Photo above of Wayne and Trish at Sete Cidades on Sao Miguel Island – ABSOLUTELY STUNNING!
Surrounded by the Atlantic, the Azores are a cluster of nine small, hauntingly beautiful islands far off the coast of Portugal
A Bit of Heaven and Hell
“The Azores are a heady mix that can overwhelm the senses. Birds, plants, whales and dolphins, combined with Portuguese architecture, are akin to heaven; sulfurous water bubbling up from deep underground, think volcanic ash and pumice that blanket vast swathes of land, and black lava flows, frozen like fossils that dip into the turgid Atlantic Ocean, are all reminiscent of hell.” Ben Fogle
A clever marketer described the Azores as the Hawaii of the Atlantic, or Iceland on the cheap. There are no hula dancers or Vikings, but there are bull fights, as well as dramatic verdant green landscapes, volcanoes that have sculpted moss-draped sinkholes, wide calderas filled with turquoise water, sulfurous pits and thermal pools. And then there’s the wonderful alchemy of faded colonial power becomes country bumpkin meets Euro cool chic.
However my sojourn will forever be marred by blood. Blood, pain and a lack of underwear. More on that later.
While the many islands aren’t really beach destinations as most of them are rocky, the unreal vistas more than compensate, as does the locally sourced food, in particular the seafood, cheese and wine. But for me, the fantastic hikes were the main draw. The absence of multi-day treks also meant Trish and my niece, Marie could join me for day hikes. However there was one true cardio-ladened, quad burning hike I salivated over: Pico Mountain, the highest point in Portugal at 2351 meters, or more than 4 CN Towers. For that, I set aside the latter part of the trip.
It’s really hard to find a bad picture to take. But first you have to drive there. Along the way, dense bushes of hydrangeas line the roads, ready to lull you into an untroubled waking slumber.
However neither YouTube nor Google will reveal the near insanity of many of the roads and local drivers. For hesitant, defensive drivers like us, stick shifting micro cars on narrow winding roads with multiple blind spots, tailgaters, speeders can be fun. That is until a bus plays chicken with you, or parked cars around bends force you to swerve into oncoming traffic for the fourth time. By then the toll for the bucolic countryside drives are a couple of notches up the anxiety scale. Not really into panic territory, but more cumulative, like interest on your VISA, or a receding hair line, not that I know anything about the latter.
Gotta love the funky road signs. We think these forewarn of car dandruff and a penis crossing on the right.
As her first intro to Europe, Marie couldn’t go wrong. Very few crowds, 25 degree temps, superb food at non-Continental prices, a plethora of sights and activities (she seemed especially smitten with the thermal fueled pools), and a wonderful chill environment (when not going head to head with buses).
We hit 4 of the 9 islands and swear to return for the remaining five some day.
The hikes are genteel, tranquil. We quickly realize these islands aren’t at all Hawaii or Iceland, for those are discovered and require a 2nd mortgage.
For Europe in the summer, it’s exceedingly laid back and quiet, especially in the countryside, which is just about everywhere.
We go whale watching on Pico Island and see a sperm whale in the distance, and after a stomach wrenching chase, 100 common dolphins. Pretty cool, though several people puke over the zodiac’s edge.
Afterwards we’re all exhausted. Sunstroke perhaps? Doesn’t matter, I’m all psyched up for a climbing burn. Other travelers come only to do this peak which is often shrouded in cloud.
But the supposed sunstroke/fatigue turns into ahhh…. bathroom issues, the kind that makes me want to go all the time, and with bloody results. I have accidents and can’t keep my underwear dry. Peeing becomes painful. I lose my appetite. I feel weak, fatigued. Too manly to say anything, and too focused on the upcoming hike, I gear up the night before my morning hike. But I spend the night burning up and trembling like caged chipmunk. My dreams are wild and I’m soaked. The next morning I’m on fire still. I Google the symptoms. Kidney failure. Cancer. Hematoma. Shit. Shit shit shit.
I don’t tell Trish. I think of where I can travel next if I’m to die soon. We find the local hospital. Two nurses take my temperature. They look at each other and whisper, “Si, muito mal.” Very bad. Shit. They test my red urine then call me in. The English speaking young doctor tells me I have a urinary tract infection. Yippee, I’m gonna live. I’m gonna live!!! After a moment I reflect on why this dude can get a predominantly female infection. She says because I’m old. Ouch.
Antibiotics soon stem the bloody flow, and my manhood is restored. But my window to climb Pico is lost. So I feel like a loser anyway.
Undaunted, I vow to return, but maybe with lots of extra of underwear.
