a wondrous and often perplexing amalgam of cultures and geography. Volcanic vistas, palm trees, pineapple plantations and hissing hot springs are vintage Hawaii, while the grassy farmlands that edge the sea scream Ireland. Windmills crown hilltops and bullfights pack boulevards. Lava rock is used to construct buildings, but Old World cobblestone tests the sturdiness of New World footwear.
We'd found Furtado and the distillery after an errant turn during a marathon ramble from Ponta Delgada, the Azores' cosmopolitan capital. It had been an afternoon fraught with errant turns, which came as a surprise since the road we were on looked idiot-proof on the map.
The day had begun at Lagoa do Fogo, a lake high in a volcanic crater that's said to be one of the Azores' most spectacular sights. If you can see it, that is. Though we'd made our ascent under clear skies, the lake was shrouded in fog when we arrived. Obscenities were muttered.
Then the wind picked up and the air began to churn. We watched as the murk swirled about, then lifted from the basin like a curtain on a stage. Several hundred feet below lay a magnificent azure mirror reflecting brilliant sunshine -- and the clouds we'd been cursing only moments before.
We shared it with no one.
And so it went. At Sete Cidades on eastern Sao Miguel, we stopped in the middle of the road dividing Lagoa Azul and Lagoa Verde -- a pair of gorgeously mismatched lakes, one blue, one green -- and never worried about being rear-ended by another rental. On the island's north coast, the Gorreana Tea Plantation was empty, save for an overfed feline pawing a cobweb and a bouncy employee eager to show us around. In the showroom of the porcelain factory down the road, we thumbed through souvenir tiles while locals picked out bathroom fixtures.
Later in the village of Furnas, known for cozido das Furnas (a combo of meats and vegetables cooked in the town's simmering natural caldrons), we took in the Terra Nostra Garden, a horticultural leviathan with more twists and turns than a shaky alibi. Blooms were at a premium: Barren beds awaited flowers, while the soft tips of spring bulbs popped through freshly tilled turf.
But as we padded among the trails, framed by ferns and giant palms, we reveled in a serenity that comes all too infrequently on the road. Gardeners snipped at a field of topiaries, and a phalanx of nattering ducks made the rounds on the Terra Nostra pond.
On the way out, I grabbed a pamphlet from the ticket booth at the garden's entrance, startling the preoccupied attendant. She looked at me and smiled.
"You're still here?"
* * *
The Azores are thought by some to be the site of the lost kingdom of Atlantis. After seeing Ponta Delgada in a deluge, I now believe it as well.
With 63,000 of the archipelago's 243,000 residents, it was the only place we'd see a highway, or traffic, or more than a few stoplights. Still, much of the city, with its flowery plazas, centuries-old churches and paucity of souvenir shops (that's a good thing), can be seen on foot.
A walking tour had proved impractical -- or, rather, impossible -- when our map was reduced to pulp in the maelstrom. We sipped $1.50 drafts of Especial, the local brew, and snapped a few pictures of the City Gates, three 18th-century arches. In the courtyard of the Carlos Machado Museum, an engaging catch-all of all things Azorean, a sweetly sensual bronze of Adam and Eve glistened moodily in a puddle. Around town, a few hearty souls hunkered under dripping umbrellas at open-air cafes, but no one seemed too happy about it.
So, no, it wasn't the best day, and the kiosks advertising summertime fun on the water didn't help. A cabbie offered to give us a tour, but even he warned us that we wouldn't see much because of the rain.
With daylight fading and fears mounting that we'd wasted our day in the capital, we approached the side entrance to the Convento de Nossa Senhora da Esperanca (Convent of Hope), where we'd been told we could see the statue of Senhor Santo Cristo dos Milagres, or Christ of Miracles. Every evening, the doors are opened to the chapel containing the life-size figure, the Azores' most revered icon. Locals come to pray for miracles, though everyone is welcome.
A nun greeted us in the convent's garden and led us wordlessly down a tiled corridor into the chapel. A dozen pilgrims were kneeling before the gold-flecked statue, which glimmered in the soft light. One woman wept as her husband gently rubbed her back. Memories of the afternoon's torrent vanished.
Stepping back into the street a few minutes later, I felt a hand brush my shoulder and turned to see that the nun had reappeared in the garden archway. Then the gate swung shut, and she disappeared into the darkness. For the first time all day, the rain stopped.
* * *
Under ordinary circumstances, the view would have been extraordinary. Far below us, cars streamed along the harbor in Horta, Faial's main town, as a fishing boat chugged its way into port. Several miles east across a whitecapped channel, a halo of clouds hugged the tip of Pico's 7,700-foot volcano under otherwise cumulus-free skies.
But we couldn't take our eyes off the horror above: The plastic bag we'd packed our lunch in was dancing around the Virgin Mary's head.
We had stopped for a snack of dollar-a-pound cheeses (each island produces its own varieties; they're all good) and baguette in the parking lot near the mammoth hilltop statue, and a gust of wind snatched the bag out of my hands. It finally became entangled on some brambles, far out of reach. I wanted to leave my mark on the Azores, but not this way.
As it was, Faial was even lovelier and lusher than Sao Miguel, 40 minutes away by air, and the thought that I'd done anything to detract from its beauty was disconcerting.
Mount Guia, the remains of a volcano, separates Horta's waterfront into two bays, while a vast green crater sits in the island's center. Small houses with tidy gardens and stone roofs dot the coast, and everywhere there are cows. If they ever mobilized, the bovines could easily overtake the population of 15,000.
In September 1957, an underwater volcano began erupting near the Capelinhos lighthouse, on Faial's western tip. The event, which lasted more than a year, forced 2,000 from their homes (many fled to the United States) and added more than a square mile to the island. Somehow, the lighthouse survived.
Today it's part sentry to the past, part parents' nightmare. The structure is breathtakingly accessible; you can't climb to the top of the beacon, thank goodness, but you can poke around its partially demolished base. Just a few yards away, there's a precipice plunging to the Atlantic that would stop any mother's heart, and the black sand covering the landscape takes flight at the slightest provocation. When subtle stinging became full-fledged dermabrasion, we fled.
In contrast to the moonscape at Capelinhos, Horta is a seafarer's-seafarer sort of place, with a harbor filled with workaday fishing boats, whale-watching vessels and multimillion-dollar yachts. There's a small business district and a market, but the town's real charm lies in the waterfront promenade -- complete with fountains and the requisite dead guys on podiums -- running its length.
In one plaza, sailors have left behind graffiti on walls; it would look like a mass invasion by vandals in most spots, but here it's endearing. Elsewhere, stones have been set into sidewalks in the shape of sailboats, anchors and other maritime images. We always stepped over them, as if to preserve great works of art. And in a way, they were.
* * *
When the weather is clear, you can climb Pico's volcano and admire the view. When it's not, you can wish you could climb Pico's volcano and admire the view.
I'm no outdoorsman, so I wasn't too distraught when told that hiking the volcano would be ill-advised. But when the clouds atop its peak dissipated during our late-afternoon ferry ride from Horta, I knew it was a big deal: Every member of the boys' soccer team sharing the boat's upper deck with us whipped out their cellphones and started taking pictures.
Our sole purpose for visiting the island was to stay at Aldeia da Fonte, an inn on Pico's south coast. About a half-dozen stone buildings make up the hotel, which sits on a high bluff, surrounded by forest and vineyards. When we checked in, I asked the innkeeper if we were the last to arrive.
"You're the first," she said, "and the last."
That night, after a cheese-to-more-cheese feast of salted cod and a bottle of tinto in the inn's Hocus Pocus restaurant, we settled in early. The roar of the Atlantic pummeling the rocky shoreline was our Azorean lullaby.
But in the predawn darkness, an otherworldly shriek jarred us awake. Another came a few seconds later, then another. The warbly cackling was now more comical than frightening, as if a couple of munchkins were enjoying a good laugh in the trees outside our bedroom window.
It was the wakeup call of the resident Cory's shearwaters, seabirds that descend en masse in the spring. Evidently, a few had arrived a bit early and were overjoyed to be there.
We could relate.
Then the screeching faded, the sky turned rosy, and we rolled over and went back to sleep.
source - Washington post (http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/03/16/AR2007031600749.html)
Washington Post Staff Writer
http://imageshack.us/a/img844/2900/d7cf.jpg
On the face of it, my trip to the Azores doesn't sound as if it went too well.
Only four hours by plane from the East Coast, the Portuguese islands -- nine volcanic siblings arcing across 372 lonely miles of the North Atlantic -- are the closest chunks of Europe to North America. They're cradled by the Gulf Stream, so even in the endless October-to-May off-season the islands remain pleasant.
Of course, it depends on how you define "pleasant."
I went in late March, keen on saving some money with a cheap package deal out of Boston and unbending in my conviction that even though I might not experience Ultimate Azores, I'd at least get a reasonable facsimile. Besides, I'd be flying to Europe (and untrammeled Europe at that) in less time than it takes to get to Phoenix. Who wouldn't love that? It is, however, called the off-season for a reason: Time it wrong and, despite the savings, you won't even want to look at your pictures afterward.
We took the chance. For six days, my wife and I bounced among Sao Miguel, the largest of the islands, and Faial and Pico, connected by ferry in the center of the chain.
We soon discovered that the Azores in early spring can be bright and balmy one day and downright unpleasant the next, with pounding rain and lacerating winds. Flowering bougainvillea clung to farmhouses, but much of the rich, deep palette of summer remained dormant. Rough seas and a dearth of other tourists precluded snorkeling, diving and whale-watching, and it was too chilly to swim.
Then again, hotels and restaurants were largely deserted, as were the roads outside the main towns and cities. Sunglasses trumped umbrellas. Museum docents doted on us, and priests welcomed us into churches as if we were prodigal parishioners. Instead of comparing notes with other harried travelers, we interacted almost solely with Azoreans, who graciously directed us when we were lost and helped us navigate menus written in Portuguese.
On this trip, guilt-free naps and solitary walks along seaside promenades replaced single-spaced itineraries and impatient mobs at tourist hubs.
Hmm. Maybe it doesn't sound so bad after all.
* * *
Isoura Furtado, a pert brunette with a mean pouring arm, breezed into the tasting room at Mulher de Capote, a distillery in the pastel-washed town of Ribeira Grande on Sao Miguel. She slid a shot of passion-fruit liqueur across the bar, then asked me in broken English if I spoke Portuguese. Sorry, no. She shrugged, then asked if I'd visited the Azores before. Again, no.
This time, no shrug. Just astonishment.
"Why not?"
Good question. According to tourism officials, only 11,000 Yanks made it to the islands in 2005 out of nearly 350,000 visitors, the majority of whom were Portuguese. It's a mystifying statistic, considering the close ties -- and distance -- between the Azores, an autonomous region of Portugal, and the United States.
Because of their location (about 800 miles west of the Portuguese mainland), the islands were once a vital port for New England whaling ships, which introduced the industry to the region and lured many Azoreans west. Then, from the late 19th century onward, thousands of islanders migrated to the States, for reasons including crop failures and natural cataclysms. Portuguese communities now flourish in the Northeast, particularly in Massachusetts and Rhode Island.
What they left behind is a wondrous and often perplexing amalgam of cultures and geography. Volcanic vistas, palm trees, pineapple plantations and hissing hot springs are vintage Hawaii, while the grassy farmlands that edge the sea scream Ireland. Windmills crown hilltops and bullfights pack boulevards. Lava rock is used to construct buildings, but Old World cobblestone tests the sturdiness of New World footwear.
We'd found Furtado and the distillery after an errant turn during a marathon ramble from Ponta Delgada, the Azores' cosmopolitan capital. It had been an afternoon fraught with errant turns, which came as a surprise since the road we were on looked idiot-proof on the map.
The day had begun at Lagoa do Fogo, a lake high in a volcanic crater that's said to be one of the Azores' most spectacular sights. If you can see it, that is. Though we'd made our ascent under clear skies, the lake was shrouded in fog when we arrived. Obscenities were muttered.
Then the wind picked up and the air began to churn. We watched as the murk swirled about, then lifted from the basin like a curtain on a stage. Several hundred feet below lay a magnificent azure mirror reflecting brilliant sunshine -- and the clouds we'd been cursing only moments before.
We shared it with no one.
And so it went. At Sete Cidades on eastern Sao Miguel, we stopped in the middle of the road dividing Lagoa Azul and Lagoa Verde -- a pair of gorgeously mismatched lakes, one blue, one green -- and never worried about being rear-ended by another rental. On the island's north coast, the Gorreana Tea Plantation was empty, save for an overfed feline pawing a cobweb and a bouncy employee eager to show us around. In the showroom of the porcelain factory down the road, we thumbed through souvenir tiles while locals picked out bathroom fixtures.
Later in the village of Furnas, known for cozido das Furnas (a combo of meats and vegetables cooked in the town's simmering natural caldrons), we took in the Terra Nostra Garden, a horticultural leviathan with more twists and turns than a shaky alibi. Blooms were at a premium: Barren beds awaited flowers, while the soft tips of spring bulbs popped through freshly tilled turf.
But as we padded among the trails, framed by ferns and giant palms, we reveled in a serenity that comes all too infrequently on the road. Gardeners snipped at a field of topiaries, and a phalanx of nattering ducks made the rounds on the Terra Nostra pond.
On the way out, I grabbed a pamphlet from the ticket booth at the garden's entrance, startling the preoccupied attendant. She looked at me and smiled.
"You're still here?"
* * *
The Azores are thought by some to be the site of the lost kingdom of Atlantis. After seeing Ponta Delgada in a deluge, I now believe it as well.
With 63,000 of the archipelago's 243,000 residents, it was the only place we'd see a highway, or traffic, or more than a few stoplights. Still, much of the city, with its flowery plazas, centuries-old churches and paucity of souvenir shops (that's a good thing), can be seen on foot.
A walking tour had proved impractical -- or, rather, impossible -- when our map was reduced to pulp in the maelstrom. We sipped $1.50 drafts of Especial, the local brew, and snapped a few pictures of the City Gates, three 18th-century arches. In the courtyard of the Carlos Machado Museum, an engaging catch-all of all things Azorean, a sweetly sensual bronze of Adam and Eve glistened moodily in a puddle. Around town, a few hearty souls hunkered under dripping umbrellas at open-air cafes, but no one seemed too happy about it.
So, no, it wasn't the best day, and the kiosks advertising summertime fun on the water didn't help. A cabbie offered to give us a tour, but even he warned us that we wouldn't see much because of the rain.
With daylight fading and fears mounting that we'd wasted our day in the capital, we approached the side entrance to the Convento de Nossa Senhora da Esperanca (Convent of Hope), where we'd been told we could see the statue of Senhor Santo Cristo dos Milagres, or Christ of Miracles. Every evening, the doors are opened to the chapel containing the life-size figure, the Azores' most revered icon. Locals come to pray for miracles, though everyone is welcome.
A nun greeted us in the convent's garden and led us wordlessly down a tiled corridor into the chapel. A dozen pilgrims were kneeling before the gold-flecked statue, which glimmered in the soft light. One woman wept as her husband gently rubbed her back. Memories of the afternoon's torrent vanished.
Stepping back into the street a few minutes later, I felt a hand brush my shoulder and turned to see that the nun had reappeared in the garden archway. Then the gate swung shut, and she disappeared into the darkness. For the first time all day, the rain stopped.
* * *
Under ordinary circumstances, the view would have been extraordinary. Far below us, cars streamed along the harbor in Horta, Faial's main town, as a fishing boat chugged its way into port. Several miles east across a whitecapped channel, a halo of clouds hugged the tip of Pico's 7,700-foot volcano under otherwise cumulus-free skies.
But we couldn't take our eyes off the horror above: The plastic bag we'd packed our lunch in was dancing around the Virgin Mary's head.
We had stopped for a snack of dollar-a-pound cheeses (each island produces its own varieties; they're all good) and baguette in the parking lot near the mammoth hilltop statue, and a gust of wind snatched the bag out of my hands. It finally became entangled on some brambles, far out of reach. I wanted to leave my mark on the Azores, but not this way.
As it was, Faial was even lovelier and lusher than Sao Miguel, 40 minutes away by air, and the thought that I'd done anything to detract from its beauty was disconcerting.
Mount Guia, the remains of a volcano, separates Horta's waterfront into two bays, while a vast green crater sits in the island's center. Small houses with tidy gardens and stone roofs dot the coast, and everywhere there are cows. If they ever mobilized, the bovines could easily overtake the population of 15,000.
In September 1957, an underwater volcano began erupting near the Capelinhos lighthouse, on Faial's western tip. The event, which lasted more than a year, forced 2,000 from their homes (many fled to the United States) and added more than a square mile to the island. Somehow, the lighthouse survived.
Today it's part sentry to the past, part parents' nightmare. The structure is breathtakingly accessible; you can't climb to the top of the beacon, thank goodness, but you can poke around its partially demolished base. Just a few yards away, there's a precipice plunging to the Atlantic that would stop any mother's heart, and the black sand covering the landscape takes flight at the slightest provocation. When subtle stinging became full-fledged dermabrasion, we fled.
In contrast to the moonscape at Capelinhos, Horta is a seafarer's-seafarer sort of place, with a harbor filled with workaday fishing boats, whale-watching vessels and multimillion-dollar yachts. There's a small business district and a market, but the town's real charm lies in the waterfront promenade -- complete with fountains and the requisite dead guys on podiums -- running its length.
In one plaza, sailors have left behind graffiti on walls; it would look like a mass invasion by vandals in most spots, but here it's endearing. Elsewhere, stones have been set into sidewalks in the shape of sailboats, anchors and other maritime images. We always stepped over them, as if to preserve great works of art. And in a way, they were.
* * *
When the weather is clear, you can climb Pico's volcano and admire the view. When it's not, you can wish you could climb Pico's volcano and admire the view.
I'm no outdoorsman, so I wasn't too distraught when told that hiking the volcano would be ill-advised. But when the clouds atop its peak dissipated during our late-afternoon ferry ride from Horta, I knew it was a big deal: Every member of the boys' soccer team sharing the boat's upper deck with us whipped out their cellphones and started taking pictures.
Our sole purpose for visiting the island was to stay at Aldeia da Fonte, an inn on Pico's south coast. About a half-dozen stone buildings make up the hotel, which sits on a high bluff, surrounded by forest and vineyards. When we checked in, I asked the innkeeper if we were the last to arrive.
"You're the first," she said, "and the last."
That night, after a cheese-to-more-cheese feast of salted cod and a bottle of tinto in the inn's Hocus Pocus restaurant, we settled in early. The roar of the Atlantic pummeling the rocky shoreline was our Azorean lullaby.
But in the predawn darkness, an otherworldly shriek jarred us awake. Another came a few seconds later, then another. The warbly cackling was now more comical than frightening, as if a couple of munchkins were enjoying a good laugh in the trees outside our bedroom window.
It was the wakeup call of the resident Cory's shearwaters, seabirds that descend en masse in the spring. Evidently, a few had arrived a bit early and were overjoyed to be there.
We could relate.
Then the screeching faded, the sky turned rosy, and we rolled over and went back to sleep.
source - Washington post (http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/03/16/AR2007031600749.html)