Lost in Translation

Today was the most insecure I have been about our travels. We have crossed into foreign territory, literally and figuratively. Until you are in a place where no one speaks your language, you really don’t understand how much comfort it gives you to know that you can be easily understood. Now, as I type this, we are in the home of a couple whose names we will never know. Not that they are absent, or unfriendly or have no desire to get to know us. Quite the contrary, actually. They are friendly and kind and so happy to have us renting one of their “quartos” just a few sandy cobblestoned yards from the mighty Atlantic. It is simply that we don’t speak a word of Portuguese and they don’t speak a word of English. They thought Whitney was Italian. That should paint a picture of how well we are communicating, here. We didn’t find the place, the place found us. I guess more like the man found us. We arrived in Salema, on the 7:00pm bus from Lagos. We left Dublin Days Hotel just over 12 hours prior and had a long and motion-sickness filled journey. As I said before, not knowing any of the language, much less our way around, made the trip to the cozy beachfront village a little unnerving. We kept our eye out for that ‘Salema’ sign, but soon realized the crashing waves and salty air would be our cue to hop off the bus. The town was exactly what we had hoped for. Small, quaint and chock full of seaside charm. Our welcoming crew was a single, small man, his weather-beaten skin browned from constant hours in the sun. Probably a retired fisherman, born and raised in the town, turned innkeeper. He shuffled over to us and pulled out a small card, laminated, yet worn, from his shirt pocket. It read ‘room, zimmer, quarto’ on it. As if we needed clarification, he rested his leathered hands under his chin, as a pillow, and closed his eyes. Yes, we replied, we did indeed need a room and how convenient that you just happen along when we are disembarking from our disorienting hour long bus ride. With our defenses down, we aimlessly and helplessly followed our new guide up and up and up the narrow lane. He kept pointing, as though his place was next, and yet up we climbed. At one scary moment, he pointed to an old door, broken, faded and rotting and Whitney looked back at me with an ‘absolutely not’ in her eyes. Fortunately (or not) that wasn’t his, we were still not quite to his humble abode. When we arrived, however, we were pleasantly surprised. A perfectly spotless room, bathroom included, was ours for the taking. Now, just to figure out a price. Or figure out what he’s even saying. We jotted notes, we motioned, we spoke clearly and loudly as annoying travelers so often do and we pulled Euro out of our pockets in a frenzy. Finally, after a few startling moments when I thought he wanted to take our passports from us, we came to an arrangement. He wanted 30 Euro. That’s right, 45 American dollars for a bed near enough to hear the waves crashing against the sand. Near enough to smell the salt and see the moon’s reflection in the water. We couldn’t believe that we had paid almost double that for a fisherman’s shack in Norway, where the view was the walls closing in around us not 6 inches away. And here we were, in paradise. We settled in and walked the beach. The sand here is beautiful, the buildings worn and comfortable and few. We have stumbled upon what just could become one of our favorite places. Tomorrow we’ll see if there’s as much sun as they promise and then we’ll have a true verdict. And hopefully some sunburn.

P.S. Whitney has felt tragically bad about her lack of blogging. Please know she loves you all and is thinking about you. Although many are under Michael's name, it is always a team effort.