The Hillbilly Viking

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Anyway, on with the show…

Take Me to the Riber

Since the rain has persisted and now includes a breeze of 45 mph or so, we postponed our “steep climb/pet the pregnant cat/downhill stroll/Advil refill” fitness routine around the hotel and just hopped into the gassed up Renault and steered it back toward Ribeira Grande (aka Surf City). We were in search of an Easter basket, a new restaurant, some souvenirs, and whatever other adventures Sao Miguel cared to throw our way. They also have a McDonald’s there. Patty likes their clean restrooms, and I wanted to try a McBeer for possibly no other reason than to be disgusted by it.

I also wanted to see the eponymous, Big River. We’ve been back and forth through Ribeira Grande multiple times, and I still haven’t caught a glimpse of it (or any Ribeira for that matter). I was beginning to wonder if there was actually a river grand, or if it is just some grand bullshit like a KLM connecting flight.

But first, let’s circle back and talk about gassing up the Renault yesterday. I’ve pumped gas in major European cities before, and it is usually a human-less, Elon Musk-like interaction between the mechanical pump and me, where I decipher a screen full of international pictograms, push buttons loosely informed by those pictograms, and then insert my credit card into available slots or vents until liquid comes out the pointy end of the hose. In Iceland, for instance, there aren’t even attendants (or a booth for them to sit underpaid in). It’s just a couple of lonely pumps rising out of a Bergman-esque, wind swept, concrete pad solemnly waiting for any human interaction to validate their existence (like a pregnant cat who hasn’t seen us for two days straight).

Anyway, near our hotel, I thought the one Galp station in town was of the heartless, Musk variety, but when I tried to decipher the pump, there was no discernible way to pay. I even tried waving my Visa in front of it in hopes that its embedded chip would magically summon the creature to life. It was then that I noticed a guy walking down a set of rickety, wooden steps descending from a building that I honestly thought was on the neighboring parcel. We made eye contact, and I held up my card and shrugged my shoulders, which as you know is ASL for “what the fuck, Chuck?” He pointed to the door at the top of the steps behind him.

That door led to a dimly lit auto parts store that was nothing more than a long, plywood counter separating me from bins and bins of fan belts and such, and directly behind the counter sat a large man wearing a greasy baseball hat. With the exception of Shania Twain playing somewhere from a static-y boom box, it was exactly every small-town, auto parts store in Tennessee. However, this good ‘ol menino was bilingual, helpful, and didn’t give me that rapey, “squeal like a pig” vibe I’ve come to expect back home. Although, come to think of it, he may have said “Obrigado, Y’all” when I left.

Ultimately, the template for the transaction should have been that I just pull up to the pump, stick the nozzle in the Renault, flip the (analog) lever and start pumping. Afterwards, I walk up the steps and pay for whatever I pump. I’m old enough to remember a time when I could drive my rusty Toyota to the corner Clark station and perform that exact same transaction (sans the steps) and maybe emerge with a sleeve of Dinky Donuts and a Mountain Dew as well, but that has been so utterly supplanted by the completely insulting policy of “pay before you pump” that I didn’t even recognize it here. I’ve become so conditioned by capitalist distrust and notions of “guilty until purchased innocent,” that a good faith transaction literally appears wholly foreign to me.

And that’s what this post might actually be about. Not a rant about the ephemeral and mostly fictional “good ‘ol days” of American exceptionalism, but a positive celebration of the people of this island, the Azores. We have not had a single, negative interaction with anyone here yet. From the professional chef turned small bistro owner who I’ve spent more time talking to this year than all my sisters combined, to the evening bartender who is so patient in advancing our Portuguese that we are assembling an Easter basket for her daughter. If you follow my Google Guide persona, you’ll see reviews of the places we’ve patronized, typically with pictures of Patty arm-in-arm with an amazing Azorean proprietor or member of the waitstaff. These aren’t staged selfies. They’re organic shots of real relationships quickly forged and then documented.

In light of current, international relations, we were curious how we would be accepted here with the orange taint of our country’s politics perceived to be on our hands.¹ Not to worry. At least not here. The Azoreans so far have regarded us as individuals, not representatives of a bi-polar, crumbling regime with ill-advised expansion plans. When I texted this notion to my nephew the other night and then told him the Azoreans seem to only worry about their families, their cows, and how the weather affects the fishing, he replied “Those are the worries I need in my life.”

Indeed.

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1. Orange Taint is the perfect name for a punk band. ↩︎