The Hillbilly Viking

There are basically two airlines that fly between the Azores and the mainland on a regular basis. One is TAP, a Brazilian carrier that we have actually flown before in another hemisphere and is memorable because passengers clap each time the plane lands (“Yay, the pilot didn’t kill us!). The other is SATA, which is the Spirit Airlines of Portugal, and never having to fly with them again is reason enough to applaud. The cramped, bouncy, pay-for-extras flight to Porto does give me this time to reflect and process, however.

Sao Miguel is unlike any place we have ever visited before. In such a small area (approximately the same size as the city limits of Detroit), a mind-blowing amount of variation occurs. And although it is considered sub-tropical, and the temperature almost never drops below 50 or above 75 (and has the broad, lush flora to prove it), this lonely little archipelago in the Atlantic really sees some shit, weather-wise.

Having basically driven or walked damn near every square inch of the island over a couple weeks, I find that the similarities between so many other places at once makes it hard to reconcile. Hawaii? Sure. That’s a given. Many spots are absolutely indistinguishable. But just in the 60 minute trip from our hotel back to the airport, we also drove along the coast of Ireland, the wind-battered fishing towns of Lake Superior, the fertile slopes of Appalachia, parts of Rhode Island, Tuscany, California, Reykjavik, Southern Florida, and the winding, pine tree lined highway heading into Orafino, Idaho. Oh, and the wind. Jesus, the ever-present wind. That’s all Fargo-fucking, North Dakota, right there.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, the people here are incredibly homogeneous. A striking sameness I can’t say I’ve ever encountered before. And I’m not referring to their appearances, race, politics, religion, or any of the other demographic checkboxes we Americans are often quick to isolate, generalize, and then champion or demonize. I’m referring to the Azorean’s nearly universal quality of niceness. And it’s not the back-handed, southern hospitality kind of nice (bless your heart), or the transactional, thin veneer of mock interest often worn by “locals” to keep the tourists from taking their Euro-dollars elsewhere. And it’s definitely not the open contempt we’ve encountered in tourist hotspots like Venice or Paris. No, all the people we met here on Sao Miguel are just patently, patiently, and refreshingly nice. And once you engage, and the natural barriers between strangers begin to break down further, we quickly made real connections with people who are funny, passionate, intimate, warm, and welcoming. I can’t even say that about the last two places we’ve called home, and perhaps that’s something that’s ripe for serious reconsideration.

In another hour or so, we will be in Porto, on the mainland of Portugal. I have high hopes that the Portugese we meet there are cut from the same cloth as their countrymen we sadly leave behind on the island. We have a busy schedule once we hit the ground, so plenty of opportunity for new adventures and, more importantly, new friends.

Hopefully, one of them is a realtor.